Lord Of Chaos!

"Let's see what an 'E' in Body gets you in this new, exciting, and probably very short life," Ragnar whispered.

He looked at the wall separating his living room from his kitchen.

It was plain, white drywall, the kind that landlords loved and tenants despaired of ever keeping clean.

He took a deep, deliberate breath, planting his feet firmly on the magically glistering carpet.

The air around him seemed to thicken.

He drew his arm back, his hand clenching into a tight, white-knuckled fist.

He wasn't just throwing a punch, he was pouring every ounce of this new, strange, chaotic energy into it, focusing it like a laser.

BOOM!

The entire apartment building felt like it had been hit by a small, localized earthquake.

Dust sifted from the ceiling. A sonic boom cracked the air.

The wind itself shrieked around his fist as it flew forward, transforming into an almost invisible blur of motion.

BOOM!

His fist connected with the innocent drywall.

The impact was a visible explosion of force.

A shockwave, white and perfectly circular, blasted outwards from the point of contact like a ripple in a pond.

Plaster and drywall broke and vaporized instantly, turning to a fine, choking dust.

The shockwave slammed back into him, a brutal recoil that forced him to take three heavy, staggering steps back, his entire arm numb and ringing from the resultant force.

The remaining parts of the wall groaned and cracked under the strain.

He stared, wide-eyed, at the hole. It was a perfectly round, leading straight into his kitchen.

He could see his refrigerator.

The sheer violence of the impact had sent a tremor through the very bones of the building.

His ears were ringing like he'd just stood next to a jet engine.

"Okay," Ragnar said, his voice a little shaky as he stared at his fist. It was completely unharmed, not a scratch or a bruise.

"E-rank is… surprisingly effective. And loud. Very, very loud."

The effect was immediate. The goblins stopped their chip-related squabbling, and the kobolds paused their butt-sniffing symposium.

All twenty-two pairs of beady, variously colored eyes fixed on him with a dumb, instinctual loyalty that was actually a little unsettling.

Gary let out a small, confused whimper.

He needed to know what he was capable of. His own body felt… different. there was a thrumming, volatile energy coiled beneath his skin.

He felt… powerful. Potentially explosive, even.

His goblin and kobold minions stared at the hole, then back at him, their expressions a comical mixture of terror and newfound, profound awe.

Gary the kobold let out a little whimper and, true to form, promptly peed on the floor.

"Right. No more punching my own house,"

Ragnar decided firmly. This was his fortress, after all. His castle. His Rank F, slightly smelly, demonically-infused apartment.

He couldn't just go around knocking it down, no matter how cathartic it felt. The repair bills in DP would probably be astronomical.

--------------------------------------

Ragnar Vhagar, newly minted Demon King, Lord of Chaos, and potential future ruler of the world sat on his mighty throne and surveyed his domain.

The throne was a slightly-too-expensive gaming chair he'd bought last year during a summer sale. It was black, faux leather, and it was starting to peel.

His domain was his one-bedroom apartment.

It was still mostly recognizable, unwashed dishes in the sink, a tower of empty pizza boxes in the corner, but now it possessed a strange, ethereal shimmer.

The very air hummed with a low, crackling power, a tangible energy that made the hairs on his arms stand on end and his fillings ache faintly.

It was less home sweet home and more home sweet ominous hum.

Before him, his army stood ready. Or, well, they were sort of… milling about.

And goblins, small, green-skinned creatures with pointed ears, were currently engaged in a heated argument over a half-eaten bag of cheese puffs they'd unearthed from under his sofa.

Their snarling and grunting sounded less like the fearsome war cries of a demonic legion and more like two particularly grumpy toddlers fighting over the last cookie.

One of them, Ragnar noted with a sigh, was trying to eat the plastic bag.

Across from them, a pack of ten kobolds with an unhealthy obsession with sniffing things,were busy conducting a thorough investigation of each other's rear ends.

One of them, who Ragnar had nicknamed Gary because he looked just like a confused intern from his old job, was weirdly obsessed with a soda stain on the carpet from last week.

Gary was giving it the kind of intense focus usually reserved for deciphering ancient scrolls.

"My legions of darkness," Ragnar muttered to himself, resting his chin on his fist.

"They're going to conquer the world with the combined might of poor personal hygiene and an almost supernatural ability to find discarded snacks.

Truly, the heroes will tremble."

He sighed again, and pulled out his phone.

The familiar apps were all there: social media he no longer cared about, a food delivery that is no longer useful, and several unplayed gacha games.

But a new icon had appeared, stark black with a glowing, angry red sigil.

It was simply labeled: [Demon King System].

He tapped it. A status screen, much like one from the video games he used to play, popped up.

[Ragnar Vhagar]

Title: Demon King of Aethelburg Sector 7

Level: 1

Domain: Small Urban Apartment (Rank F)

Domain Points (DP): 100/100

Creation Points (CP): 50/50

Bonus Points (BP): 20

Stats:

Body: E

Mana: E

Alchemy: E

Creation: E

Knowledge: E

It was a pathetic stat line. All E-ranks.– the kind you'd expect from a tutorial slime, the kind you one-shot for 1 experience point and a rusty copper coin.

Except, in this scenario, he was supposed to be the final boss.

This was a serious problem, because the same cosmic entity that had headhunted him for the Demon King position.

Had also casually informed him that "Heroes" ( heavily armed individuals from the Law faction) would soon be coming to invade his domain and enthusiastically kill him.

Apparently, being a Demon King came with a lot of responsibility and an immediate, life-threatening work hazard. No dental plan, either.

"Right then," he said, pushing himself up from his peeling throne. His voice echoed strangely in the apartment, deeper, more resonant, more… commanding than he was used to.

He looked back at his phone. The Demon King System app had a 'Creation' tab.

He could spend his Creation Points (CP) to make more monsters.

He could also, apparently, create traps and even items.

The goal, he figured, was to make his dungeon – which was, again, his apartment, so incredibly dangerous that any invading heroes would die horribly before they even reached his peeling gaming chair.

His actual, real-life survival depended on turning his home into a deathtrap worthy of a final boss.

And speaking of final bosses, where was his weak spot? The 'True Core' of the dungeon?

The app, ever so helpful, offered a hint:

[The True Core is the heart of your Domain. It is located in the coldest part of your residence.]

Ragnar walked through the newly created, perfectly circular hole in his wall and into his kitchen.

He ignored the dust and debris. He had bigger, more existential fish to fry.

Or freeze,in this case.

He opened the freezer. And there, sitting right next to a forgotten bag of frozen peas and a questionable frozen block,a glowing, black crystal.

It pulsed with a dark light that seemed to absorb the freezer's anemic bulb.

He stared at it for a long moment.

"So my soul," he said to the frozen peas, "the heart of my demonic power, the nexus of my very being as a Lord of Chaos… is sharing a shelf with a half-eaten Hot Pocket. Fantastic."

This was his new reality. He was a Demon King. His home was a dungeon. He had a small, mostly incompetent army of sniffing, chip-stealing morons at his command, and his only goal was to survive.

The heroes were coming. The world outside, or what was left of it for him, had become a battlefield.

He hadn't asked for this. He hadn't filled out an application or attended a demonic orientation seminar. But here he was.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.

His old life was boring. He had no real friends, no discernible future, and a shitty part-time job.

This? This was chaos. This was creation.

This was a chance to be something more than just another forgotten face in the crowd.

"Alright, you useless bags of fur and slime!" he yelled.

"Get your act together! We've got company coming.

First, we secure Aethelburg Sector 7. Then, the world!"

Gary the kobold barked excitedly, did a little spin, and promptly tripped over his own feet, falling face-first into the puddle he'd made earlier.

Ragnar sighed, a long, suffering sound.

World domination was going to be a long, long, and probably very messy process.