A few days after the conquest of Gorgon’s mall, a strange and unfamiliar calm had settled over Ragnar’s Domain.
The initial thrill of victory had worn off, replaced by the mundane, soul-crushing reality of middle management.
World domination, it turned out, involved a surprising number of spreadsheets and logistical nightmares.
Ragnar sat on his throne, idly scrolling through his new, expanded subordinate roster on his phone.
A few days after the conquest of Gorgon’s mall, a strange and unfamiliar calm had settled over Ragnar’s Domain.
The initial thrill of victory had worn off, replaced by the mundane, soul-crushing reality of middle management.
World domination, it turned out, involved a surprising number of spreadsheets and logistical nightmares.
Ragnar sat on his throne, idly scrolling through his new, expanded subordinate roster on his phone.
He now had hundreds of Gorgon’s former Orcs and Ogres, all of whom had been automatically absorbed into his army.
They were big, they were strong, and they had the collective intelligence of a sack of hammers.
They were perfect cannon fodder, but they were also... raw. Unrefined.
"There’s something missing," he said to Pixia, who was hovering nearby, diligently taking inventory of the newly acquired, mostly broken furniture from Gorgon’s throne room.
"I have all these powerful units, but they feel like factory-fresh action figures.
They have the stats, but they don’t have the... scuff marks."
"You are referring to the combat experience deficit, my Lord,"
Pixia said, adjusting her glasses. "A common issue in rapidly expanding armies.
A created subordinate, even a high-rank Bloodkin, possesses only its innate abilities and programmed combat protocols. They lack the tactical adaptability and situational awareness that only comes from real-world conflict."
"The experience gap," Ragnar murmured. "So, my custom-built killing machines are basically student drivers in high-performance race cars."
He needed to test the theory. He needed to see, with his own eyes, just how wide that gap really was.
"Pixia, have Zix report to the arena," he commanded. Zix, one of the original Goblin Snipers from Chloe’s expedition, was a prime example of a seasoned veteran. He was still just a goblin, but he had survived dozens of real fights. He was scarred, cunning, and had a look in his beady eyes that said he knew a hundred different ways to cheat in a knife fight.
Then, Ragnar opened his Creation menu. He navigated to the Dhampir option. "Create one," he ordered the system.
A swirl of crimson energy coalesced, and a new Dhampir appeared. She was identical to Reina in almost every way—pale skin, crimson hair, an aura of quiet deadliness. But her eyes were clear, her movements stiff. She was a blank slate. Ragnar mentally named her Vex.
He brought the two of them to the Mess Hall. "Alright, a little sparring match," he announced. "Zix versus Vex. No killing. First one to yield, or get disarmed, loses. Begin!"
Vex, the brand-new Dhampir, moved first.
She was a blur of motion, a pure expression of her high-rank stats. The wind shrieked as she closed the distance, her fist aimed at Zix’s head in a single, explosive strike. It was a perfect, textbook attack.
Zix, who was barely a third of her size, didn’t try to meet the attack head-on. That would have been suicide. Instead, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed a handful of dust into the air.
It was a simple, dirty trick. Vex, for all her power, had no protocol for "dust in the eyes." She flinched for a fraction of a second, her perfect attack faltering.
It was all the time Zix needed.
He didn’t dodge backward. He dodged forward, under her outstretched arm, his small frame moving with a slippery, unpredictable agility. As he passed her, he hooked his leg around her ankle. Another dirty, simple, and brutally effective trick.
Vex, her balance compromised and her vision momentarily obscured, stumbled.
Zix was already moving again. He scrambled up her back like a squirrel up a tree. Before Vex could even register what was happening, Zix had his knife at her throat.
The entire "fight" had lasted less than three seconds.
Vex stood frozen, the cold steel against her neck a concept her programming had not prepared her for. Zix chittered, a sound that was the goblin equivalent of a smug chuckle.
Ragnar stared, a slow smile spreading across his face. The test was a resounding success. "Alright, Zix, you can let her up. You’ve made your point."
He turned to Isabelle, who had been watching the spar with a critical eye. "Well, Commander? Your thoughts?"
"Power is useless without the knowledge of how to apply it," Isabelle said, her voice holding the weight of experience. "That Dhampir is strong, but she fights like a book. Zix fights like a cornered rat. The rat will win every time. I could defeat ten of her. Not because I’m stronger, but because I know exactly where to strike to make her fall."
"So, my problem isn’t power, it’s training," Ragnar concluded. He couldn’t just throw his monsters into a grinder and hope the survivors evolved. That was inefficient and expensive. He needed a way to bridge the experience gap. He needed to give them an edge.
His eyes fell on his hands, then drifted towards the forge he had built deep within the dungeon. He was a B-Rank Alchemist. He couldn’t create experience, but he could create the next best thing.
He could create better tools.
"Pixia, cancel my afternoon," he said, already walking towards the forge. "I have work to do. If my army lacks experience, I’ll just have to compensate with overwhelming technological superiority. It’s time to put my real superpower to use."
He was no longer just a king or a commander. He was a quartermaster, an engineer, a one-man demonic defense industry. And he was about to start mass production.
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The forge deep within Ragnar’s Domain roared with a heat that felt alive.
For three days, he had worked with a singular, obsessive focus.
This was his true element, not the cold, calculating strategy of the war room, but the fiery, creative chaos of the workshop