The Allbright System - A Sci-Fi Progression LitRPG Story

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Fragments of a familiar voice cut through the static haze buzzing in Thea's skull, but her brain struggled to string them into meaning.

The words were just… sounds. Echoes of something she should understand, but couldn't quite catch.

"Thea… Major Quinn… need me… what is goi—Thea?!"

Hurried footsteps thudded closer, then stopped right beside her.

A pair of warm hands cupped her cheeks—gentle, familiar—fingers brushing up to her forehead, then down along her jaw, checking her pulse at the neck.

The pressure settled on her shoulders next, firm but steady.

"Thea… talk… me… happened?"

The steady voice had a hint of urgency in it, but Thea couldn't seem to grab hold of it.

Her entire world had narrowed to the crushing weight in her chest and the sharp, hollow pang of her heartbeat echoing like a broken bell through her ears. Everything else—the words, the room, even her own thoughts—just drifted somewhere out of reach.

The hands didn't leave her.

If anything, they grew more purposeful—one settling against the center of her back, applying slow, steady pressure between her shoulder blades. The other rested over her sternum, just lightly enough to be felt through the uniform.

Rhythmic pressure. In… out… in… out…

Her body wasn't obeying.

Her limbs had gone rigid, but her chest felt too loose—like her lungs had collapsed in on themselves. Her hands were ice. Her thoughts barely coalesced at all, scattered into static fragments.

Her breathing, she realized dimly, was suddenly too fast. Too shallow.

The hand moved from her back to her wrist, gently guiding her hand up, fingers curling around her palm, squeezing once.

Then again.

A pattern.

A rhythm.

One-two. One-two.

The rhythmic pressure on her chest, the squeezing of her hands…

She realised now, someone was trying to give her a metronome.

The touch didn't vanish. Neither did the voice.

It came again, closer this time—measured, calm, insistent in the way that only training could teach. The cadence was wrong for panic. There was no fear in it. Just quiet certainty.

Words started forming shapes in the static now.

"…not alone. You're here. You're safe. With me."

A thumb brushed against her cheekbone, back and forth in the same exact line.

A hand stayed wrapped around hers, still tapping gently.

"One breath. That's it. Just one."

A slow inhale—one she barely noticed. Then another.

Something inside her cracked.

Not loudly, not all at once. More like a hairline fracture giving way with each breath.

Her vision sharpened, just slightly. The noise receded. The static dulled.

Thea blinked.

The haze slowly continued to peel away just enough for her to register the face in front of her: Brown, curly hair. Freckled face.

Green eyes locked on hers like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"Kara…?"

"I'm here. Keep breathing, Thea. Nice and steady." Her voice was calm, anchored in that strange, unshakeable certainty she always had when things got bad. She hadn't let go of Thea's hand once, still squeezing gently with that same slow rhythm.

In. Out. In. Out.

Thea's head still felt like it was filled with fog, but the words finally pushed through.

"He's dead…"

Karania didn't react to the words. Not outwardly. Her hand just squeezed again.

"In… and out. Don't stop breathing. Once your brain's getting oxygen again, you can tell me all about it."

Thea gave a shaky nod, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as she focused on doing exactly what Karania told her.

'Breathe... You're not okay. Trust Kara. She always knows what to do.'

The cold numbness in her limbs slowly shifted to pins and needles.

Her heart wasn't jackhammering anymore, just pounding in a more manageable rhythm.

After a few minutes of sitting like that—still half-slumped over, still holding Karania's hand—she finally started feeling her body again.

She pushed herself up straighter, groaning softly at how much tension had settled into her back. Only then did she notice how much of her weight had ended up leaning on Kara.

Her friend didn't even flinch—just watched her quietly, eyes sharp and focused, making sure every part of her was okay before saying anything else.

"Welcome back," Karania said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Bit of hypoxia. You weren't getting enough air there for a minute. Should pass soon. Keep breathing normally, alright?"

Thea nodded again.

Her lips felt dry.

Her chest didn't hurt, but it was tight in a different way now.

Less like panic, more like grief packing itself in behind her ribs, digging in and refusing to budge.

That hollow feeling crept in more and more with every breath. Deeper. Heavier.

The more "okay" she became, the more the hollowness spread.

"He's dead, Kara…" she whispered. "I didn't even get to thank him…"

Karania's hand tightened around hers again. "Who is, Thea?"

"Zach," she whispered. "He… he got Zero'd just a few days ago. Freak accident during a Void-breach on ship duty… I… I never got to say thank you properly… For helping me with my psychic issues during the Assessment… I wanted to call him; asked Major Quinn. But he's dead, Kara…"

Karania's expression softened even more, her grip still firm on Thea's hand.

She didn't look away—not once—as Thea's voice cracked through the weight of it all.

"I'm really sorry, Thea," she said, voice low. "I never got to meet him, but from everything you've told me… Zach sounds like he was the kind of person who shows up exactly when he's needed most and does what's needed to help others. Not a lot of people like that out there. He didn't deserve to go out like that."

Thea tried to nod, but it barely worked.

Her face twisted again, her throat tightening until it was hard to swallow.

The weight of it—Zach's death, the finality of it, the simple truth that she would never get the chance to look him in the eye and say thank you—it was too much.

She didn't sob.

But tears streamed freely down her face now, her entire body tense with the effort of just staying upright.

The silence pressed in around them, broken only by her shaky breaths.

Stolen novel; please report.

Then, a knock.

It came soft at first, polite.

Karania turned her head toward the door immediately, "Come in."

The door hissed open and Corvus stepped through, his gaze flicking across the room in an instant—zeroing in on Thea, and then shifting to Karania with a subtle frown.

"You said you needed me, Karania?" he asked, tone low but clearly concerned.

Karania nodded, rising slowly from where she sat beside Thea.

"She needs you, actually," she said quietly. "I've done what I can… but this is your area of expertise, not mine."

She gave Thea's shoulder a final, gentle squeeze before stepping aside. Her expression was calm—but her eyes lingered on Thea with a kind of fierce, protective worry.

"I'll be just outside, okay?" she said softly. "If you need anything—anything at all—you just say the word. I'm not going anywhere. Just giving you two some privacy to work through this."

Thea simply nodded, watching Karania slip silently out the door, leaving her alone with Corvus.

He didn't speak right away.

Corvus simply walked over and lowered himself slowly onto one knee in front of her, his movements quiet and deliberate.

Not intrusive. Not forceful.

Just there.

His voice, when it came, was calm—low and steady like always—but lacking the usual edge of his role. There was no force behind it. Just a person reaching out.

"Karania didn't give me the details," he said gently, meeting her eyes without hesitation—somehow preventing himself from flinching at the contact. "She said you were grieving. Said it hit hard. That's all I know."

He let that hang in the air for a second, gave her room.

"You don't have to say anything if you don't want to," he added. "But if you do… I'm here."

Thea looked away at first, her gaze drifting to some far-off corner of the room as if she could stuff the grief back into some corner of her chest.

But it didn't work.

Not this time.

"I… He helped me," she muttered, voice raw. "During the Assessment. After my Gate had completely spiralled out of control… After the Awakening… I had no idea what was happening, no information at all. Nobody had reached out to help me or explain things… Nobody but him."

Corvus nodded slowly. "What was his name?"

"Zach," she said. "Zachary Cal Vemun."

"Tell me about him."

That simple invitation cracked something.

She didn't even realize she'd needed someone to ask until he did. She blinked through the lingering blur of tears and shook her head slightly, trying to organize her thoughts.

"He was smart. Very smart. Knew exactly what was going on with me, even when I didn't. And calm, like—really calm. He talked me through it all, gave me space to ask whatever questions I wanted. Grounded me. He kept me from falling apart when everything was burning down inside my head; when it felt like I was somehow all alone with this whole… psychic bullshit."

Corvus nodded again, still kneeling in front of her.

He didn't push, didn't interrupt.

He just listened.

When she paused, trying to find more words, he spoke again. "Sounds like he knew what he was doing. Knew how to show up in the moment, how to be there for somebody that needs them. That's not just instinct. That's choice, and experience. He made the choice to be there for you… Wish I could've met him. He sounds like a great guy."

Her jaw tightened, a fresh ache blooming behind her ribs. "I didn't get to thank him. Not properly. I asked if I could… talk to him again. But…"

She didn't finish. She didn't need to.

Corvus inhaled deeply, his own expression tightening just a fraction.

Then he exhaled slowly, grounding himself before speaking again.

"You're feeling that open loop right now. The unfinished conversation. That need to close the story. It's called ambiguous loss—it's one of the hardest kinds to process, because the brain keeps looking for resolution that'll never come."

Thea's eyes flicked to his again. She hadn't expected a psychology lesson from him.

But he went on.

"There's no perfect fix for it," he said. "But what helps—what starts to help—is naming it. Giving shape to the feelings. And then doing something with them."

He sat down on the floor completely now, arms resting casually on his knees.

"You said you didn't get to thank him," Corvus said. "So thank him now. Not to me—for you. Out loud. Say what you would've said if he was standing in this room. As if I was him."

She hesitated.

Corvus didn't push. He just gave a small nod, as if to say, I'll wait.

And after a few heartbeats, she whispered, "Thank you, Zach… for not walking away. For helping me when no one else did. For treating me like I wasn't broken, even when I felt like I was… And I'm sorry. Sorry for what happened—" she had to cut herself short, remembering Major Quinn's intense order in regards to the incident, "what happened to you."

The tears came again, but slower this time. Softer. Less overwhelming.

Corvus gave her a moment before speaking again. "That? That's what closure starts to look like. You won't ever forget him—but you can let the weight shift from pain to memory; over time. That's how we carry them with us instead of letting it break us."

That sparked something deep in her—an echo from the past.

The phrase "carry them with us" lit up a corner of her mind, and suddenly, the room around her faded.

She saw her Old Man again.

That weathered, scar-lined face.

Those intense eyes that seemed to carry the weight of a hundred lifetimes.

He was sitting across from her, much like Corvus was now, that same serious-but-steady look on his face. Thea could hear his voice—gravelly, always tired, and full of that stubborn kind of care he never quite admitted aloud.

"Golden Rule #7: Never forget them," he'd said, the words rumbling out slowly, "but don't let their memories drag you down. Carry them with you, like the badges of honour they are."

She'd barely been ten at the time.

It had felt like the end of the world then—her first taste of real grief.

A close acquaintance online. Another build maker.

One of the first people who'd truly seen her for the mind she had, not the life she'd come from. Somebody that had taught her a large portion of the build making knowledge she had possessed at the time—enabled her to truly understand what it meant to create.

And then one day, they just… didn't log in.

A mutual acquaintance told her the truth a week later. Gone.

Just like that.

It had wrecked her.

She hadn't known how to process it, only that the silence left behind had hollowed her out.

Her Old Man had picked up on it, of course.

He always did.

Quietly sitting beside her until she was ready to talk—then offering words that stuck.

"I've lost too many to count, Missy," he'd said, brushing a hand down his face like the names were still resting behind his eyes. "But their memories? I still carry 'em. Every single one. Because being part of their lives, even just for a few weeks in some Emperor-forsaken shithole with no sunlight, that was the greatest honour I've ever had. And carrying their names after? That's not just a burden. It's a privilege."

She remembered him getting up then, disappearing into his bedroom and returning with an ancient lockbox, one that still had a mechanical key.

It clattered gently when he set it down.

Inside, thin rectangular plates of varying metal—titanium, steel, old copper, some she couldn't even name—each one worn from years of being handled.

One by one, he picked them up. Carefully, reverently.

Held them like relics.

Each had a name. Just that—engraved or scratched in by hand.

Some were full names. Others just callsigns or nicknames.

But every one of them was someone real.

Someone he'd fought beside.

Someone he'd outlived.

"I write them down when I've got time to grieve," he told her. "Doesn't matter how long it takes. Each one deserves to be remembered. Their own piece. Their own weight. Their own honour."

He'd looked at her then, more serious than she'd ever seen him, and said, "You're gonna lose people, kiddo. More than you'll ever be ready for. But you remember them. You carry their names forward, every step. That's what it means to be brothers and sisters in arms. That's what it means to be a Marine. We don't bury them and forget—they live on through us. That's our burden as the survivors. Our gift, as the one that gets to remember. Our duty, as the last ones left."

Now, years later, sitting curled up in the chair in her room, knees drawn tight to her chest and fingers twisted into the fabric of her uniform pants, Thea could still hear every word her Old Man had once said.

The memories played back with crystal clarity—etched into her bones now.

And for the first time since hearing about Zach, she didn't feel like she was sinking anymore.

She felt like she had something to anchor to. A plan.

A way to carry this grief forward without letting it drown her.

"Thank you, Corvus," she murmured, voice scratchy and faint, barely holding itself together.

"I… I need to get something."

He didn't ask questions. Just nodded once, then gently helped her up.

Her legs felt clumsy beneath her, uncooperative and hollow from the crash of everything that had just hit her body and mind. The hypoxia hadn't fully worn off, and neither had the emotional weight of it all, but Corvus stayed steady—an unshakable presence at her side as he guided her over to the workbench tucked against the far wall of her room.

It wasn't much.

Just a tiny setup she'd cobbled together over the past week—a couple of scattered tools, a few miscellaneous weapon parts, scraps of metal, and the familiar rhythm of something she could focus on when the rest of the world got too loud.

She reached for the first sheet of metal her fingers could grasp.

Corvus glanced at her, curiosity flickering in his eyes, but said nothing. He simply stayed close, one hand lightly on her arm to keep her steady as she leaned over the desk.

Her fingers curled around the well-worn screwdriver—the same one she'd used to disassemble and reassemble her Gram more times than she could count.

It felt heavier than usual in her hand.

She adjusted her grip and began to scratch letters into the metal.

"Z-A-C-H"

It was horrible to look at.

The lines were jagged. Uneven.

Her hand shook and the tool slipped a few times, scraping off-target, gouging crooked strokes into the sheet. It was messy—ugly, even—but it was hers.

Her work. Her goodbye.

And Corvus, bless him, hadn't offered to help.

Hadn't tried to "fix" anything.

He just stood there, steady and silent, a grounding force behind her.

Once the name was finished, she took a pair of snips and clumsily cut the corner of the sheet off, shaping it into a rough rectangle, no bigger than a dog tag.

Just like her Old Man had likely done countless times before.

She pulled it close to her chest, clutched it tight in her fist until the edges bit into her skin.

Her voice cracked as she whispered, barely more than a breath.

"Thank you, Zach. For answering my questions, when I was confused. For being there, when I needed you. For… everything. I… will carry you with me. It's been an honour to cross your path and call myself your sister in arms—if only for a short while. Your memory is my burden, my gift, my duty. Rest in peace… And thank you."

Tears streamed down her cheeks again, but this time they didn't crash over her like a wave—they just flowed.

She stumbled back from the bench, and Corvus moved instantly, catching her without hesitation and guiding her to the nearby edge of her bed as if he'd done it a hundred times before.

"I got you. Don't worry," he said gently, lowering her down with care.

Once she was seated, still holding the metal tag tight, he knelt in front of her again, eyes damp but calm. "Is there anything else I can do?"

Thea shook her head slowly.

Her voice came out quieter than before, but steadier now, "No… Thank you, Corvus. You've done more than enough. You reminded me of something I needed to remember. And it helped. A lot… I… I just need a moment."

Corvus didn't say anything. Just gave a small, reassuring nod.

But he didn't leave.

He stayed by her side, settled in quiet company. No pressure. No expectations.

Just there—like a weight that steadied rather than crushed.

He didn't look at his datapad or check the time. He didn't try to talk.

He simply waited with her, through the long silence that followed, while her hands slowly unclenched and her breathing leveled out.

Ten minutes passed.

The tears had stopped, dried in uneven streaks across her face. Her fingers still curled tightly around the piece of metal in her hand, but they weren't trembling anymore.

Eventually, Thea glanced over, and for the first time that entire day, her gaze was clear.

Focused.

"Actually…" she said, her voice a little hoarse, but more herself than before. "I could use a box. A lockbox. An old one. One with a mechanical key. Do… Do you know where I could buy one like that…?"

Corvus blinked at the request, then a smile ghosted across his face—something quiet and knowing.

"Yeah, I think I know a place, actually…"