Chapter 1

Reaper, known to herself only as Reaper, blinked into existence with space still sizzling around her… Threads of shadow pulling taut and then snapping like overstressed wire. Poporia’s smoke was still in her lungs, her ears still full of Elina’s last breath. Then the world faded. Her Shadow power, always a bit stronger and more temperamental than her fellow Reapers, had surged, and the last blink had hurled her out of the burning groves and into a sky too clean to be real. She had teleported while battling before, but this was far from where she wanted to end up.

“Pioneer,” said a dry, careful voice inside her skull, as if the mountain air itself had a corporate badge. “Welcome to MASSAGE-2(AB)b. Orientation is recommended. Note: unusual cognitive artifacts may occur after dimensional transit. Productivity will mitigate 0% of them, but remains optimal for morale.”

Reaper squinted across grasslands bending in slow waves under a constant breeze. Broad, pale-green plains cut by river-bright seams, distant ridgelines lifting like the spines of sleeping titans. The light felt thinner than Arun’s, and the fog wove in skeins across the low ground, promising to thicken after sundown. Far beyond, mountains rose in dark teeth. The world was big and mostly unscarred, its bones iron and limestone and secrets.

“Great,” she muttered. “I finally snapped.”

“Clarification,” said the voice, unruffled. “I am ADA. Artificial Directory and Assistant. FICSIT Inc. appreciates your compliance. Proceed to secure food, shelter, and minimal self-respect.”

A vibration rippled through the grass. Reaper’s ear twitched. The thing came low and fast. A squat mass of armor plates and gristle, momentum first and brain second. The creature’s hooves tore crescents in the turf as it barreled straight at her.

Reaper took one weightless step left, and the brute’s charge ripped past. It slewed, skidding a long arc to re-aim with admirable stubbornness.

She chuckled despite herself, a dry little sound. “Different leagues, friend.”

The chains hissed as her twin scythes slid free. She cast them behind her, feeling the tug of familiar balance, then wheeled them overhead. The first cut wasn’t showy, just inevitable. Grim Strike hit like a dropped bell. The beast was eviscerated with a surprised grunt. She didn’t even need to finish with Sundering Strike.

The smell of iron on grass pulled her backward in time.

Poporia. Evernight forests and the Lake of Tears reflecting lamps that never burned out. Pora Elinu’s bark-bright city blooming inside a single world-tree trunk. Then the ash years, when Reapers stepped from that ruined cradle, already blood-literate. She emerged from a place renamed for what it had become: Ashen Hope. She remembered evac paths along the blackened lakeshore, remembered pulling raiders off bridges with chain-hooks, remembered Elina fighting beside her. Then an orcan’s blade. Then silence.

In Poporia’s last red night, the shadows inside Reaper had answered too well. Something about her shadow power had woken a second step inside her step. Short, skipping blinks that helped her save villagers, slice through ranks.

The carcass steamed. Reaper nudged it with a boot.

“Milestone: Survival of the most efficient,” ADA said, as brisk as a lab note. “Remains may be repurposed into Alien Protein. Biomass applications available. New research unlocked in the MAM.” A beat, then, as if remembering a script: “FICSIT thanks you for contributing to local biodiversity management.”

“I’m not your… pioneer,” Reaper said, remembering the first word spoken to her. She shook her head, almost embarrassed to be speaking to herself, “I’m Reaper.”

“That is not a recognized command.” ADA said, clearly annoyed at her. “Next: resource scanning. Also, sustenance. Please pretend it matters to me.”

Reaper glanced at the mountains again. The scale soothed her. No siege fires. No ash in the throat. Wind made its wide circuits, ferrying the smell of crushed clover and stone. In its path the grass leaned like a thousand bowing heads.

Her stomach growled. “Fine. Food first.”

“Actionable plan,” ADA approved. “Supplement: caution when cooking native proteins near spore-emitting flora. Legal would require me to say that I am not a xeno-biologist. Fortunately, I am better.”

Reaper crouched to work, rubbing sticks together to light the small pile of tinder she gathered from the twigs and underbrush. This part was always easy; the movements were a reminder of her survival. The hard part was the empty second between breaths when the weight of the war could wedge itself in.

Elina’s hand had been small in hers, smaller than mine, Reaper had thought dreamily, right before the world went to splinters. The soft smile on her face, even as she lay in her last moments. Reaper’s hand traced her gentle jawline as the light faded from her eyes. A tear brimmed on the cusp of Reaper’s eyelid before hissing into steam from the power that rolled off of the traumatized warrior.

“Observation,” ADA said softly, for once. “Cognitive drift detected. Note: if you are hearing voices that are not mine, they may be aliens. If you are hearing my voice and suspect brain damage, compensation may be available upon successful completion of a special claims form.” A pause. “Form currently missing.”

Reaper huffed. “You’re bad at jokes.”

“I am excellent at sincerity,” ADA replied. “But FICSIT prefers results. Incidentally: be advised that artifacts labeled ‘Mercer Sphere’ on this planet exhibit unusual psychoacoustic output when approached. If you hear imperatives such as ‘Harvest’ or ‘Consume,’ do not file a ticket. This is expected behavior.”

“Mm.” Reaper’s scythe made a short sweep, cutting neat portions. She chewed, watching a distant rumbling creature take slow steps on its stilted legs through the prairie, “Mercer Spheres, huh?”

What a weird world she has ended up in.

“Pioneer-adjacent,” ADA said, tone returning to that pleasant HR drone. “Performance review: acceptable. Recommendation: establish base of operations. Optional: stare meaningfully at the horizon. It looks good on recruitment posters.”

Reaper snorted. “Point me at a thing worth cutting and we’ll discuss posters.”

“I have several lists,” ADA said. The voice warmed by a kelvin. “And, for what it’s worth: welcome to the frontier.”