Reincarnated with the Country System

The world lurched as the shadows spat them out—Alberto and Circe tumbling onto the cracked asphalt like two drunkards ejected from a bar fight.

The ground trembled beneath them, a low, grinding groan as the Black Site's guts caved in deep below. Dust plumed into the predawn sky.

Circe rolled onto her back, coughing up what felt like half her lung capacity. "Fuck," she wheezed, spitting blood. "I hate it."

Alberto sat up, wiping grime off his face. His coat was shredded, his knuckles split, and his divine glow flickering like a dying lightbulb. He took one look at the devastation—the collapsed earth, the sirens wailing in the distance—and sighed.

"Ah." He rubbed his jaw. "There goes my SC—my facility—gone."

Circe groaned. "Your facility? That's what you're mourning?"

"Of course! It cost me a huge amount of money to buy it—twenty billion." He flicked a piece of debris off his shoulder. "You know how big that number is? Twenty billion. That's a two followed by nine zeros. With that amount of money, I could have built a whole new division of thousands of soldiers."

A guttural scream cut through Alberto's frustration as Major Krause staggered from a service tunnel, his uniform half-burned off, one arm clutched to his chest. Blood streaked his face like war paint. Behind him, maybe fifteen shell-shocked ISSD operatives limped out.

Krause's remaining good eye locked onto Alberto. For a second, pure, unfiltered hatred flashed across his face—then it vanished under layers of military discipline. He crashed to one knee.

"Your Imperial Majesty." His voice was raw gravel. "Operational losses: 87% personnel. Structural integrity: none. Asset containment: failed." A muscle twitched in his ruined cheek. "We didn't even slow him down."

Alberto exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. About that." He turned to Circe. "You sure we burned him?"

Circe scowled. "I don't think he's still alive."

A sharp whistle cut through the air.

Rinehart.

She sauntered up, miraculously unharmed, her coat pristine, her hair barely ruffled. A cigarette dangled from her lips, the ember glowing in the gloom. "If you're waiting for a confirmation kill," she drawled, "don't. Evil fuckers like that? They don't die easy."

Alberto eyed her. "You look suspiciously clean compared to the others."

She smirked. "I'm talented, Your Majesty."

Circe muttered something unflattering under her breath.

Krause, meanwhile, looked like he wanted to strangle someone—preferably himself.

Alberto cracked his neck. "Circe. Status on the devil?"

The archmage scowled, pressing a glowing hand to her wound. "But... that last attack. The Godfire. It burned him. I felt it."

Rinehart snorted. "Yeah, and I feel hangovers. Doesn't mean they kill me."

Alberto ignored them, staring at the wreckage. Twenty billion credits. Three hundred men. And for what? A draw?

He checked his system notifications.

No new notifications.

Then his comm bead crackled.

"Your Majesty." Elizabeth's voice. "Satellites are picking up movement in the Belly Valley dungeons. Multiple Class IV signatures."

Alberto closed his eyes.

He keyed the mic. "Tell me something fun, Eli. I'm tired of facing one problem after another."

"...The royal chefs baked cinnamon rolls this morning?"

"That's my girl." He pocketed the bead and turned to his battered retinue. "Alright, listen up. Krause—get these men to the medics. Also, create a brief report on the entire incident."

Rinehart said, "So, Your Majesty, what's our next step?"

But Alberto didn't answer, his eyes fixed on his system panel.

ACTIVE QUESTS:

🔴 1. DEFECT IN'THERAK'S HOST (Priority: Omega)

⌛ Status: Ongoing

🎯 Objective: Eliminate the Eldest Evil's vanguard before full awakening.

├─ ✔️ Confirm kill of "Caspian-Entity" (Phase 3 Evolution)

├─ ☐ Locate In'Therak's Nexus (Last detected: Belly Valley Dungeon Core)

└─ ☐ Assemble Godslayer Arsenal (1/3 components found)

♦♦♦

New Belly Dungeon

The deeper they went, the more the dungeon breathed.

Walls pulsed like living tissue, veins of bioluminescent blue throbbing in time with some unseen heart. The air grew thicker, rancid—a cocktail of rotting meat and wet copper that clung to the back of the throat. The ISSD team moved in silence, weapons up, boots barely whispering against the slick stone.

A sound.

The squad froze.

There. Between the jagged rock formations—movement. A flash of something dark, low to the ground, gone before the rifles could track it.

One of the men exhaled sharply into his mic. "Alpha-class. Scout."

The squad leader didn't answer. He didn't have to. They all knew what that meant.

The tech specialist checked his scanner, frowning at the flickering screen. "Thermals are useless. Too much interference. But acoustics—" He stopped. "We've got movement. Everywhere."

A low, clicking hum vibrated through the stone. Not from one direction. From all of them.

The squad leader didn't hesitate. "Tight formation. Flamer up front. Mark the exit."

The man with the flamethrower stepped forward, the weapon hissing as it primed. No jokes this time.

They pushed deeper.

The tunnel sloped downward, the floor forming a grotesque spiral staircase of fused bone and cartilage. At the bottom—

"Damn."

A cathedral of flesh.

The chamber was massive, the walls pulsing with veins of sickly blue light. At the center, hanging from the ceiling like some grotesque chandelier, was a fleshy mass—throbbing. Tendrils snaked down from it, feeding into the floor where half-formed creatures writhed in pools of dark fluid.

And at the center of it all—

A throne.

Carved from what looked like fused human skeletons, a single figure sat motionless. Taller than the others. Sleeker. Its exoskeleton gleamed like polished obsidian, its four arms ending in serrated blades.

"Queen."

The tech specialist's voice was flat. "That's a fucking Queen."

The bio-scanner screamed.

DESIGNATION: HIVE QUEEN

THREAT LEVEL: ALPHA-PRIME

STATUS: DORMANT (FOR NOW)

The squad leader keyed his radio. "HQ, this is Viper-One. We've located the Core. And we've got a Queen. Repeat, we've got a goddamn Queen."

Static. Then, the reply: "Extract immediately."

Too late.

The Queen's head snapped up.

Eyes—too many eyes—opened all at once, locking onto the squad with predatory focus.

The cavern erupted.

A tide of chitin and claws surged toward them. The flamethrower roared to life, turning the front ranks into shrieking fireballs. Rifles barked, shotgun blasts tore through limbs, but there were too many.