The street had cooled, the day's frantic energy bleeding into the slow, deliberate pace of evening foot traffic. Lamps flickered to life across the plaza, casting luminous pools of amber onto worn cobblestones.
Luthar stepped into the profound silence of his shop. No signs of forced entry, no frantic complaints—just the stillness he had anticipated. Precisely as he'd left it.
He settled behind the counter, metal fingers already skimming across the terminal interface, parsing the day's logs.
A voice, sharp and unmistakable, cut through the silence. "Well, well. Look who finally remembered he owns a shop."
Luthar turned slowly.
Across the narrow path, framed by the crooked doorway of a herb-laden apothecary, stood an chienthrope with half-lidded eyes and a smirk that dripped with dry amusement.
Naaza.
Arms crossed, voice cool with sarcasm. "You vanish the moment you open and leave a grim-faced tin can to mind the store? Revolutionary business model."
"It possesses more intelligence and reliability than most humanoids," Luthar replied
Naaza clicked her tongue. "Try selling that idea to the adventurers. Unless you're aiming to run a cult, you might consider actual customer service."
Her gaze slid toward his stark signage. "Shops tend to do better when the owner isn't a ghost."
Luthar's eyes flicked toward her own domain—the Blue Pharmacy. Its sign, faded by years of sun and storm, creaked faintly. The symbol of Miach Familia was weathered but intact. The structure leaned toward his own, as if drawn by some quiet, architectural kinship.
He said nothing at first, gaze passing over the apothecary's cluttered façade before returning to Naaza.
"I am not concerned with coin," he said at last. The servo-skull drifted silently into view behind him. "This is a supplementary venture. An experiment."
His tone turned brittle. "Unlike some, my survival is not shackled to the whims of commerce."
Naaza raised an elegant brow, ready to retort—until a second voice interjected, warm and gentle.
"Naaza, must every interaction become a skirmish?" Miach stepped from the shadows of his shop, robes dusted in herb fragments, his presence calm as still water.
"He's new to this corner," he added. "Let him adjust in peace."
Naaza scoffed. "He abandoned the place like a cursed relic."
Miach ignored the jab with the grace honed by years of dealing with her.
He turned to Luthar, expression patient, eyes kind.
"If managing alone is burdensome, consider hiring a clerk," he said gently. "Even the best minds benefit from another human's insight now and then."
Luthar was silent. Behind his mask, calculations flickered. The servo-skull, while useful, lacked initiative. A human assistant—distasteful, but perhaps… practical.
Miach bowed lightly. "If you ever require help, our door remains open."
Naaza muttered, just loud enough to carry, "If you need a marketing expert, steer well clear of me."
She followed Miach inside, the apothecary's door shutting with a quiet click.
Luthar sat back behind the counter, masked gaze reflecting faintly in the polished glass. Minutes stretched into stillness.
"…A clerk," he murmured, the word tasting foreign.
The logic was sound—but finding one with the necessary competence? Tedious.
His eyes settled on the servo-skull. Modifications could extend its function, but it would never be sufficient.
Eventually, he powered down the shop's defenses and left, his boots echoing against the stone as he returned to the hidden sanctum below.
The lab's artificial lights cast a sterile glow across seamless steel. Machinery hummed deep within the walls—a rhythmic thrum, like the heartbeat of some sleeping machine-god.
Liliruca sat hunched on a padded bench, knees to chest, wrapped in an oversized coat. It smelled faintly of oil and ozone.
Her eyes followed a surveillance drone as it glided silently above, sensors pausing on her before vanishing into shadow.
Time had lost meaning.
Her wounds had been dressed—polymer seals fused to flesh like a second skin.
Footsteps echoed behind her. She didn't flinch.
Luthar entered.
"Did you complete the task?" he asked, his voice flat. Not a question—an expectation.
She nodded without looking at him.
He moved past her, stopping at a cluttered table scattered with alien components: unknown metals, glowing wires, and something disturbingly like a glass eye.
He stood in silence before turning to face her.
"Are you prepared?"
Liliruca blinked, her voice caught between fear and confusion. "Prepared for what?"
"To embrace your role within the Adeptus Mechanicus," he said, the name heavy with reverence. " I will teach you combat, technology, and doctrine. You will become my extension."
She glanced at the strange tools. Then at the circling drone. The excuses she had rehearsed died in her throat.
"I… I'm still in the Soma Familia."
"Inconsequential," he dismissed coldly.
She hesitated, then slid from the bench, dwarfed by the coat. " I am not good with fighting."
Luthar approached a seamless locker. With a sequence of runes, it opened with a hiss.
Inside: weapons. Sleek, humming, otherworldly.
He selected a compact design—matte black, small enough for her hands.
"A laspistol," he said, offering it to her. "Lightweight. Minimal recoil. Adequate for your level."
He placed it carefully in her hands.
"Enough to dispatch vermin. Against true enemies, you'll require experience."
She held it gingerly. "What… what is a laspistol?"
Luthar sealed the case of monomolecular blades with a click.
"A directed energy weapon," he explained. "It projects coherent light, focused to pierce most conventional armor."
He stepped closer.
"Tonight, you'll learn to use it. Tomorrow…" his voice hardened, "you will prove it."