It was here. Showtime.
A map of the first floor appeared on his screen, showing twelve bright blue dots moving cautiously into the entrance corridor, right into the slime-filled "Welcome Mat."
Ragnar leaned forward, his eyes glued to the screen, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of his throne.
He watched as the twelve dots, moving in a tight, disciplined formation, encountered the first cluster of his jiggly blue slimes.
He expected shouts, spells, the clash of steel.
Instead, he heard a sound he didn’t expect. A series of rapid, sharp cracks, like a string of firecrackers.
"Guns?" he whispered, his eyes widening in disbelief. He focused the system’s audio feed. He could hear a man’s voice, calm and professional.
"No effect. Bullets are passing right through them. Switch to kinetic force. Use your rifle butts. Hida, you and me on the left. Everyone else, form a perimeter."
Ragnar watched the blue dots engage the green slime-dots on his map. He could see their health bars.
The slimes’ health barely budged from the gunfire, but when the soldiers started physically smashing them, the bars began to drop.
The soldiers were professionals. They wore black tactical gear, helmets, and carried assault rifles.
They weren’t students playing hero; they were the real deal.
The Aethelburg City Tactical Unit, or what was left of it.
"They brought guns to a magic fight," Ragnar said, a slow, incredulous grin spreading across his face.
"The Goddess, or whatever started this mess, said the old laws of physics were breaking down. These guys didn’t get the memo."
The twelve soldiers cleared the slimes with ruthless efficiency, their movements practiced and precise.
They suffered no casualties, but they were now covered in sticky blue goo. They advanced into the next corridor, where Ragnar had stationed his swarm of giant rats.
"Targets acquired," another soldier’s voice crackled. "Vermin, large size. Open fire."
This time, the bullets worked. The rats were flesh and blood, and the high-caliber rounds tore them apart in sprays of gore.
The soldiers pushed forward, their professionalism a stark contrast to the chaos and magic of this new world.
They were using old-world tactics to solve a new-world problem.
And for a moment, Ragnar felt a flicker of fear. What if it was enough?
They reached the entrance to the Goblin Playground. The lead soldier peeked around the corner.
"Multiple hostiles. Small humanoids, green skin. Armed with crude melee weapons.
Looks like a hundred of them. Standard fire-and-maneuver?"
"Affirmative," the commander replied. "Don’t bunch up. Watch your flanks."
The soldiers moved into the chamber. They saw the horde of chittering, snarling goblins.
And they did what soldiers are trained to do. They raised their rifles and pulled their triggers.
The sound of gunfire echoed through the stone halls. But something was wrong.
The first goblin, one Ragnar had mentally named ’Bitey’, didn’t just get hit. The bullet struck its chest, and a visible ripple of force, a small shockwave, exploded outwards.
The goblin was knocked back a step, a small hole in its chest, but it didn’t fall. It shrieked in anger and charged, its sharp rock held high.
The soldiers stared, their professional calm shattering.
"What the hell? It took a 5.56 round to the chest and it’s still coming!" one of them yelled.
"They’re tougher than they look! Keep firing!" the commander ordered.
The goblins swarmed. They were not disciplined. They were a wave of pure, chaotic violence. They closed the distance with unnatural speed.
A soldier tried to back away, but a goblin was already on him.
The goblin slammed its rock-fist into the soldier’s helmet. The air cracked with a sharp sonic boom.
A visible shockwave blasted from the point of impact.
The soldier’s head snapped back, and he fell like a stone, his health bar on Ragnar’s screen instantly turning red.
The soldiers’ formation broke. It was a chaotic melee.
The goblins were weak, but there were a hundred of them. They leaped and bit and clawed.
The soldiers fought back with knives and the butts of their rifles.
A soldier swung his rifle like a club, the wind shrieking as it connected with a goblin’s head. A shockwave rippled out, sending the goblin flying.
But as he recovered, two more goblins jumped on his back, their pointy teeth sinking into his neck.
The battle was a messy, brutal affair. It was the crushing reality of the new world versus the organized logic of the old.
And the new world was winning. After a bloody two minutes that felt like an eternity, the soldiers broke.
"Fall back! Fall back to the entrance!" the commander screamed, his voice filled with a panic that hadn’t been there before.
The nine surviving soldiers scrambled back the way they came, leaving the bodies of three of their comrades behind, already being swarmed by the victorious goblins.
They didn’t stop running until they were out of the dungeon.
Ragnar watched the nine blue dots vanish from his map. He leaned back in his throne, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He had won. His first battle. He had killed three people. The thought was a cold, hard stone in his gut, but the feeling of victory was a warm fire spreading through his veins.
He looked at the loot notifications that popped up.
Three assault rifles, some ammunition, and body armor. Useless against monsters, but valuable scrap metal for his B-Rank Alchemy.
He had won, not because he was stronger, but because he was better informed. The heroes were fighting blind. They didn’t understand the rules of the game.
"And that," Ragnar Vhagar whispered to his empty throne room, a chillingly calm smile on his face, "is an advantage I am going to press."
He had a plan. The professionals were too tough and didn’t provide enough experience.
He needed softer targets. He needed players, not soldiers.
He needed to change his marketing.
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