It’s them, or me!!

With a new, darker purpose fueling him, Ragnar turned his attention from his minions to the dungeon itself.

He was a game designer now, and his game needed to be perfectly balanced for maximum murder.

He opened the Demon King System and looked at his Domain Points, or DP.

Thanks to the creepy, hero-healing fountain in the Rest Area, he had a maximum of 150 DP.

"If one Rest Area gives me 50 points, then three should give me 150," he reasoned.

More DP meant more traps, more defenses, more ways to make the invaders suffer.

He navigated to the Facilities tab in the Creation menu and tapped the button to create another Rest Area.

A cold, robotic message popped up on the screen.

[ERROR: Facility Limit Reached. Maximum [Rest Area (F-Rank)] per floor: 1]

Ragnar stared at the message. "Of course," he grumbled. "There are rules. Of course, there are."

The system wasn't going to let him make his dungeon a five-star hotel for heroes in exchange for infinite trap money. It was a trade, and the terms were fixed.

He sighed and started analyzing his DP budget. He saw the costs for basic traps: 5 DP for a tripwire, 10 DP for a pitfall. He had enough for a decent number of them.

But then he saw the biggest expense, an option that was automatically active.

[Invader Slots: 12/12 (Cost: 60 DP)]

It took him a moment to understand. He wasn't just building a dungeon, he was paying to let people in.

Each potential invader, up to a maximum of twelve at a time, cost him 5 DP.

The system was forcing him to spend nearly half his defensive budget just on the privilege of being attacked. It was the universe's most aggressive cover charge.

He could lower the number of slots to save DP, but that would mean fewer heroes.

Fewer heroes meant less experience, fewer materials, and a slower path to survival.

It was a vicious cycle. The game was designed to force him into conflict.

And as he stared at that number, '12', a cold realization washed over him, far more chilling than any system rule.

Those weren't just 'slots'. They were people. Twelve people.

He pictured the lecture hall from his old life, filled with students. He was actively setting the table for twelve of them to come to his home and die. He was spending his magic money to buy tickets for their execution.

The weight of it hit him again, harder this time. The analytical, game-like mindset shattered, and the terrified university student hiding underneath was exposed.

His hands started to shake. His breath hitched.

"I... I can't," he whispered to the empty stone hall. "They're just... people. Like me."

He saw their faces in his mind. The girl who always sat in the front row. The guy who always fell asleep in the back. Were they Heroes now?

Were they out there, practicing with swords, planning to come here? Would he have to look them in the eye as his monsters tore them apart?

Fear and guilt twisted in his stomach like a nest of snakes. He was becoming a monster. A real one.

He backed away from the throne, stumbling, until his back hit the cold stone wall. He slid down to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest.

This was too much. He wasn't a king. He was a coward. A fraud. A murderer-in-waiting.

He stayed there for a long time, lost in a spiral of panic. The dim, purple light of the dungeon seemed to press in on him, suffocating him.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to go back to his boring, gray life.

But he couldn't. That life was gone, erased.

There was no going back. There was only this. This stone prison, this army of sniffing morons, and the promise of a violent death.

Slowly, very slowly, another feeling began to bubble up through the fear. It was anger. A hot, burning anger at the cosmic entity that had done this to him.

At the system that forced him into this role.

At the Heroes who would come here to kill him without a second thought, seeing him not as a person, but as a final boss.

It's them, or me.

The thought was simple. Brutal. And true.

If he showed mercy, they would show him none. If he hesitated, he would die. His old self, the quiet, invisible student, would not survive this. He had to kill that person himself, right here, right now.

Ragnar pushed himself up, his movements stiff. He walked over to the Slime Pool, a dark, damp cave where his newly created slimes were jiggling aimlessly.

He stared down at the murky water. A reflection stared back. It was his face, but twisted and grim in the dim light.

His eyes, once full of anxiety, now held a cold, hard glint.

He was looking at the face of a Demon King.

"You want to live?" he asked the reflection, his voice a low growl.

"Then you will do what you have to do. You will use them. You will trick them. You will kill them. You will strip their corpses for parts and melt down their heirlooms for scrap.

You will feel nothing. They are not people. They are resources. They are experience points.

They are the ladder you will climb to survive."

He plunged his hand into the cold water, shattering the reflection. When he pulled it out, dripping with black slime, the last of his hesitation was gone.

The fear was still there, but it was no longer in control. He had locked it in a cage deep inside him and thrown away the key.

He was no longer Ragnar, the scared student. He was Ragnar Vhagar, the Demon King of Aethelburg Sector 7. And he would survive.

With a newfound, chilling resolve, he turned and marched back to the Mess Hall. His monsters, who had been milling about, snapped to attention.

There was something different about him now, a presence, an aura of command that even their simple minds could recognize.

"The tests are over," he said, his voice like stones grinding together. It echoed with a power he didn't have before. "Now, we train for war."

He didn't have them fight one-on-one anymore. He spent the last of his CP to create a dozen more goblins and kobolds. He split them into squads.

He taught them formations. A line of club-wielding kobolds in the front, a line of rock-throwing goblins in the back. He had them practice coordinated attacks, moving as a single, deadly unit.

BOOM!

A squad of five kobolds swung their clubs in unison. The sonic booms from their attacks merged into a single, terrifying CRACK as they smashed a practice dummy made of rock and scrap wood into dust. The ground trembled under the focused assault.

Ragnar watched, his face a cold, emotionless mask.

He was no longer just a player. He was a general. And he was forging his army of morons into a weapon. The heroes were coming. He would be ready.

And he would show them no mercy.