Chapter 9: The Ogre Counter-Offer
"Rimuru," I transmit, my internal persona shifting from 'Annoyed Manager' to 'Tactical Analyst'. "We have incoming. Something with a bit more 'market value' than those wild wolves."
Rimuru perks up, his slime body tensing. "I feel it too. Everyone, stay behind me!"
The Goblins scramble. Rigurd begins barking orders, trying to form a defensive line that looks about as sturdy as a house of cards in a hurricane. I remain hovering precisely three inches above the ground, my dark surface reflecting the flickering torchlight of the village.
Notice. Six magicule signatures have entered the immediate perimeter. Speed: High. Composition: Ogre-class subordinates led by a high-ranking commander.
Azathoth, give me a breakdown on the leader. I want to know if he's a potential asset or just another expense.
Analysis. Target: Red-haired Ogre. Strength: Substantial. Currently radiating 90% hostile intent. Suggestion: Prepare for forced negotiation.
The treeline explodes. Six figures blur into the clearing, landing with enough force to kick up the very mud I've been trying to avoid. They are Ogres—tall, horned, and wearing the kind of tattered, scorched armor that suggests their last 'business venture' went up in literal flames.
"You!" the red-haired leader roars, pointing a massive nodachi at Rimuru. "You're the ones! The masked ones who brought ruin to our village!"
Wait. Ruin? Masked ones?
Azathoth, did we miss a memo? I don't recall wearing a mask or committing arson today. My schedule was booked with 'Exile' and 'Infrastructure Planning'.
Correction. The entities are operating under a case of mistaken identity. Probability of a diplomatic resolution via Rimuru: 12%. Probability of a 'Late Fee' being applied: 88%.
"Hold on! We don't know what you're talking about!" Rimuru shouts, waving his nubs. "We just got here from Dwargon!"
"Lies!" a pink-haired Ogre yells, her hand glowing with a magical charge.
The Goblins are trembling. Even Rigurd looks like he's reconsidering his life choices. Kaijin and the brothers have backed up toward the smithy—smart men. They know when a project is over-budget.
One of the Ogres, a blue-haired one with a cold gaze, blurs toward the flank. He's moving for the Goblins.
[Transaction Domain]
I don't shift my position. I don't even ripple. I simply expand the barrier. The air within the domain thickens into a gelatinous weight. The blue-haired Ogre stumbles mid-dash, his momentum dying as if he's just hit a wall of invisible interest rates.
"Fees," I pulse, my voice a resonant, icy chill that silences the clearing.
"Wh–What is this pressure?" the red-haired leader grunts, his sword dipping an inch.
"You are currently initiating a hostile takeover in a sovereign economic zone," I broadcast, my internal Deadpool doing a slow clap. "Every second your sword remains pointed at my associate, you incur a stamina tax. Current rate: 5% per breath."
"Shinji, wait! Let me talk to them!" Rimuru pleads.
"Rimuru, they are currently attempting to 'liquidate' our manpower," I reply. "Negotiation only works when the other party realizes they are bankrupt. Azathoth, scan for the source of their confusion. Why do they think we're wearing masks?"
Notice. [Analytical Appraisal] identifies a residual magicule scent on the Ogres. Origin: High-level Majin. Current Status: Misdirected vengeance.
"Listen, Red," I pulse, my body glowing with a faint, dark light. "Your village was destroyed by Majin. We are slimes. If you can't tell the difference between a high-level magic entity and a blob of sentient jelly, your appraisal skills are as shoddy as your armor."
The red Ogre hesitates. His eyes flicker toward the blue-haired one, who is still struggling against the [Transaction Domain].
"If you want the ones who actually burnt your home, I suggest you stop wasting my time," I continue. "Time is money. And right now, you're in the red."
Current Magicule Reserves: 98.5%. Location: Goblin Village (Center). Status: Standoff. ROI: Potential high-tier guards.
Chapter End.