Chapter 22: Uncomfortable Conversations Build Unbreakable Bonds.

Chapter 22: Uncomfortable Conversations Build Unbreakable Bonds. Ragnar Vhagar, Demon King and newly minted vampire, was in a foul mood. His expensive Lycanthrope was a walking punchline, his Ghouls were cannibalistic psychopaths, and his grand plans for a new, terrifying army were looking more like a badly managed zoo. As he stewed on his throne, his gaze fell on the list of new abilities his evolution had granted him. One, in particular, stood out: [Absorb]. The ability to temporarily gain knowledge and skills by consuming the blood of a target. The hunger in his gut, a constant, cold companion, gave a slight twist. This wasn’t just a combat skill. This was a tool. A key. And he knew exactly which lock he wanted to try it on. He stood and walked toward the corner of the Throne Room where Val’sharah, his first and most expensive creation, stood guard. The Dark Elf was a vision of silent, graceful loyalty. Her skin was the color of twilight, her silver hair shimmered in the dungeon’s purple light, and her amethyst eyes held an intelligence that was utterly wasted on him. She still spoke her beautiful, melodic, and completely incomprehensible language. The communication barrier had been a source of constant, nagging frustration. "Val’sharah," he said, his voice now a smooth baritone that felt strange in his own ears. She turned to him and knelt gracefully. "Man’ari thoribas, O’lór," she said respectfully. It sounded lovely. It meant nothing. "I need to try something," Ragnar said, feeling incredibly awkward. "It might be... weird. I need a drop of your blood." Val’sharah tilted her head in polite confusion, her expression a perfect mask of ’I have no idea what you just said, but I am professionally loyal.’ Ragnar sighed. This was going to be difficult. He pointed to his own arm, then made a small pricking motion with his finger. Then he pointed to her. She watched him, her sharp eyes analytical. Finally, a flicker of understanding crossed her face. Without hesitation, she drew a small, ornate dagger from her boot, pricked the tip of her finger, and held it out to him. A single, dark drop of blood welled on her fingertip. "Right. Here goes nothing," he muttered, leaning forward and touching his tongue to the drop of blood. It tasted ancient, faintly of iron and something else... something like old forests and moonlight. The moment it touched his tongue, his world exploded. It wasn’t a physical blast, but an informational one. A torrent of knowledge, a lifetime of memories that were not his own, flooded his mind. He saw images of a world under a perpetual twilight, of towering, ancient trees and silent, moonlit cities. He felt the phantom sensation of a bowstring under his fingers, the intricate knowledge of fletching an arrow, the muscle memory of a hundred different Elven sword forms. And woven through it all, like a silver thread, was the language. Words and grammar and syntax downloaded directly into his brain. He stumbled back, clutching his head as the world swam back into focus. He looked at Val’sharah, who was still kneeling patiently. He took a breath. "Can... can you understand me now?" he asked, his voice a little shaky. Her amethyst eyes widened slightly in surprise. She rose gracefully to her feet. "Yes, my Lord," she said, her voice like wind chimes, and this time, he understood every single perfect syllable. "The common tongue of this world. I can speak it. I simply assumed you preferred the Old Tongue of my people." Ragnar stared at her, dumbfounded. His jaw hung open. "You could speak English this whole time?" "Of course, my Lord. Knowledge of the major mortal languages is standard for all of my kind. It would be inefficient to serve a master one cannot understand," she explained, with a logic so simple and perfect it made him want to scream. "I spent 50 Creation Points on you, and for weeks, I thought I had a beautiful, mute bodyguard! I’ve been talking to a block of frozen meat in my freezer for stimulating conversation!" he exclaimed, his frustration boiling over into pure, hysterical rage. "My apologies, my Lord," she said, bowing her head slightly. "Had you commanded me to speak the common tongue, I would have complied immediately. I am here to serve your will." Ragnar just ran a hand over his face, a strangled laugh bubbling in his chest. Of course. It was his fault for not asking the right way. The universe was still finding new and exciting ways to make him feel like an idiot. Now that the communication barrier was shattered, a thousand new possibilities opened up. But first, the scientific method demanded he continue his experiment. What were the limits of [Absorb]? Could he stack abilities? "Stay here. I need to test something else," he commanded. He strode back to the Mess Hall, where his sad Lycanthrope was still nursing its bruised ribs. "You," Ragnar said, pointing at the moping man-wolf. "Give me your blood." The Lycanthrope looked up with its sad, yellow eyes and whimpered, but dutifully offered its arm. Ragnar pricked its finger and tasted the blood. It was musky and wild, like wet dog and desperation. A new, far less impressive set of skills flooded his mind: the ability to howl pathetically and a sudden, deep understanding of how to chase his own tail. He tried to think of a word in the Elven language. Nothing. It was gone. The elegant grammar, the beautiful words -all replaced by the instinct to sniff things. "It overwrites," Ragnar realized with a cold dread. "It’s not a library. It’s a single, swappable program. I can be a master archer or a sad furry, but not both at the same time." To confirm, he grabbed the nearest goblin. After tasting its blood, the Lycanthrope’s pathetic skills vanished, replaced by an intense craving for shiny objects and a sudden, detailed knowledge of how to sharpen a rock. Finally, he tried it on Gary the kobold. The goblin’s skills were overwritten by an expert-level understanding of sniffing other people’s butts and the uncanny ability to trip over a perfectly flat surface. Ragnar marched back to the Throne Room, a look of grim determination on his pale face. He now understood the power and the curse of his new ability. It was a Swiss Army knife, but he could only use one tool at a time. Before a fight, he would have to choose: the swordsmanship of an elf, the raw power of an Orc, or the guile of a goblin? He found Val’sharah and, feeling deeply foolish, asked for another drop of her blood. The Elven knowledge returned, overwriting Gary’s butt-sniffing expertise. "My Lord," Val’sharah said, her voice laced with curiosity. "Your aura changed several times. What is the nature of this ability?" Ragnar explained the power of [Absorb] and its limitations. She listened intently, her amethyst eyes thoughtful. "A versatile but demanding power, my Lord. It means you must choose your weapon carefully before each battle." "Exactly," Ragnar said, finally feeling like he was having a real strategic conversation. "And our next battle is against Isabelle Thorne, the Sword Saint. I need all the advantages I can get." He looked at his new, intelligent, and finally-comprehensible second-in-command. "Tell me, Val’sharah. In the world you remember, how did your people fight against powerful human warriors?" A slow, sharp smile, the first he had ever seen from her, touched her lips. "With patience, my Lord. And with traps." For the first time since becoming a Demon King, Ragnar Vhagar didn’t feel completely alone. He had a plan, a real advisor, and a looming war to prepare for. And for now, that was enough. 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