CHAPTER 107: THE COOK, THE KING, AND THE CRINGE-INDUCING INTRODUCTION

Gorok stopped his workout, sniffing the air.

"MEAT IS MEAT," he roared, his voice shaking loose rocks from the ceiling. "BUT THIS MEAT IS SAD. IT TASTES LIKE DUST AND REGRET. I REQUIRE FRESH MEAT. BLOODY MEAT."

Saburo, seeing his chance to contribute, pushed himself off the wall.

"Indeed!" he declared, his voice full of a dramatic fervor that was completely unearned. "A warrior’s soul is fueled by the quality of his sustenance! We require a feast worthy of our station! A banquet of champions!"

I ran a hand over my face.

A mutiny.

I was leading the most powerful invasion force in the prefecture, and I was facing a mutiny over the quality of the snacks.

This was my life now.

"And what do you suggest we do?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. "Order a pizza? The delivery fees to the ninth floor of a heavily fortified dwarven death mountain are probably astronomical."

"We require a cook, my Lord," Sarah said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "A subordinate whose sole purpose is to tend to our culinary needs. It is a matter of morale. And basic dignity."

Takaharu nodded vigorously, a gesture that made the ground tremble slightly.

"A MEAT-COOKER," he clarified.

The worst part was, they were right.

My diet consisted of high-grade monster cores and, on special occasions, Chloe.

My minions ate whatever they could kill.

But my former-Demon-King subordinates, these pampered, powerful weirdos, had standards.

And the stress of juggling my two secret lovers was already giving me a perpetual headache. The last thing I needed was a hunger strike.

"Fine," I sighed, the word heavy with resignation. "I will add ’Head Chef’ to the list of positions we need to fill. But first, we have a mountain to conquer. Now stop complaining and get ready to move. We’re on the final floor."

The tenth floor was the heart of the Dwarf King’s defense.

The chamber was a massive, circular forge, the size of a football field.

A river of molten metal flowed through its center, casting a fiery, hellish glow on the fifty hulking, iron-plated golems that stood in perfect formation.

Behind them, a line of fifty dwarven warriors, their axes and hammers gleaming, stood ready.

And at the very back, on a raised platform, was a single, imposing figure.

He was a dwarf, but bigger, broader than the others.

He wore a suit of what looked like powered armor, steam hissing from the vents on his back. In his hands, he held a warhammer that was probably heavier than I was.

"That’s him," Yori’s voice whispered in my mind from his command post back at the Spire. "Sein Akira. The Dwarf King’s First Kin. A master of siege defense."

This was it. The final boss battle before the final boss.

"Alright, listen up," I commanded, my voice low and cold. "This is going to be messy. Gorok, you are the battering ram. You and your Orcs will break their front line. Sarah, you are the artillery. Rain hell on them, and try not to hit our own people this time."

Sarah gave me a look that was pure, wounded pride.

"Setanta," I continued, "you are the spearhead. Go for the commander. Keep him busy."

Setanta grinned, a wide, bloodthirsty expression that was deeply unsettling. "With pleasure, boss."

"And what of me, my Lord?" Saburo asked, his eyes gleaming. "What glorious role shall I play in this final, fateful battle?"

I looked at him. At his stupid, dramatic cape. At his earnest, chuunibyou face.

And I had a terrible, beautiful, and utterly hilarious idea.

"You," I said, a slow, wicked smile on my face, "are the leader."

I had to conceal my own presence. I couldn’t let the Dwarf King know that another, far more powerful Demon King was leading this invasion.

So, I needed a decoy.

A loud, obnoxious, and utterly convincing decoy.

Saburo was perfect.

"You will walk out there, and you will introduce yourself as the commander of this army," I explained. "You will be the face of our glorious conquest."

Saburo’s jaw dropped. His face went through a rapid series of emotions: shock, disbelief, and finally, a dawning, ecstatic joy.

This was the moment he had been born for.

He strode to the entrance of the forge, his cape swishing dramatically. He struck a pose, one hand on his hip, the other pointing a single, accusatory finger at the dwarven army.

"BEHOLD, YOU STUNTED, BEARDED SIMPLETONS!" he bellowed, his voice echoing in the vast, fiery chamber. "I am Darkness Dracul the Third! The Scythe of Sorrow! The Herald of the Abyss!"

He paused for dramatic effect.

"And I am but a humble servant of the true master of this world! The Tyrant of Aethelburg! The Shadow that will consume your light! The great and powerful LORD RAGNAR!"

I buried my face in my hands.

He had just announced my real name to the entire enemy army.

So much for plausible deniability.

Saburo, oblivious to his catastrophic blunder, continued his speech.

"Surrender now, and you may be granted the honor of polishing my master’s boots! Resist, and your forges will become your tombs!"

From the back of the chamber, the dwarven commander, Sein Akira, just stared.

Then, he turned to one of his lieutenants.

"Is he... serious?" his voice boomed, a deep, rumbling sound like stones grinding together.

"I think so, sir," the lieutenant replied. "He seems very committed to the bit."

I let out a long, weary sigh.

This was going to be a long, long battle.

I melted into the shadows, a ghost in my own ridiculous, over-the-top invasion.

It was time to go to work.

And after this was over, I was going to have a very, very long talk with Saburo about the definition of the word ’secret’.

The slaughter was about to begin.

But first, I had to die a little inside from secondhand embarrassment.

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The battle for the final gate was a symphony of glorious, stupid violence.

And I, Ragnar Vhagar, was its conductor.

While Saburo was busy delivering his Oscar-worthy monologue of cringe, I had melted into the shadows.

My new A-Rank Body was a marvel. I moved like a phantom, a whisper of death that the dwarven defenders never saw coming.

My targets were their rear guard.

A line of fifty dwarven crossbowmen, their heavy, iron-bolted weapons aimed at the entrance.

They were the real threat. The ones who could pick off my commanders from a distance.

I appeared behind the first one, a burly dwarf with a beard so long it was tucked into his belt.

He was focused on the theatrical idiot at the entrance, a look of profound, professional confusion on his face.

He never even heard me.

BOOM!

The wind shrieked as my hand, wreathed in shadows, chopped down on the back of his neck.

The impact was a dull, wet thud, but a visible shockwave of force exploded from the point of contact.

CRACK!

The dwarf’s helmet crumpled like a tin can, and he collapsed to the floor, a silent, unmoving heap.

The slaughter had begun.

I moved down the line, a ghost in the firelight of the forge.

BOOM! CRACK! BOOM!

A constant, percussive rhythm of silent, efficient death.

By the time Saburo had finished his dramatic, name-dropping introduction, the entire dwarven rear guard was unconscious or dead.

That was the signal.

"CHARGE!" Saburo roared, finally getting to the good part.

My army exploded into the forge.

It was a beautiful, chaotic storm.

Gorok the Unbreakable was a living, breathing avalanche of muscle and rage.

BOOM!

The ground itself seemed to shatter as he slammed into the golem line.

He didn’t use a weapon. He used his fists.

BOOM!

His punch connected with the chest of an eight-foot-tall iron golem. The impact was an absolute detonation of force.

A massive shockwave of white energy erupted from his knuckles, and the golem’s solid iron torso crumpled inward, the magical light in its eyes flickering and dying.

Sarah, my beautiful, terrifying Queen of Magic, floated above the fray, her hands weaving intricate patterns in the air.

"Inferno," she whispered, her voice a low, hungry sound.

A wave of black and purple fire, an unholy conflagration of demonic energy, washed over the dwarven shield wall.

The dwarves roared in defiance, their enchanted shields glowing with protective runes.

But Sarah’s magic was on another level.

The shields melted. The armor glowed red-hot. The air was filled with the smell of cooked metal and roasted dwarf.

It was glorious.

And in the center of it all was Setanta.

He was not a soldier. He was an artist.

He danced through the chaos, his fiery red hair a beacon in the gloom.

His spear, Gáe Bolg, was not a weapon. It was a paintbrush, and his canvas was the enemy army.

BOOM!

He moved, a blur of motion that was almost too fast to track.

His spear struck the knee joint of a golem.

CRACK!