The dim lighting of the lower lab pulsed in a soft rhythm, casting shifting shadows across the walls.
Luthar stood alone, breath ragged, posture hunched—not from pain, but from exhaustion.
With a slow breath, he began the process.
First, he unlatched the outer cloak—crimson, scorched at the hem from forge work and combat. It fell in a heap beside him.
Then came the internal armor: hardened, interlocking plates laced with thin actuators and embedded link ports. He disengaged them one by one, each hiss and click echoing like distant detonations.
The inner bodysuit followed—metal-threaded cloth that clung stubbornly to skin slick with sweat and grime. He peeled it away with care, revealing not cybernetics but faint circular marks: the residue of electrode contacts that had interfaced directly with his nervous system.
One by one, he placed each device—every tool, vial, connector, and focus
Naked, in both flesh and protocol.
He stepped forward and initiated the self-diagnostic.
Initiating full somatic scan...
Warning: Neural fatigue and muscle tearing detected.
From a sealed drawer, he retrieved a simple robe—still crimson, but unadorned. Just clean fabric against battered skin.
Then, from a locked container, he drew a lighter version of his mask—sleek, full-length, matte in finish.
The moment lingered—silent, still—before he finally donned the mask.
Luthar's breath slowed as he adjusted it, watching the readouts flash green, red, and yellow across the interface.
Neural Efficiency: 43%
Muscle Integrity: 68%
His gloved fingers tapped against the glass panel beside him. He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying his breath.
He needed to stabilize—just enough to function.
He turned to a sealed cabinet. It opened with a hiss.
Inside: rows of vials, blister packs, and injector tubes.
One by one, he swallowed pills, downed foul-tasting tonics, and injected what couldn't be consumed. Muscle stabilizers. Neuro-dampeners. Pain suppressants. Blood thinners.
Glass clinked and plastic cracked. Some containers were half-empty; others emptied in seconds.
He pressed a hand against the table for balance as the pain dulled and his breath evened out.
Then—footsteps. The door slid open.
Liliruca stepped inside, tugging her cloak tighter around her shoulders. She paused at the threshold, nose wrinkling.
"…What died in here?"
Luthar, seated on a bench beneath flickering diagnostics, didn't look up. "Definitely not me."
She coughed into her sleeve. "It smells strange."
He finally glanced over, eyes dull behind the lighter mask. "Ah. That would be because we didn't burn the incense today.To be fair, I think the smell is manageable—you probably just haven't developed a tolerance for real smells yet."
Liliruca stared. "You're blaming me?"
He gestured vaguely at a nearby vent. "Just pointing out: not everything can be given the sacred bath. That would be wasteful."
Liliruca didn't respond right away. Her eyes tracked the rows of used vials, the discarded armor piled nearby, and the acrid chemical scent still clinging to Luthar's collarbone beneath the robe.
Her expression shifted from concern to something closer to incredulity.
"Can't you just... take a bath?"
"The auto-sanitization fields and micro-drone surface sweeps are perfectly functional. Technically superior to primitive water immersion," he said.
Liliruca crossed her arms. "Can you speak like a normal person? And just use normal water?"
He gave a long, pained sigh behind the mask. "There is no shower room in the church."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, you can build fancy weapons, but not a shower."
Luther said nothing. A simple bath wouldn't erase the stench of medicine anyway.
She moved toward the discarded armor and tools.
"Were you always wearing them inside your robes?" she asked.
"Isn't that uncomfortable?"
"Comfortable versus security."
He trailed off, turning his gaze toward the monitor.
"It's like you're still carrying that magic sword, even though you now have better weapons."
Liliruca looked away, a tightness pulling in her chest.
She understood the feeling of staying guarded, but she didn't understand what he was afraid of.
Silence stretched between them—thick, heavy with unspoken things.
After a moment, she asked quietly, "Do you want me to go to the shop tomorrow... or to the Dungeon?"
"You can take a break or go to the dungeon to grab some extra cash for yourself. It's not like I hired that clerk to be a mascot," Luthar muttered. "It's time for her to work alone."
Liliruca looked at him. "What if she walks off with all your weapons?"
He glanced up. "She?"
Liliruca's voice tightened. "And what if the adventurers stop playing nice? Some of them were shoving and shouting over prices like it was some market brawl. I swear, many of them are thinking about how to take the way without paying the money."
"If something like that really happened, she would be caught. Same with the adventurers.
As for their ending..." Luthar's voice stayed casual.
"All I can say I need to test few things and what can be better than few strong adventures?"
This reminded Liliruca again: the person standing in front of her wasn't normal.