She limped into the church hall at precisely 3:17 in the morning.
Luthar didn't speak. He watched.
The armor—streaked with blood but structurally intact—had held. Mostly. The tactical shell had done its job: dispersing impact, absorbing trauma. Her pistol hung limp in one hand, the grip slick with dried gore. The energy cell was completely drained. The edge of her combat blade had dulled to a faint shimmer—less weapon, more worn metal.
He remembered clearly—she preferred distance. That was the whole point of the gun.
She was supposed to shoot them.
Instead, she'd stabbed an orc in the armpit like some kind of murder-goblin.
She walked in without a word. No call for help. No fanfare. Just the faint, dragging thud of her boots across the alloy floor.
Luthar watched her for a moment longer.
Objectively, the mission was a success. Ten confirmed kills. No permanent injuries. Subdermal Scaffold sync at sixty-four percent. The armor had held.
But the look in her eyes was something else, not broken. Not afraid.
She passed him without a glance.
For a moment, he felt like some kind of villainous overseer—a cold handler sending pawns into the grinder. Just another faceless boss watching assets bleed.
Even so, he just turned and let her follow him into the lower chamber.
In the lab, she stripped off the armor without complaint. The servo-skull moved with practiced precision—unlocking clasps, retracting plates, and peeling back the frame to reveal bruised skin underneath.
Luthar examined the injuries in silence. Deep violet blooms marked her ribs and thigh. A shallow gash crossed her shoulder where the dermal weave had split—but it was closing. Slowly. Efficiently.
She didn't flinch beneath the light.
He handed her a nutrient vial. She drank it in two swallows, without a word.
Luthar turned to the terminal. Data from the Scaffold streamed across the screen—shock logs, cortical spikes, and neural strain telemetry. She had pushed it hard. Too hard.
Impressive. Dangerous.
He logged the adjustments.
**> Blade: Replace with monomolecular edge.
> Pistol: Upgrade capacity. Add integrated cooling.
Armor: Add kinetic gel padding to the spine and torso. Improve joint flexibility.**
She sat on the edge of the table, sweat drying on her skin, fingers curled in her lap like coiled wire.
Luthar paused, his mask reflecting her small, hunched form.
He said nothing about the way she'd fought—too close, too reckless. He didn't mention how she'd ignored the original plan: test the gear, keep your distance.
Because she had survived.
He'd show her how to fight properly later. When there was time. For now, there was work to be done.
The lab settled into quiet. Just the low hum of servos and data streams.
Luthar stood still for a long moment.
The sync readings might've stabilized, but her body told the truth—tension coiled in her limbs, faint tremors in her fingers. She hadn't even made it to a bunk. She just slumped sideways into a nearby chair, armor half-hanging off her frame like a broken exoskeleton.
She was asleep within minutes.
He watched her a while longer. Then moved.
Gently, he lifted her—light as always, but somehow heavier now, like something had sunk into her bones. She didn't stir, not even as he carried her through the silent hallways and laid her onto the bed in the refurbished chamber near the sanctum's heart.
He adjusted the covers with clinical precision. The lights dimmed automatically as he stepped away.
Then he turned and left.
Back in the forge chamber, he activated the drafting console.
Personalized gear was one thing—obsessive, exact, and efficient. But armor for adventurers? That was a different kind of problem. Mass production required balance: price, durability, and ease of repair.
Still, demand was growing. Word of Mechanica's gear was spreading fast.
He loaded a fresh template and began inputting variables:
**> Material: Composite polymer mesh over reinforced carbon-laced plating.
Durability: 12-point trauma dispersal grid.
Features: Modular chestplate, collapsible helmet, universal sheath bracket.
Price range: 40,000–80,000 valis. Affordable. Replaceable. Clean aesthetics. **
He paused, watching the schematic rotate. Clean lines. No embellishments. Something a level-2 and a level-1 could use.
By the time that was completed, it was already opening hour for his shop.
He powered down the terminal, packed new equipment and left for the shop.
The alleyways near the church were quiet, but further out, Orario stirred—wagons creaked, shopfronts groaned open, and the scent of street bread began to waft on the breeze.
He didn't rush. Mechanica opened when he arrived.
as he entered. The interior was exactly as he left it—clean, angular lines, sterile light panels humming overhead. The display rack was stocked with trial gear:
Before he could start the day's work, the door chimed. Not a customer.
Elna stepped inside, carefully balancing a covered tray. She looked well-rested and clean, a pleasant contrast to the bloodstained girl from earlier.
"I brought food," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thought you might forget."
Luthar inclined his head. "Acknowledged. Set it there."
She placed the tray beside the workbench and took a slow look around the shop. "Do you really make all the equipment by yourself?"
"Yes," he said simply, returning to his console.
Elna hesitated before asking, "What do you want me to do today?"
He gestured toward the counter. "Just try to sell and explain to the customer, and if you don't know, then you can ask me."
By midday, customers started filtering in. Most were quiet, curious, clearly word-of-mouth types. One, a lanky spearman from the Soma Familia, picked out a compact blade and left.
Two hours later, a group of mid-level adventurers—likely freelancers—walked in, boasting loudly about surviving a Silverback encounter; after checking the equipment, they left without purchasing anything.
As he was not that famous, the sales were quite low for the quality of the weapon selling; even so, the entire day went by without any hiccups, which was good enough.