Chapter 93: Welcome to the Shark Tank

Chapter 93: Welcome to the Shark Tank Thpe anonymous, all-seeing administrator of {Laplace} knew about Yori. This wasn’t just a verification test. It was a message. ’We’re watching you.’ "Yes," I dictated to Pixia, my voice a low growl. "And tell the administrator I have a question of my own. Ask him where he’s located." I turned back to Isabelle, a forced, charming smile on my face. "Now, about those patrol reports..." A soft ’ping’ echoed from Pixia’s console. The reply had arrived. My application was approved. I was a Silver Member. But the administrator’s response to my question was a single, chilling line that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It was addressed not to VoidDragonSorrow666, not to Ragnar Vhagar, but to a name I had tried to forget. A name I hadn’t heard since my old, human life. Welcome, Supreme Ruler of Aelthebug - Saburo-sama. We are everywhere. And nowhere. Have a nice day. Saburo. Kevin’s real name. The universe wasn’t just a comedian. It was a sadist with a punchline made of pure, unadulterated humiliation. And it knew everything. My rage was a quiet, simmering thing. It was the cold, patient fury of a predator that has just realized it has walked into a much larger, much more cunning predator’s cage. Saburo-sama. The name echoed in my mind, a monument to my own arrogance. I, Ragnar Vhagar, the Tyrant of Aethelburg, had just been called out, exposed, and utterly humiliated by a ghost in a machine. "I’m going to kill him," I whispered, my voice a dangerous growl. "Who, my Lord?" Isabelle asked, her hand still resting on the hilt of her sword. "Kevin," I snarled, conveniently forgetting that this was entirely my own fault for letting him choose the email address. "For crimes against my dignity. And for having a stupid, stupid name." I pushed the anger down, burying it under a thick layer of cold, hard strategy. The game had changed. {Laplace} was not just a resource. It was a threat. "Pixia," I commanded, my voice sharp and focused. "I have a new, top-priority mission for you. Find me a Dwarf. A Dwarf Demon King. Yori’s intel confirms they exist, and that they are master craftsmen. I need one. I need a quartermaster, an engineer, someone who can manage my forges and turn our military into a technologically superior force." "A sound strategy, my Lord," Isabelle agreed. "Superior equipment is a significant force multiplier." "I’m giving you full operational authority," I said to Pixia. "Use my human bloodkin if you have to. Use their phones, their networks. Bribe, threaten, blackmail. I don’t care. Just find me a damn Dwarf." With my new quartermaster search underway, I turned my own attention back to the source of my current headache. {Laplace}. I was a Silver Member now. A wolf in a den of even bigger wolves, all wearing the sheep’s clothing of temporary, anonymous handles. I began to browse the exclusive forums, my eyes scanning for any scrap of useful information. And then I saw it. It was a thread titled: [THEORYCRAFTING: BP Allocation for A-Rank and Beyond]. My fingers flew across the holographic screen. This was it. The kind of high-level, insider information I had risked everything for. The original post was from a user named ’Golem-Master’. It was a detailed, mathematical breakdown of the Bonus Point costs for ranking up stats. E to D: 2 BP. D to C: 5 BP. C to B: 10 BP. This all matched my own experience. But then I saw the next line. B to A: 30 BP. I froze. "Pixia," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "What is the real cost to rank up a stat from B to A?" "Fifty Bonus Points, my Lord," she replied instantly, her own B-Rank Knowledge a wellspring of absolute, verifiable truth. "I am 100% certain of this data point." I stared at the screen. At the lie. Thirty. It wasn’t just a typo. It was a deliberate, carefully crafted piece of misinformation. A trap. I imagined some poor, ambitious Demon King, saving up his points, thinking he was just one or two level-ups away from that glorious A-Rank power spike. I imagined him planning his entire strategy around that number, thirty. And then I imagined his surprise, his horror, when he finally tried to make the purchase, only to find he was twenty points short. Twenty points he might not have, right on the eve of a crucial battle. It was a brilliant, vicious, and exquisitely cruel way to cripple a rival without ever firing a shot. "The whole site is a minefield," I whispered, a shiver of cold, grudging respect running down my spine. "It’s a mix of truth and lies, a weapon disguised as a library." "A most nasty and inefficient system for information dissemination," Pixia grumbled, her academic sensibilities deeply offended. It was then that I noticed the other two women in the room. Isabelle and Chloe. They stood on opposite sides of the throne, both ostensibly reviewing patrol reports on their own devices, but the air between them was so thick with unspoken rivalry you could have cut it with one of Chloe’s daggers. "Commander Isabelle," Chloe said, her voice a cool, silken blade. "Your report indicates increased ’hero activity’ near the old shopping mall sector. Perhaps your... familiarity... with their tactics is making you see ghosts where there are only rats." Isabelle’s eyes, which had been fixed on her screen, slowly lifted to meet Chloe’s. A faint, dangerous smile touched her lips. "And your report, Commander Chloe, seems to be missing the casualty figures from your last ’covert’ operation," Isabelle replied, her voice dripping with mock concern. "I do hope your precious goblins aren’t finding the real world too... challenging. They seemed so comfortable in the darkness of our Lord’s domain." The temperature in the room dropped by another ten degrees. I was stuck in the middle of it, a king on a throne of simmering, homicidal jealousy. They were both my lovers. They were both my commanders. And if either of them ever found out about the other, they would tear each other apart. And then they would probably team up to tear me apart. It was a delicate, high-stakes game of emotional Jenga, and I was playing it with two women who could punch through concrete. Just as I was about to intervene, to say something kingly and commanding like "Hey, can we all just get along and maybe focus on the impending global apocalypse?", the universe decided to add another layer of chaos to my already stressful day. Thump. Thump. Thump. A frantic, clumsy scrambling sound echoed from the hallway outside the throne room. It was getting closer. My blood ran cold. I recognized that sound. It was the sound of Gary the kobold, my lovable, idiotic, and profoundly unstealthy mascot, chasing something. Probably a shiny rock. Or his own tail. Right towards the throne room door. The door I had foolishly left open. The throne room where I was currently standing with both of my secret lovers. My mind raced. I imagined him bursting in, tail wagging, tripping over his own feet, and landing in a heap right in the middle of this psychosexual standoff. The questions. The suspicion. The inevitable, bloody conclusion. Thump. THUMP. BOOM! He hit the doorframe. I reacted on pure, desperate instinct. A flick of my wrist. A whisper of shadow magic, a low-level telekinetic shove. Gary, who had been about to stumble headfirst into the room, was suddenly and inexplicably diverted sideways. He yelped in surprise as he was shunted down a different corridor, his frantic scrabbling fading into the distance. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. Close call. Too close. I looked at Isabelle. I looked at Chloe. They were still glaring at each other, completely oblivious to the near-catastrophe that had just been averted. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. I was juggling knives. I was juggling live grenades. I was a degenerate circus clown, performing a high-wire act over a pit of very angry, very pointy monsters. The threats were no longer just outside my walls. The most dangerous game I was playing was right here, in my own throne room. And I had a terrible, sinking feeling that I was about to lose. {Laplace} was not just a resource. It was a threat. It was a player. And it knew my old name. "Pixia," I commanded, my voice sharp and focused. "Let’s see what kind of club I’ve just paid my dignity to join." "Browsing the main forums now, my Lord," she squeaked, her tiny holographic console flickering with data. I strode over to the main map table, which now displayed the website’s minimalist, intimidating interface. The main forums were a chaotic, beautiful mess. A testament to the sheer, glorious incompetence of the average Demon King. I read the thread titles aloud, my voice dripping with contempt. "[HELP] My True Core is a lava lamp. Is this normal? It’s really messing with the room’s Feng Shui." "[DISCUSSION] Best way to clean hero blood out of a white carpet? Looking for tips. My succubus is very particular about the decor, and she’s threatening to unionize." "[COMPLAINT] My Ghouls have started a book club, but they keep eating the books. How do I encourage literacy without depleting my library?" Isabelle let out a sound that was dangerously close to a snort of laughter, which she quickly disguised as a cough.