Insane Level Up!
The "Farm" strategy worked better than Ragnar could have ever dreamed.
His dungeon settled into a comfortable, predictable rhythm.
Every six hours, like clockwork, a new party of twelve students would arrive. They would fight their way through the slimes, have a challenging but winnable battle with the goblins, and one lucky member would claim the lumpy, off-center D-Rank Black Iron Sword from the treasure chest.
They would leave with a few scrapes, a great story, and a sliver of hope.
Ragnar, in turn, received a steady, trickling flow of experience points and a handful of dead goblins to replace.
He maintained a carefully calculated 80% survival rate for the invaders. It was just enough danger to keep things exciting, but safe enough to keep them coming back.
He was a farmer, and his crop was a rotating cast of bright-eyed, sword-wielding university students.
It was safe. It was efficient. It was also mind-numbingly boring.
For weeks, nothing changed. Ragnar sat on his throne, watching the same battles play out over and over.
He spent his time optimizing goblin placements and trying to figure out if there was a way to make the slimes a more vibrant shade of blue.
He was surviving, but he wasn't thriving. His level was creeping up at a glacial pace.
The monotony was broken on a Tuesday.
A new notification chimed.
[Invaders have entered the Domain. Invader Count: 4.]
Four. Not twelve. That was unusual.
He pulled up the map. The four blue dots were moving with a speed and confidence that the student parties lacked.
They weren't kids playing hero. He focused the audio.
"…so this is the famous 'Farm'," a gruff male voice said. "Pathetic. A den of monsters being used as a training ground. We're putting an end to this. The Vindicators don't leave a job half-done."
Ragnar's blood ran cold. These weren't students. He zoomed in on the visual feed.
They were professionals. A man mountain in full, gleaming plate armor holding a massive tower shield. A woman in sleek leather armor, two sharp daggers gleaming at her hips. A grim-faced man in dark robes, a crystal-tipped staff crackling with energy in his hand.
And their leader, the man with the gruff voice, who carried a greatsword almost as big as he was.
They were a high-level party. They weren't here to farm. They were here to exterminate.
They sliced through the Welcome Mat of slimes without breaking stride.
They entered the Goblin Playground, and the real battle began.
"Mages and archers first!" the leader roared.
The mage raised his staff. "Chain Lightning!" he bellowed. A bolt of raw electricity leaped from the crystal, branching and forking as it tore through the goblin ranks.
Goblins shrieked and convulsed as they were cooked from the inside out. Twenty of them fell before they even took a step.
The rest of the horde charged, but The Vindicators were a well-oiled machine. The tank planted his shield, forming an immovable wall.
The leader's greatsword swung in wide, cleaving arcs, cutting down three goblins with every swing.
The rogue was a blur, her daggers flashing as she weaved through the chaos, dispatching goblins with precise, deadly strikes to their necks and eyes.
In less than a minute, the Goblin Playground was silent, littered with the bodies of his minions. The four heroes stood untouched.
"Hmph. Barely a warm-up," the leader grunted. "Let's find the heart of this filth and burn it to the ground."
They advanced into the deeper corridors. Ragnar's heart hammered in his chest.
His primary line of defense was gone.
All he had left were his kobolds.
He sent a frantic, desperate command to all fifty of them. "All units. Intercept at the grand crossroads. Full force. Overwhelm them."
The Vindicators reached the large, four-way intersection.
From all four corridors, the kobolds charged. They didn't shriek like the goblins. They moved with a low, rumbling growl, their heavy clubs held ready.
This was not a chaotic mob. This was an army.
BOOM!
The ground itself trembled as fifty kobolds charged at once.
The combined force of their movement created a pressure wave that blasted down the corridors, the wind shrieking around the corners.
"Hold the line!" the tank roared, slamming his shield into the stone floor.
Grunt, Ragnar's most reliable kobold, led the charge. He swung his club at the massive shield.
BOOM!
The impact was not a simple crash; it was a visible explosion of force. A huge, white shockwave blasted outwards, cracking the very stone of the floor.
The tank, a man who looked like he could stop a charging bull, was forced back three heavy, grinding steps, his entire arm going numb. His eyes widened in shock.
"They're strong! Unnaturally so!" he yelled.
The battle descended into brutal chaos.
The mage's spells incinerated kobolds, but for every one that fell, two more took its place, their clubs hammering against the tank's shield.
CRACK! CRACK! BOOM!
A constant barrage of sonic booms and shockwaves filled the air.
The rogue darted in, her daggers finding a kobold's throat, but as she pulled back, another kobold swung its club low, a blur of motion that shrieked through the air.
It connected with her leg. A sickening crunch echoed through the hall, and she screamed, falling to the ground with a shattered shin.
"Elara is down!" the mage shouted in panic, his spellcasting faltering.
That was the opening Grunt needed. He and two other kobolds surged past the tank, ignoring the greatsword that cut one of them in half, and swarmed the vulnerable mage.
Before he could cast another spell, three heavy clubs came down.
The resulting impact was a wet, final CRUNCH.
The leader stared in horror as his mage fell. They had underestimated this place.
They had underestimated its master.
"Fall back! Get Elara and fall back!" he screamed, his voice filled with a panic
Ragnar now recognized well.
He and the tank grabbed their injured rogue and retreated, fighting their way out of the swarm of furious kobolds.
They fled the dungeon, leaving the body of their mage behind.
Ragnar leaned back in his throne, shaking, drenched in a cold sweat. He had lost thirty kobolds and almost all his goblins.
But he had won.
A flurry of notifications flooded his phone's screen.
[You have defeated a C-Rank Hero!]
[You have gained 500 Experience Points!]
[You have defeated a C-Rank Hero!]
[You have gained 450 Experience Points!]
...
[You have Leveled Up!]
[You are now Level 2!]
[Your Creation Point (CP) Cap has increased to 200!]
[Your Creation Point (CP) Recovery Rate has increased!]
[You have gained 5 Bonus Points (BP)!]
A wave of power, warm and invigorating, washed through him. It felt incredible. But that wasn't all.
As he watched his surviving kobolds tend to their wounds, another message appeared.
[Certain subordinates have gained significant combat experience and have met the conditions for evolution.]
He watched, stunned, as three of his goblins who had survived the initial lightning storm began to glow with a faint, green light.
Their bodies stretched, their postures straightened. The sharp rocks in their hands morphed and reshaped into crude but functional shortbows.
Their beady eyes now held a sharp, predatory focus.
[Your Goblins have evolved into Goblin Archers!]
Ragnar stared. Evolution. His minions could get stronger. They weren't just disposable pawns. They were assets that could be cultivated.
An idea sparked in his mind, chasing away the last of the post-battle fear.
He looked at the survivors.
Grunt the kobold, battered but standing tall.
The three new goblin archers. A dozen other kobolds who had fought with disciplined fury.
These were not mere fodder. They were veterans. They were his elite.
"You," Ragnar said, his voice quiet but clear, echoing in the minds of the chosen few. "You are different. You are my Obsidian Guard."
He looked at his new Level 2 status, at his precious evolved archers, and at the foundation of his new elite unit.
The farm was necessary for survival, for the slow, steady grind. But this, he realized, was how he would truly grow powerful. Not just by farming the weak, but by surviving the strong.
Growth came from evolution, and he was just getting started.