The week following Chloe’s ascension to Bloodkin was a blur of frantic activity.
Ragnar, now operating on a strict CP budget and a ticking 30-day clock to repay his soul-crushing debt, felt a new kind of pressure.
He sent Chloe and a small, elite squad of his newly evolved Goblin Archers on short-range scouting missions, just outside the invisible borders of his Domain.
For the first ti, he was gathering real intelligence on the outside world, mapping the ruined streets of Sector 7 and identifying potential resource locations.
He was in the middle of reviewing one of Chloe’s hand-drawn maps when the alert ca. It wasn’t the familiar chi of invaders. It was a loud, jarring alarm he had never heard before, a blaring siren that echoed directly in his mind.
[WARNING: Unidentified entity has breached the outer periter. Non-hostile intent detected.]
"Non-hostile? What does that even an?"
Ragnar muttered, jumping up from his throne. He pulled up the dungeon map on his phone. A single, tiny green dot was standing just inside his entrance, in the sli-filled "Welco Mat" corridor. It wasn’t moving. It wasn’t fighting. It was just... standing there.
"Chloe, return to base imdiately. We have an unexpected guest," he commanded through their ntal link. To his other minions, he gave a simple order: "Observe. Do not engage unless it attacks."
He walked to the entrance of the Throne Room, peering down the long, dark hall. His heart was pounding. Was this a new kind of trap? A scout from a more powerful Demon King?
Minutes later, the entity ca into view. It was a goblin. But it was unlike any of his own. It was small, even for a goblin, and it was carrying a massive, ridiculously oversized backpack.
It walked with a nervous, hesitant shuffle, its eyes wide with terror as it looked at the massive Orcs and grim-faced kobolds lining the hall. Strangest of all, it was wearing a tiny, impeccably clean, and perfectly tied red bow tie.
The goblin shuffled to a halt about twenty feet from the throne, dropped its enormous backpack to the floor with a heavy thud, and fell flat on its face in the most dramatic and subservient bow Ragnar had ever seen.
"O Great and Mighty Demon King of the Farm Dungeon!" the goblin squeaked, its voice trembling with fear. "I, Gob-bo, humble servant of the Great Demon King Pixia, bring you a most urgent ssage!"
Ragnar stared down at the trembling, bow-tied goblin. "Pixia? The Farm Dungeon?
You’ve got the na wrong, little guy. This is Ragnar Vhagar’s Emporium of High-Tier Loot and Certain Death.
Get it right, it’s on the brochure."
"My sincerest apologies, Your Overwhelmingly Terrifying Majesty!" Gob-bo stamred, his face still pressed to the floor.
"My master, the Great Demon King Pixia, has sent with an offering! A proposal! A plea!"
With shaking hands, the goblin reached into its backpack and pulled out two items. The first was a rolled-up piece of parchnt tied with a pink ribbon. The second made Ragnar’s blood run cold.
It was a crystal, about the size of an apple, that glowed with a soft, gentle green light. It pulsed with a weak but steady rhythm, and
Ragnar recognized it instantly. It was a True Core. Another Demon King’s soul. And this goblin had just carried it into the heart of his fortress.
This was either an act of incredible trust or monuntal stupidity.
"The letter first," Ragnar commanded, his voice tight.
One of his own goblins scurried forward, snatched the parchnt, and brought it to him. He unrolled it. The handwriting was neat, precise, and surprisingly elegant.
To the Esteed Demon King of Sector 7,
My na is Pixia. I am the Demon King of the Domain located in the old city library, three sectors to the west. I write to you not as a rival, but as a petitioner. My path in this new world has been one of knowledge, not of strength. My army is weak, my traps are few, and my combat ability is, to be blunt, nonexistent.
Currently, the hero party known as the Liberators, led by the Sword Saint, Isabelle Thorne, is on the third floor of my library. They have broken through my defenses. My defeat is not a possibility; it is an inevitability that can be asured in minutes. I have one last gambit to play.
I wish to surrender. I wish to offer you my Domain, my True Core, and my eternal loyalty.
The System allows for this. A full Domain Surrender. All I ask for in return is your protection. My life, and the lives of my few loyal servants.
As proof of my sincerity, my most loyal subordinate, Gob-bo, carries my True Core. If you wish, you may destroy it now. Or you may accept my offer. My contact information is below.
Yours in desperation,
Demon King Pixia
Ragnar read the letter twice. His mind, conditioned by years of online gaming, imdiately started screaming "TRAP!"
This had to be a scam. A trick. A Trojan Horse of epic proportions. No one just gives away their entire kingdom.
But then he looked at the little green True Core, pulsing weakly on his stone floor. To send that, the very key to her existence, was an act of absolute, final desperation.
"Gob-bo," Ragnar said, his voice low. "Tell about your master."
The little goblin scrambled to its knees. "My master is the kindest, smartest Demon King in the world, Your Magnificence! She loves books! She spent all her points on ’Knowledge’!
She can read all the languages and understand all the systems! But her monsters are... well... they are not very good at fighting. She made book-golems, but their pages are very flammable. The heroes used a fire spell. It was... not good."
A Knowledge-build. It all clicked into place. Pixia had poured all her points into a non-combat stat. She was a genius who couldn’t throw a punch. In this world, that was a death sentence.
Ragnar began to weigh the pros and cons.
Pros: He would gain an entire second Domain. A second True Core, which would almost certainly boost his max CP and solve his debt crisis instantly. And most importantly, he would gain a subordinate who understood the rules of this insane world, a walking, talking strategy guide. She could fill the gaps in his own knowledge, help him decipher the system, and plan for the future. She was the ultimate support character.
Cons: It could still be a trap. rging domains could have unforeseen consequences. And it would an taking responsibility for another, weaker Demon King.
He looked at the letter again. Isabelle Thorne is on the third floor. That ant he had very little ti to decide.
He turned to Chloe, who had returned silently and was now standing by the throne. "What do you think?"
"My Lord, a direct assault on the Liberators is a battle we are not yet prepared to win,"
Chloe said, her voice calm and analytical. "However, acquiring an asset with a high Knowledge stat would be an unparalleled strategic advantage. The risk is high, but the potential reward is the key to accelerating your own growth. If the offer is genuine, it is a gift from fate."
A gift from fate. Or a very elaborate suicide pact.
Ragnar looked down at the terrified little goblin, Gob-bo, who was now nervously straightening his bow tie. He looked at the gentle, pulsing green True Core.
He had built his entire strategy on information..manipulating forums, controlling the narrative. Pixia was offering him the ultimate source of information.
It was a risk he had to take.
He pulled out his phone and dialed the number from the bottom of the letter. It rang twice before a soft, shaky, but clear female voice answered.
"H-hello? This is Pixia."
"Pixia," Ragnar said, his voice a low, vampiric baritone. "This is the Demon King of Sector 7. I’ve read your letter. I’ve seen your True Core. I accept your surrender."
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, followed by a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."
Just as she spoke, his own phone vibrated violently, and a system ssage filled the screen, its text glowing with a world-altering finality.
[Domain Surrender Protocol Initiated by Demon King Pixia. Do you, Demon King Ragnar Vhagar, accept? Y/N]
Ragnar looked at the screen, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.
"Let’s get you out of there," he said into the phone, and pressed ’Y’.
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