Crossover: Monthly Character Templates in the Multiverse Chat Group — Chapter 62

Chapter 62: When Looking for a Girlfriend, You Definitely Look at Total Damage and DPS First

The heavy transport vehicle rumbled over the cracked, uneven terrain, its reinforced tires kicking up a thick trail of dry earth as it charted a course toward Kazdel City. Inside the spacious cabin, Frez sat comfortably alongside Wiš’adel and Theresa.

The convoy was heavily guarded. Kiana, Aenafnir, and a sizable detachment of Babel operators flanked the main transport. Most of the escorting personnel were native Sarkaz. Even though the restless spirits of the multitude had finally been laid to rest, the atmosphere in Kazdel remained intensely xenophobic. The locals despised outsiders, and the Babel forces were doing everything in their power to keep a low profile and avoid sparking unnecessary conflict.

Naturally, this tight security was also a necessary measure to ensure Kaltsit’s safety.

Theresa rubbed her temples, letting out a soft sigh that barely masked her exhaustion. “I am seriously considering whether I should transfer Kaltsit somewhere else.”

Frez glanced over from the window.

“Recently, the Sarkaz operators have become increasingly vocal about their dissatisfaction with her,” Theresa continued, her tone laced with a lingering headache.

This hostility had nothing to do with the lingering influence of the multitude’s spirits. It was pure, unadulterated resentment born from their own history. No Sarkaz could simply stand by and watch someone who had previously led an entire army to slaughter their kin walk among them completely unscathed. It was even worse considering Kaltsit never denied her past actions, yet carried herself with an infuriatingly calm demeanor, acting as if the blood on her hands was merely a matter of historical record.

As a result, even Theresa found herself constantly fielding complaints and harsh questions from her own people regarding the feline’s presence.

“Send her to Sargon and have her establish a Babel branch,” Frez suggested casually, resting his chin on his hand. “Or just split Babel’s assets and let Kaltsit found a pharmaceutical company directly. She really isn’t suited to be a frontline leader, especially when it comes to managing major geopolitical incidents.”

In Frez’s eyes, the current Kaltsit had a terrible habit of meddling in affairs far beyond her weight class. She lacked the overwhelming combat strength required to dictate terms, yet she insisted on placing herself at the center of every major conflict upon the board. This was especially true for the future entity known as Rhodes Island.

Ultimately, Rhodes Island was branded as a pharmaceutical company. Yet, anyone with half a brain in Terra’s political sphere understood that it was effectively the exiled government of Kazdel. Aside from Theresa’s absence, the organizational structure was practically identical.

Everyone knew their true background, yet Rhodes Island still threw itself into every catastrophic incident, perfectly willing to be used as a political tool by other nations. A medical company should stick to curing diseases, not fighting wars.

“You absolutely cannot put the financial management of this new company in Kaltsit’s hands, though,” Frez added, a dry smirk touching his lips. “She has zero business sense. She would bankrupt the entire operation in a month.”

It was a documented fact. The Old Cat had managed to blow through the entirety of Theresa’s royal savings in just two short years. The resulting fiscal deficit was so catastrophic that Babel had been forced to dig up the hibernating Doctor just to salvage the situation.

Granted, her reasons for hemorrhaging money were morally unassailable. She was incredibly generous to Oripathy patients, selling life-saving medications at a severe loss or simply giving them away for free. She also funded the construction of branch offices across multiple hostile nations. Her intentions were noble, but her talent for generating revenue was entirely nonexistent.

Wiš’adel leaned forward, a greedy glint in her eyes. “Hey, do you think that old woman has a secret stash of buried treasure somewhere? She’s been alive for ages.”

Ever since their little excursion into the royal treasure vault, Wiš’adel had developed a firm belief that the longer these ancient fogies lived, the more high-tier loot they hoarded. Someone like Kaltsit, who had been wandering Terra since the dawn of the Sarkaz race, absolutely had to have a mountain of relics stashed away.

Frez looked at her deadpan. “She herself is a cultural relic.”

Wiš’adel blinked, then a wicked grin spread across her face. “Wait, so when you beat her up last time, does that count as vandalizing a historical monument?”

The tense atmosphere inside the vehicle instantly dissolved into a chorus of laughter. Kaltsit’s absurd age was always prime material for a joke. Even Theresa covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with quiet giggles. She felt a brief pang of guilt for laughing at her old friend, but the imagery was simply too accurate to ignore.

“I am not entirely sure about hidden treasures,” Theresa said, composing herself with a gentle smile. “But Kaltsit indeed shouldn’t stay here in the capital any longer. Establishing a pharmaceutical company is a wonderful idea. We can leave the landship to her and the Doctor, and she can recruit new personnel from the outside.”

“No way. Absolutely not.” Wiš’adel immediately crossed her arms, her smug expression turning into a scowl. “After spending so many days and so much capital repairing that thing, you just want to hand it over? Babel paid for that.”

She had grown quite fond of the Rhodes Island landship. According to the Doctor, the massive vessel was actually excavated and converted from an ancient spaceship. It was theoretically capable of true flight, just like the sleek vessel Frez had brought back from his own world. If it weren’t for their crippling lack of funding and several unresolved technical hurdles, the landship would have already taken to the skies.

“Just consider it a long-term investment,” Theresa coaxed gently. “I will ask the Doctor to take the position of president for Rhodes Island.”

“I think Amiya should be the CEO,” Frez interjected smoothly.

If the little bunny wasn’t the face of Rhodes Island, the entire timeline would feel wrong.

Theresa immediately shook her head, a protective warmth in her eyes. “No, Amiya is still far too young. Managing a massive medical corporation is an exhausting burden, and I refuse to let that sweet child suffer through such hardship so early in her life.”

After a moment of careful consideration, she completely vetoed the idea. The Doctor was the only logical choice. The Doctor possessed the necessary tactical empathy and, more, was the only person capable of keeping Kaltsit’s controlling nature in check. Within the ranks of Babel, only Theresa and the Doctor could manage the ancient feline. If Theresa stayed behind to rule Kazdel, the burden naturally fell to the masked tactician.

Wiš’adel slumped back against the leather seat, groaning. “This is way too much trouble. We might as well just take out that old woman and be done with it.”

“She would just resurrect.” Frez reached over, casually patting the top of Wiš’adel’s head. “Stop thinking about murder for five seconds. Keeping Kaltsit around has obvious benefits. She holds an immense amount of classified knowledge, provided we can pry those secrets out of her.”

Having walked the earth for millennia, Kaltsit had accumulated a terrifying network of connections and hidden truths. The only flaw in her system was that her contacts were mortal. They inevitably grew old and died, forcing her to painstakingly rebuild her intelligence network every few generations.

“Don’t I have the black crown now?” Wiš’adel swatted Frez’s hand away, though she didn’t lean away from his touch. “I bet I could just dig the good stuff right out of her brain.”

“Let it go for now. If we ever need something specific, we can just have the Doctor ask her.”

Kaltsit might dare to withhold information from the current, amnesiac Doctor, but she would never try such a stunt if she was truly pressed. And if Priestess ever decided to make an appearance, the Old Cat would fold instantly. It would be like a field mouse trying to stare down a hunting hawk.

The convoy rumbled over a final ridge, and the sprawling expanse of Kazdel City finally came into view.

Calling this place a ‘city’ felt like a gross exaggeration. It was, in reality, a colossal, dilapidated mobile platform. Even the most impoverished, crime-ridden slums of Lungmen would look like a utopian paradise compared to this wasteland.

Jagged, terrifyingly massive clusters of raw Originium jutted out from the earth and the metal plating, growing haphazardly like a terminal disease across the urban landscape. Fine Originium dust drifted down from the sky, coating the streets in a perpetual, toxic snowfall. The architecture was a chaotic mess of ruined brick houses, rotting wooden huts, and hastily assembled shacks. There was zero evidence of urban planning or road maintenance.

At the very center of the platform, the colossal soul furnace roared, its fires burning continuously. A complex, rusted network of node furnaces and heavy pipes snaked through the districts, pumping a steady stream of vital energy to keep the mobile city and its desperate residents alive.

Frez looked out the window. The Sarkaz citizens wandering the streets moved with a heavy, dragging gait. Their eyes were hollow, numb, and entirely devoid of light, resembling walking corpses more than living people. The only time a flicker of emotion crossed their faces was when the Babel convoy rolled past, their expressions instantly twisting into masks of deep wariness and naked hostility.

Following the devastating invasion by Leithanien, the Sarkaz’s hatred for outsiders had reached a boiling point. The mere fact that the crowd hadn’t already swarmed the vehicles with crude weapons was a miracle of restraint.

“The living conditions here are much harsher than I imagined,” Frez noted quietly.

Behind his dark shades, the Six Eyes processed the myriad expressions and physiological states of the surrounding populace in a fraction of a second. The sheer density of despair was staggering. If the spirits of the multitude hadn’t been pacified, these streets would still be drowning in an endless cycle of rage, hatred, and agonizing pain.

“This is just how a Sarkaz lives.” Wiš’adel rested her arms behind her head, entirely unfazed by the grim scenery. She was born in this dirt. “This is the reality of Kazdel. Full of hatred, savage, and completely brutal.”

She gestured toward a dark alleyway. “I am telling you, with the mood out there right now, if I walked into a local beer hall and gave a five-minute speech, I could rally an entire army in a single night. Give them enough food and some rusty blades, and we could start a full-scale war by morning.”

“Exactly. A Sarkaz will do absolutely anything as long as the coin is good.” Wiš’adel flashed a wicked, teasing grin, pointing a finger toward the street. “Look over there. See that Blood Demon?”

Frez followed her gaze. Standing near a rusted pipe was a Sarkaz woman with a slender waist, incredibly long legs, and an extremely generous chest, her ragged clothes barely containing her figure.

“If you just toss her a single meal’s worth of military rations, she would gladly warm your bed for the entire night,” Wiš’adel provoked, watching Frez’s reaction closely.

Frez didn’t even blink. “Do you honestly think I am that easy? Do you have any idea what my criteria for a girlfriend actually are?”

“Please.” Wiš’adel rolled her eyes, scoffing loudly. “Don’t you men only care about a massive chest and a pretty face? You really have the nerve to act high and mighty.”

“Heh. When finding a girlfriend, you absolutely have to look at her total damage and DPS first,” Frez stated, his tone dead serious. “If her total damage output isn’t breaking 100,000 and her DPS isn’t at least 3,000, it is a hard pass. If her damage ceiling is too low, she won’t be able to handle my aggro. And it is not just about raw output. You have to factor in Damage Per Hit to pierce armor lines, initial skill startup time, rotation cycles, block recovery rates, hit counts, and buff reception efficiency. If a girl hasn’t calculated her optimal rotation clearly, how could I possibly fall for her?”

His brain had apparently been entirely replaced by a gacha tier list. Meta over matter.

Wiš’adel stared at him, her jaw slightly slack.

“What on Terra are you even talking about?” she demanded, utterly baffled by the string of beyond understanding terminology.

“Just a joke,” Frez chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. “Besides, that woman is a Blood Demon. Knowing my luck, before I even got my coat off, she would be latched onto my neck trying to drain my arteries.”

He leaned back, analyzing the crowd again. The Sarkaz truly possessed a fascinating genetic advantage. In a toxic, starving dump like Kazdel, the men were still built like broad-shouldered tanks, and the women maintained incredibly curvy, strong figures despite the severe malnutrition.

It made Frez genuinely wonder about the Sankta. He had a strong suspicion that all the sugar and fat the gun-angels consumed went straight into powering their halos and light-wings. Considering their absolute obsession with desserts, the entire race should be suffering from severe obesity and diabetes. Yet, they remained perfectly fit.

But then again, could Super Terrans even develop diabetes?

Wiš’adel shot Frez a sharp glare, her cheeks dusting with a faint pink. Despite all his big talk about ‘DPS’and’armor penetration’, hadn’t this supposedly invincible man been obediently pinned down and subdued by her in bed that one night?

Humph. All bark and no bite.

“Alright, you two, please stop bickering. We have arrived.”

The transport ground to a halt. The heavy doors hissed open, and the moment Theresa stepped out into the ash-filled air, the atmosphere in the street shifted entirely.

The numb, hostile crowd froze. Then, a wave of desperate motion surged forward as dozens of Sarkaz crowded around the convoy, their voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus.

“Your Highness!”

“It is truly you! Thank the ancestors you are alright!”

The sudden transfer of the Demon King’s authority was a phenomenon felt in the very blood of every living Sarkaz. Yet, these commoners lacked the political context to understand what had actually happened. In the long, bloody history of their race, the shifting of the black crown almost always signified the violent death of the previous ruler.

Even though Theresis and the Military Committee had publicly broadcasted that the throne had simply changed hands and that Theresa was unharmed, the streets of Kazdel were fueled by paranoia. No one believed the official reports. They were terrified that their beloved King had been assassinated.

Seeing her standing before them, radiant and smiling gently, broke the tension like a shattered dam.

“Your Highness…” A scarred Sarkaz mercenary stepped forward, his voice trembling with hesitation. “I heard the rumors. Is it true you are no longer the Demon King? Then… who holds the crown now? The whispers say it is someone from Wiš’adel’s faction.”

The crowd murmured in agreement. Everyone had accepted that the civil war would end with one royal falling. Either Theresa died and Theresis took the crown, or Theresis fell. But the sudden emergence of a third party had thrown the entire city into confusion.

Who on earth was Wiš’adel?

“That would be me.”

Wiš’adel hopped down from the vehicle, landing lightly on the cracked pavement. With a smug, challenging smirk, she manifested the pitch-black crown above her head, its dark energy pulsing through the air.

The crowd stared. No one dropped to their knees. No one prostrated themselves. While a few faces showed a flicker of instinctual respect toward the artifact, the overwhelming emotion in the street was pure, unfiltered doubt.

Sensing the tension, Theresa stepped forward, her voice carrying a soothing, authoritative resonance that commanded absolute attention.

“My people, please welcome Her Highness Wiš’adel,” Theresa announced, gesturing gracefully to the mercenary. She then turned her hand toward the tall, blindfolded man stepping out behind her. “And this is His Highness Frez. From this day forward, they are the Twin Kings of our Sarkaz.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Regarding Frez’s own black crown, not even the Doctor had been able to provide a logical explanation. The tactician had simply confirmed it was a genuine artifact, despite the historical fact that the Previous Era had only ever forged one. Since Frez refused to elaborate, the Babel elite had collectively decided to stop asking questions. Aside from Kaltsit letting out an undignified shriek of pure stress when she first saw it, the matter had been swept under the rug.

But the common Sarkaz standing in the street didn’t have that context. They stared at the trio, their minds completely short-circuiting.

Wait. Two Demon King coronations?

Who the hell is this Frez guy?

And why in the world are there two Demon Kings?!