It was called {Laplace}.
The design was minimalist, black and silver, all sharp lines and glowing, cryptic runes. It scread ’exclusive evil nightclub.’
And at the top of the screen, a welco ssage appeared.
Welco, user 114514. Your temporary handle is: Saburo.
My eye twitched.
Saburo.
Kevin’s real, given na.
A na so profoundly, aggressively normal it was an insult.
I was Ragnar Vhagar, the Tyrant of Aethelburg, the Vampire Lord, the conqueror of two kingdoms.
And this stupid, all-knowing website had just nad after my embarrassing, cape-wearing intern.
"I’m going to kill him," I whispered, my voice a dangerous growl. "Slowly. And with sothing rusty."
Kevin, sensing my murderous intent, wisely made himself very, very small in a corner of the room.
Grumbling under my breath, I began to explore. The main forums were a chaotic, beautiful ss.
[THREAD] Help! My True Core is a lava lamp. Is this normal?
[THREAD] Best way to clean hero blood out of a white carpet? Looking for tips. My succubus is very particular about the decor.
[THREAD] My Ghouls have unionized and are demanding better dental coverage. Do I have any legal recourse under demonic law?
It was a goldmine of incompetence. But then, I saw it. A locked sub-forum, its entrance guarded by a single, stark line of text.
The Upper-Class Demon King Lounge (50 Sectors Required)
"Pixia," I said, my voice a low hum of pure, ambitious greed. "Get in."
"The system appears to have granted you access automatically based on your domain size, my Lord," she replied. "You have been... pre-approved."
I clicked the link.
The page loaded. I saw a list of active mbers. No nas. Just handles like my own. ’Oni-Hi’. ’Beast-Lord’. ’Golem-Master’.
And a number that made my blood run cold.
Active mbers in this Lounge: 37
Thirty-seven.
Thirty-seven other Demon Kings in Japan alone who were at my level of power, or even higher.
I was not the biggest fish.
I was just one of many sharks, circling in the dark, hungry water.
I scrolled to the bottom of the page, and my eyes fell upon the fine print. A single, chilling disclair from the anonymous administrator.
Information shared here is not guaranteed to be accurate. Trust no one. The Ga is afoot. Caveat Emptor.
Let the buyer beware.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across my face.
This was no alliance. This was no support group.
This was a hunting ground, a den of liars and rivals, all sharpening their blades and smiling in the dark.
It was a beautiful, terrible, and exquisitely dangerous place.
And I felt, for the first ti in a long ti, right at ho.
----------------------------------
The air in the throne room was thick with the scent of sex and ozone.
It was a combination I was quickly coming to enjoy.
Chloe Vhagar, my first and most fanatically loyal Bloodkin, finished fastening the last buckle on her dark leather armor. She moved with a silent, deadly grace that did nothing to hide the faint flush on her twilight-hued cheeks or the subtle, satisfied sway in her hips.
She had served her Lord well.
In more ways than one.
"The periter is secure, my Lord," she said, her voice a cool, musical whisper. It held no trace of the breathless moans that had echoed off these crystal walls just an hour before. "The new patrols are in place."
"Excellent work, Chloe," I replied, lounging on my crystal throne. I felt magnificent. I felt powerful. I felt like a king who had just gotten his dick royally sucked by a legendary elf.
Because I was.
And I had.
This was the life.
Conquest. Power. And a secret, soul-crushingly hot affair with a subordinate who would literally kill for and then ask if I wanted a sandwich afterward.
I was in the middle of this smug, post-coital bliss when the quiet efficiency of my new kingdom decided to interrupt .
Old Man Yori shuffled into the room, flanked by two of his impeccably polite imp butlers. He looked nervous, like a mouse that had wandered into a lion’s den during mating season.
"My Lord Ragnar," he began, bowing so low his forehead almost touched the floor. "A thousand apologies for the intrusion. A matter of... utmost importance has co to my attention."
I sighed dramatically. "Yori, if this is about the gacha machine again, the answer is still no. We are not spending our national budget on a 0.2% chance to pull a ’Sparkle Pony of Infinite Sadness’."
"No, my Lord! Not at all!" he said, scrambling back up. "It is a matter of industry! Of production! Of... superior craftsmanship!"
He explained what he had read on the forums of {Laplace} before his unfortunate surrender. His voice trembled with the excitent of a man who had spent his entire first life looking at spreadsheets and was now discussing the magical properties of dwarven tallurgy.
"Dwarves, my Lord!" he exclaid. "Their racial bonus to Alchemy and Creation is not just a small boost! The forums say a Dwarf can craft items of a higher quality than even a Demon King of the sa rank! Their hands are guided by the very soul of the mountain! They can forge weapons that sing and armor that weeps!"
I sat up straight, my lazy satisfaction evaporating.
"They can what?"
Pixia, my tiny, flying encyclopedia, zipped over to my shoulder. Her wings were a blur of academic fury.
"Impossible!" she squeaked. "My data models contain no such information! A subordinate race possessing a superior crafting skill to their master would be a gross violation of systemic ga balance! It is... illogical!"
"And yet," Yori said, a faint, triumphant glimr in his old eyes, "the information exists. On {Laplace}. On the Silver mber forums."
I stared at him. Then at Pixia.
The old gacha addict, the man I had conquered for a single, shiny subordinate, had just handed a piece of intelligence that my own high-level knowledge-bot couldn’t find.
He had just proven the value of that den of liars and rivals.
"Pixia," I said, my voice low and cold. "Get back on that website. I’m buying a mbership."
"My Lord, the risk!" she protested. "To beco a Silver mber, you must submit your level and your core stats! The administrator will know your strengths, your weaknesses! It is a catastrophic security breach!"
"It’s the price of admission," I countered, a slow, dangerous smile touching my lips. "And I’m not going to be a tourist, peering in through the windows. I’m going to walk in the front door and sit at the high-rollers’ table."
But she was right. Giving them my real stats was suicide.
"We’re not going to give them my stats," I purred. "We’re going to give them the stats of a completely different, far less threatening Demon King."
I pulled up my status screen. The glowing letters hung in the air, a testant to my brutal, beautiful power.
Body: A.
Knowledge: E.
"Pixia, my dear," I said, a wicked glint in my eye. "Prepare to do a little creative accounting. We are swapping them. From this mont on, as far as the internet is concerned, I am a frail, bookish nerd with a glass jaw and a brain the size of a planet."
The process was simple. Pixia, grumbling about the ethical implications of data falsification, submitted the doctored information. A mont later, an email arrived in the inbox of VoidDragonSorrow666.
It was a verification test. Four questions.
"They’re testing on my faked stats," I breathed, a thrill shooting through . This was a ga within a ga. "Question one: ’Describe the primary alchemical weakness of a B-Rank Crystal Golem.’ My Alchemy is B. Easy."
I dictated the answer to Pixia.
"Question two: ’Outline the evolutionary path of a C-Rank Kobold into a Kobold Warlord.’ My Creation is C. Also easy."
Just as Pixia was typing the third answer, another figure entered the throne room.
Isabelle Vhagar.
My other secret.
My forr-hero commander. My proud, powerful, and intensely jealous lover who thought she was the only one warming my demonic bed.
She strode in, her dark armor immaculate, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, Dáinsleif. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, imdiately noticed the tension in the room.
"My Lord," she said, her voice a cool, professional blade. "I have the patrol reports. Is this a bad ti?"
My heart, which was currently not beating because I am a vampire, still managed to perform a spectacular plumt into my stomach.
"Isabelle! No, not at all!" I said, trying to sound casual and kingly, and not like a man who was simultaneously trying to lie his way into a secret evil clubhouse while also hiding the fact that he was cheating on the woman in front of him with the elf who had just left the room.
"Just a... minor administrative matter," I said, waving a dismissive hand.
She eyed the holographic screen, her gaze lingering on the cryptic questions. "It looks important."
"It’s fantasy ga for Demon Kings," I lied smoothly. "Very boring. All stats and numbers. You wouldn’t be interested."
She raised an eyebrow, a silent, elegant challenge. I could feel her suspicion, a sharp, physical thing in the air between us.
"The final question, my Lord!" Pixia whispered frantically in my ear. "It is... specific."
I glanced at the screen.
Question four: "Did you, or did you not, recently force a Devil-type Demon King in the Kanto region to Surrender?"
My blood ran cold.
They knew.
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