It turned out that Veris had left the King under the watch of a few Assassins in Sanctuary. He was bound, gagged and locked inside a cupboard. Even though Goblins speak, they thought it best to chuck something in his mouth so he couldn't bite through the rope.

  I still wasn't pleased Veris hadn't informed me of that information until I caught her in Talia's, but it was my own fault to begin with for keeping him around. I didn't really need to kill him again, and now that the triplets were back, I felt no reason too.

  I was still going to kill him. If only for the fact that I told him it would happen. I'm not Abi the Untruthful, you know?

  The stale taste of regret lingers on my tongue, a bitter aftertaste to Veris' casual dismissal of the King's soul. A cupboard. Bound, gagged, left to the tender mercies of a handful of Assassins in Sanctuary. A place that should offer refuge, not a makeshift prison.

  The image of him crammed into that confined space, the coarse rope biting into his wrists, the rough cloth muffling his muffled protests, it stirs a cold joy within me. Goblins, those pragmatic creatures, deemed a gag necessary, a crude solution to a potential biting problem. They lack the finesse, the subtle cruelty I would have employed.

  I clench my fists, the leather of my gloves creaking softly. My displeasure with Veris probably shows. She should have told me. It was a lapse, not a dangerous one anymore, but I'm not inclined to forgive it easily. Next time she asks for something I'll have to put my foot down.

  Yet, I must admit, I bear a portion of the blame. Keeping him alive, a thread to a past I should have severed cleanly, was a mistake. Now, with the triplets returned, the necessity of his continued existence dwindles to near nothing. The urge to kill him again, however, to fulfill the promise I made, remains.

  I'm not Abi the Untruthful. My word, once given, is a bond. Even to a King who deserves nothing but oblivion.

  The sudden, sharp crack of wood and the jarring thud of a body hitting the floor yank me back to the present. I pivot, my gaze snapping towards the bar. Talia, her usually placid features twisted into a mask of exasperated fury, stands over Light, who now sprawls on the tavern floor. The counter, once his precarious perch, is now scarred with the faint imprint of his boots. He's landed with a surprising lack of grace, his long, pale limbs splayed awkwardly, yet, miraculously, the tankard of amber ale remains upright, not a single drop wasted.

  Noir, perched on a stool, erupts in a cacophony of laughter, his crimson eyes sparkling with unholy amusement. The sound, usually grating, is almost welcome in its raw, unrestrained joy. The rest of the tavern's patrons, a motley collection of patrons, barely register the commotion. A collective shrug, a murmured curse, and they return to their drinks and conversations. This is Varona, after all. Chaos is the norm, and a drunken Assassin tumbling off a counter is merely a footnote in the day's events.

  Light, ever the showman, slowly sits up, a wide, disarming grin spreading across his face. He raises his tankard in a mock salute to Talia, his eyes twinkling with mischief. She, in response, merely snorts and turns away, her shoulders still rigid with annoyance.

  Anya and I share a few drinks, and then, zap, I'm in the sanctuary. My eyes scan the room, finding the Assassins Veris assigned to "watch" my King-turned-Goblin. "Torturing" feels more accurate. They're definitely engaged, though, actively questioning him. He can't speak, not verbally anyway, but he can communicate through the dungeon system, using his will. He's a monster I made, after all, a puppet tethered to my control.

  Even if he could talk, Aldus wouldn't. He's a stubborn mule, his only responses are choked screams, pleas for the interrogation to stop. Apparently, these Assassins have been at it since Veris dropped him off. I appreciate the initiative, but they've hit a brick wall.

  Now, it's my turn.

  The moment Aldus sees me, his green face contorts with rage, somehow making him even more repulsive than usual. He's uglier than Obling, the Goblin Mage, and that's saying something. I fucking hate that Goblin.

  A wave of delight washes over me as he starts screaming, a torrent of incoherent rage. Through the will-link, I catch snippets: curses aimed at me, at the little Dragons, at the relentless Assassins, at everyone. He's a symphony of pure, unadulterated hate.

  I'm not playing games. My patience is wearing thin, thinner than Veris' favorite undergarments. With a sharp, decisive motion, I crush his skull beneath my foot. His body convulses, then stills. The moment his soul flickers free, I snatch it. I summon a new Goblin husk, a blank canvas. I shove his soul inside. The new eyes snap open, and the screaming begins anew.

  I know I shouldn't be happy about this, but that's just another human trait I'm holding onto. I decide what's right and wrong now. Not the outdated system and laws people follow, putting royalty and nobility above the majority. Screw those guys.

  Why!? Aldus isn't happy about dying and being reborn as a Goblin repeatedly. Not that he has any say in the matter whatsoever, and I listen to him scream inside my mind while smiling. The triplets behind me don't say a word. They just watch as I kill and reincarnate Aldus' soul over and over again. Even the Assassins don't speak, and I'm in their house. It's only when the walls are covered in Goblin Blood that I stop and wonder if I took it too far.

  The red haze of residual anger still clings to my vision, a stubborn afterimage of Aldus's endless, agonizing rebirths. I know, intellectually, that the cycle of torture I just inflicted was monstrous. A fundamental violation. Yet, a cold, detached satisfaction coils within me. He deserved it. That thin, brittle justification is all I offer myself, a flimsy shield against the nagging whisper of a conscience I’ve chosen to ignore.

  The Assassins’ house, usually a place of silent reflection, is now a tableau of crimson. The walls, once pristine, are slick with goblin blood, a macabre mural of my frustration. The triplets, my silent shadows, watch with unnerving stillness. Their eyes, dark and fathomless, reflect nothing, or perhaps, everything. Even the Assassins, masters of discretion, remain mute. The silence is thick, heavy, a suffocating blanket that I finally break.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  "Right," I say, my voice flat, devoid of inflection. "That's... Done."

  I retrieve Aldus, his soul trapped in the frail, pathetic form of a newborn goblin. He’s swaddled, a tiny, screaming bundle, and locked away in a reinforced closet. A twisted sense of order compels me to this act. Everything in its place.

  Leaving the bloody scene, I teleport us to the my tower, perched atop the Academy of Dark Arts. The true night descends, a velvet curtain drawn across the sky. Not the illusionary one that Light created, but the real deal. With it, the streets begins to empty and those not already home, slowly stagger their way there.

  Time is a subjective experience. Today, it feels like an eternity has passed. My city, my domain, stretches out below, a tapestry of flickering lights. My family. The DP Farm... Factory? I mean citizens. I care about my citizens. The regular people down there that earn me points... I mean, that live life well. The people that live well. Damn, DP is really stuck in my head

  The demon slaughter earlier yielded a weak 85,000 DP. A fraction of what I expected. Sis offered no explanation for the diminished returns. Nearly 4,000 demons, absorbed, and I barely scrape together 1% of their potential. If the usual 10% had applied, I’d be swimming in points. Instead, I’m left with a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction.

  My reserves are depleted. The Oblivion Dragons, Bear’s upgrade, the elven outpost, and the replenishment of the Assassins’ ranks, Randy—reviving as many as I could drained my once-abundant supply. I’m left with a mere 30,000 DP. A pittance compared to what I possessed this morning.

  It's a constant, gnawing worry. Being a dungeon and not having to worry about money is cool and all, but worrying over my points is basically the same thing. You can't escape wanting more no matter what species you are.

  The triplets settle into their futons, their movements fluid and silent. Violet carefully tucks Bear, now a formidable, plush guardian, beside her. I gather an armful of monstrously cute teddy bears and collapse onto my royal futon, staring up at the starless ceiling.

  More. The word echoes in the hollow chambers of my mind. It’s a primal urge, a fundamental drive that transcends species. More power, more points, more control. It's not greed, I tell myself. It's… A necessity. A process that needs undertaking. Just like Aldus.

  Hey, Me?

  Do you think I can start calling myself Queen Abi now? I mean, I did kill the king myself.

  Yeah, I know. I was just messing with you. Night, bud.

  Yes I do, so goodnight. Don't bother me while I'm sleeping unless it's an emergency.

  Cutting Me off before he can state the obvious, I snuggle myself into comfort and drift off like a log. It's been a while since I called him just to joke.

  There were no dreams that night and no nightmares either. Just the peaceful nothingness of rest and relaxation. I stretch, feeling the slight stiffness in my limbs, and watch as the first slivers of sunlight paint the horizon in hues of rose and gold. The streets, normally a bustling hive of activity, remain deserted, a silent testament to the early hour. The triplets were still sleeping, so I decided to spend my points before they woke up. That way we could spend the day together doing fun things rather than the same-old boring Land Acquisition.

  My mind drifts to the numbers: 133,000 DP. A small fortune, a testament to the night's successful ventures. Three cities, now firmly under my influence, feel less like strategic points and more like vital organs in a growing body. The looming threat of war, once a constant shadow, has receded, allowing me to finally focus on expansion. Ishda, the jewel in the crown of this region, beckons. From there, I envision a sprawling network of cities, each a source of power, a wellspring of DP. More people, more points, a simple equation that fuels my ambition.

  Yet, a nagging thought lingers. This entire region, every city, is a potential DP farm, a resource waiting to be tapped. Dungeons, in their essence, are catalysts for growth, facilitators of evolution. We provide the means for people to level, to become stronger, and in turn, their strength feeds us. A symbiotic relationship, a delicate balance, yet one that remains tragically misunderstood. Humans fear what they don't understand, and dungeons, shrouded in mystery and fear, become targets of their prejudice. A cycle of violence, a tragic dance of misunderstanding.

  And yet, I can't ignore the hypocrisy. Humans, too, inflict violence on their own kind, on a scale that dwarfs even the most devastating dungeon raids. It's a bitter truth, one I've witnessed firsthand, a truth that shapes my perspective.

  Before diving into the intricate web of land acquisition, I decide to pay a visit to the elven outpost, a gesture of goodwill, a final check before their departure. Edwan, their leader, the elf with the stoic salute, awaits. Eduine had confirmed his name, but the abundance of "Ed" names feels almost comical. I teleport into the clearing, the familiar scent of pine and damp earth filling my senses.

  Edwan approaches, his movements fluid and graceful. "We have ample rations for our journey, and we would not dare to burden one such as yourself," he says, his voice a melodic cadence. His words, though polite, leave me with a sense of ambiguity. Is it praise, or a veiled declaration of their self-sufficiency? I can't quite decipher the subtle nuances of his tone.

  Regardless, I decide to offer them an escort of Assassins, a silent promise of protection against the dangers of the road. Their safe return is paramount, not just for their well-being, but for the spread of my influence. I envision their tales, whispered in elven halls, painting me as a benevolent force, a dungeon capable of both power and compassion.

  My mind races to Ishda, the strategic heart of the region, Lord Aldor's city. It's the perfect stage for my grand debut, the epicenter of information flow. By establishing a presence there, I can disseminate my message, a message of regulated dungeons, of free leveling, of a path to ascension for all. The Capital City of Imperia, the ultimate prize, remains a distant dream, a goal for the future. But Ishda, within reach, represents a tangible step towards my ambition.

  Acquiring Ishda and the surrounding cities would be a game-changer, tripling my daily DP income, accelerating my progress. World domination, once a distant fantasy, begins to feel like a plausible reality. Orad and Tune, already under my sway, are just the beginning. They don't yet grasp the full extent of my influence, but they will, in time. Everyone will. The perception of dungeons as malevolent forces will shift, replaced by an understanding of their true potential.

  "Although, I think our King may wish to speak with you in the near future," Edwan adds, his tone casual, yet the implication is anything but. Another royal summons. The very thought sends a shiver of unease down my spine. I'm not built for courtly intrigue, for the delicate dance of diplomacy. Queen Abi, with her playful banter, is already pushing her social limits.

  The idea of another royal audience fills me with a sudden, irrational urge to rescind my offer of protection. Perhaps they can manage on their own. Or perhaps, I'm just avoiding another uncomfortable conversation.