CHAPTER 94: THE HUNTING GROUND

Chloe, ever the professional, simply stood in the shadows, her expression unreadable, though I could feel a faint wave of disapproval radiating from her.

She clearly thought this entire endeavor was beneath me.

"A goldmine of idiots," I declared. "This is wonderful. It’s like a support group for the damned and the terminally stupid."

But then, I saw it.

The locked sub-forum.

The velvet rope of this demonic nightclub.

The Upper-Class Demon King Lounge (50+ Sectors Required)

"Pixia," I said, my voice a low hum of pure, ambitious greed. "Get me in."

"The system appears to have granted you access automatically based on your domain size, my Lord," she replied. "You have been... pre-approved."

Of course, I had.

I was Ragnar Vhagar. I had over sixty sectors to my name now.

I clicked the link.

The page loaded.

I saw a list of active members.

No names.

Just temporary handles like my own pathetic, humiliating one.

’Oni-Hime’. ’Beast-Lord’. ’Golem-Master’.

And a number.

A number that made my cold, unbeating heart perform a spectacular plummet into my stomach.

Active Members in this Lounge: 37

Thirty-seven.

Thirty-seven other Demon Kings who were at my level of power.

Or higher.

The smug satisfaction of my recent conquests curdled into a cold, hard knot of reality.

I was not the biggest fish.

I was just one of many sharks, circling in the dark, hungry water.

And every single one of them was a potential rival.

Every single one of them was a potential meal.

I scrolled to the bottom of the page, my eyes falling upon the fine print.

A single, chilling disclaimer from the anonymous, all-knowing administrator.

Information shared here is not guaranteed to be accurate. Trust no one. The Game is afoot. Caveat Emptor.

Let the buyer beware.

"The whole site is a minefield," I whispered, a shiver of cold, grudging respect running down my spine. "It’s a mix of truth and lies, a weapon disguised as a library."

"A most nasty and inefficient system for information dissemination," Pixia grumbled, her academic sensibilities deeply offended.

It was then that I noticed the other two women in the room.

Isabelle and Chloe.

They stood on opposite sides of my throne, both ostensibly reviewing patrol reports on their own devices, but the air between them was so thick with unspoken rivalry you could have cut it with one of Chloe’s daggers.

It was a cold war fought with stolen glances and perfectly neutral, passive-aggressive comments.

"Commander Isabelle," Chloe said, her voice a cool, silken blade.

She didn’t look up from her screen.

"Your report indicates increased ’hero activity’ near the old shopping mall sector."

"Perhaps your... familiarity... with their tactics is making you see ghosts where there are only rats."

The implication was clear.

You’re still one of them. You’re soft.

Isabelle’s eyes, which had been fixed on her screen, slowly lifted to meet Chloe’s.

A faint, dangerous smile touched her lips.

"And your report, Commander Chloe, seems to be missing the casualty figures from your last ’covert’ operation," Isabelle replied, her voice dripping with mock concern.

"I do hope your precious goblins aren’t finding the real world too... challenging."

"They seemed so comfortable in the darkness of our Lord’s domain."

The barb hit its mark.

You’re just a created monster. You’re weak outside our master’s influence.

The temperature in the room dropped by another ten degrees.

I was stuck in the middle of it, a king on a throne of simmering, homicidal jealousy.

They were both my lovers.

They were both my commanders.

And if either of them ever found out about the other, they would tear each other apart.

And then they would probably team up to tear me apart.

It was a delicate, high-stakes game of emotional Jenga, and I was playing it with two women who could punch through concrete.

I needed a distraction.

Something to break the tension.

And then, I found it.

A thread in the Upper-Class Lounge.

It was titled: [RUMOR MILL: The Dwarven Anvil of Hakui].

My eyes narrowed.

A Dwarf.

Yori’s intelligence had been right.

They really did exist.

"Pixia," I commanded, my voice cutting through the frosty silence. "Bring this up on the main screen."

The thread appeared on the holographic map table.

It was a discussion between ’Golem-Master’ and ’Beast-Lord’.

They were talking about a Dwarf Demon King, a master craftsman who lived in a fortress in the mountains of Hakui.

A hermit who traded powerful, custom-forged weapons for rare materials.

A quartermaster.

An engineer.

The perfect, ultimate support character for my build.

"I need one," I declared, my voice echoing with a newfound purpose. "I need a Dwarf."

I looked up from the screen, my mind already spinning with plans for recruitment, for conquest, for... hostile acquisition.

I looked at Isabelle.

I looked at Chloe.

They were still glaring at each other, their private war momentarily forgotten, but the tension remained.

This was my kingdom.

A den of monsters.

A fortress of power.

And a ticking time bomb of sexual jealousy that was going to get me killed far faster than any hero ever could.

This was going to be a problem.

A very big, very sharp, and very, very pointy problem.

-------------------------------------

The discovery of a real, verifiable Dwarf Demon King had electrified the throne room.

The simmering cold war between my two top commanders was momentarily forgotten, replaced by the exciting, glorious work of planning someone else’s demise.

"He lives in a mountain fortress in Hakui," I said, tapping the holographic map.

A new red dot appeared, isolated and formidable.

"He’s a craftsman, not a conqueror. He trades, he builds. He keeps to himself."

"A neutral party, then," Isabelle surmised. "He may be open to... a partnership."

"I am not interested in a partnership," I corrected her, a slow, predatory smile touching my lips.

"I am interested in a hostile takeover. I want his forge, his skills, and his glorious, magnificent beard. He will be the head of my new Research and Demolition department."

Old Man Yori, who had been quietly observing, shuffled forward.

"A most wise decision, my Lord!" he chirped, his eyes gleaming with a familiar, manic light.

"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. "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.

Thanks to the passive income from the ’Student Farm’ and a few successful raids by Isabelle’s team, I had a respectable 250 points in the bank.

It was enough to create a small army of Orcs.

It was a sensible, strategic reserve.

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

The part that had spent far too much money on shiny, digital jpegs of anime women with swords in my previous life.

The gacha was a cruel mistress.

A fickle, unforgiving god.

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.

Yori was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"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.