Ragnar Vhagar, Demon King and now a creature of the eternal night, spent a long, unsettling hour simply getting used to his new body.
The world smelled different, tasted different.
He could sense the faint thrum of the magic crystals in the ceiling, the dusty scent of ancient stone, and the warm, metallic tang of blood from a Ghoul he had created, which was currently drooling in a corner. The hunger was a constant, gnawing presence. It wasn't like being hungry for a pizza; it was a deep, instinctual need that made his new fangs ache.
He stood up, his taller frame feeling surprisingly natural. "Alright, new body, new powers, new problems," he muttered to himself. "Let's see what kind of mess the world has gotten into while I was busy having my skeleton rearranged."
He sat on his throne, and pulled out his phone. The first thing he did was check the hero forums. His "Farm" was still the hottest topic for low-level students, a place where they could get a taste of glory and a single, ugly sword. But there was a new, much more alarming thread pinned at the very top of the page.
Title: [OFFICIAL] The Liberators of Aethelburg Purge Fourth Domain!
Ragnar's blood, now cold and sluggish in his veins, ran even colder. He tapped the thread. It was filled with heroic pictures and over-the-top propaganda. A team of powerful, high-level heroes stood victoriously over the smoking ruins of what looked like a converted office building, another Demon King's dungeon. They were being called the saviors of the city.
He scrolled through the pictures of the team. Most were generic, serious-looking people in shiny, matching armor.
But then he saw their leader. A young woman with a long, dark ponytail and a fierce, determined look in her eyes. She held a katana with the kind of practiced, perfect ease that made his own clumsy attempts at anything physical seem pathetic. The caption identified her as Isabelle 'The Blade' Thorne.
Ragnar recognized her. She was from his university. The captain of the kendo club. She was quiet, serious, and ridiculously popular. She was one of those people who seemed to exist in a different, more successful world than he did. She was the sun, and he was the guy hiding in the shade, scrolling through his phone.
And now, she was coming to kill him.
A quote at the bottom of the article made his stomach clench like a fist.
"We have purged four of the blights upon this city," Isabelle Thorne was quoted as saying, her voice in the accompanying video clip as sharp and clear as her blade. "Our next target is the so-called 'Farm' in Sector 7.
This perversion of a dungeon, which preys on the desperate and the inexperienced for its own twisted growth, will be ended. We will find its master, and we will deliver justice."
"Justice," Ragnar scoffed, but there was no real heat in it. He was a declared target. And not by some overconfident students or an arrogant peacock like Zephariel. He was being targeted by a serious, professional, and very famous hero party led by someone from his old, forgotten life. The game had just become very, very personal.
"Okay. Panic later. Plan now," he said, forcing himself to focus. His new form was great, but he was still just one person. He needed to know what his new army could do.
He strode to the Mess Hall, his new command center for monster testing. He opened the Creation menu. "Let's see the new lineup."
He spent 10 Creation Points. A burst of shadow energy coalesced into a Giant Bat. It was the size of a large dog, with a leathery wingspan of ten feet and wicked-looking claws. It hissed, its beady red eyes glowing with malice. "Good for scouting and harassment. A solid upgrade."
Next, he spent 20 CP on a Ghoul. The creature that formed was a hunched, emaciated humanoid with gray, dead-looking skin, long claws, and a lolling tongue. It stared at him with a vacant, hungry look and let out a guttural moan. It looked like it had crawled out of a nightmare.
Finally, he spent 40 CP on a Lycanthrope. Ragnar held his breath, imagining a towering, ferocious werewolf warrior, a perfect engine of destruction. What appeared was… deeply disappointing.
It was a lanky, hairy man-wolf with mangy fur and the slightly pathetic posture of someone who had just been told his favorite TV show was canceled. It looked less like a fearsome beast of the night and more like it was about to ask him for spare change.
"Right. Testing time," Ragnar announced.
He pitted the Ghoul against one of his veteran Orcs.
BOOM!
The Orc charged, its stone axe a blur of motion, the wind shrieking as it swung. The ground trembled with its heavy steps. The Ghoul, surprisingly, met the charge with an unholy screech, moving with a jerky, unnatural speed.
CRACK!
The Ghoul's claws raked across the Orc's thick hide. A small sonic boom exploded from the impact, and a visible shockwave of force blasted outwards. The Ghoul fought with a mindless ferocity, ignoring Ragnar's mental commands to disengage. It took three of his best kobolds to pull the snarling creature off the Orc after it had "won."
"Note to self," Ragnar typed into his phone. "Ghouls: strong, but stupid and hard to control. They're like a blender filled with angry bees. High-risk, high-reward."
Next was the Lycanthrope. He had it fight one of his regular kobolds. The fight was just embarrassing. The Lycanthrope was clumsy and slow, and the kobold easily defeated it, sending it whimpering to the floor with a solid club strike to the head.
"What is this garbage?" Ragnar fumed, feeling cheated. "This thing costs 40 CP! It's weaker than a 10 CP kobold!" He angrily pulled up the system description for the Lycanthrope. He scrolled down past the pathetic stats and found a small, infuriating note at the bottom.
[Special Condition: Full power can only be unlocked in a [Moonlit Night] field. Without this condition, all stats are severely reduced.]
Ragnar stared at the note, his eye twitching.
"A field effect? I have to buy environmental DLC for my monster to work properly?! This is a scam! This is the worst gacha pull ever!"
The clock was ticking. The Liberators, led by a ghost from his past, were coming. His "Farm" strategy, which had felt so clever and safe, was now a liability, a giant blinking sign that said "Kill Me Next."
He had to prepare for a real war, and he had to do it fast with an army of uncontrollable psychos and furry, sad-sack disappointments.