Chapter 23: The Cost of Urbanization
The transition from a battlefield to a construction site is, in my professional opinion, a lateral move in terms of sensory offense. We exchanged the smell of Orc ichor for the smell of wet sawdust and industrial-grade Goblin sweat. Returning to the village—or the "City of Tempest" as Rimuru is already calling it with unearned grandiosity—felt like reviewing a successful but fundamentally exhausting quarterly report. Behind us marched the first division of High Orcs; thousands of grey-skinned laborers who were now healthy, clear-eyed, and looking for a paycheck we hadn't actually printed yet.
Notice. The arrival of 150,000 High Orc laborers has increased the settlement's regional influence by 400%. Current infrastructure is 900% insufficient for the new population. Housing demand is at a critical peak.
Azathoth, don't nag. I can see the housing crisis from here. My internal monologue is currently busy designing a central plaza that doesn't involve mud, straw, or Goblin spit.
"Rigurd!" Rimuru's voice was full of a terrifying level of optimism as we crossed the village perimeter. "I brought back some help! We're going to build a real city now! One with actual houses!"
Rigurd looked at the sea of High Orcs—the very same creatures that had been trying to eat his people three days ago—and his eyes rolled back into his head. He actually fainted. I suppose the "ROI" of seeing your mortal enemies turn into your new neighbors was a bit much for his heart. Either that, or he was calculating the food bill.
The weeks that followed were a blur of "Administrative Maintenance" and logistical gymnastics. I stayed on my silk-lined saddle, hovering over Myrd and the High Orc foremen like a dark, judgmental cloud. We mapped out the drainage, the stone-paved roads, and the residential zones.
"The Orcs handle the heavy lifting; the Goblins handle the fine-tuning," I pulsed, my voice cold and focused, projecting through a localized [Transaction Domain] to ensure the Orcs felt the weight of my expectations. "If I see a single crooked brick or a foundation that hasn't been leveled to within a millimeter, I'm deducting it from the magicule ration. Precision is the only way to build a brand that lasts."
Myrd nodded, his silent, stoic approval worth more than a thousand enthusiastic Goblin cheers. He understood the value of a job done right the first time.
"Shinji! Look at this!" Rimuru bounced over, holding a new piece of clothing Garm had fashioned. "It's a real town! We've even got a tavern now! And the Kijin are helping with the patrols!"
"It's a functional start, Rimuru. But we're still missing a high-end hospitality sector and a central bank," I replied, my obsidian membrane reflecting the newly paved stone streets. "A city without a financial district is just a very large camp. And our defensive rating is still overly dependent on a handful of Kijin. We need—"
Warning. High-density magicule signature detected. Altitude: 5,000 meters and dropping rapidly. The energy signature exceeds all recorded data points. It is not a Majin. It is not an Orc. It is a catastrophic anomaly.
Azathoth, wait. A Demon Lord? Now? My city isn't even finished! The grout in the executive wing hasn't even dried!
A pink streak of light tore through the sky, hitting the center of the newly paved plaza with the force of an un-hedged market crash. The shockwave sent several unlucky Goblins flying and spider-webbed the fresh stone I'd spent three days personally supervising.
I didn't move. I expanded my [Transaction Domain] to stabilize my own immediate vicinity, my dark surface turning an even deeper shade of black as I prepared for a "Hostile Meeting." My [Enhanced Physical Constitution] thrummed, my body feeling like a solid block of lead as I braced for the arrival of a top-tier shareholder.
"Who's the strongest one here?!" a high-pitched, energetic voice screamed as the dust cleared.
A small girl with pink pigtails and a ridiculous lack of protective armor stood in the crater. She looked like a child, but the magicules radiating from her were like a miniature sun. The pressure was physical, a weight that made the Goblins' knees buckle and the air itself hum with static.
"Rimuru," I transmit, my internal persona calculating the immediate survival probability—it was trending toward zero if we were relying on physical force. "We have a catastrophic market disruption. This isn't a Majin. This is a top-tier power. Do not try to 'predator' her. It would be like a goldfish trying to swallow a supernova."
"I can tell, Shinji!" Rimuru wobbled, looking genuinely terrified for the first time since Veldora. "She's... she's incredible! The pressure is insane!"
I float forward, my [Density Laws] making me feel like a solid anchor in the presence of her chaotic energy. I stopped exactly at the edge of the crater she'd made in my beautiful plaza.
"You're making a mess of my new infrastructure, child," I pulse, my voice a cold, level vibration that refused to acknowledge her aura. "State your business, Demon Lord. And be prepared to pay for the property damage in either coin or labor. I don't care how many horns you have; the bill remains the same."
Current Magicule Reserves: 83.5%. Location: Central Plaza. Status: Confronting Milim Nava. Internal Panic: Suppressed. ROI: Unknown.
Chapter End.