His B-Rank Alchemy skill wasn’t just a stat on a screen; it was a torrent of instinct and knowledge that flowed through his hands.
He could feel the stress points in the tal, sense the perfect temperature for quenching, and see the faint lines of power waiting to be etched into a blade.
He hamred, folded, and shaped the ingots he’d slted from Gorgon’s leftover arsenal, turning crude iron clubs and ogre armor into gleaming, high-grade steel.
He was a demonic blacksmith, forging the tools of his coming empire.
On the fourth day, he was finished.
He stood back from the anvil, wiping a sheen of sweat from his pale brow, and admired his handiwork.
Five masterpieces lay cooling on a stone slab.
He called his core Bloodkin to the Throne Room.
Isabelle, Chloe, Reina, Fenris, and Grunt assembled before him, their monstrous and elegant forms a bizarre but formidable tableau.
"My Wrecking Crew. My Shadow Strikers," Ragnar began, his voice echoing with a satisfaction he rarely allowed himself to show.
"You have fought for . You have bled for . So of you have even died for , which, while inconvenient, is very much appreciated. Loyalty and success must be rewarded."
He unveiled the first piece. It was a full suit of articulated plate armor, crafted from a dark, matte-black alloy that seed to swallow the light. It was elegant, practical, and radiated a faint, protective aura.
"Isabelle Vhagar," he said, his voice formal.
"For your leadership and your unwavering blade. I give you Nightfall’s Embrace."
Isabelle stepped forward, her expression unreadable.
She ran a hand over the smooth, cool tal. It was a perfect fusion of function and artistry, tailored to her form.
It was the finest piece of armor she had ever seen.
"Thank you, my Lord," she said, her voice quiet but filled with a deep, genuine gratitude.
Next, he revealed a pair of wicked-looking daggers. Their blades were like shards of solidified shadow, the hilts wrapped in a dark, silvery tal.
"Chloe. My first Bloodkin. My silent shadow," he said.
"For your loyalty and your lethal efficiency. These are Whisper and Silence. May they never be heard until it is too late."
Chloe accepted the daggers with a graceful bow, her athyst eyes gleaming with a dangerous light.
She tested their balance, and a sharp, satisfied smile touched her lips.
For Reina, the explosive Dhampir, he had forged a pair of heavy gauntlets. They were brutalist in design, thick plates of dark steel etched with runes that pulsed with a faint, crimson light.
"Reina. You are my living battering ram. These are the Starbreakers. Try not to punch a hole in the fabric of reality with them. At least, not without my permission."
Reina took the gauntlets, her expression as stoic as ever, but her crimson eyes burned with a new intensity as she slipped them on.
She flexed her fingers.
For Fenris, the mighty Werewolf, he had crafted a heavy, spiked collar of black iron and a set of sharpened steel caps for his claws.
"Fenris. A loyal beast deserves a proper bite. The Chain of the Full Moon, to remind our enemies of the monster in the dark."
Fenris let out a deep, chest-rumbling growl of approval, lowering his massive head so Ragnar could fasten the collar.
Finally, he turned to Grunt, the hulking Kobold Warlord. He presented a new war maul.
The head was a solid block of enchanted granite, the handle reinforced with bands of steel. "Grunt. My loyal Warlord. This is Earthshaker. Use it to turn my enemies, and their fortifications, into dust."
Grunt took the massive weapon, hefting it easily. He thumped its head against the stone floor.
BOOM!
A tremor ran through the Throne Room, and a web of cracks spread out from the point of impact. Grunt let out a deafening roar of pure, unadulterated joy.
Ragnar watched his newly equipped commanders, a surge of pride swelling in his chest.
"There. Now you look like a proper council of war."
But the ceremony wasn’t over. In a rare mont of feeling like a truly benevolent ruler,
Ragnar had another idea.
"A victory and a new arsenal deserve a proper celebration. Pixia! Break out the good stuff!"
Pixia looked horrified.
"My Lord, are you certain? My data on monster-and-alcohol-related incidents shows a 100% probability of... undesirable outcos."
"Nonsense," Ragnar declared with a wave of his hand.
"They’ve earned it! Bring forth the sake!"
It was, in retrospect, a catastrophic miscalculation.
The "celebration" started civilly enough.
The Orcs and Ogres, delighted by the strong drink, began arm-wrestling, their roars of laughter shaking the walls.
The goblins, true to form, ignored the cups and tried to drink directly from the large wooden barrels, with predictable and ssy results.
But as the night wore on, the chaos escalated.
Ragnar watched from his throne as Grunt and Fenris got into a heated debate over who was a "good boy," a discussion that ended with a friendly but structurally-damaging wrestling match.
Lillith, his Lilim, had chard a poor Ogre into fanning her with a giant palm leaf while she lounged on a pile of cushions.
And Gary the kobold, after a single sip of sake, had declared a blood feud with his own reflection in a polished shield and was now trying to fight it, tripping over his own feet with every clumsy lunge.
The next morning, or whenever Ragnar decided to "power on" after his death-like vampiric sleep, he was greeted by a scene of utter devastation.
The Throne Room looked like it had been the site of a small-scale riot.
Orcs were asleep on tables. Goblins were passed out in puddles of spilled sake. The air was thick with the sll of regret and monster hangover.
He found Isabelle calmly cleaning her new armor in a corner, looking completely unfazed.
"Morning, my Lord," she said without looking up.
"Is it?" Ragnar groaned, stepping over a snoring goblin. "Pixia. Status report on the invasion force."
"The Wrecking Crew is currently... indisposed, my Lord," the pixie reported grimly.
"Reina has a headache, Fenris is refusing to co out from under a table, and Grunt has misplaced his new hamr.
I would estimate combat readiness to be at approximately... four percent."
Ragnar sighed, a long, weary sound that echoed through the trashed hall. He had the best-equipped, most powerful elite squad in the world. And they were all too hungover to fight.
"Delay the invasion by one day," he commanded, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"And make a note: Never, ever, give alcohol to the monsters again."
World domination, he was learning, was one part grand strategy, and nine parts damage control.
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