Isabelle and her Wrecking Crew became phantoms haunting the edges of the shopping mall domain.

They would appear, strike hard and fast, and vanish before the Tyrant's brutish Ogre hordes could even muster a proper response.

One day, they collapsed the entrance to a major supply tunnel.

The next, they ambushed a patrol, leaving a dozen Orc corpses artfully arranged in a rude gesture.

Ragnar's Giant Bat scouts would report back.

The war of attrition was working, but it was agonizingly slow, a death by a thousand paper cuts.

Ragnar, sitting on his own, still-uncomfortable obsidian throne, found himself looking at the bigger picture.

The Aethelburg region was a chaotic chessboard, and he'd been so focused on the single piece trying to smash him that he hadn't looked at the rest of the board.

The victory was inevitable, but the process was a tedious, soul-crushing grind.

He was a king, a conqueror, and he was profoundly, existentially bored.

"This is short-sighted," he declared to the Throne Room, which was currently occupied by Pixia, who was meticulously cataloging different types of dust motes, and a newly created Stoney 2.0.

"We're bleeding Gorgon, yes.

But what about the other players?

What's stopping some other Demon King from getting strong and deciding my two-for-one dungeon deal looks like a tasty meal?"

He gestured to the magical map table, its crystalline surface glowing with a detailed representation of their conquered territories.

"We're fighting blind. We know about Gorgon, and that's it. We need information.

We need to know who our neighbors are, how strong they are, and, most importantly, if they have anything worth stealing."

He had the perfect tool for the job. Isabelle and her team were his hammer, the force he used to smash problems.

But he had another, more delicate instrument. A scalpel.

Chloe.

She moved with a silence that still unnerved him, her form a symphony of deadly grace in dark, form-fitting leather that hugged curves capable of inspiring both poetry and high treason.

Shimmering silver hair cascaded down her back, and an ass that could indeed start a war was framed perfectly by the lethal elegance of her attire.

The faint, metallic scent of a recent kill clung to her like expensive perfume.

"My Lord," she said, her voice a low, melodic hum that sent a shiver down his spine.

She knelt beside the throne, her amethyst eyes fixed on him with a loyalty so intense it was almost a physical force.

"Isabelle's not here. Let's play."

A slow, predatory smile touched Ragnar's lips.

The offer was tempting, a pleasant and undoubtedly violent diversion that would surely involve breaking several pieces of furniture and testing the structural integrity of at least one wall.

But the strategic ennui that gnawed at him was deeper, a king's boredom that no amount of carnal chaos could soothe.

He needed a new game, a bigger board.

"Chloe," Ragnar began, his tone shifting from that of a lover to that of a spymaster briefing his top agent.

He stood, his long coat swishing with a practiced, dramatic flair.

"I have a new mission for you. A new game for us to play. A long-range expedition."

He led her to the vast, glowing map table, the centerpiece of his war room.

He pointed to the vast, gray, unexplored areas on the map surrounding their sectors, a fog of war just begging to be lifted.

"Isabelle's team will keep Gorgon's old territory locked down and handle any hero incursions.

They are the anvil, holding our southern border.

Your job is to be the hammer.

To be my eyes and ears.

I want you to take your Goblin Snipers and map these surrounding territories.

I want to know every Demon King's location, their primary race type, their Domain's structure, and your best estimate of their strength.

I want a complete intelligence report on the entire Aethelburg region."

Chloe's eyes gleamed with a cold, predatory understanding.

This was not a simple scouting mission.

This was the prelude to conquest, a mission perfectly suited to her talents: speed, stealth, and lethal precision. "It will be done, my Lord."

"Your primary objective is reconnaissance," Ragnar continued, holding up a single, pale finger.

"Avoid direct conflict. We can't afford a war on two fronts, not yet. However..."

A wicked smile touched his lips, and his gaze met Chloe's, a silent, secret message passing between them, a shared understanding of the beautiful violence to come.

"I am authorizing tactical flexibility."

Chloe tilted her head, the barest hint of a smirk on her lips. "Define… 'flexibility,' my Lord."

"If you encounter a particularly weak, isolated, or frankly stupid-looking target," Ragnar elaborated, his voice a low purr of command, "and you are confident you can eliminate them without significant risk or witnesses, you have my permission to... 'clean up' the map a little.

Consider it target practice. Prune the weak before they have a chance to grow.

But," he leaned in closer, his voice dropping, the command for the room becoming a demand just for her, "your survival is paramount.

Do not engage a superior force. Am I clear?"

The command was for the room, but the final sentence was just for her.

His voice was a cold order, but his eyes held the heat of a lover's demand.

It was a dangerous mix, and Chloe drank it in like the finest, blood-red wine.

"Perfectly, my Lord," she said, her voice a dangerous promise.

The order was not just to scout, but to assassinate. It was a hunt, a mission she would relish.

"Good," Ragnar said, stepping back. "Pixia will provide you with the necessary cartography supplies.

I want you to be a ghost. A whisper.

By the time the other Demon Kings in this city even realize I exist as a regional power, I want to have a complete dossier on every single one of them.

I want to know their strengths, their weaknesses, and what they have that I might want."

He watched as Chloe gathered her team.

The three Goblin Snipers were no longer the simple, rock-throwing menaces he'd started with.

They had survived Chloe's brutal training and their first long-range expedition.

They had evolved. They were taller, leaner, their postures straight, their eyes holding a cold, predatory focus that was utterly alien to the rest of their chaotic race.

Their leader, a goblin named Zix who had a particularly nasty scar across one eye, moved with a silent discipline that was deeply unnerving.

He and his two comrades no longer chittered or fought over scraps.

They checked their gear, they watched the shadows, they moved as one.

They were a proper special operations unit, forged in the crucible of their commander's impossibly high standards.

With a final, silent nod to Ragnar, a look that conveyed both absolute military obedience and a lover's promise of a triumphant, private return, Chloe and her snipers melted into the shimmering, purple-black energy of a transfer array.

They were gone, his scalpel sent to carve out the secrets of his future conquests.

Ragnar turned back to his map, a feeling of deep, profound satisfaction settling in his cold, vampiric chest.

He wasn't just a dungeon defender anymore. He wasn't even just a general.

He was a spymaster. A king. And he was moving his pieces across a board far larger than any of his rivals could yet imagine.

The information Chloe brought back would be the foundation upon which he would build his empire, the targeting data for his inevitable, bloody expansion.

Gary the kobold, who had been quietly sleeping at the foot of the throne, woke up with a start. He looked around, saw the glowing map table, and, seeing his master so intently focused on it, trotted over with a happy bark, his tail wagging furiously.

He then lifted his leg, wound up, and sneezed. It was a surprisingly violent affair for such a small creature.

BOOM!

The ground gave a faint, almost imperceptible tremble.

The wind shrieked for a fraction of a second as a fine, surprisingly viscous spray of kobold nasal fluid shot out, propelled with the force of a tiny cannon.

CRACK!

A single, tiny shockwave, no bigger than a dinner plate, rippled out from Gary's snout.

The impact of the snot against the crystal surface was a miniature detonation, causing the holographic map to flicker violently for a moment.

He had sneezed directly onto the representation of Gorgon's old mall, leaving a small, glistening, and frankly disgusting mark on the otherwise pristine surface.

A faint force seemed to run through the very bones of the table, making it hum ominously for a second before settling.

"Thanks, Gary," Ragnar sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"That's helpful. A brilliant tactical insight.

We shall drown them in your snot.

Truly, you are the secret weapon of this kingdom."

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