Ragnar stared at the options, his momentary triumph replaced by a cold sweat.

Option One was suicide. Option Two was… mortgaging his future for an even longer, more painful period of magical indentured servitude.

But Isabelle Thorne… she was worth it. A Level 13 Sword Saint as his Bloodkin?

The strategic advantage was immeasurable. No dungeon lord in recorded history had a former top-tier Hero willingly converted to their side.

"Pixia," he muttered, "remind me to have a very stern word with the universe about its predatory lending practices."

He took a deep breath and let it out through gritted teeth. "I choose Option Two."

The system accepted. His current CP dropped to zero. A new, heavier sense of debt settled upon his True Core, a weight that felt both financial and metaphysical.

But in his hand, the Blood Chalice pulsed with a dark, inviting light, like it too understood the gravity of the transaction.

He turned and offered it to Isabelle.

Isabelle Thorne took the Blood Chalice, its shadowy material surprisingly warm against her skin.

Her hands trembled,not from fear, but from the irrevocable nature of her choice.

She had been the Sword Saint, a beacon of hope, a walking legend among the Hero Guild.

The paragon of discipline and honor. The one mothers pointed to when scolding their sons for laziness. Now she was something else entirely.

She looked up at Ragnar Vhagar, the Vampire Demon King, who watched her with an unnervingly calm intensity.

Arms crossed. Crimson eyes glowing faintly in the purple haze of the throne room. Fangs just barely visible behind a neutral expression that had seen empires fall and found the paperwork annoying.

"No second thoughts?" he asked, a hint of mockery in his tone, but also a sliver of genuine curiosity.

Even he seemed to grasp the magnitude of this moment,not just a betrayal of one kingdom, but a rewriting of fate.

Isabelle shook her head, a bitter smile touching her lips.

"My first thoughts led me here. It's time to try something new."

She raised the chalice and drank.

The liquid was cold, colder than steel and darker than moonless water. It tasted of iron and old promises, with an undercurrent of something wild, unknowable, and impossibly ancient.

It was not a drink. It was a contract. A binding. A death. And a rebirth.

As the blood touched her tongue, a shockwave, not of force but of essence, coursed through her body.

Her breath caught. Her pulse skipped. She didn't scream; she had endured worse. But her knees buckled slightly under the weight of what she had just become.

It wasn't agonizing like Ragnar's own transformation. His had been violent, desperate, forced by circumstance and cruelty. Hers was chosen.

And in that choice, the system responded. A bond snapped into place, as real and permanent as any scar. Her soul was now tethered to Ragnar's, anchored by pacts older than kingdoms and darker than myths.

Her old allegiances dimmed. The banners of her past faded. Aethelburg's proud gold and silver dissolved from her mental landscape, replaced by a new palette—violet, black, and obsidian red.

The dungeon's dim light took on sharper edges. Her wounds ached less. Her vision cleared more. Even the silence around her began to sound like purpose rather than absence.

She lowered the chalice and met Ragnar's gaze. He nodded slowly, approving.

"Welcome to the winning team, Isabelle. Or should I say… Isabelle Vhagar?"

She blinked. "Vhagar?"

Then, her new instincts took over.

She kissed him back with a fierce, desperate hunger, her hands grabbing at his clothes, her body pressing against his.

He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist, and slammed her against the nearest stone wall.

BOOM!

A visible shockwave of pure force blasted outwards from the point of impact, sending dust and debris flying across the chamber.

The wind shrieked as he moved, every thrust a detonation of raw, chaotic power that made the very foundations of the dungeon tremble.

BOOM! CRACK! BOOM!

It was less an act of passion and more a seismic event, a carnal war that threatened to bring the entire floor down around them.

The force of their collision sent shockwaves through their bones, a feedback loop of power and submission that left them both panting and breathless.

As they lay in a tangled heap amidst the rubble of the shattered wall, Ragnar's post-coital bliss was shattered by a sudden, horrifying thought.

Chloe.

His other impossibly hot, impossibly deadly, and impossibly jealous subordinate was on her way back.

"Shit," he muttered, scrambling to his feet and pulling on his clothes.

Isabelle looked at him, a lazy, satisfied smile on her lips. "What's wrong, my Lord? Afraid someone will walk in?"

"No. Yes. It's complicated," he stammered, his mind racing.

He needed a lie. A good one. A really, really dumb one.

"Listen," he said, pulling Isabelle to her feet.

"My... other commander is on her way.

She's... very professional. Very serious.

Let's just say our new arrangement is on a need-to-know basis, and she does not need to know."

"Oh?" Isabelle purred, arching a perfect eyebrow.

Just then, a portal of swirling shadow opened at the entrance to the chamber.

Chloe stepped through, her face as serene and deadly as ever.

Her amethyst eyes scanned the room, taking in the shattered wall, the lingering scent of sex and raw power, and the disheveled state of her master.

Then, her gaze fell on Isabelle.

The air in the room dropped twenty degrees.

"My Lord," Chloe said, her voice like the chime of a frozen bell. "You seem to have acquired... a new asset."

The way she said 'asset' made it sound like a particularly nasty type of fungus.

"Chloe!" Ragnar said, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly.

"This is Isabelle. She's a... consultant.

She surrendered. She's going to be helping us with our human-related strategies."

Isabelle gave Chloe a smile that was all teeth. "A pleasure to meet you. I've heard... so little about you."

Chloe's return smile was just as sharp. "The most effective weapons are the ones the enemy never sees coming."

The two women stared at each other, a silent declaration of war passing between them in a single, hate-filled glance.

Ragnar felt a cold sweat bead on his forehead.

He was standing between two thermonuclear bombs, and he was the one holding the detonator.

He needed a distraction. Now.

"Chloe!" he commanded, trying to sound authoritative. "The fleeing heroes! They cannot be allowed to escape and report what happened here. Take your snipers. Hunt them down. Leave no survivors."

It was a strategically sound order.

It was also a desperate attempt to get one of his deadly girlfriends out of the room before they started measuring each other for a body bag.

Chloe bowed, her eyes never leaving Isabelle. "As you command, my Lord. I will see to it personally."

She turned and vanished back into the shadows, her disapproval lingering in the air like a bad smell.

Ragnar let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

He was safe. For now.

He turned back to Isabelle, who was watching him with a new, possessive glint in her ruby-red eyes.

"She seems... very loyal," Isabelle said, her voice a low, dangerous murmur. "I wonder just how far that loyalty goes."

Ragnar's stomach dropped.

He hadn't just acquired a new sword.

He had acquired a whole new set of problems.

And he had a sinking feeling his dick was going to be the death of him.

He pulled out his Demon King App, flicking through its neon-red interface until a new profile screen emerged in holographic red glyphs above the chalice.

"Let's see what the system thinks of our little recruitment drive."

[Name: Isabelle Vhagar]

[Race: Human (Bloodkin-Bound)]

[Class: Sword Saint (Evolved)]

[Level: 13]

[Title: Former Sword Saint of Aethelburg, First Sword of the Night]

[Loyalty: Absolute (Pact-Bound)]

[Stats: Swordsmanship A, Body B+, Agility B+, Mana D]

[Leadership Points (LP): 80]

[Subordinate Slots: 0/80]

"Swordsmanship A, Body B+. Eighty Leadership Points." Ragnar whistled, genuinely impressed.

"Pixia, my dear, we've hit the jackpot. She's even stronger than Chloe in raw combat potential and has a command score that could run a fortress.

That Level 13 wasn't just window dressing."

Pixia, who had been hovering like a fascinated historian watching a forbidden ritual, adjusted her spectacles and nodded crisply.

"Indeed, my Lord. Converting a high-level, evolved human yields results significantly superior to fabricating Bloodkin from scratch. The long-term potential is exponential."

Ragnar groaned, rubbing his temples. "Yes, well, remind me to grumble about the cost later.

Ninety days of no CP. No building. No crafting. Just vibes and bloodshed."

"Fiscally alarming is my new middle name," he muttered.

"Technically," Pixia said helpfully, "you haven't filed any official designation papers.

I believe the system auto-generates middle names based on current status, so yes.

You are legally Ragnar 'Fiscally Alarming' Vhagar."

"gods help me."

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