Chapter 130 130: The Dawn of a New, Very Loud Era

The world was a symphony of beautiful, glorious violence. And I, Ragnar Vhagar, was its conductor. But from my podium on top of a slightly-less-dented school bus, I could see that my orchestra was starting to play out of tune. The front line was buckling. Grak the Unbreakable was a magnificent, one-man apocalypse, his fists a constant, percussive rhythm of sonic booms and shattered bones. BOOM! CRACK! BOOM! He was a whirlwind of destruction, a living, breathing meat-grinder, but even he was being bogged down by the sheer, unending number of humans. Sarah, my beautiful, terrifying Queen of Magic, was a goddess of artillery, her black and purple fireballs turning entire squads of militia into screaming, carbonized statues. But her mana was not infinite. I could see the faint sheen of sweat on her aristocratic brow. And the Sword King... the Sword King was a problem. He was a ghost. A whisper of death. He was systematically, brutally, and very, very efficiently dismantling my personal guard, one expensive Living Mail at a time. He was getting closer. "My Lord!" Pixia's voice was a high-pitched squeak of pure, statistical terror in my ear. "The defensive line's integrity is at 34%! Projected time until catastrophic failure is... seven minutes!" The timer in my vision read: 12:47. We weren't going to make it. "Where are they?" I growled, my voice a low, dangerous purr. "Where are my goddamn reinforcements?" As if summoned by the sheer, unadulterated force of my own magnificent impatience, they arrived. From the west, a flash of divine, holy light that was so out of place in this grimy, pre-dawn battlefield it was almost comical. Isabelle Vhagar. My Blade Saint. My First Sword. My secret lover number two. She was not a commander in this moment. She was a weapon. BOOM! The ground exploded as she moved, a blur of dark armor and divine light that slammed into the flank of the human army. The wind shrieked as she drew Dáinsleif, the reforged blade humming with a barely contained power that was both holy and deeply, beautifully unholy. Her blade danced, a flawless, beautiful storm of steel. CRACK! She met a charging hero's sword. The impact was a sharp, focused detonation. A visible shockwave of force ripped through the hero's blade, shattering it into a dozen pieces, and her follow-up strike was a whisper of death that took his head from his shoulders. And from the east, a whisper of pure, unadulterated shadow. Chloe. My beautiful, fanatical shadow. My secret lover number one. She did not charge. She did not announce her presence with a flash of light. She simply... appeared. Her Shadow Strikers, a team of elite goblin snipers and werewolves, materialized from the darkness, their blades and arrows finding the throats of the human army's command squad before they even knew they were under attack. The human line, which had been on the verge of breaking through our own, suddenly found itself caught in a perfect, beautiful, and exquisitely brutal pincer movement. Their morale shattered. Their formation broke. The tide had turned. The final ten minutes were a blur of glorious, one-sided slaughter. The timer in my vision ticked down its final, agonizing seconds. Three. Two. One. Zero. The world held its breath. The vast, swirling vortex of black and red energy that had enveloped the park collapsed in on itself with a sound like the universe taking a sharp, final gasp. It imploded into a single, brilliant point of silver light that pulsed once, then solidified. A new True Core. My new True Core. It hung in the air for a moment, a testament to my victory, before sinking into the earth, anchoring my reign over this new, bloody patch of dirt. A wave of triumphant, glorious notifications filled my vision. [Reign Protocol Successful!] [New Sector Acquired: Suzu Outskirts (3 km2)] The invisible dome of my ability, which had been both my cage and my shield, became a real, physical border. The remaining human forces, now finding themselves trapped inside enemy territory, let out a collective, horrified wail. "Well," I said, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my face. "That was fun." I stood up on the hood of the bus, a king surveying his new, conquered lands. "Yori!" I roared into my comms. "Open the floodgates!" From the heart of my new, permanent fortress, a new sound emerged. The sound of a thousand roaring, bloodthirsty monsters who had been waiting very, very patiently for their turn to play. The Transfer Array flared to life, a swirling vortex of shadow and ozone. From it, they poured forth. A fresh, furious army of Orcs, Ogres, and goblins, their eyes burning with a manic, murderous glee. The desperate defense had become an overwhelming offense. The battle for the foothold was over. The war for Suzu had just begun. I looked out at the city, at the distant, imposing walls of the city hall. The Sword King was still in there. He was waiting. And I had a terrible, wonderful feeling that he was about to get a very, very loud knock on his front door. ---------------------------------------------------------- Fifty-seven minutes. That was the number hanging in my vision, a glowing, ghostly timer counting down the seconds to either my greatest victory or my most humiliating defeat. Fifty-seven minutes until my new forward base, my beachhead in this godsforsaken human territory, became permanent. Fifty-seven minutes of pure, unadulterated hell. "They're coming," Chloe's voice was a cold, flat whisper from the shadows to my left. I looked at the map in my mind, the beautiful, terrifying radar that the [Reign] ability gave me. It was a sea of red. A thousand angry, red dots, swarming towards our position like hornets whose nest I had just personally pissed in. "Well," I said, my voice a low, dangerous purr that I hoped sounded confident and not at all like a man who was about to be torn apart by a small army. "This complicates things." I stood on the hood of a slightly dented school bus, my long, dark coat swishing in the pre-dawn breeze. It was a very dramatic pose. "ALRIGHT, YOU MAGNIFICENT BASTARDS!" I roared, my voice booming across the makeshift barricade of delivery trucks and overturned playground equipment. "DIG IN! THIS IS WHERE WE MAKE OUR STAND! THIS IS WHERE WE SHOW THESE SQUISHY, MEAT-FILLED MORONS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU POKE THE TYRANT'S NEST!" My army roared back, a beautiful, chaotic symphony of Orc grunts, goblin shrieks, and the faint, unmistakable sound of Grak the Unbreakable cracking his massive knuckles. The first wave of humans hit us like a physical blow. It was not a disciplined charge. It was a wave of pure, righteous fury. Farmers with shotguns, militia with assault rifles, and a handful of low-level heroes with swords that glowed with all the intimidating power of a cheap dollar-store flashlight. "ARCHERS!" Isabelle's voice cut through the din, a blade of pure, divine authority. A volley of black-feathered arrows, fletched by goblins and enchanted by me, hissed through the air. Each one found a throat, an eye, a gap in their cheap armor. The front line of the human charge faltered, a dozen red dots winking out on my map. But there were hundreds more. "HIBIKI!" I roared. "YOU'RE UP, YOU BEAUTIFUL, DEGENERATE BASTARD! EARN YOUR KEEP!" My new masochistic, exhibitionist, bunny-boy tank, who had been quietly doing stretches in the corner, sprang into action. "Your punishment is my greatest pleasure, pyon!" he chirped, his voice a high-pitched, cheerful sound that was a crime against the very concept of warfare. He charged. He didn't attack. He just ran into the middle of the enemy formation, his arms outstretched, a blissful, ecstatic smile on his face. "[Perfect Body]!" he screamed. A wave of pure, unadulterated magical energy washed over the battlefield. It was not an attack. It was an invitation. An irresistible, overwhelming, and profoundly stupid urge to hit him. Every single human within a hundred-foot radius stopped, their eyes glazing over. They forgot about my archers. They forgot about my Orcs. They turned, as one, and unleashed every ounce of their frustration and firepower on the giant, half-naked bunny-boy in their midst. "YES!" Hibiki screamed in pure, orgasmic bliss as a hail of bullets and cheap fire spells washed over him. "HARDER! PUNISH ME MORE, YOU NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY HEROES!" He was a beautiful, magnificent, and deeply, profoundly broken meat shield. "GRAK! SARAH! GO!" I commanded. BOOM! The ground itself seemed to shatter as Grak the Unbreakable, my living siege engine, slammed into the flank of the distracted human army. The wind shrieked as he became a living avalanche of muscle and rage. BOOM! His fist, a sledgehammer of flesh and bone, connected with a small cluster of riflemen. The impact was an absolute detonation of force. A massive shockwave of white energy erupted from his knuckles, and the humans simply... ceased to exist. Vaporized into a fine red mist. Sarah, my beautiful, terrifying Queen of Magic, floated above the fray, her hands weaving intricate patterns in the air. "Inferno," she whispered, her voice a low, hungry sound. A wave of black and purple fire, an unholy conflagration of demonic energy, washed over the human lines. It was a beautiful, chaotic, and brutally effective strategy. But it wasn't enough. Because then, he appeared. From the back of the human army, a single red dot detached itself, moving with a speed that was almost too fast to track. An old man. His face was a roadmap of a hard life. His blade was a whisper of steel in the dim, pre-dawn light. The Sword King. He did not charge into the main fray. He ignored the chaos. He ignored the grunts. His eyes, even from a hundred yards away, were fixed on me. But he had to get through my elite guards first. He moved towards my command post, a silent, deadly wraith cutting a path through the battle. A hulking, eight-foot-tall suit of Living Mail armor, one of my best, most expensive disposable tanks, stepped into his path. It raised its massive, tower shield. The old man, Sayama Kotetsu, did not slow down. BOOM! He moved, a blur of motion that made the air itself seem to bend around him. His katana, a simple, unadorned blade, met the shield. The impact was not a clang. It was a detonation. CRACK! A visible shockwave of pure force erupted from the point of contact. The enchanted, B-Rank tower shield, a piece of metal that could stop a charging Ogre, shattered into a thousand pieces. The force of the blow ran through the very bones of the Living Mail, and the entire suit of armor crumpled inward, its magical light flickering and dying. One strike. One kill. He took another step. Another Living Mail moved to intercept him. And another. And another. It was a grim, brutal, and catastrophically expensive calculus. I was sacrificing a 300-CP unit every sixty seconds, just to keep him busy. Just to keep him away from me. The timer on my screen ticked down. Forty-three minutes. The defensive line was holding, but just barely. My heart, which was currently on its lunch break, still managed to pound a frantic, terrified rhythm against my ribs. This was not a battle. This was a race. A race against the clock. A race against an old man who was, at this very moment, single-handedly dismantling my entire elite guard. And I had a terrible, sinking feeling that we were about to run out of time. And Living Mails.