Chapter 73: The Decoy and the Dagger

Chapter 73: The Decoy and the Dagger The Throne Room was quiet. A deep, ringing silence had replaced the echoes of my spar with Chloe. My new power settled in my bones, a low, thrumming hum that felt like a caged star in my chest. A B-Rank in Body. A C-Rank in Mana. For the first time since this whole insane nightmare began, I felt like a king. A broke, catastrophically indebted king who lived in a glorified basement with a goblin that had a personal vendetta against his own reflection, but a king nonetheless. "My Lord," Isabelle’s voice was a blade of calm, cutting through my smug self-satisfaction. She stood with her arms crossed, her expression one of cool, professional analysis. "You are magnificent. But she is a mage. A queen of magic. She will not let you get that close." She was right. Of course, she was right. The glorious, triumphant feeling in my chest deflated like a sad balloon. I had just cashed in all my frequent-flyer miles, all my saved-up Bonus Points, to turn myself into a living, breathing wrecking ball. And my primary target was a woman who could probably turn me into a fine red mist from three sectors away with a flick of her wrist. This was a classic RPG build-problem. The high-DPS melee warrior versus the kiting, glass-cannon mage. If I could reach her, the fight would be over in seconds. I would turn her and her pretty crystal throne into a pile of expensive, glittering dust. But she would spend the entire fight running backward, pelting me with holy light, condescension, and probably some kind of glitter bomb that would be a nightmare to get out of my coat. "She won’t fight me on my terms," I said, resuming my pacing. My long, dark coat swished around my ankles. I was really getting the hang of the dramatic swish. It was all in the hips. "So, we have to make her fight me on my terms." Pixia zipped over to my shoulder. "My Lord, the statistical probability of a Level 10 magic-specialist willingly engaging a B-Rank physical combatant in close quarters is... well, it is functionally zero. Unless she has a critical failure in her judgment protocols, or has been consuming large quantities of the fermented beverages you recently banned." "Then we shall engineer a critical failure in her judgment protocols," I purred, a beautiful, terrible, and exquisitely reckless plan blooming in my mind. "She thinks she knows me," I began, my voice low and conspiratorial. "She thinks I’m a coward, a strategist hiding in the back of my dungeon, pulling the strings. She thinks I rely on my minions and my tricks." "A sound analysis of her likely strategic posture, my Lord," Pixia squeaked, nervously cleaning her glasses on a corner of my collar. "So, we’re going to give her exactly what she wants," I said, a slow, predatory grin stretching my pale face. "We are going to give her the perfect target. The ultimate prize. We’re going to give her me." I turned to my assembled Bloodkin. Isabelle, Chloe, Reina, Fenris, Grunt. My council of war. My team of loyal, monstrous, and occasionally suicidal killers. "We are splitting our forces," I announced, my voice filling the vast chamber. "Isabelle, you will lead a decoy army." Isabelle’s eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch, a silent, elegant question. "A decoy, my Lord?" "A grand, theatrical, and utterly convincing decoy," I clarified. "You will take half our Orcs and all of our goblins. You will march them to the border of Sector 32. You will make a huge, obnoxious scene. I want banners. I want war drums. I want the goblins to sing their terrible, off-key songs about sniffing things. I want it to look like a final, desperate, all-or-nothing push." I then pointed a long, pale finger at Reina, my stoic Dhampir assassin, who was currently staring at a wall with an intensity that suggested she was contemplating the most efficient way to demolish it. "And you, Reina, will be the star of the show." I turned to Lillith, my sultry Lilim, who was examining her nails with an air of bored detachment. "Lillith, I need your best illusion. I need you to make Reina look exactly like me. The coat, the pale skin, the brooding, ’I’m-so-tortured-and-my-existence-is-a-burden’ expression. Everything." Lillith’s crimson eyes lit up. "Oh, Master, a makeover? How delightful! I shall make her so broodingly handsome, she’ll make you look cheerful by comparison. It will be my masterpiece." "The point," I continued, ignoring her commentary, "is to bait the trap. Alyssa will see what she thinks is me, leading a massive army in a clumsy, brutish frontal assault. She will see an arrogant, overconfident Demon King making a fatal mistake. She’ll abandon her cautious, defensive posture. She will leave the safety of her fortress to personally lead the counter-attack. To land the killing blow on me herself." "And while she is distracted by our little play..." Chloe’s voice was a deadly whisper from the shadows, her mind already two steps ahead. "Exactly," I said, my smile widening until my fangs showed. "While her entire attention is on the grand spectacle of my ’defeat,’ the real me, with the real elite team, will be waiting." I looked at Chloe, at Fenris, at Grunt. "You three are with me. We will be the Dagger team. We will lie in wait in the shadows of Sector 28. Our kill box. We will be the dagger she never sees coming." The plan was insane. It was a high-wire act with no safety net. It relied entirely on deception, perfect timing, and the arrogance of my enemy. It was perfect. "My Lord," Pixia stammered, her tiny holographic screen flashing with so many red warning signs it looked like a miniature rave. "The probability of a successful deception operation of this complexity, against an opponent of Alyssa’s intelligence and power, is... fraught with catastrophic failure points! The risk is incalculable!" "Pixia," I said calmly, patting her tiny head with one finger. "She’s arrogant. And arrogant people see what they want to see. She wants to see me make a stupid mistake. So we’re going to give her a front-row seat to the best, most convincing stupid mistake she has ever seen." I looked at my commanders. Their faces were a study in monstrous determination. Awe, terror, and a grim, unwavering resolve. They trusted me. The fools. "Isabelle, you have your orders. Make it a good show." She nodded, a flicker of her old Sword Saint fire in her eyes, now tempered with the cold steel of a true commander. "It will be a performance for the ages, my Lord." "Chloe, you’re my shadow. Stay close." She simply touched the hilt of one of her dark blades, a silent, deadly promise. "Let’s go hunt a queen," I said, and the darkness of my domain seemed to swirl around me in eager, hungry anticipation.