Automaton Overhaul
"Report! The clinical trials wrapped up ages ago. But a customer with a frail body showed up right on cue, so I figured this was my chance..."
"No, you meant mana excess syndrome, didn't you."
It was a reasonable deduction. Nobak had figured it out after just a few prods and pokes, so of course Yohwa—a healer who'd treated human bodies for decades—would spot it too. Not to mention she'd brought the perfect remedy without even asking about symptoms.
Yohwa flinched and shot Allen a glance. The young man who'd been hurling accusations her way earlier was back to his usual impassive expression from their first meeting.
Compared to the legendary mana deficiency syndrome straight out of myths, mana excess syndrome might seem common by relative standards.
But that was one in every six million births—meaning Maze City might have just five or six cases total.
Or, probabilistically speaking, Allen could be the only one.
Yohwa knew this all too well, which made letting him slip away feel like a waste.
"No freebies in my book. So for you, just cost price: 300,000 coin. Take it or shop elsewhere."
"How long does it last?"
"One year."
"Three years..."
"Two years!"
Yohwa cut him off sharply.
"But on seed refill days, you help with my research. And no telling anyone about this or passing the flower to others."
"Deal."
Labyrinth explorers survived on limited resources, forging through adversity. Meds were crucial on their journeys.
Chasing short-term gains was shortsighted; building a solid rapport with Yohwa made far more sense.
"Speaking of which, come this way."
"..."
A flicker of old memories made him hesitate, and Yohwa grinned mischievously.
"You were acting like an old codger earlier, now you're like a kid dreading the dentist. Just sit here."
Vines burst from the ground, morphing into a reclining chair. Other customers were arriving in the garden, settling into similar vine seats after striking comparable deals.
Allen relaxed and opened the book he'd bought at the bookstore.
"Here, take this."
"...?"
"It's already evening. Time to close up."
He'd barely started reading, but sure enough, the sky had darkened as Yohwa said.
"Don't go choking on smog and getting sick—that'd mess up your intel gathering."
"Thank you."
Allen took the gas mask—covering just nose and mouth—stood from the chair, and the clinging vines detached on their own.
"Made the filter from beneficial plants, so wear it out there. And remember: even good meds turn toxic if overused. Seed once every ten days, checkups monthly."
"See you next time."
As Allen exited the greenhouse fully, his reflection flashed in the glass auto-door.
With the mask on, his faint, scholarly frailty took on a slightly tougher edge.
Maintenance (2)
Allen woke and stretched toward the ceiling. In the capsule hotel, his palm hit it immediately.
My body feels so much lighter than usual.
Every morning brought the drag of invisible chains, but today—for the first time since escaping Ranka—he truly felt vitality.
No trace remained on his arm where the flower had rooted. Choosing Western Sky among countless pharmacies had been the right call.
The pinnacle of pharmacology, refined over ages on the Eastern Continent—western edge by Saldos Federation standards—suited his body perfectly.
Or maybe it's Yohwa's skill. Either way, I've climbed another step.
Not a fundamental fix, but following the snowplow's path would get him to his goal eventually.
Allen emerged from his honeycomb room and left the capsule hotel. Morning streets buzzed with commuters.
Zombie-like explorers shambled to subway stations for low-layer dives; Allen crossed against the flow toward Breaker.
The five-story building serving low-depth explorers teemed with post-commute staff.
On the second floor's shop, Allen sought the clerk from last time. The white-shirted, black-vested man recognized him instantly.
"You're back. The automaton shell you requested is in the corner. You said any would do, but I figured mammal over insect—leopard form. Did I err?"
"No, thank you for the thought."
The shop brimmed with intriguing gear, but Allen's gaze and neck stayed rigid—locked on the automaton alone.
He eyed the cleanly decapitated leopard. Plain steel plating gave no clue what feline the underworlders had envisioned.
As he unfolded his cart to load it, the clerk sidled up.
"Let me help. Mind if I ask something?"
Explorers quizzed clerks, not vice versa.
Allen nodded faintly; the clerk hefted it with him and asked.
"Pure curiosity on my part. Automatons are well-trodden research territory—hard to find fresh angles. Why seek one? Pet robot, maybe?"
"No. To descend the labyrinth with me."
"Ah, combat partner? ...Understood."
The clerk voiced assent, but his face screamed doubt. Lingering suspicions warred with boss's watchful eye, holding him back from detaining Allen.
The skepticism was justified.
Automatons felt no pain, fought recklessly body and all. Even as allies, they shattered fast.
Plus mana stone supply issues made unupgraded ones poor investments in the maze—input far outweighed output.
Folly to others, but Allen had mana excess syndrome. Mana overflowed, hard to control, wrecking his body.
Mana stones? Solved. Breakage? As a magitech engineer, no sweat.
Repair battered ones; worst case, slot a foe's soul stone and commandeer.
Feels like a summoner or tamer.
Key difference: Allen squeezed his until death. No bonds or friendships like tamers preached.
The plan to minion-ize automatons seemed solid, but first: manipulate soul stones via Star Letters primer.
He needed private space.
Capsule hotels were sleep-only; public parks meant gawkers.
Crossing the street to a three-star hotel, Allen recalled Vito's escape tale.
'Know why heroes are strong?'
'Chosen ones?'
'Nah. World-ending crisis breathing down their necks. To save it, they pour everything in. Like parents gaining super strength when their kid's in danger. Same vibe.'
Allen's hotel pick echoed that.
Wallet light from spending, prolonged stay meant account apocalypse. That deadline would sharpen his focus razor-like.
Check-in done, the clerk bowed slightly.
"Room 301. Thank you for... choosing our hotel."
Odd stare at the carted automaton. Allen kept his cool and headed up.
No time to inspect; he disassembled the leopard, left the head, yanked long cables to link power source.
This way, even if I goof, it won't move—furniture safe.
Perched on the bed, he infused mana into the soul stone. A hazy input prompt arose like smoke. Room dark, Star Letters twinkled like a real galaxy.
Primer book open beside, he scanned combat phrases. Underworlders scripted tight—no tweaks needed.
Allen's fixes: ally recognition, voice command acceptance.
Ally ID first. Mana-charged finger crushed tiny stars effortlessly.
Erased attack-exclusion phrase; mana to power source with prompt open—leopard's eye sockets glowed white.
"Look here."
Voice response: glow shifted sideways, like moving pupils.
Before white turned red, mana to soul stone.
Clack!
Jaws snapping shut. Leopard's glow stayed fixed on Allen, unresponsive to touch.
Now input voice commands per book—basic primer limited to shorts: 'Stop, attack, follow.'
Allen engraved Star Letters, mana to power: glow flared, jaws parted.
"Stop."
Clack clack!
But it ignored, baring teeth at Allen. Headless, no bite, but metal jaws clashed viciously. Pure hostility.
"I inputted it right..."
Puzzling dragged on. Normally he'd rest for health, but not tonight.
Staring holes through Star Letters, he felt warmth—turned to sunrise on his knee.
Night fled; morning arrived. Dodging rays, eyes never left the script.
"Ah!"
Tiny hidden dot spotted—exclamation escaped. Wedged between tight letters, overlooked flaw.
"No wonder folks call it tough."
Clothes or shoes shrugged off mud splatter; Star Letters demanded precision.
Intricately complex. Low mana sensitivity? Letters invisible, like stars behind clouds.
Star Letters are 3D forms—I've been thinking too 2D?
Sudden spark:
Rune Letters too? Instead of surface-engraving, overlap in space?
No progress. Daunting realm for Allen, barely handling single runes.
Refocused, solved by lunch. Stretching brought pleasant stiffness, not pain.
Flower's effect shone. Pre-treatment, all-nighter unthinkable—fatigue would've floored him first.
Foolish to abuse meds without nutrition, rest.
Washing up to head out, mirror glance: cheeks seemed quirked up.
Hallucination?
Or joy at immersion leaking out.
Rune and Star Letters tortured neurons, but conquering hurdles brought fulfillment.
Carlson called Allen—studying both—like a madman in three grad schools. No uni experience, Allen couldn't gauge.
Uni to grad school, right?
Magitech devoured his focus; doubts vanished quick.
*
Maze layer 3: Allen claimed an empty fixed manhole to test leopard vs. layer 3 automatons.
Plain steel now etched with tiny patterns—leopard pelt-like at a glance.
Pattern truth: [Hardening]
Allen's rune pen work on each plate.
Couldn't repair post-every-fight; effort to cut maintenance.
If it works well, keep going