Chapter 10: Acquisition of Martial Assets
"If you want the ones who actually burnt your home, I suggest you stop wasting my time," I pulse, my body glowing with a faint, dark light. "Time is money. And right now, you're in the red."
The red-haired Ogre hesitates. His eyes flicker toward the blue-haired one, who is still struggling against the [Transaction Domain]. He looks at Rimuru—the blue slime who is currently trying to look non-threatening—and then back at me, the dark sphere currently taxing his brother's lung capacity.
"You speak of Majins... and debt," the leader grunts, lowering his nodachi by a fraction of an inch. "But we saw the mask. A mask like the one that blue one is wearing!"
He points at the Anti-Magic Mask Rimuru recently acquired.
Notice. Logic error detected in target's reasoning. Correlation does not equal causation. Suggestion: Provide a demonstration of the power gap to facilitate compliance.
Azathoth, I don't need a lecture on statistics. I need these guys to realize that fighting us is a high-risk, zero-reward venture.
"This mask is a suppression tool, you oversized heater," I pulse, my voice dripping with corporate disdain. "If we were the ones who razed your village, we wouldn't be standing here in a mud-pit discussing it. We'd have already harvested your horns for artisanal paperweights."
"Shinji! A bit much!" Rimuru transmits, before turning back to the Ogres. "Look, we really don't want to fight. My friend is just... very defensive about his schedule. We can talk this out over a meal."
The word "meal" causes a visible ripple in the Ogre ranks. The pink-haired female's stomach growls—a sound that, through magicule vibration, sounds like a structural failure in a mountain.
Analysis. Target hunger levels: Critical. Morale: Broken. They are refugees, not conquerors.
I deactivate [Transaction Domain].
The blue-haired Ogre gasps as the pressure vanishes, stumbling forward. I float back toward Ranga, maintaining my 'clean zone' with practiced ease.
"Fine," the red-haired leader says, sheathing his blade. His shoulders slump. "I am Benimaru. If you truly aren't our enemies... then we have no reason to refuse a parley. We have nowhere else to go."
"Benimaru, huh? Good name!" Rimuru bounces. "Rigurd! Get the food ready! We have guests!"
The Goblins move with a speed that only the fear of a dark slime landlord can produce. Within an hour, a fire is roaring—luckily far from my cart—and the smell of roasted meat fills the air.
I sit on my silk-lined saddle, watching the Ogres eat with a savagery that would get them banned from any respectable country club.
"They're high-tier martial assets, Boss," I transmit to Rimuru. "Currently undervalued due to their 'displaced' status. If we offer them a long-term contract—protection and resources in exchange for security services—our village's defensive rating triples overnight."
"You really think of everything as a business deal, don't you?" Rimuru replies, sounding impressed and slightly tired.
"In a world without a functional legal system, a contract is the only thing that separates us from the savages," I retort. "Now, ask the red one if he knows anything about a 'Demon Lord'. Azathoth mentioned the term earlier, and I'd like to know if we're looking at a hostile take-over on a global scale."
Notice. Magicule Reserves: 98.4%. Location: Goblin Village (Fireplace). Status: Negotiating employment for Ogre survivors.