Chapter 57: The Hangover of a King

Chapter 57: The Hangover of a King Ragnar Vhagar, Demon King and newly crowned Lord of Crippling Debt, awoke to a symphony of Orc snores and the distant, tragic sound of a goblin being sick in a corner. The grand victory party had, in retrospect, been a catastrophic miscalculation. His magnificent Throne Room, a chamber of imposing obsidian and strategic importance, now looked like it had been the loser in a bar fight with a brewery. Orcs, creatures of immense power and limited self-control, were draped over tables like colossal, green throw rugs. Goblins were passed out in puddles of what Ragnar desperately hoped was just spilled sake. The air, usually crisp with the scent of ozone and cold stone, was now thick with the smell of monster hangover, stale booze, and profound regret. "Never again," Ragnar groaned, rubbing his temples where a phantom sledgehammer was relentlessly pounding. He pushed himself up from his throne, which had somehow acquired a sticky patch on the armrest. "Note to self: an army that runs on a healthy mixture of primal fear and a desire for shiny things does not, under any circumstances, require alcohol as a morale booster." Pixia, his tiny pixie advisor who had wisely spent the night barricaded in her new house, zipped over to his shoulder. Her tiny face was a mask of academic smugness. "My Lord," she began, her voice obnoxiously clear and cheerful. "As my preliminary data models predicted, the introduction of fermented rice beverages into the subordinate population has resulted in a 98.7% decrease in combat readiness. Our forces are, to use a technical term from my research, completely and utterly useless today." "I can see that, Pixia," Ragnar grumbled, stepping over a snoring goblin who was clutching an empty barrel like a teddy bear. He spotted Gary the kobold trying to sneak out of the room by walking backward, a technique of stealth so bafflingly stupid it was almost impressive. "And you! Don’t think I didn’t see you trying to teach the Ogres that weird drinking game with the cups and the little ball! Where did you even get a little ball?" Gary froze mid-step, let out a pathetic whimper of guilt, and scurried away in shame, tripping over his own tail twice in the process. Ragnar let out a long, weary sigh. The Wrecking Crew, his new, elite, and very expensive team of Bloodkin, was in no shape to invade a child’s birthday party, let alone another Demon King’s fortress. The war against his rivals would have to wait. The delay, however, gave him time to focus on a different, more insidious problem. A problem that required cunning, not hungover Orcs. "Pixia, I need intel," he commanded, his tone shifting from that of a beleaguered manager to a focused commander. "The Demon Queen in the Crystal Spire. The one the forum weirdos are calling ’Queen Alyssa.’ She’s my neighbor, and I don’t like noisy neighbors. What do we know?" "A moment, my Lord." Pixia’s eyes glowed with a soft green light as she accessed and sorted through information. "Demon Queen Alyssa. Suspected Level 7. Specializes in magic, illusions, and elementals. Her domain is a large, multi-sector spire known for its crystal structures and formidable defenses. She is believed to be highly intelligent and extremely territorial." "Smart, powerful, and arrogant. My favorite combination in an enemy," Ragnar said, a predatory light entering his eyes. "I don’t like having a powerful rival that close, especially one I know nothing about. I can’t risk marching my main army off to deal with another threat if she decides my new library sector would make a nice summer home. Send a scout. No, send five. Giant Bats. I want them to probe her borders, see what her defenses look like. Don’t engage, just... knock on the door and see who answers." An hour later, the news was not good. "My Lord," Pixia reported, her voice trembling slightly. "All five scout units were destroyed the instant they crossed her domain’s border." Ragnar sat up straight, his lazy posture vanishing. "Destroyed? How? By what?" "By high-powered beams of concentrated light, my Lord. It appears she has a network of automated crystal turrets integrated into her outer walls. Her defense grid is... exceptionally good. However," Pixia added, "one bat managed to transmit a single, corrupted image file before it was vaporized." Pixia projected the image onto a small, holographic screen. It was blurry, a mess of static and dying pixels, but the content was clear enough. It was a shot of Alyssa’s main gate. And standing near it, looking nervous but determined, was a small party of humans. They were clad in the standard-issue armor of the Hero Guild. "Heroes," Ragnar whispered, his eyes narrowing. "They’re already inside her domain. She’s not just defending against me... she’s already fighting a war." The plan hit him with the force of a physical blow. A beautiful, simple, and exquisitely evil plan. He didn’t just see a problem; he saw a symphony of opportunities. "She’s a genius," he breathed, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his pale face. "A twisted, evil genius. I think I’m in love. She’s not fighting the heroes. She’s using them. They are her guard dogs. They keep her busy, yes, but they also form a perfect shield, a ’Heroes In-Progress’ sign that keeps other Demon Kings, like me, from attacking her directly." He began to pace, the gears in his mind spinning with manic energy. "We can’t fight her directly. Not yet. Her defenses are too strong, and her attention is occupied. So, we’ll do the one thing she will never, ever expect." He stopped and looked at Pixia, his red eyes gleaming with a mad, brilliant light. "We’re going to help the heroes." Pixia’s tiny glasses almost vibrated off her face. "Help... the humans, my Lord? But... isn’t our ultimate objective the conquest of the world and the subjugation of their kind?" "It’s not about helping them win, Pixia. It’s about ensuring her fight is as long, costly, and infuriating as humanly possible," Ragnar explained, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "This isn’t a simple invasion anymore. It’s a three-way war. And the other two players have absolutely no idea that I’m about to start moving their pieces on the board for them." He began to laugh, a low, cold, and deeply satisfied sound that echoed through the trashed Throne Room. The hangover was forgotten. The boredom was gone. He had a new plan. And it was going to be glorious.