The snow had stopped falling—not melted, not blown away—just stopped. Midair. Frozen like a paused movie frame. The cold was still there, but something in the atmosphere had changed.
The Crimson Core pulsed once from deep within the Hive.
Then again.
And again.
Each thrum sent a wave of warmth across the slush-caked ground, kicking up steam from the frozen battlefield. Drones paused in mid-flight. Astarions halted mid-stride. Even the snowflakes trembled.
Luna blinked. “Evolution protocol initiated.”
Sola stepped forward. “System response: Path 2 confirmed. Archotech Integration underway.”
Kenji squinted at them. “Why do you two always talk like you’re reading from a manual?”
Sola replied without missing a beat. “We are synced to system alerts, Master. Efficiency in communication maximizes operational clarity.”
Luna added, “And it sounds cool.”
Kenji frowned. “Since when?”
Sola answered, “Since the Shack fitted us with alert-synced collars, Master. The moment we were integrated, the system found our twin synchronization optimal for live relay.”
Luna added, “And it lets us sound cool while guarding you.”
Kenji grunted. “Figures. I upgrade the Shack, and it turns my elves into talking loading screens.”
The Hive above the Shack cracked open like a blooming alien flower. Its spine extended upward, then outward, revealing arrays of glowing red vents, humming data plates, and shivering lines of exposed energy veins. At the center of it all, the Crimson Core floated—glowing, pulsing—and slowly descending into the heart of the Hive.
Cables snaked out from the Hive’s shell, piercing into the Core’s structure, merging systems with a hiss of energy and shudder of metal. Additional conduits extended downward, burrowing into the Shack’s side—linking Hive, Core, and Shack into a single, breathing machine. It wasn’t just connection—it was fusion.
The ground shook slightly—not enough to alarm Kenji, but enough to make the nobles flinch.
A system log flashed across the sky for all synced units to see:
[CONGRATULATIONS – PRIMARY HIVE CORE STABILIZED]
[YOU’VE OFFICIALLY BECOME A COSMIC ACCIDENT WORTH WATCHING]
[ARCHOTECH MERGE COMPLETE – SYSTEM STABILITY: STABLE ENOUGH, PROBABLY]
Kenji finally exhaled. “Just finish quick. I’ve got at least two elves expecting bath-time diplomacy.”
The Shack’s outer panels shifted, folding into themselves. The interior expanded in layers—walls, ceilings, and floors peeling back and reassembling like something between an origami sculpture and a divine machine digesting blueprints. All without a single creak.
No one else moved. Not the elves, not the dwarves, not the nobles. Only Kenji, standing in slippers and a half-open robe, watching a divine upgrade like it was the weather.
Drones detached from the ceiling in rows—no longer standard. Their frames were sleeker, darker, and etched with glowing red filigree.
[DRONE SUBSYSTEM UPGRADE DETECTED]
[ALL ACTIVE UNITS RECLASSIFIED: ARCHODRONES]
[MAX CAPACITY: 200]
[CONTROL NODE: ARCHOTECH AI NETWORK LINKED]
[MANUAL OVERRIDE AVAILABLE TO: KENJI + AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL]
Sola tilted her head slightly. “Visual anomaly detected. Exterior Shack structure remains unchanged.”
Luna nodded. “Interior expansion follows Archo-dimensional logic.”
Queen Vaeloria stared, lips parted. “This is... a blend of technology and magic I’ve never seen.”
King Brokkan grunted. “Looks like a food cart with something horrifying growing out the top.”
Kenji glanced at them, raised an eyebrow, then muttered, “Why do you two sound like you're reviewing a cursed painting in a fantasy novel’s comment section?”
Inside, the first corridor finished shifting. Light flickered to life across obsidian floors laced with gold circuit-lines. Temperature adjusted. Walls pulsed with heat veins. Doors whispered open without a sound. The hum of divine tech became the baseline ambiance.
And somewhere, faintly, the system spoke:
[AI PERSONALITY CORE ONLINE]
[ARCHOTECH INTELLIGENCE BOOTING...]
"Initializing... sarcasm levels: moderate. Threat detection: enabled. Coffee machine: missing."
Kenji sipped his cocoa. “Nice. You’ve got jokes.”
“Congratulations, meatbag. You’ve reached Tier 6. Try not to collapse the region.”
He turned to Luna and Sola. “Go prep the medbay. We’ve got upgrades coming. And tell Flanksteak to stop sniffing the mushrooms. I don’t care if they smell nostalgic.”
[...unchanged section...]
Behind him, the nobles were already moving. Queen Vaeloria issued quiet orders, her vanguard shifting positions around their perimeter. King Brokkan tapped a rune on his throne-rig, sending dwarven engineers to scan the surrounding terrain. The three human nobles, newly loyal, stood still—watching the transformation like men witnessing the birth of a new god and wondering if it came with tax policies.
Mirelle approached with a report slate. "Rebuilding operations initiated. All major damage to Shack-facing fortifications under repair. We've deployed salvage drones to strip the wreckage zones."
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Kenji waved his hand. "Good. Keep feeding the Recycler. Anything with a pulse goes in. Anything shiny goes to the Forge—yes, that’s a thing now. Prints gear, components, and questionable upgrades faster than I can finish a cup of soup."
Mirelle hesitated. "And the prisoners?"
He blinked. "The nine from Malloran's raid?"
"Processed. Lira's already assigned roles. She's, uh... enjoying the responsibility."
Kenji sighed. "Of course she is."
At that moment, Lira strolled by with a clipboard, flanked by two of the new slaves who already looked terrified of disappointing her.
She gave Kenji a proud little bow. "They’ve been properly collared and cataloged, Master. Should I move on to attire inspections or moral adjustments?"
"Just don’t turn it into a cult," he muttered. "One smug slave union is enough."
She grinned. "Too late."
Out beyond the Shack’s sensor perimeter, the first spore bloom popped with a soft hiss.
Within hours, the first rings of Archomushrooms would fully sprout, encircling the Shack in radiant arcs of biomass potential—and just beneath that warmth, a new empire was quietly growing.
And Kenji? He was still in his robe.
"Somebody get the bath hot. If I'm supposed to be the region’s overlord, I want the towel fluffy and the soap smug."
Far beyond the Shack’s warm perimeter—past the stretch of thawed soil and glowing fungi, past the scorched battlefields and cratered hills—news traveled like wildfire through the still-frozen veins of the Frostmarch.
The remaining noble houses, those who had once backed the four now-obliterated banners, received the news in fragments: entire armies vanished, their officers missing, their war beasts shredded and left in ash.
By the time full reports reached their bastions, panic had already sunk its claws in.
Houses once proud and defiant began fortifying with desperation. Vault gates sealed. Watchtowers lit their frozen skyline in frantic cycles. Men and women who once wore gold-trimmed cloaks now donned coldsteel and paced walls like prisoners awaiting judgment.
It didn’t help.
Kenji’s forces never marched. They simply arrived—drones in the sky, Astarions at the gates, elves and dwarves and scavengers tearing through defenses like wet parchment.
Each house fell. One by one. Brutally. Efficiently. Mercilessly.
Those who fought were slain. Those who surrendered were enslaved.
From one such house, seven girls were taken—young, beautiful, clearly preserved by privilege and gene-cleansing treatments. They were delivered in silence by allied troops, accompanied by nothing but a datapad listing their value and bloodline.
Flanksteak stood beside them proudly.
"Master," he said. "These subjects were chosen according to your recorded preferences. Youthful. Symmetrical. Non-threatening."
Kenji blinked. "You made a spreadsheet."
Flanksteak nodded. "Cross-referenced with previous acquisitions."
Kenji sighed. "Okay, not wrong. I’m a pervert, sure—but the kind with standards and legal disclaimers. Next time, maybe don’t treat my kinks like you’re assembling a catalog."
He eyed the girls. Most looked youthful—at least by human standards. Perfect skin, delicate features, the kind of manufactured beauty that made you question how many bloodlines and serum packs had gone into it.
Still, he pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "Lira! You’ve got seven new projects. Keep them alive, don’t let them form a religion."
"Oh, I already named them," Lira called back.
Kenji groaned. "Of course you did."
The frost-choked noble legacy of the Frostmarch ended not with banners burning—but with boots stomping across stone, collars snapping shut, and names being replaced with numbers.
And the Shack didn’t even pause for breath.
Core Functionality:
- Biomass energy extraction efficiency increased by 400%
- Recovery rate significantly improved while energy reserves remain full
- Core is now fused into the Hive structure – permanent, radiant, mildly threatening
- Med Bay online
- ArchoFabrication Forge operational
- Medical Drone Bay active – conducts healing, enhancement, and bone melding support
- Minion Spawner? upgraded
- Mansion-grade interior aesthetics enabled: obsidian floors, adaptive lighting, insultingly elegant
- All drones reclassified: Archodrones
- Maximum deployment cap: 200
- Unified swarm intelligence active – controlled by Archotech AI with optional manual override
- Turret upgrades pending
- Astarion bone melding procedures enabled (painful, slow, long)
- Combat sync bandwidth increased by 260%
- Surface zone within 10km radius: temperature regulated for human comfort
- Archomushrooms blooming in concentric spread patterns
- Radiation-free, lightly addictive, suspiciously nutritious
- Sarcasm module: active
- Mood tracking: synced to Kenji’s stress levels
- New perk: automatic commentary on questionable decisions
Far away—past the melted zone, the shattered roads, and the distant glow of fungal light—there was an underground bastion buried deep beneath the ice, untouched by the Shack’s pulse. At least, for a while.
The warlord stood at the edge of a cracked observation deck, arms folded, his frame half wrapped in synthsteel plating. Tubes hissed at his spine. One red cybernetic eye scanned a projected map as a scout drone delivered its message.
"Confirmed. Multiple noble houses eliminated. Frostmarch surface secured. A surface force operating out of an unidentified structure is consolidating control over the region."
He said nothing at first. The map flickered—zooming out to show a pulsing energy beacon where the Crimson Core now throbbed beneath the Hive.
The warlord's jaw flexed.
He said nothing. Just watched the signal burn across the map like a challenge left unanswered.
Behind him, ogres clanked in chains, orcs sharpened blades, and goblins hissed in pack chatter. The chamber was buried steel and obsidian—part bunker, part factory, deep beneath the crust of the old world.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t rage. He simply watched.
A quiet nod. That was all.
And the room adjusted around him—lights dimming, engines warming, distant alarms acknowledging the shift. Not activation. Not retaliation.
Just awareness.
For now.
They came over the ridge with nothing left.
They had wandered for months—bastion to bastion, ruin to ruin—clinging to whispers passed between campfires, drunken mercs, and dying scavengers. Stories of a surface sanctuary where the ice didn’t bite, and the turrets didn’t fire unless you deserved it. A place of warmth, food, and safety where all were welcome... or at least tolerated if they had something to trade.
Cloaks tattered. Boots ruined. Eyes hollow. A group of weary travelers—mercenaries, traders, survivors—who had followed nothing but rumors.
A city on the surface. A place where drones fly and turrets sing. A stronghold where mushrooms glow and the snow doesn’t bite. A place that wasn’t supposed to exist.
But there it was.
A city that wasn’t on any map. A place that sounded too stupid to be real—founded by a perverted ex-delivery man with a food truck and a god complex. And yet, every rumor had led to this moment.
A walled zone, ringed by automated turrets, patrolled by drones. Bastion banners and trade caravans lined the main road. Guild insignias. Elven crests. Dwarven forges. Human houses. All flying side by side.
The gates stood tall, flanked by two massive Astarions in polished dark exo-armor, each easily over seven feet tall. Their weapons gleamed with Arc-infused tech. Drones hovered above, scanning each approaching group.
As the travelers stepped through the checkpoint, the cold lifted. The air warmed. Bones stopped aching. Fatigue ebbed like water receding from a dying tide.
None of them spoke. They just looked.
Past the gates, beyond the crowd of market stalls and drone-run check-ins, past the hanging mushroom lamps and vending stations humming with energy, a voice greeted them.
Elegant. Calm. Slightly smug.
A woman with noble poise and a clipboard in hand.
"Welcome to the Shack."
And just like that, the Shack stopped being a story.
Book 1 End.
You’ve made it through Book 1 of Kenji’s Post-Apoc Snack Shack—congrats on surviving my soup-fueled shenanigans! Huge thanks to the brave few who’ve hit that follow button; your clicks are the hot ramen in my creative engine
If you enjoyed the story, let me know in the comments. Should I risk my sanity and dive into Book 2? Your feedback means a lot—otherwise I’ll just keep scribbling in the break room.
Again thank you for reading.