[Dragon King Regis POV] Far-away continent, around the time (Year 5) when Null and company were in Central to sort out the courtesans contracts
Dragon King Regis lay in his throne room. More than a hundred dragons lay around him in the massive space—all of them his offspring or those whose souls he owned. The loyal and useful ones. Many more served him, but he only allowed useful ones to rest near him, to bask in his glory and share his presence.
The rest could slave around somewhere else and prove they were worth it. Then maybe, eventually, if they were lucky.
[Show is starting. Merchants coming—always entertaining, always well-prepared, and always properly submissive. Good ants. The best ants. Professional ants who understand protocol.]
Twenty-five people entered, all different races, all bowing while showing proper forms of submission with practiced movements and professional presentation.
He approved. [Good. They know customs. They respect traditions. They understand who rules here.]
Five of them had elven-styled loyalty collars around their necks—already claimed, owned, and bound. The rest were part of the tribute, fresh and available to be evaluated.
All twenty-five carried large spatial boxes, and everyone had Item Boxes, all full of valuables—treasure, gold, and gems. Everything dragons appreciated and proper tribute required.
[Not bad tribute from the merchants—or Syndicate as they call themselves. Don’t really care about ant names, but I like merchants. Very useful, they give the best tribute, understand value, and maintain professional relationships.]
Once they arrived before him, all bowed fully—flat on the ground with foreheads touching stone and bodies pressed low in total submission. They didn’t move until allowed, their boxes placed in front of them with offerings visible and tribute presented.
Dragon King scanned them casually—mind reading, surface thoughts, easy access. Mortal minds were quite simple, transparent, and readable.
[Hehe. Something new. When you’ve lived what feels like forever, that doesn’t happen often. These merchants are really crafty.]
They had items on them with enough stored energy to keep wearers alive for decades, plus all had bellies loaded with mana food that would keep them functioning for five years, probably more if they were careful. They’d prepared in case he wanted to run some tests—smart preparation showing they understood dragon customs thoroughly.
[Impressive and thorough. They actually prepared for a century-long wait if needed—that’s dedication, respect, and proper tribute preparation.]
Time to sleep. One needed to show who was calling the shots, always and forever, no exceptions.
Regis closed his eyes and rested, letting them wait and prove their patience while demonstrating submission properly.
[Good ants wait. Bad ants complain. These are good ants who’ll wait however long needed. That’s why they’re useful, valued, and why they get privileges.]
Eight days later, Regis woke slowly, comfortably, and peacefully.
His jaws stretched hard as he yawned—long and satisfying.
[Nice nap. Very nice. Proper rest and quality sleep.]
He checked the merchant delegation in front of him. Exactly as before, not moved a millimeter—perfect stillness and professional discipline showing absolute submission.
A fast scan of their minds confirmed what he expected.
[Perfect. They would die before moving without permission. They understand that moving would mean failing their task. Absolute obedience and proper submission. The best ants.]
Then he checked the other dragons. A few had left, more had come. Well, they had their lives, tasks, territories, and responsibilities. But word was out about the large tribute waiting, so everyone was interested in checking it out and splitting the tribute properly.
He could feel impatience radiating from them—all of them wanting to see, claim, and evaluate. Almost funny watching ancient beings act like excited younglings over treasure.
[Good. Interest is good, competition is good. Makes the split more fair, the evaluation more thorough, and the process more professional.]
He asked the worshiper next to him casually, “How long did I nap?”
“Eight days, my god.”
Regis thought about that. [Good. This will do. I once let them lie there a year, but the test lost any point after that. Plus I had better things to do than watch ants bow. Eight days is proper—shows authority, dominance, and who rules. Perfect timing.]
So he said one word to the delegation. “STAND.”
All of them stood up in perfect synchronized coordination.
Then the next command. “SHOW YOUR TRIBUTES.”
They began removing their clothing with efficient, practiced movements.
Few seconds later—
“STOP.” He pointed to those five who were claimed. “You can keep your clothes.”
They bowed with visible relief and gratitude.
[Everything belongs to dragons, including clothing. Part of tribute and standard rules. But I’m in a nice mood today, so I’ll allow them to keep that. Plus I’m sure they have people outside waiting with backup clothing anyway. Merchants know dragon customs to the letter—professional, prepared, and thorough. Always.]
The loyalty tattoos on those five showed they could return. They’d already given themselves, soul bound. He could clearly see the markings on their souls—soul oaths creating permanent, absolute, and eternal loyalty to the masters who’d sent them. Safe to release, trust, and use as messengers.
[Someone needs to carry the message back about what was agreed, decided, and promised. Efficient system and proper protocol.]
The other twenty stood there naked, to be evaluated and split among dragons as part of the tribute. Lucky ones—they could serve dragons, not some mortal ant masters somewhere. A privilege, honor, and blessing really.
[Merchant tribute servants are useful—well trained, educated, and obedient. Most earn names from dragons sooner or later, becoming valued, permanent, even family. Good quality ants from professional selection. The best possible.]
He watched as the hoard was split, taking a few random items—nothing of particular value to him specifically, just some gifts and interesting things he hadn’t seen before.
[But generally this tribute belongs to the others here—offspring and servants who’ve earned the privilege. I own them anyway, so in the end it all goes to me. Indirect ownership through proper structure and efficient system.]
He also took the box with golden bottles—gold elixir that the merchants produced, which could boost one’s lifespan over a thousand years. Proper medicine from quality production and professional alchemy.
[While dragons can give extra lifespan to those we name by extending life using our power, we have to use part of our power to make it happen. Not much, but many don’t want to share. So the merchants life water is useful, especially for less loyal ants who would otherwise get nothing. Don’t even have to name them. Most fall into this group anyway—just useful, expendable, replaceable ants. But useful nonetheless.]
He would personally, or well Sebas would, make sure the elixirs ended up in the right places later for proper distribution and fair allocation.
[Those elixirs are mana-locked anyway—only a specific person can use each one. Makes theft and misuse impossible. Proper security and merchant craftsmanship creating a professional product.]
Some time later, one of the worshipers came to him with parchment—part of the documents that came with the tribute containing agreements, requests, and business proposals, all properly documented and formally presented.
He checked it, read carefully, and understood completely.
[Oh. Seems the merchants have some issues. They’re like a virus, expanding endlessly. Once you let them in, it’s impossible to get them out. They get you addicted to their gold, convenience, and efficiency, slowly taking control of your trade, production, banking, and economy. Everything. Slowly, inevitably, and completely.]
[Some have tried removing them. Even dragons know the story about the sin tax—various attempts and methods, all failed. You can’t get rid of them, EVER. Once established, they’re permanent, forever, and inescapable. That’s why they’re a virus. A professional, useful virus, but still a virus.]
But currently they wanted to expand to some new continent ruled under Kobold rule. Full-blown isolationists—nobody traded with them, talked with them, or interacted with them. Perfect isolation and defense. If nobody talks or trades with you, the virus can’t get a foot in the door. Even the merchant virus can’t get a hold like this. Smart Kobolds with professional isolation and effective defense.
So the merchants asked that dragons make an edict to force the locals to open borders and accept trade, allowing the merchants to expand and give more tribute in the future—more gold, more valuables, more everything, forever.
[Clever merchants, but messy request. Would require forcing the issue with a lot of force—genocidal amounts probably. I know isolationist civilizations like that. They don’t negotiate, compromise, or accept outsiders peacefully. Only overwhelming violence works—complete destruction or complete submission. Those are the only options that break isolation. Nothing else is effective with that kind.]
So he showed the parchment to the other dragons, offering the opportunity and proposing a deal.
“Any takers? Let’s say the first hundred years of all tribute from this territory goes to whoever solves the issue. Proper payment and fair compensation.”
Some were interested, looking and discussing while evaluating difficulty and calculating profit.
But they knew the same as him. [It’s a lot of effort, work, and violence needed. And for what? Dragons aren’t genocidally against lower races—just pragmatic, efficient, and practical. Genocide takes time, energy, and focus. There are better ways to spend immortality than exterminating stubborn Kobolds.]
One of the merchant servants stepped forward—a male in a black uniform, seeing that things wouldn’t solve themselves, that the dragons weren’t committing, and that the offer was failing.
“We can give extra tribute right now as additional compensation for whoever accepts the task. Bonus payment and proper incentive.”
This got one group interested—his offspring who played the “Sim-City” game for fun, a management and civilization competition that served as entertainment for immortals.
Discussion formed quickly with enthusiasm. “Oh! Can we get airships? The Overseer suggested we get airships to boost our civilizations. Would be an excellent addition and perfect timing.”
Others in the group cheered in agreement. “Nice idea! If we work together, it’s not that hard to force those ants. Even if they’re really stubborn and stupid. Just overwhelming force—standard approach.”
Then one from the group asked a practical question. “Is it okay if we just erase those ants if they don’t cooperate? Full elimination and clean slate?”
The same merchant servant answered immediately without hesitation. “It’s totally okay. Local cooperation isn’t explicitly needed. Just results matter—access and territory control. How you achieve it is your choice and decision.”
[The merchants would actually prefer if the dragons erase the locals. I can see it clearly in the servant’s mind—surface thoughts showing obvious desires. There are minerals in the ground that locals think are holy, sacred sites and protected areas. But the merchants want to mine, extract, and profit. So if there are no locals, they can just move a lot of Union dwarves in, get mining rolling, production started, and profit flowing. Clean, simple, efficient, and professional exploitation.]
[Merchants really are like a virus, and not the best kind. But a useful virus for dragons—profitable, convenient, and tolerable.]
This game his offspring played—”Sim-City”—was an interesting one with amusing history.
[They caught an isekai a long time ago for snacks—standard procedure. Divine children made excellent meals with divine essence, perfect taste, and ultimate satisfaction.]
But this guy had a really golden tongue. Didn’t want to get eaten, so he bargained desperately and creatively for his life.
He managed to suggest a game for dragons to play, naming it “Sim-City” after something named computer game from his old world where you run your civilization, manage everything, and compete. Entertainment, challenge, and purpose.
[As dragons have a lot of time—SO much time, too much sometimes—they separated one continent into pieces. My offspring now manage different parts of it, competing over who can do better management, build better, rule smarter, and achieve more. They’ve been playing it for like thirty thousand years already, and it’s still interesting, entertaining, and competitive.]
[Never gets old. Always something new—crises, challenges, and problems. Civilization management is surprisingly complex, engaging, and addictive even for immortals.]
But who was this overseer? Regis himself had needed to sort things out there a few times when they blamed each other for cheating, rule violations, and unfair advantages. They’d needed a judge, an arbitrator, someone they actually listened to, trusted, and respected over this game.
So he asked, curious and genuinely interested. “Who is this overseer?”
One of his offspring answered simply. “Same isekai who introduced the game.”
Regis felt confused. [They kept him alive—dragons understand kindness, gratitude, and fair exchange. But the guy’s been having endless depression cycles all this time. Can’t leave because other dragons would hunt and eat him as a divine snack. Can’t stay happily either because he hates living in the golden cage my offspring made. They offer everything ants want—food, drinks, harem, luxury, everything. The guy just sits there as a useless shut-in, depressed, miserable, and barely functional. Complete waste of a divine child and divine essence.]
So he asked again, more directly and with surprise. “He’s actually useful now?”
The same offspring answered. “Yes, for something like fifteen hundred years already. We decided to ask if the merchants had any ideas what to do with him. The depression wasn’t improving, just getting worse with increasing suicide attempts. We needed intervention and help.”
He continued explaining with a professional report. “They got a team of experts led by someone named Artemis. They processed him for ten years—very thorough and intense. He’s been useful since then, even gifted us his soul and marked himself with a circle around his neck like ants do. Soul oath creating permanent binding and complete devotion.”
He continued. “He’s been helping oversee the game he invented. Manages disputes, judges fairly, and makes rulings everyone accepts. Everyone trusts, respects, and listens to him. Perfect arbitrator—neutral, fair, and effective.”
The offspring added more. “We even extracted his soul for safekeeping—he’s too valuable now to accidentally die like ants sometimes do by accident. Plus he also seems to enjoy his side of the deal—been asking for body changes a few times. Different races, sexes.”
Regis thought about that. [Oh cool. They actually got usefulness out of a useless isekai. Impressive. Merchants prove their value in unique ways by turning waste into assets.]
[Might be the last isekai left in existence too. No new stock for seven thousand years since Paradise fell and the gate stopped. Last of his kind—literal extinction if killed. Good that they kept him alive, made him useful, and fixed the depression. Smart thinking and practical management.]
[And as a bonus, I don’t have to judge that stupid game anymore—settling cheating disputes, making rulings, all that boring tedious work. When I think about it, indeed, nobody has troubled me for fifteen hundred years about it. Good, useful isekai. Worth keeping. Proved his value.]
He watched those twenty tribute servants again, reading minds and scanning thoughts at surface level—not forcing, just old habit. Mortal minds were quite simple, transparent, and easy.
Two of them had the same name present in their memories: Artemis. That trainer, that expert, that processor who’d fixed the isekai and made useful from useless. Professional, effective, and impressive.
He pointed to them. “COME HERE.”
They walked to him—twin wolfgirls, beautiful, matched, and synchronized in professional presentation. Quality tribute and excellent offering.
He touched them, making a full mind scan easier. Deep reading for complete understanding and total access.
[In that moment, I know more about these two than they know themselves. Memories, thoughts, dreams, fears—everything. Complete transparency and perfect knowledge.]
Quite a standard story by Syndicate standards and merchant operations for professional tribute preparation.
[Those two were sold by their tribe when they were small girls. Every member of the tribe got a hundred years worth of elixir as payment and compensation. Beautiful twins, both mages, both with Item Boxes. If this backwater tribe had more contact with the outside world, they probably would have gotten much more—a much better deal and higher price. But isolated and ignorant, they accepted the first offer. Standard exploitation and professional acquisition.]
After that, they were sold a few more times, passed between owners, traded, evaluated, and processed until they ended up in Artemis’s possession.
Then they got nearly a century of grooming to be used as tribute for dragons—countless training sessions, work experience in various Syndicate guilds, finishing several large schools. Education, refinement, and professional development. Everything.
I’ve seen countless stories like this from the minds of tribute servants—standard pattern and common process for professional preparation. But this Artemis totally overdid it. Can’t think of a single case where anyone used a century. Usually ten to twenty years maximum, thirty if really thorough. But a century? That’s excessive, extreme, and unusual.
[This Artemis has never trained for dragon tributes before. Seems she’s targeting a more internal audience—Syndicate servants, high society infiltration, and professional positions. This looks more like an interesting side project to her, a side business or experiment maybe.]
The full story was there in their minds.
[She asked them—first time anyone had asked. They’d been scared after leaving their tribe, moved around for nearly a year, re-sold several times. Traumatized, frightened, and lost. She asked what they wanted to do with their lives, who they wanted to serve, what they dreamed about. Everything. Gave them choice and voice for the first time. First kindness they’d known.]
[And since they’d literally met the first friendly lady in ages, the first kind person, the first caring adult—they ended up talking about dragons. Childhood dreams and ultimate fantasy. The coolest possible service. She promised to help them with it. And here they are.]
[They’d been waiting for this moment for ages, anticipating their delivery to dragons, preparing mentally, and excited for it. Most tribute servants get excessively brainwashed, broken and rebuilt multiple times. These two? Only got reinforcement. Their childhood dreams made more solid, what they already wanted strengthened, existing desires confirmed. Minimal processing with enhancement and refinement instead of reconstruction. Professional polish on a willing foundation.]
And of course both were nameless—standard process for any dragon servants. Those two hadn’t had names for a century, getting them removed first thing when they left their tribe. Prepared properly and processed correctly for professional transformation from children to tribute.
Dragon King Regis made his decision.
“I name you Luna,” he said, pointing to one. “And Nova,” pointing to the other.
The entire room froze. Every dragon there watched in his direction with complete attention and absolute shock.
[Why? What happened? What’s wrong?]
Then he understood. [Oh. I haven’t taken any new ant servants for ages—millennia maybe. Too long. Everyone’s shocked.]
He turned to move and indicated for the girls to follow. “Come. Let’s go home.”
Luna and Nova followed immediately, eager and obedient, their dreams coming true.
Regis activated his magic, pushing unreal amounts into it—enough to alter the fabric of the world itself. Reality-bending, space-warping, divine power, and absolute authority.
| WORLD RULES ALTER: SPATIAL SHIFT |
The magic completed. Space folded, reality changed, and location shifted.
[Good additions. Quality tribute. The merchants delivered excellence. Worth examining this Artemis who prepared them later. A century of work for a side project? Interesting. Very interesting.]
The throne room vanished as the three of them shifted elsewhere.
Home waited.
