[Dimension 814: Aethelgard - The Volcanic Wastes]
With the Enterprise License active, the 9,999 Chosen Ones immediately regained access to their Pantheon Drive accounts. Armed once again with their legendary cheat-tier weapons, the massive army of heroes marched upon the Volcanic Wastes, ready to finally eradicate the Demon Lord of Aethelgard.
Victor Thorne stood on a jagged obsidian cliff overlooking the massive, bubbling caldera.
Next to him stood Malakor, the Demon Lord of Aethelgard. He was a towering, terrifying behemoth of magma and black iron, but currently, he looked exhausted.
"Ten thousand of them," Malakor groaned, rubbing his horned temples as he looked down at the approaching army of glowing heroes. "Every time I kill one, the Goddess just revives them. I am burning through my dark mana reserves. This war of attrition is destroying my bottom line."
Victor took a slow sip of his black coffee, unfazed by the apocalyptic heat of the volcano.
"Fighting a war to the death is highly inefficient, Malakor," Victor said smoothly. "If they kill you, the war ends. And if the war ends, Goddess Lumina will cancel her five hundred Million Gold monthly Enterprise subscription with my company. We cannot allow the conflict to resolve."
Malakor blinked his burning red eyes. "You want to help me? I thought you equipped them!"
"I am a service provider; I equip the paying client," Victor corrected him, pulling the Tycoon's Ledger from his midnight-blue suit. "But I also value sustainable revenue streams. I have developed a cost-saving custom combat script designed specifically for your operational parameters."
Victor tapped his fountain pen against the Ledger, projecting a complex, golden schematic into the ash-filled air.
"Instead of wasting your mana trying to wipe them out, you will implement this automated behavioral script," Victor explained, pointing at the data. "You will engage the heroes in a highly cinematic, visually impressive boss fight. However, the moment your health pool drops to exactly ten percent, the script triggers an automated tactical retreat. You will cast a smokescreen, drop a generic 'Ultra-Rare' loot crate to trigger their dopamine receptors, and vanish into the lower caverns."
Malakor stared at the golden script. "A... an automated retreat? But I am the Demon Lord! I must fight to the bitter end!"
"Pride is a depreciating asset," Victor's Tycoon Aura flared, pressing the sheer weight of absolute capitalist logic onto the beast. "By utilizing this cost-saving custom script, you preserve ninety percent of your dark mana. The heroes get their loot, fulfilling their power fantasies. The Goddess believes the war is ongoing, so she continues to pay my monthly licensing fee. And because you are an independent contractor, the Pantheon Group will pay you a ten percent royalty on the Goddess's subscription just to stay alive."
The Demon Lord looked down at the 9,999 approaching heroes. He looked at the golden contract offering him fifty Million Gold a month simply to put on a theatrical performance and run away.
"I just... drop a loot crate and leave?" Malakor asked, a massive, greedy smile cracking his iron jaw.
"Work smarter, not harder, Malakor," Victor handed him the gold-nibbed pen.
The Demon Lord signed the contract. Victor had just successfully weaponized the military-industrial complex, ensuring the war in Aethelgard would never, ever end.