Ragnar Vhagar, Demon King and newly appointed Director of Interspecies Human Resources, stared at the results of his latest performance review.

The conclusion was simple, brutal, and undeniable.

His created monsters, for all their power and loyalty, were like finely tuned racing cars driven by student drivers.

They had the horsepower, but they lacked the experience to navigate the treacherous curves of real combat.

Isabelle, on the other hand, was a seasoned Formula 1 champion.

Her flawless victories against Chloe and Reina in the mock battles had proven it.

She didn't just fight, she thought, she adapted, she exploited weaknesses his other minions didn't even know existed.

She was a weapon, and right now, she was a weapon without an army to command.

"This won't do," Ragnar declared to the Throne Room.

Pixia, who was taking notes on the structural integrity of a nearby stone pillar, zipped over to his shoulder.

"A problem with the subordinate evaluations, my Lord?" she asked.

"A problem with the entire command structure," Ragnar corrected.

"Isabelle is my sharpest blade, but she can't lead an army of one. Chloe is a fantastic scout and assassin, but her team is small. I need a proper invasion force.

A team built around Isabelle's talent. A wrecking crew."

A slow, ambitious, and financially terrifying idea began to form in his mind. He had been hoarding his Bloodkin slots, treating the creation ritual as a rare, sacred event.

But what was the point of having a powerful ability if you were too scared to use it?

He needed a team. A real one. And that meant more Bloodkin.

He pulled up the Demon King System, his face grim.

The "Blood Chalice" ritual was a monstrous resource sink. It didn't just cost him his non-existent CP, it demanded his will, a sliver of his own essence for each pact.

But it was the only way to create commanders who could think, lead, and operate independently outside the Domain.

"Pixia, I'm about to make a series of strategically vital but fiscally irresponsible decisions," he announced.

"I want you to monitor my True Core's structural integrity. If it starts to look like it's going to collapse into a black hole of debt, just… you know, give me a heads-up."

"Acknowledged, my Lord," Pixia said, her tiny face a mask of academic concern.

"I have prepared the emergency emotional support dust bunnies."

Ragnar ignored that last part and strode into the center of the room, gathering the subordinates he had chosen.

Reina, the stoic Dhampir. Lillith, the sultry Lilim. The new, powerful Werewolf he'd mentally named 'Fenris'. The silent, imposing Living Mail. And the big, dumb Ogre from his failed gacha roll, who he'd dubbed 'Clobber'.

Five new commanders for his five new fingers of conquest.

"Alright, you five," he said, his voice echoing with a new authority.

"You have shown promise. Now, I'm offering you a promotion. A bond, directly to me.

It will make you stronger, smarter, and it comes with a dental plan I'll figure out later. But it must be your choice."

Reina knelt instantly, her crimson eyes burning with cold fire. "My life is yours, my Lord."

Lillith gave him a slow, wicked smile. "Bonded to you, Master? Oh, the fun we could have..."

Fenris the Werewolf let out a deep, guttural growl of assent, slamming a clawed fist against his chest.

The Living Mail simply drew its sword and knelt, a silent, unshakeable promise of loyalty.

Clobber the Ogre looked confused, then saw everyone else kneeling and clumsily dropped to one knee with a loud thud, which Ragnar took as a "yes."

One by one, he performed the ritual. The Blood Chalice materialized, a cup of frozen shadow.

One by one, he filled it with his own vampiric blood, and one by one, they drank. Each time, the Throne Room was filled with a blast of energy as the pact was forged.

BOOM!

Reina's transformation was a silent explosion of crimson energy, sharpening her already lethal aura.

BOOM!

Lillith's was a wave of pink, sweet-smelling smoke that left the air tasting of temptation and deceit.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The other three followed, each transformation sending a tremor through the very foundations of the dungeon.

The wind shrieked as their essences were rewritten, bound forever to his.

When it was over, five new Bloodkin stood before him, their power radiating in palpable waves.

The process was draining. Pouring his own essence into five separate rituals was taking a toll.

He leaned against the throne, a wave of dizziness washing over him.

Instantly, Isabelle was at his side, a cool hand on his forehead.

"My Lord, you are pushing yourself too hard," she said, her voice a low murmur of concern.

From the other side, Chloe appeared, pressing a small, crystal vial to his lips.

"A restorative elixir, my Lord. Distilled from the tears of a moon-elf. It will replenish your energies."

Ragnar found himself trapped between them, a human-and-elf sandwich of possessive concern.

They were both trying to out-care each other, their silent glares meeting over his head.

Just as he was about to make a break for it, the worst possible thing happened.

A goblin...skittered into the throne room.

It was carrying a tray with what looked like a plate of roasted cave lizard and a single, wilted flower.

"Uh, new Boss lady said to bring the big Boss a snack?" the goblin squeaked, pointing a grubby finger at Isabelle.

It then stopped, its big, yellow eyes widening as it took in the scene.

Ragnar, looking weak and disheveled. Two powerful, beautiful women practically draped over him.

The goblin's tiny, perverted mind put two and two together and got a gloriously wrong twenty-two.

A slow, lecherous grin spread across its face. It let out a long, appreciative whistle and began to make a series of rapid, obscene pelvic thrusts. "Giggity," it grunted.

BOOM!

The wind shrieked as Ragnar, in a surge of pure, panicked adrenaline, punted the goblin.

The creature sailed across the throne room with a surprised yelp, crashed through a stained-glass window depicting a scene of demonic torment, and vanished into the darkness outside.

Ragnar straightened his coat, his face a mask of strained composure.

"That... was my evil fucking twin," he announced to the room. "Terrible manners. Always interrupting. Anyway, where were we?"

Isabelle and Chloe just stared at him, then at each other, a new, shared suspicion dawning in their eyes for the very first time.

His lies were beginning to fray at the edges.

His phone buzzed frantically, a stream of notifications confirming the creation of his new commanders.

He now had seven Bloodkin in total, including himself, Chloe, and Isabelle. A proper council of war.

But the cost… the cost was breathtaking.

His CP meter was a desolate, empty wasteland. His reserves of rare metals and monster cores, which he had planned to use for outfitting his new army, were almost completely drained by the demands of the rituals.

He was, for all intents and purposes, magically bankrupt.

He had traded all his liquid assets for a team of elite, loyal killers.

"Well," he said, looking at the formidable group assembled before him.

Isabelle now stood with them, a natural leader among a cadre of monsters and demons.

"The good news is, we now have a special forces unit that could probably conquer a small country.

The bad news is, I can barely afford to create a single slime to clean up the mess."

He turned to Isabelle. "They're your team now, Commander. Train them. Equip them with whatever scraps we have left.

Your first mission is to invade the territory of the 'Tyrant of the Shopping Mall.'

I want his resources, his territory, and his head. Preferably in that order."

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