Inside the sprawling laboratory of Vael Dynamics, the hum of plasma welders and the sharp hiss of cooling metal filled the air like a mechanical symphony. Blueprints floated mid-air on transparent holo-screens, spinning with dizzying speed as numbers updated in real time. In the very center of this storm of data and light, a man sat cross-legged atop a metal platform, hair tied in a messy knot, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and eyes gleaming with unholy focus.
Luceris Vael, twenty-five years old, interstellar genius, the man hailed as the brightest mecha engineer of the century.
And currently, he looked like a lunatic.
His pale fingers flew across the console, sketching subroutines directly into the neural core of his latest project: a colossal obsidian mecha with curves sharp enough to make admirals weep and a power core so unstable that one misstep could blow up half the city. He leaned close, murmuring lovingly at the machine.
"Baby, just a little more fine-tuning. Then you'll be perfect. Together we'll crush every other mecha like cockroaches."
The mecha's optic sensors flickered to life briefly, glowing crimson. To outsiders, it looked terrifying. To Luceris, it was smiling.
"See? She agrees." He smirked.
Unfortunately for him, not everyone in the lab agreed.
The heavy doors slid open with a hiss, and in marched his long-suffering assistant, Joran, armed with a datapad and the expression of a man about to drag his boss into hell by the ear.
"Luceris," Joran said flatly. "You haven't slept in seventy-two hours."
"I rested my eyes during the system reboot," Luceris replied without looking up.
"Resting your eyes is not the same as sleeping."
"It is if you believe in it hard enough."
Joran pinched the bridge of his nose. "No human body can survive on coffee and sarcasm alone."
Luceris finally turned his head, strands of silver hair falling across his sharp face. His features were infuriatingly delicate, almost pretty, but his grin was the kind of grin that made entire research boards groan.
"I'm not human, Joran. I'm an idea. A dream. A legend in progress."
"You're a workaholic raccoon in a lab coat."
"Semantics."
Joran slammed the datapad on the table. "You are going to bed. Now."
Luceris raised a brow. "Or what?"
"Or I'll—" Joran paused, then lunged.
In an instant, the pristine laboratory became a battlefield. The assistant tried to drag his boss away from the console, but Luceris clung to it like a cat refusing to leave its cardboard box.
"Sleep, damn you!" Joran shouted, tugging at Luceris's arm.
"Release me, mortal! Science waits for no man!" Luceris countered, flailing wildly.
"You haven't eaten a proper meal in two days!"
"I had nutrient paste! Three tubes!"
"That doesn't count as food!"
"It had vitamins!"
"You'll collapse if you keep this up!"
"Then I'll collapse in glory!"
A nearby cleaning drone paused in its duties, projected a sad emoji, then quietly rolled away to avoid the chaos.
After ten full minutes of wrestling, threats, and one particularly dramatic attempt by Luceris to bite his assistant's sleeve, Joran finally collapsed into a chair, defeated. His hair stuck up in weird angles, his glasses were askew, and he was breathing hard.
Luceris, triumphant, returned to his console with a self-satisfied sniff.
"See? I always win."
"You win nothing," Joran muttered, staring at him with the hollow eyes of a man reconsidering all his career choices.
Luceris resumed typing, muttering excitedly about integrating plasma resonance coils and installing a coffee dispenser inside the cockpit. His fingers blurred over the interface—until suddenly, they stilled.
His vision swam. The glowing screens blurred into meaningless blobs of color. His head felt unbearably heavy, as if gravity had suddenly multiplied tenfold.
"Oh," Luceris whispered faintly. "That's new."
Then he slumped sideways off the console and hit the floor with a dull thud.
"Boss?" Joran blinked. "Boss, quit playing."
No response.
"…Boss?"
Joran scrambled over, shaking his shoulder frantically. Luceris's lips were pale, his chest still. The genius who could out-argue an entire senate had fallen silent.
Joran's face went white. "…Oh stars. Oh no. Oh no no no no no—"
He pressed desperately at Luceris's pulse, but it was gone. Just like that, the brightest mecha engineer in the interstellar world had overworked himself to death.
After a long moment of horrified silence, Joran sat back, trembling. Then, with grim determination, he reached for the emergency safe under the desk. Inside, a sealed letter sat, stamped with Luceris's personal crest.
In case of sudden death (likely from overwork), follow instructions to the letter.
Joran ripped it open. The handwriting was unmistakable—dramatic, loopy, and obnoxiously smug even in death.
"Dear future mourners (and by mourners I mean Joran, because let's be honest, nobody else cares), if you're reading this, I've finally outworked my body. I win. But don't cry—my brilliance lives on. Now, quickly, delete all my experimental data before my family vultures get their greasy fingers on it. Burn it, scatter the ashes, and make sure Father chokes on his rage. Also, tell everyone I died heroically in the name of science. Add an explosion if necessary. Yours forever, Luceris Vael, The Glorious."
Joran laughed weakly, tears prickling his eyes. "…Even dead, you're impossible."
As instructed, Joran purged the entire database of Luceris's mecha research with one decisive press of the button. Years of revolutionary technology vanished in a flash of light. Then, with quiet efficiency, he arranged the funeral.
News spread fast. The interstellar media went wild: "Genius Engineer Luceris Vael Dies Tragically Young!""Is Coffee to Blame?""Ten Theories on Why the Brightest Mind is Gone."
At the funeral hall, Joran stood stiffly by the casket, welcoming guests. He expected grief, sorrow, perhaps even awe.
Instead, he got… the Vael family.
Luceris's stepmother, dressed in a flamboyant gown entirely unsuited for mourning, dabbed theatrically at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Oh dear, what a tragedy! Such a waste of talent."
Her lips curled into a smile the moment she lowered the cloth.
Beside her, Luceris's father looked at the casket like it was a box of expired vegetables. He sighed in relief. "Finally. That boy was a headache since the day he was born."
Joran's jaw clenched.
Luceris's step-siblings, a brother and sister pair with matching smug faces, whispered excitedly in the corner.
"Do you think Father will give us the company now?" the sister asked.
"Of course," the brother smirked. "Who else is there? The board will have to hand it over. Finally, we'll get what we deserve."
Joran stared at them, horrified. "He just died. Can you vultures at least wait until the body's cold?"
But the vultures didn't need to wait long—because, unbeknownst to them, Luceris had left one final bomb in his will.
When the lawyer stood before the crowd to read the will, the Vael family leaned forward eagerly.
"To my beloved father, stepmother, and siblings," the lawyer read, voice carefully neutral, "I leave you… nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a coin, not a chair, not even my old socks. Please choke on your disappointment."
The stepmother gasped, clutching her pearls. The father turned beet red.
"And as for Vael Dynamics," the lawyer continued, "I hereby donate the entire company, with all its assets, to my lifelong rival—Dr. Helian Margrave."
The crowd erupted. Gasps, whispers, scandalized cries.
Luceris's stepbrother leapt to his feet. "WHAT?!"
His sister screeched, "That backstabbing snake?!"
From the back row, Dr. Helian himself stood up, eyes wide in shock. Then, slowly, he began to laugh.
"Oh, Luceris. Even in death, you still managed to kick me in the shins."
The father staggered forward, face purple with rage. "That unfilial brat! How dare he—how dare he—!"
The lawyer cleared his throat. "The will is legally binding. Furthermore, Mr. Vael also added a note."
He unfolded a small slip of paper and read aloud:
"Dear Family: You never wanted me alive, so now you get nothing in death. Consider this your inheritance—disappointment. Please enjoy bankruptcy together. P.S. Stepmother, that hairpiece is ugly."
The hall went dead silent.
Then someone in the back snorted. Then another chuckled. Within moments, the entire funeral broke down into barely contained laughter—except for the Vael family, whose faces looked like they'd bitten into sour lemons.
Joran, despite his grief, couldn't help but smile. "You really did win, Boss."