Chapter 87: A Cunning Old Man’s Last Bet

Chapter 87: A Cunning Old Man’s Last Bet Grunt, my massive Kobold Warlord, took out his new smartphone, his sausage-like fingers surprisingly nimble as he pulled up a tactical map of the area I had sent him. He began directing squads of kobolds to set up kill zones and choke points. We were no longer the hunters. We were the prey, waiting for the wolves to descend. The hours crawled by. Night fell, and with it, a cold, tense silence. I stayed within my metal shell, the disguise now more important than ever. I watched the sky, waiting for the first, faint hint of gray on the horizon. "Scout report," a whisper came over the comms from one of Chloe’s bats. "Massive movement detected. North. All of them. They are coming." I looked at my commanders. Their faces were grim, illuminated by the cold, faint light of the stars. "Positions," I said, my voice a low, final command. The sun began to rise. A thin, bloody line of red appeared on the horizon. The dawn raid had arrived. And we were waiting for it. ------------------------------------------- My name is Yori. And my peaceful retirement was officially over. The sun, a hateful, burning eye in the sky, had begun its ascent. Its first rays, the color of old blood, painted the edges of the desolate wasteland. This was the moment I had planned for. The moment of my grand, decisive, all-or-nothing ambush. But as I peered through my enchanted spyglass from my command post, a small, cleverly hidden teahouse on a rocky outcrop, a cold dread settled in the pit of my stomach. They were ready. The invader’s army, which should have been a weary, sun-drained column of exhausted monsters, was a fortress. They had dug in. They had found the one cluster of crumbling, ancient ruins in this entire godsforsaken sector and had turned it into a castle. Hulking, green-skinned Orcs formed a living wall, their massive forms creating a near-impenetrable perimeter. I could see the glint of what looked like kobold archers on the high ground, their arrows ready. He knew. Somehow, some way, this Vampire Lord of Aethelburg had seen through my entire strategy. He had predicted the dawn raid. He had turned my perfect ambush into his perfect defensive position. "Pip," I whispered, my voice a dry, reedy sound. My most trusted imp butler appeared at my side, a steaming cup of oolong tea in his tiny, clawed hands. He had the good sense to look terrified. "They are prepared, Master Yori," he stammered, his little body trembling so hard the teacup rattled on its saucer. "He is a monster of strategy." "He is a monster of everything, Pip," I replied, taking the tea and sipping it slowly. The warm, fragrant liquid did nothing to soothe the cold knot of fear in my gut. I thought back on the reports. This Ragnar Vhagar. Ruler of over forty sectors. A B-Rank Alchemist, capable of forging weapons and armor that could turn a simple goblin into a legitimate threat. And his commanders... his Bloodkin. The stories were the stuff of nightmares on the Demon King forums. A former hero, a "Fallen Saint" they called her, who wielded a blade of shadow and led his armies with a terrifying, cold efficiency. A Dark Elf of impossible speed and fanatical loyalty. A Dhampir who could shatter stone with her bare hands. And now, all of them were sitting in a makeshift castle in my backyard, waiting for me to make the first, suicidal move. A war of attrition was impossible. His forces were fewer, but their quality was on a different plane of existence. My goblins and imps, even with their silver arrows and fire magic, would be a speedbump. A very flammable speedbump. My only hope, my single, shining beacon in this dark, terrifying night, was her. Umbra. My grand prize. My SSS-Rank pull from the cosmic gacha machine. I looked over to the shadows in the corner of my teahouse. They shifted, coalesced, and my beautiful, terrifying granddaughter appeared. She stood as silent as the grave, her seven-foot frame radiating a power that was the complete opposite of the sun’s hateful glare. "Master Yori," she said, her voice a low, soft rumble. "They are waiting. What are your orders?" I looked at her, at the absolute loyalty in her dark, unreadable eyes. I could send her in now. A shadow in the dawn. An assassin’s blade aimed at the heart of the enemy king. But what were the odds? Five percent? Two? This Ragnar was cunning. He would be protected. He would have traps, bodyguards, spells I couldn’t even imagine. To send her to her death on a desperate, low-probability gamble... I couldn’t do it. So, what was the alternative? Surrender? The thought was a physical pain. To bend the knee. To give up my domain, my quiet life, my beautiful teahouse. And worst of all, to give up my greatest joy. My purpose. If I surrendered, I would become his subordinate. I would lose my status as a Demon King. And that meant I would lose access to the [Random Creation] menu. No more gacha. No more pulling the lever on the universe’s slot machine. No more the thrill of seeing that golden flash, that promise of a new, unique creation. Life without the gacha... it would be as gray and meaningless as my first one. No. Surrender was not an option. But a direct fight was suicide. Unless... Unless I could change the terms of the fight. A new plan, a desperate, razor-thin gambit, began to form in my mind. This Ragnar Vhagar was a conqueror. A collector. He had absorbed Queen Alyssa’s domain. He had forced Kevin the Chuunibyou to bend the knee. He collected powerful subordinates like they were stamps. And I possessed the single rarest, most powerful stamp in the entire collection. Umbra. He would want her. He would covet her. I could use that desire. I could leverage her value. It was a terrible thing to do. To use my precious granddaughter as a bargaining chip. But it was the only move I had left on the board. "Pip," I said, my voice hardening with a resolve I did not feel. "Prepare the delegation banner. A white flag. We are going to parley." Umbra looked at me, a flicker of confusion in her shadowy eyes. "We are not fighting, Master?" "We are fighting, my dear," I said, giving her a sad, weary smile. "But not with swords and spells. We are fighting with words. And I am about to make the most important sales pitch of my life." I stood up, my old bones protesting. I straightened my robes. It was time to go meet the Tyrant of Aethelburg. It was time to see if he was as greedy as the stories said. My life, and my gacha addiction, depended on it.