Chapter 80: The Gacha King and His Shadow

Chapter 80: The Gacha King and His Shadow Old Man Yori was a simple man with simple pleasures. In his first life, he had been an accountant, a quiet river of a man flowing through a landscape of spreadsheets and tax codes. His second life, the one the System had so abruptly given him, was far better. It had all the quiet of his previous existence, but with significantly better tea and an utter lack of quarterly reports. His Domain was a masterpiece of tranquil efficiency. A small, perfect Japanese teahouse nestled in a perpetually serene bamboo garden in the Udon-nada District. His subordinates were not snarling Orcs or brutish Ogres, but a dozen tiny, impeccably polite Imps who wore crisp, black uniforms and served as his butlers. His throne was a heated, memory-foam cushion that offered excellent lumbar support. He was not a conqueror. He was not a tyrant. He was a retired man enjoying a peaceful, demonic afterlife. His greatest passion, the thing that made his old, repurposed heart flutter with a gambler’s thrill, was the [Random Creation] menu on his Demon King app. It was a glorious, unforgiving slot machine that spat out monsters instead of cherries. For months, he had poured every spare Creation Point he had into it, his imps watching with polite, silent concern. He had created oceans of useless blue slimes. He had summoned legions of goblins that were more interested in intricate nose-picking rituals than guarding his teahouse. He had, on one particularly unlucky Tuesday, created a "Singing Rock," a unique but completely useless subordinate that only knew one very sad song about a lost pebble. And then, one day, the universe had paid out. The gacha gods had descended from their cosmic casino and blessed him. From a swirling vortex of pure, solidified shadow, she had stepped forth. Umbra. She was an Ogre, tall and powerfully built, her seven-foot frame a testament to raw, physical potential. But she moved with the impossible, unnerving silence of a falling leaf. Shadows clung to her like a living cloak, writhing and shifting with her mood. She could teleport through darkness. She could create clones of herself from the gloom. She was a unique, SSS-Rank subordinate, a one-in-a-million prize. She was his ultimate protector. And in a strange, quiet way, she was like the granddaughter he never had. She now stood guard at the entrance to his teahouse, a silent, seven-foot-tall specter of death, her very presence a perfect deterrent to any wandering heroes or ambitious rival Demon Kings. No one bothered Old Man Yori. And that was just the way he liked it. "Umbra, my dear," he called out one afternoon, his voice a gentle, reedy sound that barely disturbed the dust motes dancing in the afternoon light. "Would you care for some tea? Pip has just brewed a fresh pot of oolong. It’s wonderfully fragrant." The shadow at the entrance shifted, seeming to fold in on itself. Umbra appeared at his side, her massive form moving without a single sound, her feet not disturbing a single grain of sand in the zen garden. "I am on duty, Master Yori," she said, her voice a low, soft rumble, like distant thunder heard from miles away. "Nonsense, nonsense," he chirped, patting the heated cushion next to him. "Your only duty right now is to rest these old bones. Sit. Tell me about your day. Did you see any interesting clouds?" Umbra hesitated for a moment, her shadowy aura making the light in the room seem to dim slightly. Then, with a grace that defied her size, she knelt beside him. "I saw a sparrow, Master," she said after a long, thoughtful pause. "It was... small." "Wonderful!" Yori beamed, clapping his hands together softly. "A truly fascinating creature. So full of life! Did it sing for you?" "It chirped," Umbra replied, her expression unreadable. "And then a cat ate it." Yori’s smile faltered for a moment. "Oh. Well. The circle of life, I suppose. Tragic, but natural. More tea?" This was his life. Peaceful. Quiet. Boring. It was perfect. The peace was shattered by a scream. A high-pitched, terrified shriek that ripped through the tranquility of the teahouse like a thrown rock through a paper screen. One of his imp scouts, the little fellow named Pip, stumbled into the main room, his crisp uniform torn and stained, his face pale with terror. BOOM! Pip tripped over the edge of a tatami mat and hit the floor with a comical, undignified smack. The ground gave a faint tremble from his tiny impact. "Master Yori! A report!" he shrieked, his voice muffled by the floor. "From the south! The Tyrant of Aethelburg! He has... he has conquered everything!" Yori’s smile vanished completely. "The Tyrant of Aethelburg? Never heard of him. Is he new? Does he have a proper permit for all this... tyrannizing?" "He has defeated Gorgon the Tyrant! He has shattered Queen Alyssa’s Crystal Spire! His armies are a black tide of destruction, and his commanders are monsters of legend! They say he is a Vampire Lord, a creature of impossible power, a king of shadows and blood!" Pip stammered, his words tumbling over each other in a frantic, terrified torrent. A cold feeling, one Yori hadn’t felt in a long, long time, settled in the pit of his stomach. It was the feeling of a very small, very comfortable fish that has just realized a great white shark has bought the pond and is planning a large, catered barbecue. "A Vampire Lord," Yori repeated softly, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "Oh, dear. That does sound rather unpleasant." He looked at Umbra. Her stoic expression had not changed, but the shadows clinging to her form had. They no longer clung; they writhed. They coiled around her arms and shoulders like living serpents, a low, menacing hum emanating from them. Her hand rested on the hilt of the massive, obsidian blade she carried on her back, a weapon he had never once seen her draw. "He will not touch this place, Master," she said, and her voice was no longer a soft rumble. It was the low, deadly growl of a cornered predator, a promise of violence that made the very air in the teahouse grow cold. "I will not allow it." Old Man Yori looked at his prized creation, his beautiful, game-breakingly powerful granddaughter. He looked at her fierce, unwavering loyalty. He then thought of the stories of the Tyrant’s power, of his elite, battle-hardened Bloodkin and his ruthless, brilliant tactics. A deep, weary sigh escaped his lips. He had pulled the rarest, most powerful monster in the game. But he knew, with the quiet, unshakable certainty of a man who had spent sixty years balancing ledgers, that no matter how lucky you get, the house always wins. His peaceful retirement was about to come to a very violent, very loud, and very poorly mannered end.