The throne room was quiet.
It was the oppressive, soul-crushing quiet of a kingdom at peace.
And I, Ragnar Vhagar, the Tyrant of Aethelburg and a being of exquisite taste and A-Rank physical prowess, was starting to go existentially insane.
"This is a problem," I announced to the assembled commanders, my voice a low, dangerous purr that echoed off the crystal walls.
Pixia, my tiny, flying encyclopedia of all things statistical and annoying, zipped anxiously around my head.
"My Lord, a frontal assault on the human city of Suzu is statistically inadvisable!" she squeaked. "My projections indicate a 99.3% probability of catastrophic failure and a 100% probability of you getting very, very grumpy!"
"Your projections are obvious, Pixia," I retorted, slumping into my magnificent crystal throne. "We can't break his walls. We can't get past their one-man apocalypse of a grandfather. We are, to use a technical term from my old world, completely and utterly screwed."
