Ragnar stared at the tiny, floating pixie, his mind still processing the system's blunt rejection. He couldn't steal her knowledge.
The thought was infuriating, but as the seconds ticked by, it was replaced by a burgeoning curiosity.
"Pixia," he began, his tone shifting from that of a predator to that of a researcher. He gestured for her to float closer to the throne.
"My request failed. The system tells me I cannot 'absorb' a base stat. So, tell me. What, exactly, does a B-Rank in Knowledge do?"
Pixia, looking relieved that she wasn't about to be dissected, adjusted her large spectacles. "Ah, I see. It is… difficult to explain, my Lord. It is not like learning a fact. It is more like… seeing the rules behind the facts."
"Use simple words," Ragnar commanded, leaning forward with intense focus.
"Of course," she said, taking a small, nervous breath. "When you look at one of your kobolds, you see a monster. I see its hidden data. I see its potential evolutionary paths, its precise CP cost down to the decimal point, its morale level, and a statistical probability of it tripping over its own feet in the next five minutes."
She glanced at Gary, who was currently trying to lick a shiny spot on the floor and promptly bumped his head. "For that one, the probability is quite high."
Ragnar's eyes widened. "You can see hidden stats?"
"Yes, my Lord. I can see the source code of this world, in a way. I know the exact mathematical formula for DP regeneration. I understand the subtle environmental factors that affect monster spawning. I can read and speak any language created by the System, which is why I understood your letter perfectly."
The puzzle pieces in Ragnar's mind slammed into place with the force of a physical blow. He thought back to Chloe, his beautiful and expensive Dark Elf, and the weeks of frustrating pantomime.
"Chloe," he said, turning to his Bloodkin. "A question. Why did you not speak the common tongue when I first created you?"
Before Chloe could answer, Pixia chimed in, her voice full of academic certainty. "If I may, my Lord? Dark Elves, as a C-Rank creation, have a deeply ingrained cultural protocol of deference. They are programmed to mirror their master's perceived method of communication.
By grunting and pointing at her, you inadvertently set the terms of your interaction. She was, in her own way, showing you profound respect."
Ragnar slowly turned his head back to Chloe, who gave a single, elegant nod of confirmation. He then buried his face in his hands, a long, low groan escaping his lips. It was his own fault. His own paranoid, caveman-like approach had cost him weeks of strategic planning.
"So you're a living, walking, flying instruction manual," Ragnar said, looking back at Pixia.
The disappointment was completely gone, replaced by a giddy, manic excitement. "My own personal Google."
"A… Google?" Pixia asked, tilting her head.
"Don't worry about it. It's a compliment," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "Tell me more. Why did you surrender? With this kind of analytical power, you should have been able to build a perfect dungeon."
A shadow crossed Pixia's face. "Information is not the same as power, my Lord. My combat stats are all E-Rank. And my creations… they reflected my nature." She sighed. "I am a librarian at heart. My first act as a Demon King was to create a Golem."
"A strong choice," Ragnar commented. "A solid front-line tank."
"It was a Book Golem, my Lord," she said miserably. "Its body was made of rare first editions. My first elite unit was an army of Origami Cranes with papercut-enchanted wings. They were beautiful."
Ragnar stared at her, speechless.
"When Isabelle Thorne and the Liberators invaded," Pixia continued, her voice trembling slightly, "their mage used a single, basic fire spell. My entire army… my beautiful, precious library… it all went up in flames. I realized then that my path was not one of conquest. It was one of support.
My only hope for survival was to find a master who could protect me, a Demon King who could use my knowledge to its full potential."
Ragnar leaned back in his throne, a dark, complex understanding dawning on him. He had been playing checkers, moving pieces and reacting to his opponent. Pixia was playing chess, seeing the entire board, every possible move, but her own pieces were made of tissue paper.
Together, however, they were unstoppable. His brutal, pragmatic strength, combined with her encyclopedic knowledge of the rules.
"I see," Ragnar said, his voice now holding a new weight of respect. "You made a strategic decision. A very wise one." He stood up from his throne, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. It was a sharp, fanged, and unsettling smile, but it was sincere.
"Pixia. You are no longer just a subordinate. You are my chief advisor. My loremaster. You will have your own quarters, your own research facilities, and as many books as my Goblins can steal for you. Your job is to tell me how the world works. My job is to conquer it."
A single tear rolled down Pixia's cheek, sparkling in the dim, purple light of the dungeon.
"Thank you, my Lord Ragnar. I will not fail you."
Gob-bo, seeing his master happy, let out another joyous squeak and tried to do a celebratory backflip, landing squarely on his head with a dull thud.
Ragnar watched the scene, a strange feeling settling in his cold, vampiric heart. He had his Bloodkin commander, Chloe. He had his army of morons. And now, he had his own personal, flying Google.
The path to world domination was still long and paved with violence, but for the first time, he felt like he had a map.