Inside the Shack, however, was paradise.
Steam drifted lazily from the surface of a narrow, rectangular bath—black stone, imported from a melted-down golem core, set into the floor of Kenji’s private chamber. Heated tiles wrapped the edges, warm against the soles of his feet. Overhead, ambient light panels adjusted to his preferred hue—subtle gold—and in the corner, a digital fireplace crackled with simulated comfort. Next to him sat a tray with slow-roasted carnabeast thigh and two golden-brown rice balls glazed in monster oil.
Kenji took a slow bite, chewed, and sighed—not from joy, but annoyance.
“I finally get a decent soak, and of course, that chirps,” he muttered.
From the far corner of the room, a familiar digital ping repeated.
[INCOMING CONTACT – LONG-RANGE SENSOR ALERT]
[IDENTIFICATION: ARMORED CRAWLER, NON-HOSTILE MARKINGS DETECTED]
[FLAG OF PARLEY RAISED – SENDER: LADY SYRELL VALKRETH]
He leaned back against the padded bath wall, voice gravelly. “Another noble... great. Bet she wants a ‘mutual alliance’ or to buy the secret recipe to my stew.”
A slim figure stepped into the chamber—Saeko, still in her scavenger rig, wind-chapped cheeks slightly flushed from the warmth.
“She’s ten minutes out. Vehicle’s fancy. She’s definitely someone important.” She paused. “Want me to prep the front stall?”
Kenji nodded. “Yeah. Same deal as usual. Serve her something hot and fatty. Kill her with comfort.”
Saeko smirked. “Noted.”
He waited until she left before rising from the bath.
He muttered to himself as he dried off. “This better not turn into another monologue about bloodlines and duty…”
Location: Karnas Spire, two weeks prior
The war room of Duke Malloran Krossen was not built for comfort. It was a bunker-temple—a fusion of steel, blood-oath stone, and mana circuits etched into the walls. The windows showed a frozen cliff face, riddled with rusted spears and old bones.
Malloran stood alone, save for his steward, eyes burning with barely restrained fury.
“He denied me,” he hissed. “That rat-bastard cook turned down a noble alliance. Laughed at my offer like I was some peasant vendor trying to hawk him ice meat!”
The steward, gaunt and silent, wisely avoided eye contact.
“We offered protection. Access to bloodlines. A noble title. Even Syrell,” Malloran growled. “But no. This ‘Kenji’ thinks because he has a few drones and feeds beggars, he can ignore the chain of power.”
He stepped toward the central map—an arcane display showing the region. The Shack glowed faint red near the center, surrounded by scavenger paths, elven patrol lines, and merchant routes.
“He’s growing,” Malloran murmured. “The elves protect him. The slavers use his food to stock their convoys. Even raiders avoid his zone. Why?”
The steward cleared his throat. “Fear. And hunger.”
Malloran sneered. “Then we give them reason to fear us again.”
He turned sharply.
“Send Syrell. Let her negotiate. She wants to prove herself. If she fails, then we take off the gloves.”
The steward bowed. “Shall I mobilize the Suppressors?”
“No. Not yet. Let’s see if he blinks first.”
The crawler came to a halt about thirty meters from the Shack. Elegant, armored, and gold-trimmed—definitely noble. Flags fluttered on its sides, marking it under parley.
Kenji watched from the Shack’s service stall, sitting behind the counter, arms folded. The wind howled past the reinforced awning, but the heat radiating from the food trays made the air surprisingly comfortable.
Mirelle stood nearby, dressed in a modest robe, professional smile ready. Saeko leaned casually against the corner, eyeing the noble caravan’s guards.
Then came Lady Syrell Valkreth, stepping down from the crawler like she owned the ice.
She was tall, graceful, her white coat threaded with mana patterns that subtly pulsed with warmth. Her gloves were stitched with her house insignia. She didn’t speak right away—just scanned the Shack like someone sizing up a building that shouldn’t exist.
Kenji didn’t stand. He didn’t greet her either.
“Food’s hot. You came all this way, might as well sit.”
She paused, then approached, taking the seat across from him. Mirelle served a plate—roast beast rib, seasoned root mash, a splash of firefruit sauce—and set a warm drink beside it.
Syrell took a bite. Her eyes flicked up, surprised despite herself. “This is… exceptional.”
Kenji grunted. “Yeah. That's why people show up.”
She dabbed her mouth with the cloth napkin, expression controlled. “You’ve become a point of concern. Trade routes, supplies, armed presence. You’ve built something that isn’t... sanctioned.”
“Didn’t realize I needed permission to cook and not die.”
“It’s more than that. Your drones patrol territory. Your fighters hold the field. You’ve influenced half the scavenger economy.”
“I sell food,” Kenji said, tone flat. “They come to eat. I don’t force anyone.”
Syrell leaned back. “The Duke sees potential. He’s willing to offer recognition—territorial legitimacy, noble status, protection. In exchange for a share of what you’ve built.”
Kenji looked at her for a long moment. Then blinked slowly.
“I’m not interested.”
Her brow twitched. “You should be. Operating without sanction makes you a rogue actor. That invites conflict.”
“I’ve handled worse,” he said simply. “You think I made it this far by asking nicely?”
Syrell’s voice lowered slightly. “You don’t seem to understand the position you’re in.”
“I understand it perfectly. I’m warm, fed, and armed. You’re the one trying to buy a piece of it before your cousin gets desperate.”
Her smile thinned. “You think you’re untouchable?”
“No,” Kenji said. “Just not as easy to touch as you expected.”
He stood, not abruptly, but with finality. “You got your meal. Your offer’s declined.”
Syrell rose too. “This is your last chance to join something greater than yourself.”
Kenji looked her in the eye.
“I already did. It’s called retirement.”
Then he walked back into the Shack, the metal door sliding shut behind him with a quiet hiss.
Preparing for War, Again
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
As the door sealed behind him, the hum of the Shack shifted. The lights dimmed to a neutral white. Command modules powered up. The air had a faint charge to it—an ambient thrum from the Crimson Core as it synced with the defense grid.
[VISITOR: LADY SYRELL VALKRETH – STATUS: DEPARTED][CARAVAN WITHDRAWING – NO HOSTILE ACTION DETECTED][LONG-RANGE SENSOR UPDATE: UNMARKED FORCES – NORTHERN RIDGE][PATTERN: SCOUT FORMATION – PROBING TERRAIN, MAPPING RESPONSE WINDOWS]
Kenji eased into the command chair, fingers tapping against the console.
“They didn’t wait long,” he muttered.
Behind him, Flanksteak stepped in.
“Surface movement is controlled. No aggression yet. But they’re testing the outer sensors.”
“They’re going to test more than that soon,” Kenji replied.
He brought up the construction interface. His scrap reserves were high—months of raider armor, crawler plating, and melted tech condensed into usable blocks. And there it was: the Bastion-Class Energy Wall, ready to be deployed.
[REQUIREMENTS – MATERIAL: 11,000 SCRAP][REQUIREMENTS – ENERGY: 2,500 UNITS MINIMUM TO ACTIVATE WALL GRID][SOURCES AVAILABLE: Biomass, Mana Crystals, Monster Cores]
Kenji confirmed the resource drain:
- Scrap pulled from reserves
- Energy drawn from biomass tanks (4,000 stored units available)
He tapped ACCEPT.
[FABRICATION INITIATED – BUILDER UNITS DEPLOYING][BASTION WALL: FRAMEWORK EXPANSION UNDERWAY | ETA: 16 HOURS]
Outside, the ground rumbled faintly as builder drones disengaged from their charging nests. They swarmed outward—twenty at a time—dragging reinforced cabling, pylons, and spools of melted armor converted into energy conduits. The Shack’s footprint expanded by thirty meters in every direction, hardening like a clenched fist.
While the construction began, Kenji stepped into the Fabricator Chamber. Ten armor sets stood in formation—clean, black matte plating over heat-lined fiber suits. This wasn’t salvaged junk. It was the first standardized gear batch he’d committed to:
Snackpack Mk. I? – Standard Murderwear
He scowled at the interface. “I named it Recon Harness. The gods renamed it again, didn’t they?”
[GODLY INPUT DETECTED – RENAMING: DENIED][SHACK STYLE? IS NON-NEGOTIABLE]
Each unit came with:
- Reinforced composite chestplate and limb armor
- Thermal fiber undersuit for harsh environments
- Pulse Carbine: compact, energy-fed, medium-range
- Rechargeable via biomass, monster core, or mana crystal
- User-chosen melee sidearm:
- Energy Hatchet
- Retractable Blade
- Stun Pike
- Monowire Whip
- Crush Gauntlet
Cost per Unit:350 scrap, 120 biomass, 0.5 monster core (or equivalent energy)
One by one, the Astarions entered the chamber and began gearing up. No orders needed. No discussion. They selected their sidearms with precision—Flanksteak claimed the monowire whip; Brisket locked in the crush gauntlet; Dante selected the retractable blade.
[ALL ASTARION UNITS EQUIPPED – SYNC 100%]
Kenji watched in silence.
“They’re ready,” he muttered. “Now let’s see if the nobles are.”
He returned to the command interface.
[ENERGY WALL – 74% SYNCED]
[STEALTH UNITS DETECTED – DESIGNATION UNKNOWN – SLOW APPROACH ON OUTER EDGE]
Kenji didn’t react. He tapped his broadcast channel.
“Saeko, Mirelle—pull in front operations. Shut down the stall. Lock the shutters and keep everyone inside the perimeter.”
“Copy,” came Saeko’s voice.
“Elyra,” he continued, “keep eyes on the upper airspace. If you catch glider recon, tag it. Don’t engage unless it pings us first.”
“On it.”
[WARNING – TRANSMISSION DETECTED – UNENCRYPTED][SOURCE: DUKE MALLORAN ADVANCE FORCE / THORNE-DELTA]
A clipped message played:
“...unauthorized expansion… breach of noble regulation… cease deployment… surrender site for arbitration… further escalation will be considered rebellion.”
Kenji muted the transmission.
“Let them watch,” he said. “And let them wonder.”
Cold Silence, Warm Knives
The snow outside lay undisturbed, but the Shack’s tension had thickened. Not alarm—just readiness, slow and deliberate.
The pylons of the Bastion-Class Energy Wall continued to rise, one after another, forming a ghostly circle around the Shack’s growing perimeter. At first glance, they looked inert—jagged pillars half-sunk into the frost. But the closer one got, the more the air shifted. The shimmer of charged particles, barely visible, crawled around each base like heat rising off steel.
[ENERGY WALL SYNC: 82%]
Inside the Shack, the Crimson Core pulsed slowly—deep red glow dimming and rising like a heartbeat. The system rerouted energy from non-essentials to reinforce external sync. Interior temperature dropped slightly. Lights dimmed.
Kenji sat in the command seat, motionless, watching.
On the tactical map, faint red pulses marked the edge of the Shack’s detection grid. Two blips hovered at the far north ridge—too far for identification, too slow for animals.
[STEALTH PROBES – CLASS UNKNOWN – MOVEMENT: OBSERVATIONAL]
Flanksteak’s voice came through comms. “Dante confirmed three more units circling from the east. Keeping distance. No engagement.”
“Let them. No need to swat flies unless they bite,” Kenji replied.
Below, on the Shack’s lowest deck, the Astarions waited by the external deployment bay. Fully armored. Fully synced. The Snackpack Mk. I? kits made them look uniform at a glance—but the sidearms marked them clearly. Flanksteak’s monowire whip curled like a tail over his shoulder. Brisket flexed the crush gauntlet slowly, a faint mechanical hiss marking each motion.
They weren’t tense. They weren’t eager.
They were waiting.
In the lounge, Lira sat cross-legged with a thermal pad over her lap and a datapad open. She monitored drone camera loops—not because she had to, but because she wanted to.
“They’re probing,” she said without looking up as Kenji entered.
He grunted. “I know.”
She tapped the edge of the display. “They’re scared.”
“They should be.”
Kenji crossed to the central console again as the Shack shivered slightly beneath his feet. Before anything else, he opened the drone management panel.
[COMBAT DRONES: 42 UNITS ACTIVE][TYPES: INTERCEPTOR (16), FLAMER (12), BURST HYBRID (14)][ENERGY LINK STATUS: NOMINAL][LAST SERVICE ROTATION: 3 HOURS AGO]
Each drone pinged green on the Shack’s HUD. Kenji issued a full recall command—pulling every drone back to base.
In the drone bay, hatches opened. The machines buzzed in like obedient hornets returning to the hive. Builder drones disengaged maintenance clamps. Combat plating and core capacitors were swapped in, overwriting old loadouts.
Kenji watched the conversion queue fill with hot-red status bars.
[LOADOUT CHANGE: SCOUT ? COMBAT][ENERGY CAPACITORS: CHARGING]
He didn’t say anything at first. Just drank from his mug and kept watching the bar climb.
"They want to poke a drone hive," he muttered. “Let’s show them what happens.”. Not tremor—just shift. Reinforcements locking into place. Systems moving like breath.
[ENERGY WALL SYNC: 91%]
[WARNING: BROADCAST RECEIVED – REPEAT SIGNAL]
[MESSAGE: ‘LAST CHANCE TO STAND DOWN.’]
Kenji stared at it.
Then deleted it.
He opened internal broadcast again. “Flanksteak. Begin two-man patrols. Full Astarion cycle. Rotate every six. No contact unless fired upon. You see a noble crest? Tag it.”
“Understood.”
He switched channels.
“Elyra, raise the sensor mast another ten meters. I want full arc scan for glide-wings and spectral cloaks.”
“On it.”
Back to system control.
[ENERGY WALL SYNC: 100% COMPLETE]
The perimeter flashed once. Barely visible. A ripple of red-white distortion like water across glass. Then silence again.
The Shack was encased.
And anyone stepping past those pylons from now on wouldn’t get a warning. Just heat. Force. Disintegration.
Kenji took a long breath.
Then leaned forward.
“Let’s see who blinks first.”
First Blood in the Snow
The first mistake was made just before dawn.
It was subtle. A tremor, a soft crunch of disturbed snow where none should’ve been. A flicker of heat in the corner of a drone’s vision. Not enough for a full alert—just enough for Kenji to pause mid-sip.
[DRONE 08 – BURST HYBRID][STATUS: MINOR ANOMALY DETECTED – WEST QUADRANT]
Kenji tapped the feed. Zoomed in. There—an outline against the frost. Human-shaped. Cloaked. Moving slow.
[ENERGY WALL STATUS: ACTIVE][DISTANCE TO BARRIER: 17 METERS]
“They’re testing our nerves,” Kenji muttered.
Flanksteak’s voice came through instantly. “Engage?”
“Not yet. Let them think they’re being clever.”
The figure crept forward. Another shape appeared behind it—then a third. They were wearing light deflection cloaks, only partially effective against Shack-grade optics. Kenji’s thermal scan peeled them like onions.
[UNAUTHORIZED CONTACTS: 5][ID: LIKELY MERCENARY VANGUARD – EQUIPMENT: SILENCED BLADES, SHORT-RANGE SCRAMBLERS]
“Cutters,” Kenji said. “Trying to slip in and gut a turret or two.”
He gave it another ten seconds. Watched them spread, moving like phantoms between half-buried crawler wrecks and old barricade husks. They reached within ten meters of the outer ring.
Then Kenji toggled the perimeter.
[ENERGY WALL – REACTIVATION PULSE: FULL BURN]
The effect was instant.
A deep thrum rolled through the ground like a heartbeat. Light bent. Air ignited. The five silhouettes flared—screamed—and were gone.
Ash drifted where they’d stood.
Kenji exhaled through his nose. “First warning sent.”
On the tactical map, more movement now. Pings from the northeast. Scattered formations approaching from the tree line.
[DETECTED: 40+ HOSTILE SIGNATURES]
[FORMATION: SPLIT-FAN | INFANTRY + CROSSBOW SIGNALS]
Dante’s voice came through calmly. “Mercenary line squads. Poor formation discipline. Not advancing yet.”
“Put eyes on their backline. I want to know what they’re waiting for.”
“Understood.”
[COMBAT DRONES: 42 – DEPLOYMENT MODE: DEFENSIVE STRIKE PATTERN ALPHA]
Kenji tapped in new instructions. Six drones were assigned to active harass. Another twelve shifted to upper-tier patrol—silent, cloaked, and ready.
[COMMAND: ENABLE PASSIVE LURE MODE – BAIT DRONES ARMED]
The field adjusted. A few drones visibly pulled back behind broken terrain. Two powered down in plain sight, looking vulnerable. Kenji didn’t smile—but he watched.
“They’ll send more,” he said. “And next time they’ll think they’re winning.”
Flanksteak checked in again. “Permission to prepare counterstrike groups?”
“Prep but hold. No one crosses that wall without paying.”
The Shack settled. Steam hissed from warming ports. The air hung thick.
Then the wind picked up, carrying the faint sound of horns.
The siege had begun.
End of Chapter