Current State:
* Location: Marshlands Perimeter, Forest of Jura.
* Inventory: Common Leather Canteen (Grade D), Vintage Elven Wine (Half-consumed), Wooden Cart (Stored), Silk-lined Saddle (Equipped).
* Active Sub-Skills: [Law Manipulation – Copy], [Spatial Motion], [Density Laws], [Corrosive Resistance], [Enhanced Physical Constitution: Orc Variant].
* Soul Capacity: Notice: Analysis of current stabilized information... Capacity at 18%. Replicating low-tier racial traits is efficient, but User should avoid redundant data accumulation.
* Magicule Reserve: 96.8%.
* Status: Orc Vanguard liquidated. Moving toward the Lizardman coalition.
The Orc Commander's rusted cleaver didn't even make a sound when I stored it. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the squelching of mud as the Kijin finished their "audit" of the surrounding vanguard units. I could feel my membrane pulsing with a new, reinforced rigidity—the Orcish constitution I'd just siphoned was settling into my structure, making me feel less like a water balloon and more like a high-density rubber block.
"It's just vertical integration, Rimuru," I pulse, my voice resonating with a deeper, more grounded authority. "I saw a feature I liked, so I acquired the rights to it. Now, let's find the main army. I want to see if this 'Orc Lord' has anything worth a true investment."
"Right," Rimuru says, though he's looking at me with that specific "you're-getting-scary" vibe he gets whenever I do something efficient. "Ranga! Let's head for the Lizardman camp. If Gabil hasn't completely messed things up, we might still have an alliance to work with."
We move deeper into the wetlands. The terrain is an absolute logistical nightmare. The water is brackish, the air is thick with mosquitoes that I'm forced to ignore, and every ten feet, the ground tries to swallow the wolves' paws. I stay perched on my silk-lined saddle, using a tiny trickle of magicules to keep a localized drying field active. I refuse to reach the battlefield looking like a drowned rat.
Notice. High-intensity magicule fluctuations detected 1.5 kilometers ahead. Sounds of rhythmic chanting and... poorly coordinated cheering.
Azathoth, tell me that isn't our 'Allied Force' throwing a pep rally in the middle of a swamp.
Analysis. Probability is high. Logic suggests the Lizardman commander 'Gabil' is attempting to bolster morale through performative leadership.
"Oh boy," Rimuru mutters as we crest a hill overlooking a large marshy clearing. "That... is a lot of Lizardmen."
Down below, thousands of Lizardmen are gathered around a makeshift stage. In the center stands a Lizardman wearing a cape that is clearly two sizes too large and holding a spear that he's spinning with more enthusiasm than skill.
"GABIL! GABIL! GABIL!" the crowd roars.
I feel a mental migraine forming. If my internal Deadpool were a physical entity, he'd be face-palming so hard he'd break a bone. This isn't a military camp; it's a fan club for a mid-tier middle manager who just discovered he can make a loud noise.
"Benimaru," I broadcast, my voice flat. "Tell me your people weren't wiped out by an army that finds this intimidating."
Benimaru's expression is stony. "The Orcs are a swarm. Their strength is in their hunger, not their leadership. But this... Gabil... is an insult to the word 'warrior'."
We descend into the camp. The Lizardmen immediately part, their cheers dying down as they see a pack of Direwolves led by a blue slime and a dark, obsidian-sheened orb. Gabil stops his spear-spinning and strikes a pose that he probably thinks looks heroic, but actually just makes his tail look like a trip hazard.
"Halt! Who goes there?" Gabil bellows, his voice echoing with unearned confidence. "I am Gabil! Future King of the Lizardmen and the Hero who will save the forest! Have you come to join my glorious cause?"
I float off Ranga's back, hovering exactly at Gabil's eye level.
[Transaction Domain]
The shimmering aura of the negotiation room snaps into place, silencing the surrounding Lizardmen as the pressure of a "High-Stakes Closing Meeting" descends upon them. Gabil's knees buckle slightly, his bravado flickering like a cheap bulb.
"Gabil," I pulse, my voice cold enough to drop the humidity by ten percent. "You are currently overdrawn on your ego, and the interest is due. My name is Shinji Satou. I don't join 'causes.' I manage assets. And right now, you look like a liability."
"How... how dare you!" Gabil stammers, trying to regain his posture. "I have the blood of heroes! I have a name given to me by a great Majin!"
"A Majin who clearly didn't value his time," I retort. "Rimuru, show him the map. Azathoth, give me a scan on the Orc main body. I want to know exactly how many minutes we have before Gabil's 'fan club' gets turned into bacon bits."
Report. Orc Main Body: 198,000 units. Distance: 4 kilometers. They have initiated a flanking maneuver through the deep marshes. The Lizardman defense line is currently pointing the wrong direction.
"Listen, Lizard," I pulse, projecting the data into Gabil's mind through the domain. "While you've been practicing your stage presence, the Orcs have already outmaneuvered your entire tribe. If you don't hand over command to someone with a functional brain—namely, us—you'll be the first course in a very long buffet."
Gabil looks at the mental map, his eyes widening. He looks at his men, then at Rimuru, then at me. For a second, I see a glimmer of actual intelligence in his eyes, but it's quickly buried under a fresh layer of delusion.
"Lies! My scouts reported no such thing! You're just trying to steal my glory!"
"Glory has zero market value in a graveyard," I say, my membrane shimmering with a dark, dangerous light. "Rimuru, the diplomacy phase is over. He's a bad investment. We move to a hostile takeover of the defense plan. Benimaru, prepare the Kijin. We're going to show these lizards what happens when you ignore a market warning."
Current Magicule Reserves: 96.5%. Location: Lizardman Camp. Status: Negotiation failed. Preparing for forced intervention.
Chapter End.