Reborn as the Waste Lord: SSS-Grade Castle Evolution System

Roen Kast pressed his back against the dais, the jagged stone digging into his spine like a dull blade, every shudder of the Crack Void Hub rattling his bones. The air burned—hot and thick with the stench of plasma-seared rock and molten steel, the wind howling a banshee's wail that tore at his ears. Above him, the hub loomed, its walls a jagged silhouette pulsing with blue veins, flickering like a heartbeat on the brink of collapse. The system's timer glowed in his vision—ten hours, fifty-three minutes until movement unlocked—but each second felt like a hammer strike as the platform bucked beneath him, cracks snaking wider with every blast from the Kast fleet.

Liya slumped against him, her wild hair matted with sweat and blood, her weight a heavy anchor in his arms. Her leg was a mess—bandage soaked red, blood pooling on the stone—her longsword slipping from her trembling grip to clatter beside her. "Kid…" she rasped, her voice a wet whisper, barely cutting through the chaos. Her eyes fluttered, half-lidded and glazing over, but a faint, crooked grin tugged at her lips—stubborn, broken, hers. Roen's throat burned, his hands shaking as he clutched her tighter, their blood mingling in a sticky mess that glued them together.

"Stay with me, damn it," he growled, his voice cracking raw, shaking her shoulders with a desperation that clawed his chest. "Liya—don't you fucking quit on me now!" Her head lolled, her breath a faint wheeze, and he felt it—panic, sharp and cold, slicing through the haze of adrenaline.

A plasma blast screamed in—red light searing the mist—and slammed the hub's wall with a thunderous crack. Stone shattered, blue veins flaring weak as the shockwave threw Roen sideways, pinning Liya beneath him. Dust choked his lungs, his ears ringing with a shrill whine, and he tasted copper where his teeth bit his lip. The platform tilted hard, a deep groan echoing from the hub's core as its walls flexed—buckling inward, then snapping back, a beast staggering under blows too heavy to bear. Roen scrambled up, dragging Liya back to the dais's shadow, her limp form dragging through the grit, her blood smearing a dark trail.

"Fuck!" he roared, slamming a fist against the stone, the hub's pulse faltering under his knuckles—thump, thump—weaker, uneven. The system chimed, its cold voice slicing through the din:

System Notification: Structural integrity at 55%. Energy reserves: 48%. Kast fleet at 300 meters—plasma barrage intensifying. Energy field disruption holding at 12%.

"Fifty-five," Roen rasped, coughing blood and dust, his breath hitching in his throat. "You're tougher than this—hold on!" His architect's eye traced the hub—walls sagging under the strain, blue veins thinning like overtaxed cables, but still standing, still clawing back against the sky's relentless hammer. He felt it in his gut—thump, thump—a defiance syncing with his own ragged pulse, a jagged lifeline he refused to let snap.

The ships loomed closer—280 meters now, their black hulls cutting the mist like knives, cannons glowing red-hot in a hum that shook the air. "Roen Kast—surrender or face annihilation," the lead ship blared, its robotic voice flat and final, echoing the Kast trial's scorn—traitor, waste. Roen's stomach churned, rage boiling up through the exhaustion, a fire he stoked with every aching breath.

"Annihilate this," he snarled, ducking low as plasma streaked in—hit the wall, blue light flaring weak as a chunk sheared off, tumbling into the void with a hollow crash that echoed in his skull. The hub pulsed—thump—and the field crackled, static buzzing faint as the ship wobbled, its cannons dimming for a heartbeat before steadying. Roen's jaw clenched—12 percent wasn't much, but it was something, a flicker of chaos in their precision.

"Liya," he said, his voice low and urgent, brushing matted hair from her blood-streaked face. "You hear me? We've got ten hours—stay with me." Her eyes cracked open—dull, glassy—but that faint grin flickered back, a spark in the dark.

"Still… kicking, kid," she whispered, her voice wet and fading, a cough shaking her frame. "Ain't… quittin'…" Roen's chest loosened—just a hair—but her blood pooled wider, staining the stone beneath her, and he felt the weight—her life slipping through his fingers, slick and unstoppable.

A blast ripped in—plasma streaking red—and smashed the dais's rim, shredding stone into a hail of shards that slashed his cheek, hot and sharp against his skin. Roen dove, shielding Liya as the platform bucked, tilting wild under another hit. Dust rained, the hub groaning—a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his ribs—and he dragged her tighter against the wall's shadow, her breath a faint rasp against his neck.

"Stay with me!" he roared, his voice breaking, shaking her as the hub pulsed—thump—weaker now, a beast on its knees. The system chimed again:

System Notification: Structural integrity at 52%. Energy reserves: 45%. Kast fleet at 270 meters—missile deployment detected.

"Missiles," Roen muttered, his breath ragged, his grin a savage flicker. "Bring it." His architect's mind raced—angles, weak points, survival. The hub was bleeding—52 percent, a beast staggering—but it held, its pulse a defiance he clung to like a lifeline. He'd died once under steel; he wasn't doing it again under Kast fire—not with Liya fading in his arms.

A ship broke formation—250 meters, hatches hissing—and missiles streaked out, red trails slashing the mist like claws. Roen's gut dropped. "Down!" he barked, flattening himself over Liya as the first hit—wall, blue swallowing it with a crackle—but the second grazed the dais, blasting chunks skyward. The platform bucked hard, tilting wild, and Roen slid, clutching Liya as they crashed against the hub's base, her blood slicking his grip.

Pain flared—his ribs a white-hot scream, his side a pulsing ache—but he held her, her weight heavy, her breath a faint wheeze. The hub roared—thump—and the field spiked, a third missile veering wild, slamming into its own ship's wing. Metal shrieked, smoke billowing, and Roen laughed—a raw, broken sound that hurt his throat. "Eat your own shit, Kast!"

The system chimed: Fleet stability reduced to 18%. Structural integrity at 50%. Roen's laugh faded—50 percent, reserves draining fast, but the ships pulled back—290 meters, circling cautious now, cannons dimming slightly. He felt it—the hub's pulse, thump, thump, a beast baring its teeth, buying them seconds against the onslaught.

"Liya," he rasped, propping her higher, his hands trembling as he brushed her cheek—cold, too cold. "We're holding—ten hours. You hear me?" Her eyes fluttered—half-open, dull—but she nodded, faint, her grin a ghost of its old fire.

"Still… here, kid," she whispered, her voice wet, a cough splattering blood on her lips. "No… bugs…" Roen's throat tightened—relief crashing through him, sharp and fleeting—but her hand slipped, limp against his, and panic clawed back, raw and urgent.

"Don't you dare," he growled, shaking her gently, his voice rough with desperation. "Ten hours—we move, we win. Stay with me!" Her breath hitched, a faint rattle, and he pressed his forehead to hers, blood and sweat mingling—not now, not her. She'd fought with him—wolves, mechs, wraiths—her chaos his anchor, and he wasn't letting it slip away.

The hub pulsed—thump—weaker, flickering, and Roen stared up, dust stinging his eyes, the blue veins thinning under the strain. It was crumbling—walls sagging, cracks widening—but it held, a jagged defiance mirroring his own. He'd built things—died under one—and this wasn't falling, not yet.

A ship fired—plasma streaking red—and hit the dais's edge, shredding it into rubble that rained hot across his back. Roen braced, curling over Liya as the hub jolted—thump—the field crackling faint, the ship wobbling back fast. His grin was gone, replaced by a steel resolve—hold, damn it, hold.

The wind howled, whispers creeping back—traitor, failure—and Roen froze, a flicker in the mist: red eyes, watching, waiting. The system screamed:

System Notification: Wraith signatures detected—500 meters, closing. Fleet at 310 meters—reinforcements at 900 meters, approaching.

"Wraiths?!" Roen muttered, his voice a snarl, his grip tightening on Liya. "Perfect timing." The hub pulsed—thump—and he clung to it, to her, to the fight, defiance burning through the haze.

"Bring it," he rasped, his breath a ragged vow, the ships' cannons glowing hotter as reinforcements loomed—a hammer to crush them. Ten hours—he'd hold for ten hours.