CHAPTER 105: THE GACHA GOD OF AETHELBURG

My Vampire Baron appeared from the shadows, a silent, elegant specter of bored, aristocratic menace.

He gave Isabelle a long, appraising look, his midnight-dark eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second.

"You wished to see me, my Lord?" he asked, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone that dripped with condescension.

"I require a benchmark," I explained, gesturing to Isabelle.

"A sparring match. You versus our newly ascended Saint."

"No killing. No maiming. Well, maybe a little maiming."

"First one to yield, or be put in a position where they would be very, very dead, loses."

Izayoi’s lips curved into a faint, cruel smile.

"As you command, my Lord."

"It has been a while since I have had a proper... workout."

The other commanders formed a loose circle, their faces a study in monstrous anticipation.

Chloe stood in the shadows, her arms crossed, her expression a mask of cold, professional indifference.

But I could feel the waves of pure, undiluted jealousy radiating from her.

Isabelle had received a glorious, divine power-up.

Chloe had received a night of vigorous, demonic fucking.

In her mind, it was not an even trade.

"Begin!" I roared.

BOOM!

They moved at the same instant.

Izayoi was a phantom.

A blur of black and silver that seemed to teleport across the crystal floor, a pair of wicked-looking, shadow-forged stilettos appearing in his hands.

But Isabelle was waiting for him.

She didn’t move. She simply... was.

Her new sword, Dáinsleif, was a whisper of dark metal in her hand.

CRACK!

The sound was like a thunderclap in the vast, crystal chamber.

Izayoi’s stilettos met Isabelle’s blade in a detonation of pure, untamed energy.

A massive shockwave of swirling light and shadow erupted from the point of impact, blasting outwards in a perfect, expanding sphere.

The very foundations of the Spire trembled.

Both of them were thrown backward, skidding across the polished crystal floor.

"Impressive," Izayoi purred, a flicker of genuine surprise in his dark eyes. "You have a new trick, little Saint."

"I have many," Isabelle replied, her voice as calm and as cold as the grave.

The spar became a beautiful, terrifying dance of death.

Izayoi was a whirlwind of shadow and steel.

He used his Nightmare Assassin abilities, teleporting through the gloom, creating illusory clones, striking from a dozen angles at once.

But Isabelle was an unshakeable mountain of perfect, divine defense.

Her new ability, [Saint’s Poise], seemed to let her predict his movements a fraction of a second before he made them.

Her blade was everywhere at once, a flawless wall of dark, humming steel.

BOOM! CRACK! BOOM!

A constant, deafening symphony of sonic booms and shockwaves filled the throne room as their battle raged.

The wind shrieked, a vortex of tortured air swirling around the two combatants.

"This is getting boring," Izayoi hissed, his aristocratic composure finally starting to fray.

He vanished.

And reappeared directly behind Isabelle, his stiletto aimed at the back of her neck in a perfect, textbook assassination strike.

BOOM!

The ground cracked as he put all his speed, all his power, into the killing blow.

But Isabelle wasn’t there.

She had spun, not to block, but to attack, her body moving with a fluid, impossible grace.

Her blade, now glowing with a soft, white light – [Blade of Light] – was a blur of motion.

It was not aimed at Izayoi.

It was aimed at the floor beneath his feet.

CRACK!

Her sword struck the crystal floor. The impact was a focused detonation of holy energy.

A massive shockwave of pure, white light blasted outwards, shattering the floor into a million glittering shards.

Izayoi, caught in the blast, let out a sharp hiss of pain as the holy light seared his vampiric flesh.

His shadow-step faltered.

He stumbled.

It was all the opening she needed.

She was upon him, her face a mask of cold, divine judgment.

Dáinsleif was a whisper at his throat.

Silence.

The spar was over.

Izayoi stood frozen, the tip of the dark blade a cold promise against his skin.

A single drop of his blue, aristocratic blood welled up and trickled down the length of the blade.

"I yield," he said, his voice a low, furious growl of pure, undiluted humiliation.

Isabelle withdrew her blade, the holy light fading.

I stared.

My 1000-CP, SSS-rank, ultra-rare Vampire Baron... had just been defeated.

Not just defeated. Outplayed. Out-thought.

By a former human.

A new, terrifying thought hit me with the force of one of Reina’s punches.

I was impressed. I was proud.

But I was also deeply, profoundly terrified.

A single, evolved human could do this.

What could a party of twelve of them do?

What could an army of them do?

The balance of power in this entire, insane world had just shifted.

And I needed to stay ahead of the curve.

"We have our next target," I announced, my voice echoing with a new, urgent purpose.

"The Dwarf King of Hakui. We need his forge. We need his skills. We need his weapons."

I looked at my assembled forces.

At my victorious, divine Saint.

At my seething, jealous shadow.

At my humiliated, furious Baron.

The victory over Grak had been a necessary, but ultimately unsatisfying appetizer.

Now, it was time for the main course.

Old Man Yori shuffled forward, his eyes gleaming with a manic light.

"A most wise decision, my Lord!" he chirped. "But a Dwarf fortress will be heavily fortified! Traps, golems, automated defenses! To breach such a place will require a massive expenditure of resources! Of... Creation Points!"

He was practically vibrating with excitement.

I knew where this was going.

"You’re not getting a gacha roll, Yori," I said flatly.

"But my Lord!" he pleaded, dropping to his knees in a display of theatrical despair. "Think of the potential! The sheer, glorious possibility! We are on the cusp of a major campaign! What if the universe wishes to bless us with a new, powerful subordinate? A sign! A portent! A unique, SSR-rank harbinger of our inevitable victory!"

I looked at my current CP total. A respectable 250.

It was a sensible, strategic reserve.

But the old man’s mad, gambler’s logic resonated with a dark, familiar part of my own soul.

The gacha was a cruel mistress.

But oh, the thrill of the roll.

"Pixia," I sighed, the words tasting like poor financial decisions. "What are the odds?"

"My Lord, the probability of obtaining a subordinate of a higher rank than your current expenditure is a mere 5%," she stated, her voice a flat, statistical buzzkill.

"The probability of obtaining a unique, SSR-rank unit is... well, my models cannot accurately calculate a number that small without rounding it down to zero."

"So you’re saying there’s a chance," I said, a dangerous glint in my eye.

"One roll," I declared, holding up a single, pale finger. "A single, 100-CP roll. To see what fate has in store for us. And then we go back to sensible, boring strategic planning. Deal?"

"A most generous and wise decree, my Lord!" Yori beamed.

I opened the [Random Creation] menu.

The familiar, seductive interface of the demonic slot machine filled the holographic screen.

"Alright, universe," I muttered, my thumb hovering over the ’Confirm’ button. "Don’t screw me. Give me something good."

I pressed the button.

100 CP vanished from my account.

The screen flashed.

It was a chaotic, dizzying swirl of colors.

Blue.

Green.

Purple.

The colors of common, uncommon, and rare drops.

My heart sank.

Another C-Rank Ogre. I could feel it. Another "Clobber."

And then, it happened.

A flash of brilliant, impossible gold.

The room was bathed in a warm, divine light.

A triumphant, angelic choir seemed to sing from an unseen speaker.

"It’s gold!" Yori screamed, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated ecstasy. "A GOLDEN FLASH! IT’S AN SSR! HE’S DONE IT! MY LORD IS A GOD OF THE GACHA!"

A pillar of shimmering, golden energy erupted in the center of the throne room.

The air grew warm, and the scent of clover and summer rain filled the chamber.

From the pillar of light, a figure stepped forth.

He was young, no older than sixteen, with a wild mane of fiery red hair and eyes the color of a stormy sea.

He was lean but wiry, his body coiled with a latent, explosive power.

He wore simple, rustic clothing, and in his hand, he held a single, wickedly barbed spear.

He looked around the room, at the assembled monsters and warriors, at the crystal walls, at me on my throne.

A cocky, insolent grin spread across his face.

"So," he said, his voice laced with a thick, lyrical accent I couldn’t quite place. "This is the place, then. A bit gaudy for my taste. Which one of you is the boss?"

He propped his spear on his shoulder, his posture a perfect picture of arrogant, youthful confidence.

"Name’s Setanta," he announced. "And I’m lookin’ for a good fight. I was told there’d be some here."

I stared.

Isabelle stared.