Wandering Tech-Priest in Multiverse

The faint glow of data-screens flickered across the cold steel of the Crimson Church. Silence ruled the chamber, broken only by the occasional clack of mechanical joints and the low hum of arcane circuitry running through the walls. Servo-skulls drifted overhead like spectres, their crimson optics dimmed in standby mode—waiting.

At the center of it all sat Luthar, unmoving at the main bench, eyes fixed on the holographic data in front of him. One hand scrolled through streams of code and schematic overlays; the other tapped into Naaza's biometric profile.

The scan began with her existing arm—joint by joint, tendon by tendon. Then it moved to the missing one: a clean stump, long since healed but never replaced. Dozens of data lines streamed across the screen—nerve receptivity, muscle feedback, mechanical tolerance, and sensor lag.

Miach stood nearby, arms crossed as he took in the sterile space. His eyes drifted upward, drawn to the ceiling, where unused mechanical limbs hung like a spider's web.

"Are you going to make arms like those?" he asked, nodding toward them.

"No," Luthar replied without glancing away. "They weren't designed for the living."

A brief pause, then a single keystroke.

"Beginning fabrication."

The servitor-linked bench vibrated as Luthar pressed his palm to a recessed console. Far below—deep beneath the Church—industrial machines stirred to life. Gears rotated. Hydraulic engines whirred.

A rhythmic clicking echoed through the vaults.

Luthar leaned back slightly and exhaled—his first full breath in minutes.

"Have you ever thought about augmenting more?" he asked, shifting his gaze toward Naaza. "Replacing additional parts to make yourself stronger—so you wouldn't have to worry about monsters tearing into you again?"

Naaza tensed. Her breath hitched. For a moment, her body stiffened under the weight of a memory she didn't ask for. Miach noticed, his gaze sharpening—a healer's instinct catching what words didn't say.

"So… are you saying you've already replaced everything inside your body?" Miach asked cautiously.

"No," Luthar said. He remained focused on the screen. "I suggested it because I thought she might want the strength to fight her fears."

His voice remained clinical. Measured. Then he resumed typing—still recording prosthetic calibration data, but now also compiling notes for future designs.

A soft tapping echoed from down the hallway.

Liliruca stepped into the room, a small thermos in one hand and a folded cloth in the other. She gave Miach a polite nod, spared Naaza a quick glance, and walked straight to Luthar's bench.

Without a word, she placed the thermos beside his hand.

Luthar paused mid-input. He looked at it.

"…Did you follow the instructions?" he murmured, unreadable.

"Of course," Liliruca replied. "Your damned machines wouldn't stop speaking about it."

He studied it for a moment longer, then picked it up. The cap clicked open with a soft twist. A faint aroma rose—herbs, broth, and something unmistakably real.

He drank.

Just a sip.

The taste wasn't perfect. For a second, his expression twitched—but he didn't stop.

Liliruca folded her arms. "So how long until you can eat like a normal person again?"

"A few more weeks. Until my stomach adjusts," he said, setting the thermos down.

"A few? That's not like you. Don't you usually give exact numbers?" she asked dryly.

"When it comes to my own body," Luthar replied, "I prefer not to assign timelines."

Naaza raised an eyebrow. Moments ago, Luthar had told her exactly how long the arm's fabrication would take—down to the second. But now, with himself, he was vague. Was he being evasive? Or careful?

Luthar drank the last sip. The thermos gave a final, empty click.

A soft chime echoed from the central console. On the display, all calibration markers turned green. The words ADJUSTMENT COMPLETE appeared in clean, glowing text.

Luthar didn't react.

He simply reached forward and began detaching the remaining connections—thin calibration lines embedded into Naaza's sleeves and collar. His movements were fluid, precise. Each cable detached with a quiet hiss.

"You're done with me?" Naaza asked, watching his hands.

"The calibration is finished," he said. "The rest is installation. Come with me."

Naaza stood slowly as the final scanner disengaged. Her ears twitched—nervous, but curious—following his gaze toward the wall behind the bench.

A panel slid open with a hiss, like a vault decompressing. Cold, sterile air rolled out—laced with antiseptic and the faint sting of ozone.

"I don't think I can follow you down there," Miach said cautiously.

"You won't be needed down there," Luthar answered. "Stay here with Lily."

He stepped away from the bench. A servo-skull hovered silently behind him, carrying the prosthetic limb—still wrapped in sterile cloth.

"Liliruca," he called, without turning back, "monitor the main console while I'm below. Notify me if anyone arrive."

"Understood," she replied, already moving to the control terminal.

Naaza blinked as she followed alongside him. "You really have a workshop down there?"

"I had something better than a workshop," Luthar said with a dry tone. "I had to rebuild most of it. Still missing pieces—but for you, it'll do."

They stepped into the corridor. Soft blue lights lined the floor, pulsing with each step. Diagnostics clicked beneath their feet, scanning vitals in silence.

Behind them, the doors sealed with a heavy hiss.

The lift descended.

"It won't take long," Luthar said quietly. "But it will change everything."

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