{Ragnar's POV}
The five Bonus Points from my first level-up burned a hole in my metaphysical pocket.
It was a nagging, incandescent reminder that I was still a bottom-tier Demon King in a world that desperately, passionately, wanted me very, very dead.
My own combat stats were a cosmic joke.
An 'E' in Body might let me punch through a drywall partition if I was feeling particularly motivated, but against a real, dedicated hero, it would be like throwing a wet noodle at a freight train.
Boosting myself now was pointless.
It would be like putting a spoiler on a car that had no engine and was also currently on fire.
The answer, as always, was outsourcing.
I needed better minions.
More specifically, I needed smarter minions to offset the army of sniffing, shrieking, and profoundly stupid morons I currently had on the payroll.
"Creation it is," I declared to the empty Throne Room.
The dramatic pronouncement was slightly undercut by the faint, distant sound of a goblin trying, and failing, to start a fight with its own shadow.
I spent all 5 BP to raise the stat from D to a glorious C-Rank.
BOOM!
A torrent of information, a tidal wave of blueprints for biological horrors and arcane constructs, crashed into my brain.
It was unpleasant, but efficient.
When the world stopped spinning and the phantom smell of burnt ozone and bad ideas faded, I saw two new options glittering on my creation menu: Orcs and Dark Elves.
Orcs were walking sacks of green-skinned testosterone, unresolved anger issues, and terrible B.O.
They were useful as a meat shield, but about as bright as a black hole and twice as dense.
Dark Elves, however…
The description promised intelligence, skill, and a mastery of archery and shadow magic.
The accompanying artwork promised tall, dusky-skinned bombshells with pointy ears, a condescending attitude problem, and asses that could start a continental war.
My decision was made before my brain even caught up with my dick.
Fifty Creation Points, a significant and painful chunk of my hard-earned reserves, vanished from my account in an instant.
A pillar of swirling black and purple energy erupted in the middle of the Throne Room, sucking the warmth from the air with a hungry, ethereal hiss.
From the swirling vortex of energy, a figure stepped forth.
She was magnificent.
A seven-foot-tall goddess with skin the color of twilight, silver hair that cascaded down her back like a moonlit waterfall, and hips that curved with a geometric perfection that defied the laws of physics and common decency.
She wore simple, dark leather that hugged curves.
She knelt gracefully, her amethyst eyes fixed on the cold stone floor, a picture of perfect, lethal submission.
"I am your master, Ragnar Vhagar," I boomed, trying to sound kingly and not like a man who was about to drool on his own throne.
"What is your name?"
She looked up, her lips parting to speak.
A voice like wind chimes and shattered glass spoke a sentence of pure, melodic gibberish.
"Anu belore dela'na, O'lór."
I blinked.
"Right. Cool. Do you speak… any language that doesn't sound like you're trying to summon a forest spirit with a particularly aggressive lisp?"
She tilted her head, her expression one of polite, infuriating, and probably condescending confusion.
"Shorel'aran?"
I stared.
My 50-point investment. My intelligent advisor. My one hope for a conversation that didn't involve grunting, sniffing, or a detailed pantomime of what I wanted a goblin to do with a particularly large rock.
And she was speaking Elvish.
For a moment, I considered punting her back into the void she came from and taking my chances with the Orcs.
But then, a far more primal, far more Demon King-like idea took hold.
"Fine," I growled, standing up and striding towards her.
"If we can't communicate with words, we'll use a more… universal language."
I pulled her to her feet.
She was nearly as tall as me, her body a perfect sculpture of taut muscle and graceful power, and she smelled faintly of moonlight and impending bad decisions.
I slammed my mouth against hers.
She was stiff for a moment, surprised, then a low, throaty sound rumbled in her chest and she began to kiss back with a fierce, predatory hunger that was frankly terrifying and incredibly hot.
This one learned fast.
Our first session was less an act of passion and more a seismic event.
I threw her onto the cold stone floor, the impact sending a tremor through the room.
BOOM!
The ground shuddered as I fell upon her, a conquering king claiming his new, most valuable territory.
The wind shrieked as leather and flesh met with a violent, possessive force that was less about pleasure and more about establishing a new, brutal, and deeply satisfying command structure.
We weren't making love; we were forging a carnal contract.
Every thrust was a detonation, a raw release of chaotic energy.
The force ran through her bones and mine, every collision sending shockwaves through us both until the very air in the Throne Room seemed to hum with the raw, untamed power of it all.
The session ended with a loud, final, and deeply concerning crack.
CRACK!
A visible shockwave blasted outwards from the throne, a ripple of pure kinetic force.
As we lay there, panting in the glorious, throne-shattering aftermath, a thought occurred to me.
A horrible, sweat-inducing thought that turned my blood to ice.
Gary the kobold, my chief butt-sniffer and the bane of my existence, chose that exact moment to wander into the Throne Room, probably looking for something interesting to lick.
He stopped dead, his dumb dog-face frozen in a look of pure, unadulterated, and almost religious awe as he stared at the magnificent, naked Dark Elf ass glistening in the dim magical light.
I saw his tail give a single, appreciative wag.
Before he could get any ideas about forming a gangbang party with the rest of the goblin horde...an event I was certain would be both enthusiastic and deeply unhygienic
I punted him out of the room with a well-aimed kick that sent him flying with a surprised yelp.
"New problem," I muttered, looking down at the magnificent creature now passed out on my floor.
I decided to name her Chloe.
It was a simple, elegant name for a creature who had just survived an encounter that had broken a throne made of solid magic rock.
"I have to keep my new second-in-command a secret from my army of horny little freaks."
This was going to be a logistical nightmare.