The winged nymph girl's warning lingered in my mind long after her message faded. She was blunt: some races would be far harder to capture than others, and the scale of our next transactions was about to explode. She estimated the next delivery could be double, or even triple, the volume of the previous one.
I didn't hesitate to agree. Why would I? More races meant more souls for my collection, more bones for my treasury, more loot for my inventory, and—most importantly—more disposable forces to hurl into the furnace of the next war.
However, a pragmatic concern began to gnaw at me. Which races deserved to live, and which were destined for the slaughter? My methods of execution were becoming a logistical nightmare.
The last battle had been a massive undertaking, dragging on for nearly ten hours of exhausting, focused combat. If she suddenly dumped three times that number onto my lap, how many days would I waste just playing the role of the executioner?
