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Luke stared grimly at the dead Xenomorph.
The mercenary who'd been ambushed wasn't so lucky. The creature's acidic blood had done what its claws couldn't—dissolved the man into a puddle of organic slurry. The Nanosuit had impressive damage resistance, but alien molecular acid was beyond its design parameters.
This was exactly what Luke had feared.
The faster he killed enemies, the higher the probability of spawning hostile creatures instead of useful drops. It was why he'd built Wolfpack in the first place—containment. If something dangerous appeared, he needed soldiers capable of putting it down before it escaped into the general population.
Hopefully I'll have enough companions eventually that I won't need mercenaries for this.
"Search the area thoroughly," Luke ordered. "Make sure nothing else spawned nearby."
His mind raced through possibilities. If the system had dropped a Xenomorph, what else might have appeared? Facehuggers hiding in dark corners? A Predator stalking them from the shadows?
He'd played too many games not to be paranoid.
The Wolfpack operators observed a moment of silence for their fallen comrade, then returned to business. Fear was manageable when you had money, purpose, and guns that actually worked against monsters. This wasn't so different from a warzone, really.
Just with uglier enemies.
The Xenomorph corpse had to be destroyed. Luke wasn't about to let anyone—HYDRA, SHIELD, or random researchers—get their hands on that genetic material. The last thing Earth needed was a Weyland-Yutani situation.
Fortunately, the rest of the operation proceeded without surprises. Gitano's faction had no secret weapons, no experimental breakthroughs. Damaskinos had spent years developing the Reaper strain, and his forced collaboration with the purebloods hadn't produced immediate results.
The vampires died quickly.
"Luke, please—spare me."
Gitano Dragonetti, elder of the pureblood families, knelt before Luke with desperation in his ancient eyes.
"I can give you money. Vast amounts of money. Assets across the country—properties in Los Angeles, Boston, New York. Oil fields. Gold reserves. Anything you want."
The vampire was bargaining for his life, offering to surrender centuries of accumulated wealth. It was a rational calculation: with his bloodline's longevity, he could rebuild everything given enough time. Material possessions were replaceable. Existence wasn't.
Luke wasn't interested.
"Kill him," he said flatly.
Wolfpack opened fire. Gitano and his remaining vampires dissolved into ash under the barrage of anti-materiel rounds.
Money wasn't the issue. Umbrella's Nanosuit sales were generating more capital than Luke could reasonably spend. The real revenue hadn't even started—once production scaled up, the contracts would pour in faster than they could fulfill them.
Besides, the energy sector was about to undergo a revolution.
Fosterium would make fossil fuels obsolete. The old oil barons and legacy energy corporations could see the writing on the wall. They were already fighting back—spreading disinformation about "radiation dangers," funding anti-technology advocacy groups, trying desperately to delay the inevitable.
Tony Stark was absorbing most of that pressure, since he'd been more public about his arc reactor ambitions. Luke had deliberately kept quiet about Fosterium's energy applications, letting Stark Industries serve as a lightning rod.
Umbrella had military protection thanks to the Nanosuit contracts. The energy cartels couldn't touch Luke directly. But they could—and did—make life difficult for anyone threatening their dominance.
Let Tony deal with the political bullshit. I'll swoop in when the dust settles.
North America's vampire population was effectively extinct.
Luke would have cleanup crews hunt down any survivors, but the major power structures were gone. Gitano's faction, Damaskinos's researchers, the various lesser houses—all eliminated in a single coordinated operation.
The supernatural underworld would need to find new management.
"Alright, time to open the loot boxes!"
Back at headquarters, Luke gathered his companions for the post-mission ritual. Tifa, Skadi, and Riven arranged themselves around him as he prepared to review the drops.
This was partially superstition. The items were already determined—hostile spawns like the Xenomorph proved that. But Luke liked to believe that having his "lucky charms" nearby improved his odds.
One of them must be the lucky one, he reasoned. Yamato and the Sparda bloodline were ridiculously rare drops. Someone in this group has S-rank gacha luck.
It definitely wasn't him. Luke refused to consider the possibility that he was the unlucky one being carried by multiple lucky companions. After all, he'd been chosen for transmigration. He had a system that summoned waifus. Six billion people on Earth, and he was the one who got isekai'd.
That was peak fortune, surely.
"What do I do, Luke?" Tifa asked, settling into a kneeling position beside him.
Skadi and Riven followed suit.
"Just hold my hand."
Tifa reached out, her fingers interlacing with his. Luke squeezed gently, momentarily distracted by the contact.
Focus.
He opened the drop interface and scrolled through page one.
Nothing special. Standard materials, minor equipment, consumables.
Okay, maybe Tifa isn't the lucky one.
He switched hands to Skadi, who was seated on his other side. Not favoritism—just logistics. Riven would be next.
Luke was dimly aware that this arrangement resembled a romantic comedy setup for disaster. Three women, one man, obvious tensions simmering beneath the surface.
But his companions loved him enough not to make scenes. At least not where he could see them.
He knew Skadi and Riven sparred privately. Violently. Neither wanted to burden him with their rivalry, so they settled things between themselves. Luke found it both touching and deeply concerning—what if one of them got seriously hurt?
I need to get stronger. Fast.
"Why is there a basket of horse feed?!"
Luke screamed internally at the page two results. Fodder. Literal animal fodder.
He almost discarded it before reconsidering. If he ever dropped a character who rode horses—ship girls came to mind, some of them had equine mascots—this might actually be useful.
Fine. Keep the grass.
Page two was a bust. Skadi's luck wasn't any better than Tifa's.
That left Riven.
She noticed his gaze and reached for his hand without prompting.
"My luck should be decent," she said. "You don't survive Texas without some fortune on your side."
Fair point. The wasteland had killed countless warriors. Surviving long enough to become the Exile required more than skill.
Luke opened page three.
"Now we're talking."
Something actually valuable had appeared.
"A resurrection coin?"
The item materialized in his palm—a golden token identical to the ones from Dungeon & Fighter. Insert coin, continue playing.
Can I actually use this? Does it work outside the game?
Only one way to find out. And hopefully, he'd never need to test it.
But having a spare life in his pocket felt reassuring.
"Good job, Riven." Luke squeezed her hand. "You're officially the lucky one."
Riven's stoic expression cracked slightly, a hint of pride showing through.
Behind her, Skadi and Tifa exchanged glances that Luke carefully pretended not to notice.
The harem dynamics were getting complicated.
Worth it, he decided. Definitely worth it.