Liliruca awoke in darkness. Not the comforting kind she knew—the kind that draped over the alleys like a blanket, the kind that let her disappear behind crates behind the Guild. No, this darkness was sterile. Alien. It hummed with hidden machines and a silence too still to be natural.
Her eyes were open, but her senses lagged behind. Everything felt delayed, like she was one step removed from her own body.
Something beneath her skin pulsed. Not pain—just… a hum. Mechanical. Faintly electric.
No wounds. No bruises. Just a fading line down her forearm, vanishing even as she stared at it.
She remembered the table. The cold metal. Luthar's masked face looming above her. Then—nothing.
A hiss broke the stillness. The lights dimmed as a door opened.
He stood in the doorway, silent. Watching.
He stepped forward and placed a sealed gear kit on the floor beside the door. Without a word, he pointed to it.
"10th floor," he said flatly. "Kill at least ten monsters. Then return."
No encouragement. No ceremony. No sparring match or weapons test. Just an order.
Her heart pounded. "I thought you were going to train me. Teach me."
Luthar's gaze didn't shift. He pointed to the wall-mounted terminal.
"Just watch here. Instructions are included. I've uploaded some videos—you'll have a basic idea."
She froze. No witty retort. No protest. She knew that look. It was the same look the world gave her every day she scraped to survive.
Just colder. Less human.
Her legs were shaky as she moved to the gear kit and cracked it open. Inside: dull gray armor, a short curved blade, a spare pistol with a single energy cell, and a flask of water. The armor shimmered faintly—just beneath the surface, crimson etchings pulsed like veins beneath skin.
Her fingers fumbled with the unfamiliar straps until a servo-skull floated over, mechanical limbs unfolding to assist. It worked with swift precision, tightening, adjusting, and aligning.
When she looked back toward the door, Luthar was already gone.
The terminal flickered to life with a soft chime. An angular gear symbol glowed on screen, red and slow-pulsing like a heartbeat. Text scrolled across:
Subject: Liliruca Arde
Implant Registry: Verified
A red lens from the hovering servo-skull projected data against the screen.
Equipment briefing loaded. Play orientation?
She hesitated, then said, "Yes."
A flat, synthetic voice began:
"Welcome. You have been outfitted with the Type-3 Subdermal Scaffold: a low-grade, neural-linked exoskeletal support system. Designed for lightweight augmentation of strength, mobility, and survivability. Not rated for prolonged direct combat with high-threat entities."
Functionality includes:
Reactive Fiber Layering beneath dermal tissue
Micro-Servomotor Nodes at joints
Accelerated Grip and Lift Capacity up to 2.5x baseline
Impact Dampening Layer integrated in spinal rail
Basic Environmental Resistance (heat, cold, toxic air)
Armament Package:
Compact Curved Blade: carbon-hardened alloy, mono-edge mimicry
Low-yield Magnetic Pistol: single energy cell (6 bursts)
Tactical Armor Shell: reinforced composite plates (chest, arms, legs). No enchantment.
Images and diagrams accompanied the list—schematics, angles, and stress points. She stared until the voice cut off.
Her fingers twitched. Her legs itched to move.
The hum beneath her skin... was ready.
She descended into the dungeon.
The 10th floor greeted her with cold mist and silence.
The light was pale and unfocused. Mist swirled low, obscuring her feet. Every scrape of stone, every distant howl, seemed amplified. The air was thick with tension, with danger.
She moved like a shadow—small, crouched, and careful.
The first monster was an imp.
It sprang from behind a rock, a tiny blade gleaming in its clawed hand. Instinct screamed at her to run, but her arm moved on its own.
The curved blade flashed.
A single slash across the chest.
Blood sprayed. The Imp dropped before it even hit the ground.
Her breath hitched. Her grip shook.
Then steadied.
The blade... responded. The Scaffold pulsed. The sync rate ticked upward.
Not fear. Not now.
The second came too fast. A silverback.
It burst from the mist, bellowing, fists pounding. Too big. Too fast.
She dove left, rolled behind a stalagmite.
It sniffed. Roared again.
She raised her pistol.
First shot—missed.
Second—shoulder hit. Roar.
Third. Fourth—center mass. Nothing.
The beast surged forward.
Fifth shot—into its eye.
It howled, stumbling. She dashed forward.
Slashed its hamstring. It fell.
Her last shot—right into the back of its skull. It stopped moving.
Her arms ached. Her lungs burned. But something was changing.
Sync: 31%.
Two Imps.
They came together—fast, small, yipping.
The first leapt.
She caught it mid-air—blade slashing it clean open.
The second lunged from her side.
She turned quicker than she thought she could—elbow to its jaw, then a brutal stab into its chest.
It dropped.
She stood panting. No delay. No shaking.
Sync: 44%.
An orc.
Huge. Towering. Its cleaver was longer than her arm.
She didn't fight it head-on.
She danced. Drew it in. Made it swing wide—miss.
Again. And again.
Then—pain.
Its blade scraped her shoulder. She stumbled back. Red warnings flashed in her vision.
Warning: Lateral Impact—Pressure Threshold Approaching
She grit her teeth.
Slid beneath its guard. Plunged her blade into its armpit.
It shrieked. She pulled free. Stabbed again. And again—until it finally collapsed and shattered into stone.
She knelt, panting.
Sync: 63%.
The pain faded. Movement became easier.
Her arms flowed with the blade. Her footing was solid.
She was changing.
Two Hard Armoreds.
They came in a pair—slow, deliberate, but unstoppable.
She found herself in a narrow corridor. Her pistol was empty.
Their shells repelled her first strikes—useless. She remembered: weak points.
She baited the first one in. When it reared, she slid beneath, driving her blade behind its leg joint.
It shrieked. Twitched. Collapsed.
The second struck her back. She hit the wall. Ribs screamed.
But she stood. The Scaffold caught her.
Barely.
She reversed her grip and lunged forward, low.
Upward thrust into its underjaw—deep and brutal.
Bone cracked. It spasmed. Fell.
She panted, shoulders heaving.
Ten kills.
She counted each one. Whispered the number with every breath.
Her armor looked intact—but she bled beneath. Her shoulder throbbed. Her legs trembled, struggling to match the exoskeleton's demands.
She was faster. Stronger.
But still mortal.
Still flesh.
When she emerged from the dungeon hours later, no one saw her.
Just a flicker of shadow vanishing into the city.
She returned to the crimson church trailing gore and fog. The door opened before she touched it.
Luthar was waiting.
Silent.
Watching.
She stepped past him not because she was ignoring him, but because she was saying, with her silence:
"You wanted a killer. Here I am."
If he wanted a tool, she would become one.