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

Roen Kast hunched over Liya, his blood-crusted hands gripping her shoulders, her limp weight pressing against his chest like a stone sinking through mud. The Crack Void Hub loomed above, its jagged walls trembling under the Kast fleet's relentless barrage—blue veins flickering faint, a pulse teetering on the edge of silence. The platform was a graveyard of shattered stone and swirling dust, the wind howling sharp with the tang of plasma, blood, and scorched metal. Ten hours, fifty-one minutes glowed on the system panel—a lifeline dangling by a thread as the hub's hum stuttered—thump, thump—weaker with each passing second.

Liya's breath rasped faint, a wet gurgle barely audible over the chaos, her wild hair plastered across her pale face. Her sword lay abandoned nearby, notched and dull, a relic of her crumbling fire. "Kid…" she croaked, her voice a fragile whisper, "you're… loud…" A faint grin twitched her lips—jagged, defiant—but her eyes fluttered shut, her chest barely rising, and Roen's throat burned raw with panic.

"Stay with me!" he snarled, shaking her hard, his voice cracking as desperation clawed his gut. "Liya—ten hours, we're out, don't quit!" Her head lolled, a faint wheeze escaping, and his chest seized—fear slashing deep, a wound he couldn't staunch. Blood oozed from her leg, pooling dark beneath her, staining his hands red—a lifeline slipping through his fingers.

A plasma blast screamed in—red light searing the mist—and slammed the hub's wall with a crack that split the air. Stone shards flew, blue veins flaring weak as the shockwave knocked Roen back, pinning Liya beneath him. Dust choked his lungs, his ears ringing shrill, and he tasted copper where his teeth bit his tongue—sharp, metallic, grounding. The platform tilted wild, a groan rumbling from the hub's core as its walls buckled inward, then snapped back—thump—a beast gasping under blows too heavy to bear. Roen scrambled up, dragging Liya into the dais's shadow, her blood smearing a dark trail across the stone.

"Hold on!" he roared, slamming a fist against the dais, the hub's pulse faltering under his knuckles—thump, thump—a heartbeat on the brink. The system chimed, its cold voice cutting through the haze:

System Notification: Structural integrity at 46%. Energy reserves: 34%. Kast fleet at 310 meters—reinforcements at 850 meters, closing. Wraith signatures at 280 meters, converging rapidly.

"Wraiths—280," Roen rasped, spitting grit as he scanned the mist. Red eyes pierced closer—five cloaked shapes, twitching and gliding, their whispers a venomous chorus—traitor, failure, you'll fall. The words slithered into his skull, dragging up the Kast trial—cold chains, mocking laughter, the weight of exile. He shook his head, snarling—not now, not real—but they clung, oily and relentless.

The fleet loomed—310 meters, black hulls slicing the fog, cannons glowing red-hot in a hum that rattled his ribs. "Roen Kast—surrender or perish," a ship blared, its robotic voice flat and final, echoing the Kast family's scorn. Roen's gut twisted, rage boiling through the exhaustion—a fire he stoked with every ragged breath.

"Perish this," he muttered, ducking as plasma streaked—hit the wall, blue flaring weak as a chunk sheared off, crashing into the void with a hollow thud that echoed in his chest. The hub pulsed—thump—its field crackling faint, static buzzing as the ship wobbled, pulling back to 320 meters. Roen's jaw clenched—46 percent, reserves bleeding, but it held, a beast snarling back against the sky's hammer.

"Liya," he said, his voice low and fierce, brushing her cold cheek—blood-smeared, clammy. "They're close—fleet, wraiths—we've got to hold." Her grin flickered—weak, broken—and she coughed, blood splattering her lips, her hand twitching toward her sword.

"Still… here, kid," she whispered, her voice wet and fading. "No… bugs…" Her eyes fluttered shut, and Roen's throat tightened—panic slashing raw, a desperation he couldn't bury. She'd been his chaos—wolves, mechs, ships—her fire his lifeline, and he wasn't letting it die.

"Damn right," he rasped, his voice thick, hauling her closer. "You're not out—not yet." He propped her against the wall's shadow, her head lolling, her breath a faint rasp—still there, still hers. The hub pulsed—thump—weaker, flickering, and he pressed a hand to its stone—warm, trembling—a lifeline he refused to let snap.

The wraiths closed—250 meters now—their red eyes blazing through the mist, whispers swelling into a roar—traitor, you'll break. Roen's stomach sank—fleet above, ghosts below, a vise tightening. The system chimed:

System Notification: Wraith signatures at 230 meters—non-corporeal entities converging. Energy field interference ineffective against non-physical threats. Structural integrity at 44%.

"Forty-four," Roen muttered, his voice a snarl, clutching his bent sword—useless against ghosts, but it steadied his shaking hands. His architect's mind raced—angles, choke points, anything. The hub's field zapped ships, not wraiths—physical versus shadow, a gap he couldn't bridge. His eyes darted—the platform's edge, rubble piles, the void below—no cover, no tricks left.

A blast screamed—plasma streaking red—and hit the dais's remnants, shredding stone into a hail that slashed his arm, hot and jagged against his skin. Roen ducked, curling over Liya as the platform bucked, tilting wild under another hit. Dust rained, the hub groaning—thump—its walls flexing, a crack splitting wider, blue veins dimming. He braced her, her blood slick on his hands—hold on, damn it, hold on.

"Kid…" Liya whispered, her voice fading, her hand twitching toward him. "They're… close…" Her eyes cracked open—dull, fading—and Roen's chest seized, rage boiling over the panic.

"Too damn close," he growled, peering out. The wraiths—200 meters—glided fast, their cloaks rippling like smoke, red eyes locked on him. Traitor, failure—the whispers stabbed deep, hooking into his skull, dragging up the trial's cold scorn—chains biting, voices mocking. He snarled, shaking it off—not now—but they clung, relentless.

The hub pulsed—thump—weaker still, and Roen felt it falter—a beast on its last legs, its defiance crumbling under the strain. The system chimed: Structural integrity at 42%. Energy reserves: 30%. Kast fleet reinforcements at 800 meters—wraith signatures at 180 meters. His gut sank—42 percent, a beast bleeding out, wraiths and ships closing the noose.

A ship fired—plasma streaking—and grazed the wall, blue flaring faint, a chunk tumbling into the void with a crash that echoed in his ribs. Roen ducked, dust raining hot, the platform tilting wild. He braced Liya—thump—the hub's pulse a faint echo, its field fading.

"Liya," he rasped, shaking her gently, his voice rough with desperation. "We've got ten hours—stay with me!" Her eyes fluttered—half-open, dull—and she coughed, blood flecking her lips, her grin a ghost of its old fire.

"Still… kicking…" she whispered, her voice wet, her hand limp against his. Roen's throat burned—relief crashing faint, panic clawing back sharper. She was slipping—her chaos, his anchor—and he couldn't stop it.

The wraiths closed—150 meters—red eyes piercing, whispers roaring—failure, you'll break. Roen snarled, hauling Liya tighter, his bent sword useless but clutched like a lifeline. The hub pulsed—thump—and he felt it—a beast gasping, defiant but dying.

A blast screamed—hit the platform's edge, shredding stone into a hail that slashed his cheek, hot and sharp. Roen dove, dragging Liya under the wall's shadow as rubble rained, the hub jolting—thump—its field crackling faint against the fleet's hum. The ships loomed—320 meters—cannons glowing hotter, reinforcements breaking the mist at 800 meters—more black scars slicing closer.

The system screamed: Structural integrity at 40%. Energy reserves: 27%. Wraiths at 120 meters—fleet reinforcements at 750 meters. Roen's breath hitched—40 percent, a beast bleeding dry, wraiths and ships tightening the vise.

"Ten hours," he muttered, his voice a snarl, hauling Liya closer, her blood slick on his hands. "We've got ten hours." His architect's mind churned—angles, weak points, survival. The hub was dying—cracks splitting, veins fading—but it held, a jagged defiance he mirrored. He'd died once under steel—screaming metal, his blood pooling—and he wasn't doing it again—not here, not with her.

The wraiths glided—100 meters—red eyes blazing, whispers swelling—traitor, you'll fall. Roen snarled, his grip tightening—not yet. A ship fired—a barrage streaking red—and Roen braced, curling over Liya as the hub roared—thump—its pulse a last stand against the abyss.

"Bring it," he rasped, his voice raw, defiance burning through the haze. The blasts rained—stone shattering, mist swirling—and Roen held, the hub's pulse his only shield.