I Can Easily Defeat SSS Ranks... This World Is Already Mine
Chapter 39: You are now Level 5!

Chapter 39: You are now Level 5!

Ragnar turned to Kael, the broken archer who still whimpered quietly in the corner, clutching at phantom injuries and regrets.

"And you," he said with a sigh. "Honestly, you’re more use as a cautionary tale than anything else."

Pixia perked up. "Re-education Chamber?"

Ragnar nodded. "Yes. The one next to the caroling goblins.

Let them serenade him with off-key versions of dungeon hymns and early kobold ska. That should reshape his neural pathways."

"Delightful," Pixia said, already calling for two goblins with burlap sacks and suspiciously sadistic grins.

They dragged him away by the ankles, humming slightly off-key goblin work songs.

That left Ragnar and Isabelle alone.

The throne room was quiet now. Bodies cooling. Blood drying. The air smelled of ozone and ambition. Power had shifted. The atmosphere felt not victorious, but expectant.

Isabelle stood tall despite her injuries. Her wounded leg was already mending, muscle stitching under skin with supernatural precision.

She tested it with a controlled motion, then turned to Ragnar, her eyes sharper than before.

"So, what now, my Lord?" she asked. The title no longer sounded foreign. It sounded dangerous.

"Now," Ragnar said, stepping down from his throne, "we build something worthy of you. Of all of us. The world above still thinks in terms of kings and kingdoms. Heroes and villains."

He gestured toward the corridors of the dungeon, his voice rising just enough to carry to the invisible sentries in the walls.

"This is no longer just a lair. It’s a nation. A crucible. A weapon. And you, Isabelle Vhagar, you are its sword."

He looked up at the ceiling, imagining the sky, the world, the bastions of human order still standing like monuments to a dead age.

"Soon," he said, "we won’t need to defend this dungeon. The world will kneel at its gates."

Isabelle watched him for a long moment.

Then she nodded.

And in that quiet gesture, Ragnar saw not surrender, not fear, not even obligation.

He saw loyalty born of choice.

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

Ragnar Vhagar, Demon King and freshly crowned universal debtor, felt his True Core buzzing like an overworked generator.

He was broke.

Zero CP in the tank.

No regeneration for the next 90 days.

Oh... and a permanent 10% cut to his recovery rate.

Cosmic debt collectors don’t mess around.

It was enough to make a lesser Demon King curl up and sob into his slime pillow. But Ragnar? He just felt a grim sort of satisfaction.

Isabelle Thorne, Sword Saint, was his now. His Bloodkin.

His choice. His consequence. His weapon.

"Right," he muttered, surveying the wreckage of the throne room and mentally reviewing his apocalyptic finances.

"First things first. Housekeeping."

Chloe, Grunt, and Smashy had already been dispatched to hunt down the last remaining swordsman who had fled after Isabelle’s surrender. Loose ends were dangerous.

But the other target, Masakado, was still here.

He hadn’t run.

Even as Ragnar’s domain shifted and darkened and the echoes of hero screams faded into silence, Masakado had refused to retreat.

He wandered the outermost halls like a ghost that didn’t know it was dead, pacing near the Rest Area like a caged lion.

Refusing to leave.

Refusing to accept defeat.

Refusing to believe Isabelle had betrayed him.

It wasn’t honor. Not really.

It was pride masquerading as faith. Delusion dipped in nobility.

And that delusion had kept him inside Ragnar’s Domain — which meant he was subject to its rules.

And those rules now favored the Demon King.

"Pixia," Ragnar said, his voice low and focused. "Where is Masakado now?"

The fairy zipped out from behind a stack of dungeon blueprints, brushing dust from her wings as she frowned.

"Still in the outer quadrant near the Temple Room. He hasn’t crossed the threshold. I think he’s waiting."

"For Isabelle?"

"For salvation," Pixia said, her tone tinged with quiet disdain. "It won’t come."

Ragnar turned to Isabelle, who stood nearby, silent but alert. Her aura, though subdued, still hummed with the aftershock of her binding.

"Why didn’t he leave?" he asked her directly.

She hesitated. "Because he couldn’t accept the loss. He thinks this is temporary — that I’m confused. That I’ll snap out of it and walk out of here with him."

"And you won’t?"

Her answer came without hesitation this time. "I’m exactly where I belong."

Ragnar studied her for a long moment. That wasn’t just resignation. It was conviction. A fierce, steady fire behind her eyes. It reminded him of the first time he’d seen her fight — a whirlwind of blade and willpower. That will was his now.

A slow, wicked grin crept across his face.

"Good. Because I’m about to finally get some ROI on this Demon King gig."

Pixia’s wings fluttered nervously. "You’re not seriously planning to face him yourself?"

"Why not?" Ragnar cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing faintly off the obsidian walls.

"I can’t create. I can’t build. I can’t alchemize a damn thing. But I can punch. And he’s still on my turf."

He didn’t wait for further protest. He moved like a shadow.

Pixia struggled to keep up. The deeper halls of the dungeon responded to his presence now, shifting subtly to allow his passage. Monsters parted like obedient subjects.

Even the walls themselves seemed to tense, as if the Domain understood that its master was preparing to make a point.

They reached the outer courtyard — the final room before the dungeon exit (a wide, open space lit by dull violet crystals embedded in black stone columns.)

It felt like an arena. Maybe it had been, once.

Masakado stood in the center, still and silent. His ornate armor was scuffed. His hair had come loose from its perfect bun. But he stood tall, his katana planted in the ground before him, both hands resting on its hilt.

His eyes opened as Ragnar entered.

"So," Masakado said, voice calm and sharp as steel, "the Demon King arrives at last."

"No need for melodrama," Ragnar replied. "I was hoping you’d be gone. But I suppose this is better. Saves me the postage."

Masakado tilted his head. "I’ll leave... with Isabelle at my side. She’s been confused. Not corrupted. I will wait until she remembers who she is."

"She remembers perfectly," Ragnar said.

Masakado flinched, but didn’t retreat. His grip on his blade tightened. "You lie."

"I’m a lot of things," Ragnar said, stepping forward, "but I don’t lie about ownership."

Something in Masakado snapped. With a primal cry, he ripped his sword free and surged forward.

BOOM!

The stone cracked beneath his feet. But Ragnar was already moving.

His vampiric speed blurred his form, dodging the initial thrust and countering with a Dark Arrow that exploded against Masakado’s pauldron.

CRACK!

The chamber trembled. Masakado staggered, his shoulder smoldering from impact.

"You’re fast," Masakado grunted, real surprise in his voice.

"And you’re loud," Ragnar quipped. "Let’s see which one keeps you alive longer."

Masakado’s swordplay was elegant, but it was meant for spectators, meant for an audience that would never come.

Ragnar didn’t fight like a duelist. He fought like a bastard.

Every shadow-infused strike hit joints, tendons, nerves.

Every Dark Arrow came from an unexpected angle.

Every dodge was just a setup for the next ambush.

The Domain pulsed around Ragnar like a living shield, amplifying every movement, sharpening every strike.

"You fight... like a coward!" Masakado hissed between labored breaths, swinging wildly.

"I fight like someone who’s tired of being broke," Ragnar growled, and drove an uppercut into his opponent’s gut.

BOOM!

Masakado lifted off the ground, crashing against the far wall with enough force to crack the stone. Blood trickled from his lip as he tried to rise.

Still, he forced himself to his feet.

"I won’t lose," he wheezed. "Not like this."

He spun into his signature technique, a spinning crescent slash, designed to cleave an enemy clean in two.

Ragnar had seen it a hundred times online.

He stepped inside the arc and caught Masakado mid-spin.

Then he drove his fist into the hero’s ribs.

BOOM!

The shockwave was deafening. Masakado’s armor crumpled inward, the sword flying from his grip.

He dropped.

And then, the sweetest sound in Ragnar’s head:

> [You have defeated Miyamoto Masakado, Hero Lv. 11!]

[You have gained 1500 Experience Points!]

[Your CP Debt (Bloodkin: Chloe) has been reduced by 1500/10000!]

[You have Leveled Up!]

[You are now Level 5!]

[Your CP Cap has increased to 350!]

[Your CP Recovery Rate has increased (Severe Debt Penalties Apply)!]

[You have gained 5 Bonus Points!]

Ragnar exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Direct combat," he muttered, nudging Masakado’s unconscious form with his boot. "Surprisingly efficient. And stress-relieving."

---

Later, in the Throne Room

The air in the chamber felt... lighter. Charged.

Chloe’s team had returned. The other swordsman was dead. No witnesses. No complications.

Isabelle waited near the foot of the throne. Still silent. Still watching.

"It’s done," Ragnar said. "Your friend chose pride over survival. I helped him finish choosing."

She didn’t flinch. She just dipped her head slightly in acknowledgment.

Without another word, Ragnar walked to the back vault, a hidden chamber built into the bones of the old library. He returned holding something long and wrapped in black velvet.

"A gift," he said, unwrapping the weapon.

The blade was slender, forged from a black star-shot alloy that shimmered with light-devouring runes. It vibrated faintly with restrained power.

"B-Rank. I call it Dáinsleif. Try not to lose it."

Isabelle took it in both hands. She turned it slowly, reverently, testing the balance. When she looked up, there was a faint smile on her face.

"Thank you... my Lord."

Ragnar nodded. Something deep in him, something grim and cold and hungry, unfurled a little more.

He had Isabelle.

He had momentum.

He had discovered a new path to power, paved not with gold or plans, but with blood.

And he had just enough Bonus Points to make his next move.

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