Lenia Bright Falls
Lenia Bright. Sizzle sizzle. As thick slices of spam and sausage chunks hit the hot oiled frying pan, an irresistibly savory aroma flooded the control room—violent in its temptation.
"Ooooh…! Look at that pink meat writhing and crisping up! Doesn't it look alive?" Ayla shot up from her camping chair and plastered herself to the pan. She'd apparently forgotten last night's substation brawl like it was a past-life memory; her silver eyes were locked unblinkingly on the spam's golden crust.
"Gotta add veggies too. Onion, bell pepper." I swirled in oyster sauce and stir-fried it over high heat. The rich, umami explosion of oil and sauce hit like a bomb.
On the folding camping table: four slices of spam, sausage-veggie stir-fry, and a bowl of white rice each. It was a humble celebratory feast in an underground bunker, but our mood was haughtier than a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
"Cheers! To the glorious birth of the Iron Blood Relief Foundation!" Ayla thrust her water glass forward.
"No cheers with water glasses."
"Tch, stingy boss." She grumbled but her chopsticks rocketed toward the sausage at lightspeed. The moment she bit in, whatever duke's-lady dignity remained got buried six feet under.
"Mmmph…! What kind of magic meat is this—chewy and salty! The outside pops, and juice bursts from inside!"
"Pig byproducts ground up and stuffed in intestines."
"Intestines?!" Her chopsticks froze. A 0.3-second hesitation.
"…Still tastes good, so whatever!"
Predictable as clockwork. I sipped my black coffee, smirking. The permit, stamped with the church seal and viscount's signature, gleamed proudly in one corner of the table. With a legal pipeline to the surface now open, I could roll the capital snowball for real—
Basic Hydroelectric Generator: 4+ heat sources detected within 15m radius. Perimeter breach alert level 2.
—Beep!
My hand froze midway to setting down the coffee mug. An alert popped on the screen. The warmth drained from my eyes.
"Boss? What's up? More sausage?" Ayla turned, sausage dangling from her mouth. One look at my face, and her jaw locked with the meat still inside.
"Put the rice down. Right now."
---
Catwalk. The metal-grate walkway overlooking the hydroelectric generator deep in the bunker. The heart of the bunker's power—the priciest zone, lined with pipes running alongside the underground waterway next to the generator. All our electricity and water came from here.
I tossed tactical binoculars to Ayla.
"Look below. ID the heat sources."
Ayla caught them. And pressed the wrong lens to her eye.
"…Huh? Boss, these broken? Everything looks upside down?"
"Flip 'em."
"Oh." I snatched them back, flipped, and shoved them at her. Nobles need instruction manuals for everything.
This time she got it right. One second to focus, two. Her breath hitched.
"Boss."
Her voice had totally changed.
"There's a woman collapsed at the bottom of the collection well by the generator. She's in armor with an emblem engraved on it."
"Emblem?"
"Bright Count family crest—crossed swords."
Ayla pulled away from the binoculars and stared straight at me.
"Boss, that woman's Lenia Bright. Family bastard. Knight who can't use aura, but two years ago in the Imperial Nobles Martial Tournament finals, she beat the family's aura-wielding legitimate heir with pure swordsmanship. I saw it from the stands myself."
"Beat an aura user without aura?"
"Relentless pressure. Kept hammering until the aura shield wore thin. The instant it cracked, she struck the elbow joint perfectly."
Something flickered in Ayla's voice for a split second—0.5 seconds, gone.
"Half the crowd booed. The other half shut up. It was an overwhelming win, but no one acknowledged it because no aura."
I took the binoculars and peered down. Dark, damp well bottom. Amid rusted drainpipes, a woman in tattered armor slumped against the wall. Long black hair soaked in sewage clung to her pale face.
But.
"…Why's she here?"
The generator noise and vibrations kept beasts away normally. It was always clean. But now, three or four red eyes glinted in the shadows around her. Rat hounds—sewer beasts with rat heads on hunting dog bodies. Faint aura membranes shimmered on their hides.
Blood scent. Her blood had drawn them. And my precious, precious pipes? Right under those trash mobs and the collapsed woman.
"…Those fuckers are standing on my pipes."
My voice dropped dangerously low.
"One pipe burst means replacement at minimum 1,000 SP."
"Boss! Forget the pipes and look at her!"
"Pipes cost more."
---
Cold calculation. Pipe replacement: min 1,000 SP. Chase beasts now: 0 SP replacement. Simple so far. The issue? Her.
Strategic value? My bunker's biggest weakness: no surface ops capability. Ayla could gather intel, but physical enforcement? Near zero.
But one combat-ready operative on the surface following my orders? Resource gathering efficiency: skyrockets unpredictably. Expected returns: basically infinite.
Verification needed. 'Knight without aura.' Ayla vouched for PvP skill. But beasts? Different story. Beast aura armor has fewer gaps than humans. Joint exploits might work on people, no guarantee vs. beasts.
Aura knights dominate because they kill beasts. Period.
But. Her state didn't look like skill failure. More like poisoned or injured. And aura's blind to sensory shocks—we proved that on Kellun. Give her the right tool for that gap, and she's viable.
'Save the pipes, test the sample. No loss.'
I opened the The Last Survivor System shop window.
---
Lenia Bright couldn't move a finger. Residual paralytic? Pure exhaustion? Or tangled mess of both? She couldn't tell. Vision blurred. Damp, cold stone floor. Sewage stench seeping through her hair. Sticky breaths closing in from the dark.
Rat hounds. Three or four. Sewer predators—rat snouts on hound bodies—slowly circling her. Checking if the downed prey was truly dead.
One sniffed closer, nose inches from her ankle. Rough, hot breath grazed her boot.
Then memories surged. The worst kind, right before death—irrelevant crap.
—Two years ago. Imperial Nobles Martial Tournament finals. Arena packed with 5,000 spectators.
Lenia's sword grip didn't shake. Opposite her: the legitimate heir—Bright Count's true successor, her half-brother—his longsword pulsing with blinding silver aura. Crowd gasped in awe. That's a noble house heir.
Nothing cloaked Lenia's blade. Just cold steel.
She never yielded ground. Pressed, hammered, gave no inch. His aura-weighted sword was flashy but wide arcs. She parried thrusts. Relentless pressure wore his aura shield. Crack appeared—elbow joint gaping for a split second. Her blade tip pierced true. Through the leather liner.
He screamed, knees buckling. Ref raised her hand.
Half the crowd silent. Half booing.
'No aura, just luck!'
'Targeting joints? Cowardly!'
No cheers.
—That night, Father hugged her. Old leather oil scent from his broad chest. His heartbeat raced. Genuine pride.
She knew just from being held.
"Lenia."
"Yes, Father."
"Your sword is strong."
She felt like she owned the world. But.
"But against beasts… your sword won't reach."
Worry in his voice. Pure fear of losing his daughter. No malice.
That's why it sank deeper. Aura-less swordsmanship: useless vs. beasts. That sentence wrapped invisible chains around her grip.
"Strong" and "won't reach beasts" side by side? Only one remained. Useless.
A curse from her loving father. Undeniable.
—Two years passed. Lenia kept proving herself, ending up here.
Should've been wary when the heir's mother visited her room. But couldn't. Thirst for her approval crumbled reason.
Her real mother died in childbirth. Seeking maternal love from the stepmother was the mistake.
The drink was odorless, colorless. One sip, eyelids leaden. Glass slipped, shattered. Knees buckled, vision tilted.
Stepmother looked down: "Trash like you isn't needed in the family."
Soft smile gone. Never existed.
Last glimpse before black: the winner's ribbon from that tournament two years ago. Crushed under her heel.
—Cold. Stone wall at her back, puddle underfoot. Body ached like she'd tumbled from somewhere.
Rat hounds growled. Hot drool splattered her boot tip.
Something died in Lenia's eyes. Not rage. Not fear. Just void after 20 years' fire burned out.
Father was right. This sword couldn't pierce their armor. Wins humans, but vs. beasts? Just metal scrap.
No point proving it anyway. No applauding crowd, not even boo-ers at the well bottom.
She closed her eyes.
Then something dropped from above. Small, black, cylindrical. Pin pulled, bounced once.
High voice barked: short, sharp, command-honed.
"Close eyes! Cover ears!"
Body moved first. Reflex. 20 years sword-trained, battle-honed.
Lenia squeezed eyes shut, hands clamped ears. Before she processed—
WHAMMMMM—!!!
White seeped through lids. Pressure pierced palms. Close, but not direct. Barely.
World exploded white. Violent flash and deafening blast swallowed the well. Rat hounds shrieked in unison. Aura armor shredded like paper vs. sensory overload. They thrashed blindly, clawing eyes.
Lenia's hearing vanished. White silence filled everything.
In that silence.
Crackle—
Mechanical static. Then a voice. Emotionless, dry, cold as iron dropping from void.
"Once dumped in my zone, you're mine."
Pause.
"Prove your worth with that scrap metal."
Lenia opened her eyes. 10 meters up on the metal grate: something rappelling down slow on a line.
No shine. No crest. No mana stone bling.
Just heavy, cold, drab.
A lump of iron.
Lenia couldn't look away.