The Flesh-Crafter: The Grafted Legion Book 2: A Dark Survival Thriller LitRPG Light harem Fantasy Adventure by Jaxon Starforge

Author:Jaxon Starforge [Starforge, Jaxon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2026-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

The VIP Lounge of St. Jude Medical District had survived the apocalypse, the feral riots, and the reign of Dr. Vane.

It was currently struggling to survive Isolde.

The Hemomancer had claimed the largest leather sectional sofa as her throne. She sat draped in a silk robe she had looted from the hospital gift shop—black, naturally—sipping a glass of Vane’s expensive red wine as if it were water from the fountain of youth.

"This vintage is adequate," Isolde pronounced, swirling the liquid. "Though it lacks the iron aftertaste of a fresh kill."

Nyx, sitting on the floor sharpening her knives, threw a glare that could have peeled paint.

"I'm going to stab her," Nyx whispered to Elias. "Doc, hold me back, because I'm about two seconds away from seeing if she bleeds wine."

"She bleeds napalm, Nyx. Don't poke the battery," Elias muttered, rubbing his temples.

He stood by the holographic map table, trying to calculate supply lines, but the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a bone-saw.

Elara was in the corner, her massive silver-plated body acting as a physical wall between Isolde and the Screamer infant. The Matron didn't trust the "Vampire Lady." Every time Isolde looked in the baby's direction, Elara’s chitin armor rattled with a low, threatening growl.

"It smells of antiseptic and poverty in here," Isolde critiqued, looking around the room. "Flesh-Crafter, surely you can grow better furniture? Something with a pulse?"

"We don't sit on people, Isolde," Kaelin said from the window seat.

Kaelin had stripped down her Titan-Weave Arm for maintenance. The black muscle fibers lay exposed, twitching slightly, as she tightened the titanium bolts connecting the limb to her shoulder.

Isolde scoffed. "Dead metal. Crude hydraulics. You pollute your potential with combustion and gears."

"My 'dead metal' broke you out of a jar," Kaelin snapped, snapping a casing back into place. "Magic is great until you need to open a door without a spell slot. Reliability beats vanity."

Isolde’s eyes flashed crimson. The wine in her glass rippled.

"Vanity?" Isolde stood up, the liquid in the glass levitating into a sphere. "My magic is the fundamental force of life. Your 'tech' is just a crutch for those too weak to bend reality."

"Enough," Elias barked.

The sphere of wine splashed back into the glass.

Elias walked into the center of the room. He looked at his harem. A cyborg soldier, a toxic rogue, a monster tank, and an arrogance-mage.

"We aren't roommates," Elias said, his voice hard. "We are a faction. And right now, we are a faction with a target on our backs."

He looked at Isolde.

"You wanted to see my lab? You wanted to see the Titan samples?"

Isolde perked up, her boredom vanishing instantly. "You have processed the samples?"

"Better," Elias said. "I have an idea. Come with me to the Foundry."

The basement of St. Jude—formerly the sludge tank where Vane kept his victims—had been transformed.

Elias had cleaned it out. It was now The Foundry. Workbenches made of bone and steel lined the walls. Vats of biomass bubbled in the corner. It was a workshop of horrors.

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