The battlefield had gone quiet.
Ash drifted across the ice like black snow. Craters still smoked. Broken banners lay twisted in the wind. Melted exosuits crackled under the weight of settling frost. A full company of nobles had tried to storm the Shack—and now they were gone.
Inside, the Shack hissed with post-battle recovery. Drones buzzed in and out of repair rails, some limping, others powered down entirely. The scent of burned wiring clung to the lower bays.
Kenji stood in front of the console, broth untouched beside him. The battle was over. The cleanup had begun.
[ENGAGED ENEMY FORCE: ~600][CONFIRMED NEUTRALIZED: 89%][ASTARIONS – STATUS: ALL 10 OPERATIONAL | INJURIES: MINOR CUTS, BURNS, ARMOR FRACTURES][COMBAT DRONES: 18 DESTROYED | 24 DAMAGED | 9 CRITICAL]
The Shack had held. But just barely.
He flicked through the damage reports. Astarions were healing, but their armor would need full replacement. Drones? Dozens of them offline, torn to pieces by mana blades, heavy suppressors, and plasma flak. Each one would cost monster cores and high-grade alloy to repair.
[ESTIMATED REPAIR COST: 31,000 SCRAP | 6.7 TONS ALLOY | 12 MONSTER CORES]
Kenji sighed.
War was expensive. And even winning didn’t mean you got out clean.
The Astarions were efficient, but after combat, their metabolic demand doubled. They were walking tanks—but with appetites to match. Feeding ten of them now was like feeding a barn full of starved draft beasts.
[RATION STORES – POST-COMBAT: 38% REMAINING]
“Feeding armored demigods and fixing exploding drones,” Kenji muttered. “Real retirement material.”
Still, it wasn’t all loss.
[BIOMASS RECOVERED: 21,000 UNITS][SALVAGE RECOVERED: 5.6 TONS – MIXED ALLOY, ENERGY CORES, MANA RIGS]
Enough to keep the Shack operational—but not enough for full recovery.
[REBUILD THRESHOLD: 6.7 TONS ALLOY | 12 MONSTER CORES][CURRENT STOCK: 5.6 TONS SALVAGE | CORES: INSUFFICIENT]
Close. But no surplus. Every part would have to be rationed, every drone triaged.
Kenji flipped through the repair queue, then opened the long-range surveillance feed.
One scout drone—a long-range recon unit—was still tracking Duke Malloran’s crawler. High altitude. Silent. Cloaked. Its only job was to follow, not interfere.
The crawler hadn’t stopped moving since its retreat. Occasionally it paused—maybe to regroup or recover wounded—but no signals, no staging, no confirmation of destination.
An hour ago, it slowed near a frost shelf. Several figures disembarked. Thermal signatures showed pacing, hand gestures. Probably an argument.
No audio. No close contact. Nothing actionable.
Kenji leaned back in his chair.
“No signal. No message. Just running.”
He watched the screen for a few more seconds, then closed the feed.
“Keep following him,” he said quietly to the drone. “He’ll go home eventually. And when he does—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He just turned to the fabrication list.
And started rebuilding.
The Duke’s Pride
Duke Malloran’s crawler returned to his mountain bastion under heavy escort—burned, battered, but still bearing his crest.
The main gates opened with the usual ceremonial flourish, but no one cheered. His soldiers disembarked slowly, silent, many limping. None looked victorious.
Malloran said nothing. He descended from the crawler with a face carved from stone, lips tight, expression unreadable. His gauntlet was cracked. The burn across his jaw still raw. His pride even more so.
Inside the command hall, the war council waited. They stood in silence as he entered, their posture stiff, their eyes nervously flicking to each other.
Malloran took his seat and gestured without a word.
“Casualty report,” he said.
A young officer swallowed and stepped forward.
[CONFIRMED LOSSES: 517 DEAD | 71 WOUNDED | 12 MISSING][SUPPRESSION TEAMS: ROUTED][CAVALRY: ELIMINATED][MAGE SQUADS: NON-RESPONSIVE]
He stared at the numbers for several long seconds.
Then he said, “We do not let this end in silence.”
Malloran stood.
“He controls a Shack. A glorified relic wrapped in steel and ego. But he thinks he owns the surface. Let’s see how he does without allies.”
He turned to his aides.
“Draw up names. Traders. Caravans. Supply sleds. Anyone who's ever shaken his hand. If they helped him, they bleed for it.”
One of his generals hesitated. “You’d attack the trade networks?”
“I’ll do more than that. We’ll make an example of every last one.”
He paced toward the war table.
“Start with the elves. Then the scavengers. When he has no one left to trade with, when even the neutral bastions fear aligning with him—then we’ll crush him.”
The room was quiet.
Outside, preparations began. Scout patrols deployed. Fast assault wings loaded up.
The war hadn’t ended.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
It had just taken a more personal turn.
First Cut
The first alert came just after dusk.
[TRADE ALERT – CARAVAN #12 OFFLINE][STATUS: NON-RESPONSIVE | LAST PING: ROUTE 7 SOUTH]
Kenji glanced at it. Just one? Could’ve been raiders. Snowstorms. Equipment failure. It wasn’t uncommon.
Then the second one came.
[TRADER CONVOY – ELVEN SUPPLY SLED #3 INTERRUPTED][STATUS: PARTIAL SIGNAL RECOVERY | COMBAT PATTERN: AMBUSH | IDENT: NOBLE CREST - MATCH: HOUSE MALLORAN]
Kenji straightened.
A minute later, a third alert.
[CIVIC TRADE ROUTE – SCAVENGER CONTRACTOR ‘RIGSKIN’ – DESTROYED][SALVAGE RIGHTS REVOKED | CONTRACT VIOLATION – FORCE MISSING]
The screen filled with cascading logs. Six routes down. Two convoys missing. No survivors reported. Sensor trails traced precision hit-and-run tactics—elite strike wings. Not random. Not raiders. This was coordinated.
Kenji tapped open the overlay. Red lines lit across his trade map. Old partners. Regular contacts. People who brought in scraps, food, monster blood, or mana stones. People who had nothing to do with the war.
He clicked one by one. All gone. Erased.
Then the console chimed.
[INCOMING CALL – HIGH-PERIMETER LINK – ORIGIN: ELVEN BASTION][IDENT VERIFIED: QUEEN VAELORIA THAL’AVEL]
Kenji accepted the call.
Queen Vaeloria appeared on-screen—graceful, calm, but clearly holding back irritation. “Three of our supply sleds were attacked. One returned crippled. The rest didn’t return at all.”
Kenji leaned back in his chair and sipped from his cold broth. “Huh. I was wondering why I hadn’t seen my usual overpriced mana bread delivery.”
Vaeloria didn’t blink. “Kenji.”
He sighed. “Yeah, yeah. I saw the alerts. Looks like the Duke’s finally throwing a tantrum in the shallow end.”
“We upheld our end of the agreement. We remained neutral.”
“And you expected a noble to honor neutrality? This isn’t a war anymore. It’s a grudge match.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Then I trust it will be answered as such.”
A pause followed. Then, more quietly, “Do you require assistance?”
Kenji tilted his head. “What, like sending over a few squads of glittery archers and mood crystal healers? Tempting. But no.” He smirked. “Save the fancy leaf tea for the afterparty.”
He set the cup down, voice cooling.
“It’ll be handled.””
She ended the call with a nod.
Kenji closed the screen.
Then he called the only name that mattered.
“Flanksteak.”
The Astarion’s voice responded instantly. “Ready.”
Kenji’s voice stayed flat. Cold.
“We’re going to burn a house down.”
The Strike Order
Flanksteak didn’t ask for details. He didn’t need to. Kenji had already decided—eight Astarions would fly. The other two would stay behind to watch the Shack.
Within seconds, the Shack’s deployment subroutines began spinning up.
Kenji’s fingers tapped across the console. Target coordinates locked. Energy reserves shifted to offense priority. Fabrication requests froze mid-queue to reroute resources to ammo and unit prep.
[DEPLOYMENT ORDER – ASTARION STRIKE TEAM: 8 UNITS SELECTED][LOADOUT: ASSAULT CONFIGURATION – FULL ARMOR + CLOSE-QUARTER MODS]
[VULTURE STRIKE DRONES SELECTED: 40][LOADOUT: TWIN MELTGUN | RAPID ENGAGE | NO BROADCAST]
The hangar bays hissed open. Drone racks descended on automated lifts. Arms clicked into place. Diagnostic lights glowed orange, then green. Weapons charged.
Kenji stood in silence, watching it all through the upper deck window. The hum of movement was precise, cold, and constant. No fanfare. No rallying cries. Just machinery coming alive.
Astarions moved out in squads of two, armor still scratched from the last battle. No expressions. No voices. Just readiness.
Flanksteak stepped onto the deck beside him.
“Target?”
“Malloran’s primary estate. Burn it. Kill the guards, break the gates, ruin the walls.”
“Extraction?”
Kenji waved a hand vaguely. “If it’s armed, drop it. If it’s pretty, take it. If it runs—well, drones get bored too.”
Flanksteak nodded once. “Acknowledged.”
Kenji turned away.
“Let’s give the nobles a bedtime story they’ll choke on.”
He paused, gaze narrowing slightly.
“Make it a story. A nightmare nobles whisper to their children. I want them to look at the smoking crater and remember—this is what happens when you mess with my Shack.”
He opened the command log one more time, adjusting final parameters.
[SPECIAL ORDERS: ZERO SURVIVORS – LEAVE NOTHING IN UNIFORM BREATHING][CAPTURE PRIORITY: ANYTHING PRETTY – BAG IT NICELY, NO DENTS OR BRUISES][SALVAGE DIRECTIVE: BURN EVERYTHING ELSE – MAKE THE RUINS VISIBLE FROM ORBIT AND INSULTING FROM SPACE]
Kenji didn’t smirk. He didn’t gloat.
This wasn’t about efficiency.
This was about message.
He’d let the first strike slide. He wasn’t sentimental about traders or scavengers—but he didn’t like being poked. Going after his supply lines? That was like flipping off a volcano and hoping it sneezes. Now he had to make an example—one loud enough to echo through noble wine halls and private bunkers alike.
Now they were going to learn what it really cost to earn his attention.”
Execution
The storm didn’t come with thunder.
It came with silence.
At 0400 system time, the Shack’s launch bays opened like a yawning mouth. Forty Vulture drones lifted without a whisper, their frames vanishing into the pale clouds overhead, flying dark. No signal. No trace.
By the time Malloran’s outer sentries picked up anomalous sky distortion, it was already too late.
The first breach came through the upper ventilation domes. A drone’s twin meltguns carved molten lines through reinforced alloy and collapsed two of the bastion’s exterior vents. Another strike disabled the surface-level mana siphon. A third melted the eastern tram tunnel gate, blocking escape.
Inside, sirens blared. Emergency shielding buckled. Noble troops scrambled from bunkered quarters, half-clothed, half-armed. Chaos churned through the sublevels.
Then the Astarions dropped through the breach ports.
Eight of them. No warning. No orders barked. Just the sound of internal defense turrets exploding as charge guns barked down corridors.
Astarions moved with machine precision. Charge fire dropped guards before they could lift a shield. Blades finished the rest. Rooms turned red and wet. There were no lines. No battle formations. Just slaughter.
By the time the inner blast gates tried to seal, Brisket had already forced them open manually—with a plasma charge and his bare hands.
The bastion's internal defense lasted six minutes.
Astarions moved room to room, efficient and cold. The drones followed their lead, burning symbols into walls, melting portraits, shattering crystal floors. It wasn’t enough to kill.
Kenji wanted it remembered.
The prisoners? Sorted and sedated by drone tags. Beautiful ones bagged like fine ingredients. Everything else—left to the ash.
By the time the smoke pillar rose into the sky, the main tower had already collapsed. Kenji watched from the Shack, sipping reheated broth.
[MISSION REPORT: MALLORAN ESTATE – NEUTRALIZED][CASUALTIES: 0 ASTARION | 5 DRONES LOST | MINOR DAMAGE ONLY][SALVAGE: 21.4 TONS | BIOMASS: 67,800 UNITS][PRISONERS: 9 | STATUS: SECURED]
He swirled the broth and grunted. “Guess we’ll need new storage.”
Duke Malloran
The flickering emergency lights cast long shadows across the command chamber of his personal bastion.
Duke Malloran stood stiff, clutching the console as static washed over every display. Every camera feed—dead. Every sensor—blacked out.
It was too quiet.
Then came the sound—drip, drip, drip—somewhere behind the wall. It wasn’t water.
He turned slowly. The shadows didn’t move. But the lights dimmed one by one.
Then the wall shook—low and deep, like something massive had breached below.
He spun to the doorway. Two guards posted there—gone in half a breath, melted by a flash of plasma that carved straight through the steel like paper.
Smoke bled in. Red. Heavy. Almost alive.
His legs backed him up before his brain caught up. A gun slipped into his hand out of instinct.
Clank. Clank. Clank.
Boots. One pair. Heavy. Deliberate.
Then Brisket appeared, wreathed in smoke, metal hissing steam off his armor. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
Malloran raised his weapon and fired. Once. Twice.
The shots sparked off Brisket’s pauldron and chest like he’d thrown pebbles at a god.
Malloran backed into the console. No way out.
“You…” he croaked, voice dry. “You can’t—”
He didn’t finish.
Brisket raised the charge gun.
The last thing Malloran saw was a glow that swallowed everything.
And then—just nothing.
Lady Serika Malloran
Serika knelt in the corner of a makeshift cell—its walls reinforced plating, the door rigged from what looked like drone frame scrap and locker steel. It wasn’t inside the Shack—it was bolted together just outside, part of a temporary holding pen Kenji had ordered built using drone scaffolds and portable plating. Harsh floodlights bathed the area in cold, sterile light. There was no warmth. No privacy. Just the wind, the chill, and the message: you’re not part of the house—you’re what gets left out in the yard.
She hadn’t seen the battle. But she’d felt it.
The moment the estate's soul died, something inside her cracked. The bond to her family. The weight of her title. The pride she'd carried. All of it crumbled the moment the bastion fell—when her family’s power was reduced to molten metal and silence.
She didn’t know what she was now. A prisoner, clearly. But beyond that? She wasn’t sure. No one had spoken to her since the Shack swallowed her into its cold shadow. Not a threat, not a guest—just something kept behind steel and lock.
Part of her feared what came next. She had her guesses. The silence didn’t help.
She hated Kenji.
But even more than that, she feared him.
-End of Chapter