Knight_Plot

Birth rates are decreasing. Hope is vanishing. The world has gone gray.

Humanity, drifting in quiet collapse, receives an email.

Every person on Earth. Simultaneously.

The Aegis Mandate.

Disguised as a cosmic aptitude test, it triggers The Incident of Separation—a global psychic cataclysm that erases identities, wipes memories, and divides all survivors into three factions: Law, Neutral, and Chaos. Overnight, cities become battlegrounds. Apartments become dungeons. Ordinary people become monsters—or the ones who hunt them.

Ragnar Vhagar was just a loner university student. Now, thanks to a system he didn’t ask for, he’s a newly minted Demon King, locked in a crumbling apartment with goblins under his sofa and a glowing soul crystal next to his frozen peas. His new job? Build a deadly domain, defend it from invading “Heroes,” and somehow level up fast enough to not die.

Alongside him is Isabelle Thorne, a razor-sharp warrior of few words and one very sharp sword. Their reluctant alliance, born in blood and snark, evolves into trust—and maybe something dangerously close to affection—as they rise together through the layers of the game-like world they’re trapped in.

With each conquered domain and defeated boss, Ragnar realizes the truth: the dungeons aren’t meant to crown a winner. They’re meant to break the players. The Law faction wants control. The Chaos faction craves destruction. But Ragnar? He wants something they’re all too afraid to say out loud:

Freedom.

In the ruins of Kanta’s ogre stronghold, Ragnar and his misfit warband take their biggest step yet—claiming a kingdom, unifying a fractured system, and preparing for what comes next. The Heroes are watching. The gods are stirring. The world is watching a war.

And somewhere deep beneath it all... Ragnar is rewriting the rules.

I Can Easily Defeat SSS Ranks... This World Is Already Mine

Ragnar Vhagar, Demon King and newly crowned Lord of Crippling Debt, awoke to a symphony of Orc snores and the distant, tragic sound of a goblin being sick in a corner.

The grand victory party had, in retrospect, been a catastrophic miscalculation.

His magnificent Throne Room, a chamber of imposing obsidian and strategic importance, now looked like it had been the loser in a bar fight with a brewery.

Orcs, creatures of immense power and limited self-control, were draped over tables like colossal, green throw rugs.

Goblins were passed out in puddles of what Ragnar desperately hoped was just spilled sake.

The air, usually crisp with the scent of ozone and cold stone, was now thick with the smell of monster hangover, stale booze, and profound regret.

"Never again," Ragnar groaned, rubbing his temples where a phantom sledgehammer was relentlessly pounding.

The Hangover of a King