The world did not end with a shattering apocalypse, nor did it burn in a sudden, catastrophic deluge of dragon fire. The world changed in a single winter.
It changed because three powers finally stopped pretending that their borders were temporary.
In the west, the Roman Empire had stopped pretending its violent incursion into Re-Estize was merely a punitive expedition to avenge a raided trade caravan. The eagles had been planted, the roads were being paved, and the taxation infrastructure was already fully operational.
In the east, the Baharuth Empire had stopped pretending it could indefinitely coexist beside an expanding, industrialized Roman state without securing a monstrous deterrent of its own.
And somewhere north of E-Rantel, beneath the cold, oppressive shadow of an enormous, uncharted tomb, Ainz Ooal Gown had finally stopped pretending that this New World was something he merely needed to study from the shadows.
The age of uncertainty was bleeding out on the frost-hardened ground.
The age of empires had begun.
…
The reinforced, iron-banded gates of E-Rantel opened slowly at dawn, the heavy hinges groaning in the freezing morning air.
The city's defenders had expected an army. They had spent the last forty-eight hours fortifying the battlements, preparing boiling oil, rationing arrows, and praying to the Six Great Gods. They had expected siege engines. They had expected thousands of Imperial knights wearing the polished black and gold uniforms of the Baharuth Empire, marching to the cadence of war drums. They had expected an ultimatum delivered by an arrogant herald.
What the city of E-Rantel had not expected was the profound, suffocating silence.
There were no battle cries echoing across the plains. No brass horns shattering the morning calm. No artillery raining kinetic fire upon their walls, as the rumors from the western Roman front had described. There were not even priests screaming desperate prayers from the parapets.
The city simply watched, paralyzed by a terror so pure it felt like ice in their veins.
Beyond the gates stood the vanguard of the Baharuth Empire. They were arranged in flawless, immaculate formation. Rows of heavily armored infantry, elite cavalry sitting atop nervous, shifting warhorses, arcane casters holding their staffs in white-knuckled grips, and a massive logistical train of supply wagons.
But it was not the Imperial army that had stolen the breath from the defenders of E-Rantel. It was the force standing silently before them.
Undead.
Rows upon rows of skeletal soldiers stood perfectly motionless beneath the pale morning sky. There were hundreds. Then thousands. Death Knights carrying massive tower shields and serrated flamberges. Soul Eaters exhaling pale, spectral mist. Elder Liches hovering just above the frosted grass.
They did not breathe. They did not shift their weight. They did not speak. They simply waited with a mechanical, terrifying absolute obedience.
At the absolute center of this nightmare stood a figure dressed in magnificent, abyssal black robes woven with gold thread. Ainz Ooal Gown. The morning light seemed to die before it could touch him. His crimson eyes glowed like twin dying stars beneath the shadow of his hood, and his skeletal hand rested casually upon the golden, serpentine shaft of the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown.
Beside him, looking immaculate in his imperial regalia, stood the Bloody Emperor of Baharuth, Jircniv Rune Farlord El Nix.
Jircniv's stomach felt as though it were filled with broken glass, but his face remained a mask of supreme confidence. He had spent months agonizing over how to deal with the encroaching Roman menace. He had considered desperate alliances, massive trade restrictions, deploying his intelligence networks, and drastically accelerating his military conscription.
Eventually, sitting alone in his study late one night, Jircniv had reached a singular, horrifying conclusion. There was only one thing on the continent more dangerous than the Roman Empire. An unknown, god-like undead overlord who possessed the power to instantly create a military force that never required food, never demanded wages, never lost morale, and never slept.
Jircniv had decided he would much rather have that monster standing beside him than marching across his own borders.
The city gates opened completely. A small, shivering delegation emerged onto the frost-covered road.
It consisted of a few minor nobles who had not managed to flee, the city mayor, a handful of pale military commanders, and two trembling representatives of the local temples. At the front was the mayor, a portly man whose expensive velvet coat did nothing to stop his violent shaking. He carried a simple white flag tied to a spear shaft.
He approached the undead lines slowly, his eyes darting frantically to the towering Death Knights, half-expecting them to cleave him in two at any moment.
"My lord..." The mayor's voice cracked. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away from the towering undead and up into the glowing red orbs of the Sorcerer King. "My apologies."
Ainz's bare, ivory jaw moved slightly.
"You may speak."
The voice that emanated from the skeletal figure resonated deep in the chests of everyone present. It sounded older than the earth, deeper than any human throat should have been capable of producing, laced with an unnatural, dominating authority.
The mayor immediately dropped to one knee, the cold mud soaking through his trousers. "E-Rantel formally submits. The city council has determined that armed resistance would only result in the meaningless deaths of our thousands of citizens."
Ainz remained perfectly silent. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
"We..." The mayor choked on his own terror. "We therefore humbly request guarantees for the safety of the civilian population."
Jircniv looked at Ainz out of the corner of his eye. For one terrible, heart-stopping moment, the human emperor wondered whether this was the moment the undead monster would reveal his true nature. Would he demand absolute obedience? A tithe of blood? Would he order his Death Knights to march through the streets and slaughter the council to make an example of them?
Instead, Ainz slowly, deliberately raised one skeletal hand. The movement was smooth, regal, and entirely devoid of malice.
"Your people will not be harmed."
The mayor stared up, his mouth falling open slightly.
Ainz continued, his voice projecting across the silent plains so that even the defenders on the walls could hear him. "Those who surrender their weapons will retain their lives. Those who maintain order will retain their positions. Those who cooperate with the administration of the newly formed Sorcerer Kingdom will not be punished for their previous service to the Re-Estize government."
The mayor blinked, tears of sheer, overwhelming relief spilling hot down his freezing cheeks. He had expected cruelty. He had expected torture and death.
Instead, he had received rules.
"Your Majesty..." The mayor pressed his forehead into the frosty dirt. "Welcome to E-Rantel."
Ainz looked past the groveling man, his gaze sweeping over the city. The towering stone walls. The tightly packed houses with smoke curling from their chimneys. The market square in the distance. The tiny, terrified faces of people staring from the upper windows.
He had won. E-Rantel, the jewel of the Kingdom's frontiers, was his.
And somehow, deep within the recesses of his former human consciousness, Suzuki Satoru felt strangely anticlimactic.
Uwah... this is really happening, Ainz thought, desperately trying to maintain his imposing posture. I originally just wanted to wander around, learn about the world, maybe find some of my old guildmates. Now I'm standing at the head of an undead army, formally accepting the surrender of a major human city. And the Emperor of Baharuth is just... standing here supporting me.
Ainz mentally sighed. He had to keep up the act. The NPCs of Nazarick were watching from the shadows, and Jircniv was right next to him. He could not afford to look anything less than supreme.
Jircniv stepped forward smoothly, his cape billowing in the winter wind. "The city is yours, Sorcerer King."
Ainz turned his head slightly to acknowledge the human emperor. "Yes."
"And now?" Jircniv asked, his voice low enough that only Ainz could hear.
Ainz glanced toward the distant western horizon, where he knew the Roman legions were currently chewing through the remnants of the Kingdom. "Now, we advance."
Jircniv's expression tightened imperceptibly. "How far?"
Ainz paused, considering the political ramifications carefully. "Until the Kingdom fully understands what its alternatives are."
Jircniv's lips curled into a tight, humorless smile. "That is an exceptionally unpleasant way to put it."
Ainz turned to face him fully, the glowing red orbs burning into Jircniv's eyes. "You knew this would happen when you signed the alliance, Jircniv."
"I did."
"And yet, you came."
"Of course," Jircniv replied, looking back toward the terrifying, silent rows of skeletal warriors. "It is always better to stand beside the monster than to wait in your castle for it to turn its gaze toward you."
Ainz's red eyes brightened slightly, an approximation of an amused hum vibrating in his chest. "Wise."
…
The fall of E-Rantel shook the Re-Estize Kingdom to its very bedrock.
But the truth was, Rome had already ensured that the Kingdom was entirely incapable of responding as a united, functional state. Its western territories, the agricultural heartlands that fed the capital, had been systematically stripped away. Its noble houses had been fractured and divided by Roman diplomacy and Roman steel.
Some lords had surrendered to Emperor Maximus willingly, choosing the stability of Roman law and the safety of their wealth over a pointless, bloody death. Others had panicked, withdrawing their private levies toward the central capital, clogging the roads with refugees and paranoid aristocrats. Several had simply abandoned their estates entirely, fleeing in the night with whatever gold they could carry.
King Ramposa III now presided over a kingdom that technically remained a kingdom only because the Roman Emperor had not yet decided to march on the royal capital itself.
Then came the second, devastating blow. E-Rantel had fallen to an undead sovereign. And it had fallen with the open, explicit military cooperation of the Baharuth Empire.
Ramposa received the news in absolute, crushing silence.
The grand throne room was dim, the heavy winter curtains drawn tight against the cold. The massive hearth fire crackled loudly, but it seemed to offer no warmth to the men gathered near the dais.
Marquis Raeven stood before the throne, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. He looked as though he hadn't slept in a week. Warrior Captain Gazef Stronoff stood rigidly beside the King, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white with suppressed frustration.
The King read the parchment report once. Then again. His hands, spotted with age, trembled slightly.
"Jircniv," Ramposa whispered, his voice dry as dust.
Raeven nodded grimly. "He has formally allied with the undead."
"With this... Sorcerer King."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Raeven looked down at the floor tiles. "They marched on E-Rantel together."
Gazef's jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "Then E-Rantel is lost. The garrison there could barely hold off a standard Imperial raid. Against an undead army and Imperial knights combined..."
The King stared at the massive, illuminated map of his realm painted on the floor. It felt more like a memorial marker now than a tactical display. Rome occupied the entire western half. The Sorcerer King stood like a dagger at the northern gateway of E-Rantel. The Baharuth Empire supported them from the east.
The Kingdom's remaining territory was caught in a tightening, lethal vise.
Ramposa closed his eyes, resting his heavy head against the back of his throne. "How many cities, Marquis Raeven?"
Raeven hesitated. He hated delivering this kind of news to a man he genuinely respected. "So far?"
"So far."
"Three, Your Majesty."
Gazef looked sharply at the noble. "Three? E-Rantel only fell two days ago!"
"Two additional frontier towns surrendered without a fight the moment they saw the Death Knights," Raeven explained, his voice flat. "One minor fortress, commanded by Baron Linder, attempted to resist."
"And?" Gazef demanded.
"It fell in less than an hour," Raeven said quietly. "The reports say the Sorcerer King didn't even use his undead. He cast a single spell that shattered the main keep."
Ramposa's trembling hands gripped the armrests of his throne. "Can we stop him, Raeven?"
Raeven looked up. He could have lied. He could have offered platitudes about Kingdom pride and the bravery of their conscripts. But they were far past the point of comforting fictions. He answered honestly.
"No."
The word echoed through the vast, empty chamber.
Gazef looked toward the Marquis, his eyes burning with a desperate need to fight, to do something. But Raeven met the Warrior Captain's gaze unflinchingly.
"Not alone, Gazef," Raeven added softly. "If we march our remaining levies north, the undead will slaughter them. And if we leave the capital undefended, the Roman legions in the west will simply march in behind us and take the throne room while we are dying in the mud."
Gazef turned away, his shoulders slumping. He said nothing, because there was nothing left to say.
The King slowly opened his eyes and looked toward the western edge of the map, where the crimson eagle pins of the Roman Empire had completely devoured his lands.
"Then perhaps..." Ramposa swallowed, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "...we should ask Rome."
…
The second Roman delegation arrived at the Royal Capital of Re-Estize under a pristine white banner of parley.
This time, they were not greeted as unknown, presumptuous foreigners. Everyone in the capital knew Rome now. Everyone recognized the crimson eagle standard. And everyone knew exactly what happened to those who were foolish enough to stand against it.
The delegation entered the royal palace escorted by twelve towering Roman Praetorians, their interlocking armor gleaming under the chandeliers. At their center was Chancellor Gaius. He carried no sword. He wore no armor. He carried only a simple leather satchel. He did not need a weapon; the immense, unseen weight of forty thousand legionnaires stood behind him.
The royal council had hastily assembled. King Ramposa sat at the head of the long oak table. Raeven stood at his right. Gazef remained vigilantly near the throne.
Gaius stopped at the opposite end of the table and offered a crisp, formal bow. It was respectful, but entirely devoid of subservience.
"His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Maximus Messala, sends his greetings to King Ramposa III of Re-Estize."
Ramposa nodded slowly. "Please. Speak your purpose, Chancellor."
Gaius opened his satchel and placed a thick, wax-sealed document upon the polished wood. "The Emperor has received actionable intelligence concerning the fall of E-Rantel to the entity styling himself the Sorcerer King."
Ramposa stared at the bespectacled man. "You knew?"
"Of course, Your Majesty."
"The Roman Empire knew the Sorcerer King intended to seize the city, and you did nothing to warn us?" Gazef interjected, his voice hot with anger.
Gaius looked calmly at the Warrior Captain. "We knew there would be military action. Our scouts reported the Baharuth mobilization weeks ago."
"And you did nothing?" Ramposa asked, his voice tight.
Gaius adjusted his spectacles. "With respect, Your Majesty, would you have preferred Rome declare war on the Baharuth Empire and an unknown undead sovereign simultaneously, simply to protect a city that belongs to a nation we are currently in open conflict with?"
Ramposa had no answer for that cold, brutal logic.
Gaius continued, tapping the document on the table. "Your Majesty, Emperor Maximus is not interested in the total, fiery destruction of the Re-Estize Kingdom."
Several nobles down the table exchanged deeply surprised looks.
Ramposa frowned, his brow furrowing. "You say that, Chancellor, yet your legions are already occupying the entire western half of my country."
"Occupying territory is not the same as destroying a nation," Gaius countered smoothly. "The Emperor is a builder, not a butcher. He requires stability on his borders to consolidate his gains."
Raeven's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Then what do you want from us?"
Gaius smiled. It was a terrifyingly pleasant smile. "The Emperor has authorized me to offer you a formal treaty."
Ramposa looked at the document resting on the table. "What kind of treaty?"
"One that ends all hostilities between the Roman Empire and the Kingdom of Re-Estize. Permanently."
The chamber became deathly silent. Even the guards by the doors seemed to hold their breath.
Gazef stared at the Chancellor in disbelief. Marquis Raeven carefully reached forward and pulled the heavy parchment toward him. He broke the imperial seal and opened it. His eyes darted rapidly across the meticulously penned terms.
Formal Roman annexation and control of all western territories currently occupied.
Full Kingdom recognition of those annexations as legitimate Roman soil.
Exclusive Roman trade privileges and tariff exemptions within Re-Estize borders.
A pact of mutual non-aggression.
Guaranteed, unhindered passage for Roman merchants and diplomats.
Amnesty and protection for any Kingdom nobles who had formally sworn loyalty to Rome during the conflict.
In exchange, Re-Estize retained sovereign control over its remaining central and eastern territories.
And then, there was the final clause. Raeven read it twice, ensuring he hadn't hallucinated the words.
He looked up at Gaius. "Rome formally recognizes the Re-Estize royal family as the legitimate, continued ruling house of this territory."
Ramposa looked up sharply. "You aren't demanding my throne?"
"No, Your Majesty," Gaius replied evenly.
"Why?" the King asked, genuine confusion mingling with his suspicion. "Your Emperor has the military strength to take this capital in a week. Why stop now?"
Gaius's expression became profoundly serious. "Because, Your Majesty, the Emperor does not need your throne. He already has one. To depose you would create a vacuum of chaos in this region, and chaos is bad for Roman commerce."
That answer frightened Marquis Raeven vastly more than a direct demand for surrender would have. A conqueror who wanted glory could be fought, reasoned with, or delayed. A conqueror who stopped because he had calculated that destroying you was mathematically inefficient was an entirely different breed of monster.
Gaius continued, his voice softening slightly, taking on the tone of a pragmatic advisor rather than an enemy envoy. "Your Majesty, I urge you to deeply understand the position you are currently in."
He stepped forward and pointed gracefully toward the Kingdom map. "Rome controls your entire western frontier. The Sorcerer Kingdom now controls your northern gateway. The Baharuth Empire supports them from the east. You are an island shrinking in a rising tide." He looked directly into Ramposa's tired eyes. "You cannot fight all three. You cannot even fight one."
Ramposa lowered his head, the crown resting heavily on his silver hair.
"The treaty," Gaius said quietly, "gives your people a chance to survive. It preserves your line. It stops the bleeding."
The King remained silent for a long time.
Gazef eventually stepped forward, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "And if we refuse your terms, Chancellor? What then?"
Gaius looked toward the Warrior Captain, his eyes devoid of malice, reflecting only bureaucratic certainty. "Then Rome continues expanding."
Raeven's eyes lowered to the table. "And eventually..."
"Eventually," Gaius finished softly, "there will be absolutely nothing left for us to negotiate."
…
The treaty was signed three days later.
King Ramposa III pressed his royal seal into the hot red wax with a trembling hand. Chancellor Gaius did the same with the heavy gold signet of the Roman Empire.
Rome and Re-Estize were formally at peace.
But it was not a peace between equals, and everyone in the room understood that bitter reality. The Kingdom had lost a massive portion of its most fertile territory, a devastating blow to its economy and prestige. Rome had won everything it had set out to take, and had done so with minimal casualties.
Yet, as Ramposa sat back in his chair, he knew he had accomplished something vitally important. His royal line survived. His people in the capital and the remaining eastern provinces survived. And the Kingdom, though maimed, had bought itself a chance to breathe, to rebuild, to exist for another day.
When the Roman delegation finally departed the throne room, Gazef stood alone beside the King.
"Your Majesty," Gazef said softly.
Ramposa looked toward his most loyal friend. "Yes, Gazef?"
"Do you believe this is the end of it? Will they truly stop?"
The King stared through the high stained-glass windows, looking out over his diminished capital. "No, Gazef."
"Then what is this?"
Ramposa let out a long, weary sigh. "I think this is only the beginning."
…
It was.
Because while Rome and Re-Estize finalized their negotiations in quiet, tense rooms, Ainz Ooal Gown moved openly upon the world stage.
E-Rantel was officially declared the capital of the newly founded Sorcerer Kingdom. The announcement, carried by magical transmission and terrified couriers, sent profound shockwaves across the entire continent.
A nation ruled entirely by an undead. It was an idea that would have been dismissed as the raving of a madman only months earlier. Now, it has clearly defined borders. It had an invincible army. It had a capital city. It had a recognized, functional government. And, most importantly, it had the explicit military and political backing of the Baharuth Empire.
Jircniv attended the formal declaration personally. He stood in the central plaza of E-Rantel beside Ainz, trying desperately to project imperial dignity while thousands of human citizens watched them in stunned silence.
Ainz stepped forward on the grand platform, raising the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown. The golden snakes winding around the staff seemed to writhe in the sunlight.
"From this day forward," Ainz projected, his magical voice washing over the massive crowd like a physical wave, "E-Rantel, and all territories under my protection, shall form the Sorcerer Kingdom."
His voice echoed sharply off the stone buildings.
"My rule shall bring absolute peace."
A nervous, disbelieving murmur spread through the crowd.
"Those who obey the law shall be protected under my banner," Ainz continued. He paused, allowing the silence to stretch, ensuring every soul in the plaza hung on his next words. "But those who threaten that peace..."
His crimson eyes flared brightly beneath his hood.
"...will discover exactly what it means to stand against the dead."
The crowd fell deathly silent.
In perfect, terrifying synchronization, the thousands of undead soldiers lining the plaza raised their weapons. The metallic sound of thousands of armor plates and steel blades moving simultaneously shattered the quiet.
The Sorcerer Kingdom had been born.
…
The next month brought more rapid, bloodless victories for Ainz.
Two neighboring cities surrendered immediately when the Death Knights appeared on the horizon. A third, heavily fortified town resisted. The Sorcerer King advanced personally, leaving his main army behind. The defending Kingdom commander, a proud and foolish man, demanded negotiations on his own terms.
Ainz offered him three chances to surrender unconditionally.
The commander refused.
The city fought for exactly four hours. Then, the walls collapsed under a barrage of mid-tier destruction magic, and Ainz floated through the breach.
The city surrendered instantly.
And then, something occurred that genuinely confused the human populace: no massacre followed. There was no widespread slaughter. No pillaging of the merchant districts. No burning of the temples. Ainz applied the exact same policy he had established in E-Rantel.
Disarm. Submit. Cooperate. Live.
The method was frighteningly effective. Humans across the northern territories rapidly discovered something unexpected about their new overlord. The undead were undeniably terrifying, yes, but they were also incredibly predictable.
They did not steal from the markets. They did not drink in the taverns and started brawls. They did not rape or pillage. They did not demand food or grain quotas to sustain themselves. They did not abandon their posts, and they never slept on guard duty. They simply obeyed.
For ordinary peasants, who had spent generations suffering under the arbitrary cruelty and taxation of corrupt Kingdom nobles, that unyielding reliability began to matter.
Some people, speaking in hushed tones in the safety of their homes, even whispered that living under the rule of the undead was significantly preferable to living under the rule of the human aristocracy.
Those whispers spread like wildfire.
Rome heard them.
Jircniv heard them.
And, standing high in his new fortress, Ainz heard them too.
…
One brisk evening, Ainz stood upon the highest stone balcony of his new administrative palace in E-Rantel.
The city spread out below him, a tapestry of warm lantern light against the encroaching dark. E-Rantel was already changing. The faded, tattered banners of Re-Estize had been entirely replaced by the dark, imposing standards of the Sorcerer Kingdom. Undead patrols walked the streets in predictable, flawless rotations. Human merchants, initially terrified, had cautiously reopened their shops when they realized the Death Knights were actually stopping petty crime. Construction had already begun on massive new administrative buildings designed by Nazarick's architects.
Ainz looked toward the southern horizon.
Rome.
He knew Maximus Messala had secured a treaty with Re-Estize. The Roman Emperor had deliberately chosen not to seize the royal capital when he easily could have.
That was interesting. Very interesting.
Demiurge stood quietly a few paces behind Ainz, his tail swishing slowly beneath his tailored suit.
"The humans have accepted your divine authority much more quickly than I initially anticipated, Ainz-sama," Demiurge noted smoothly.
Ainz nodded slowly, keeping his back turned. "Indeed."
Albedo, standing to Ainz's right, her black wings folded tightly against her dress, narrowed her golden eyes. "Because they fear you, my lord. As they should. They understand that resistance is annihilation."
"Fear is a useful tool," Ainz agreed, though his internal thoughts were far more pragmatic. Actually, they just realize I'm not going to tax them into starvation like their last boss.
Demiurge adjusted his round glasses, the lenses catching the moonlight. "However, it is worth noting that the Roman Empire has achieved a remarkably similar level of pacification without relying entirely upon the fear of extermination."
Ainz turned his head slightly. "Explain."
"Their methodology is fascinating, Ainz-sama," Demiurge said, genuine intellectual appreciation coloring his voice. "They provide immediate infrastructure. Paved roads. Standardized food distribution. Open trade routes. Employment in their auxiliary forces. Their newly conquered territories are reportedly becoming significantly more prosperous than they were under Kingdom rule. The human populace is surrendering not just out of fear of Roman steel, but out of a desire for Roman wealth."
Ainz stared back toward the south, his non-existent stomach doing a nervous flip. "I see."
"This Emperor Maximus appears to possess a profound, almost frightening understanding of large-scale governance and human psychology," Demiurge concluded.
Ainz internally winced. Of course he does. He's running a massive human empire effortlessly while I'm still trying to figure out how to read these damn economic reports without Albedo noticing.
Outwardly, Ainz remained the picture of composed, absolute majesty. "Continue observing him, Demiurge."
"It is already being done, my lord. Shadow Demons are stationed along their newly formed borders."
"Has there been any new information regarding his military capabilities? Or his origins?"
Demiurge shook his head slightly. "Nothing conclusive. Their anti-divination countermeasures are sophisticated. We know their infantry is highly disciplined and utilizes mass-produced magical armaments, but the upper limits of Maximus's personal power remain a total mystery."
Ainz's gaze remained fixed on the horizon. The Roman Emperor had gained enormous territory in a fraction of the time it took most nations to mobilize. But more importantly, he had deliberately refrained from attacking Nazarick or probing the borders of E-Rantel.
So far.
That was a vital piece of information. Ainz did not want a war with Rome. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. A war with a highly organized, magically advanced human empire could drain Nazarick's resources and expose their weaknesses. An alliance, however, might be incredibly useful.
But Maximus was an unpredictable variable. And in Ainz's cautious mind, unpredictable opponents were the most dangerous kind.
Ainz turned away from the balcony, his robes sweeping dramatically over the stone. "Send an envoy."
Demiurge smiled, anticipating the move. "To Rome, Ainz-sama?"
"Yes. Let us see if this Emperor prefers diplomacy over the sword when facing an equal."
…
The Roman court in the newly constructed provincial capital received the Sorcerer Kingdom's envoy two weeks later.
Maximus read the elegant, unnervingly polite letter personally. He was sitting comfortably in his temporary imperial audience chamber, the room stripped of Kingdom gaudiness and replaced with austere Roman marble and crimson banners.
Calca Bessarez sat beside him. Her presence as Empress had become normal enough that most Roman senators and generals no longer openly stared. Though many still did. Not because she was a foreign queen, but because the union of Rome and the Holy Kingdom had transformed into something much larger than a mere political marriage alliance. Calca had adapted rapidly to Roman politics. She had shed the naive idealism of her past and embraced the pragmatic, driving ambition of her husband. She had become one of the most influential, respected voices in the empire.
She leaned over, placing a slender, manicured hand upon the edge of the parchment. "So?"
Maximus looked up from the letter, his dark eyes calculating. "Ainz Ooal Gown wants formal diplomatic relations."
"Will you accept?"
Maximus leaned back in his heavy chair, tapping his chin. "Yes."
Calca raised a delicate eyebrow. "That quickly? He is an undead overlord who just consumed a major city."
"He controls E-Rantel, Calca. He commands a military force that doesn't need supply lines."
"That isn't enough to make you hesitate," she countered smoothly, knowing him too well. "I've seen you order legions into worse odds."
"No," Maximus admitted, a faint smile touching his lips. He looked toward the large strategic map on the table. "I am accepting because he has demonstrated that he can conquer and hold territory with relatively little damage to civilian infrastructure. He didn't butcher E-Rantel. He absorbed it."
Calca studied his face. "You respect him."
Maximus's smile grew slightly, a genuine expression of professional acknowledgment. "I respect anyone who builds something that has a chance to survive him."
She laughed quietly, the sound bright in the austere room. "Careful, Maximus. That sounds dangerously close to admiration."
"Don't exaggerate."
"You are."
Maximus picked up the letter again, ignoring her teasing. "What matters is that our strategic interests currently overlap."
"Such as?"
"Trade." He pointed to E-Rantel on the map. "He holds the northern crossroads. Security." He pointed to the eastern border. "He keeps the Baharuth Empire occupied and looking away from us. And, most importantly, preventing an unnecessary, grinding war of attrition."
Calca nodded slowly, understanding the geopolitical board. "You believe he wants peace."
"I believe he wants time," Maximus corrected sharply.
"Those are two very different things."
"Exactly," Maximus said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Ainz's elegant signature. "And that is exactly why I am accepting his envoy. Because I need time just as much as he does."
…
The initial meetings between the Roman envoy and the Sorcerer Kingdom delegation took place at a neutral, hastily constructed border fortress.
The preliminary talks lasted six exhausting hours. No grand treaty was signed. Not yet. But the groundwork was laid. Trade agreements were tentatively discussed. Military boundaries and patrol limits were outlined to prevent accidental skirmishes. Prisoner exchanges were established. Permanent diplomatic channels were opened.
Most importantly, both nations formally acknowledged one another.
Rome recognized the sovereignty of the Sorcerer Kingdom.
The Sorcerer Kingdom recognized the sovereignty of the Roman Empire.
The continent had gained a terrifying new political reality overnight. Two massive, expanding empires now stood where there had previously been a collection of scattered, bickering feudal kingdoms. Rome dominated the west and south. The Sorcerer Kingdom commanded the north. And trapped between them, gasping for air, was the increasingly diminished Re-Estize Kingdom.
…
Then came the unexpected proposal.
It arrived not from Rome, nor from Nazarick, but from King Ramposa III.
A formal summit.
Three nations at one table. Rome. The Sorcerer Kingdom. Re-Estize.
The Baharuth Empire was invited to attend as a neutral observer, given their alliance with Ainz.
Maximus received the invitation and immediately agreed, seeing the immense political theater it offered. Ainz agreed as well, recognizing the opportunity to gather intelligence on Maximus directly.
When Emperor Jircniv received his invitation in Arwintar, he read the parchment, set it down on his desk, and nearly laughed himself into a coughing fit.
"A summit?" Jircniv wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye.
His lead secretary nodded nervously. "Yes, Your Majesty. In E-Rantel."
Jircniv stood up, walking toward the grand windows of his study. "Three powers sitting around one table. An undead god, a Roman conqueror, and a broken old king." He shook his head, a wide, manic smile on his face. "This continent really has lost its mind."
…
The summit took place inside the heavily fortified inner keep of E-Rantel.
The city had once belonged to Re-Estize. Now, it belongs to Ainz. Yet, as the foreign delegations arrived, they found the streets spotlessly clean. Businesses were open and thriving. Human citizens walked calmly beneath the watchful, silent gaze of undead patrols.
Roman observers arrived under imperial crimson banners, their legionnaires marching with mechanical precision. Re-Estize nobles arrived beneath faded royal standards, looking nervous and deeply out of place. Baharuth envoys watched carefully from the sidelines, taking meticulous notes.
The summit chamber was massive, dominated by a large, circular table of dark wood.
Maximus entered first. He wore a stunning tunic of imperial red and white, a golden laurel resting on his brow. Calca walked beside him, radiating quiet authority. General Marcus and several high-ranking Roman officers followed, their hands resting casually near their sword hilts.
Then King Ramposa entered. He looked ten years older than he had a month prior. He was tired, his posture slightly stooped, but he still carried the dignity of a king fighting for the survival of his people.
Finally, the heavy oak doors groaned open.
Ainz Ooal Gown entered the chamber.
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet instantly. The ambient magical pressure was heavy enough to make the Re-Estize nobles gasp for air. Ainz glided forward, Albedo and Demiurge trailing closely behind him like magnificent, lethal shadows.
Maximus looked at Ainz.
Ainz looked at Maximus.
Neither spoke. For several agonizing seconds, the room was completely silent, the tension vibrating in the air like a plucked bowstring.
Then, Maximus smiled. It was a sharp, confident expression. "Your Majesty."
Ainz inclined his skeletal head a fraction of an inch. "Emperor Maximus."
Their eyes remained locked. Two rulers. Two impossible nations. Two beings who had shattered the history of the New World simply by appearing within it.
Standing in the observer's gallery, Jircniv watched the exchange, his stomach churning. This is absurd, he thought. If those two decide to fight right now, this entire city will be a crater in five minutes.
The meeting formally began.
King Ramposa, acting as the desperate mediator, spoke first. "The purpose of this summit is simple. We cannot continue existing in a state of perpetual, undeclared tension. We cannot continue fighting one another indefinitely."
Maximus nodded slowly. "Agreed."
Ainz said nothing, merely steepling his skeletal fingers.
Ramposa looked nervously toward the undead king. "The Sorcerer Kingdom now controls E-Rantel and several surrounding northern territories."
"Correct," Ainz said, his voice vibrating through the wood of the table.
"Rome controls much of the western territory," Ramposa continued, gesturing to the map spread between them.
"Correct," Maximus echoed.
"The remaining Re-Estize Kingdom lies squarely between your spheres of influence." Ramposa took a deep, steadying breath. "I propose a formal, binding recognition of existing borders."
Maximus rested his chin on his hand, considering it. "Continue."
"No territorial claims against one another's current holdings," Ramposa stated.
"Reasonable," Maximus said.
"Freedom of trade and movement for authorized merchants across all three borders."
"Agreed."
"Mutual recognition of absolute sovereignty."
Ainz finally spoke, his glowing eyes tracking across the map. "Accepted."
Ramposa looked toward Maximus, then back to Ainz. He played his final, most desperate card. "And a pact of strict military non-aggression."
Maximus leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes analyzing the old king. "For how long?"
"Twenty years," Ramposa said. It was enough time for his grandson to grow. Enough time for Re-Estize to rebuild its military.
Ainz remained completely silent.
Maximus turned his gaze from the King to the Sorcerer King. "What do you say, Ainz Ooal Gown? Does twenty years suit your grand design?"
Ainz thought rapidly. Twenty years meant nothing to an immortal undead. But it meant twenty years to gather intelligence, twenty years to solidify his grip on the north, and twenty years to figure out exactly what kind of technology and magic this Roman Empire possessed.
"Twenty years," Ainz said slowly, his voice echoing with finality, "is acceptable."
In the gallery, Jircniv stared. That was it? No threats of annihilation? No magical posturing? No demands for tribute? He almost laughed out loud. The world had truly, fundamentally changed. Monsters were negotiating like diplomats.
The treaty was drafted by a team of sweating scribes. Clause after clause was examined, debated, and refined by Gaius and Demiurge, two terrifyingly brilliant intellects engaging in a bloodless war of semantics. Trade tariffs. Border delineations. Diplomatic immunity parameters. Merchant protection clauses. Prisoner exchange protocols. Military mobilization notification requirements.
Eventually, the final, heavy parchment document was placed upon the center of the table.
Maximus took a silver pen, his hand steady.
Ainz extended a skeletal finger toward the parchment, generating a pulse of dark magic to act as his ink.
Ramposa looked between the two towering figures. He sighed, a sound of profound exhaustion, but then he smiled faintly. "Perhaps, gentlemen, this is better than war."
Maximus nodded, his eyes meeting Ainz's once more. "For once, King Ramposa, I agree."
Maximus signed.
Ainz signed.
Ramposa signed.
Three wax seals. Three rulers. Three states.
The treaty was complete.
…
After the summit concluded, Maximus stepped out onto the high stone balcony overlooking the bustling streets of E-Rantel. The winter air was biting, but refreshing after the stuffy politics of the chamber.
A moment later, Ainz Ooal Gown glided out to join him.
For a long while, they simply stood side by side, watching the city. Human merchants haggled with traveling Roman traders. Undead soldiers stood guard at the intersections. Baharuth observers walked through the diplomatic district.
It was strange. It was unnatural. But it was almost peaceful.
Ainz finally broke the silence. "Your empire grew remarkably quickly, Maximus."
Maximus glanced at the towering skeleton, undisturbed by the proximity of the undead aura. "So did yours, Ainz."
"I had certain... advantages," Ainz replied vaguely.
"So did I."
Ainz stared straight ahead, his red eyes dimming slightly in contemplation. "You don't seem particularly surprised by what I am. Most humans cower or draw their swords."
Maximus smiled a genuine, quiet smile. "I've seen stranger things, Ainz."
Ainz's red eyes narrowed slightly, turning toward the human. "Have you truly?"
"Absolutely."
A moment of heavy silence passed between them. The wind caught Maximus's crimson cloak and Ainz's dark robes.
Then, Ainz spoke, his voice losing some of its theatrical, booming quality, becoming something closer to a solemn promise. "I would prefer peaceful, profitable relations between our nations, Emperor Maximus."
"So would I, Sorcerer King."
"However..." Ainz looked down at him, the red lights flaring with sudden, terrifying intensity. "I will protect the Sorcerer Kingdom and its people with everything I possess."
Maximus did not flinch. He met the gaze of the undead god with the unyielding, iron will of Rome. "And I will protect the Roman Empire with everything I possess."
Their eyes remained locked. Neither smiled. Both fully understood the reality of the situation.
The treaty they had just signed was not friendship. It was a mutual recognition of danger. It was respect born of lethal potential. And it was a promise. Neither empire would attack the other. Not today. Perhaps not tomorrow.
But both rulers, looking out over the changing world, understood that the continent was large enough for cooperation... and dangerous enough that they might eventually need it to survive whatever else lurked in the uncharted corners of the map.
Maximus extended his right hand.
Ainz looked at it. He looked at the warm, flesh-and-blood hand of the human conqueror, and then at the sharp, fleshless bones of his own fingers.
After a moment of hesitation, Ainz reached out.
They shook hands.
A human Emperor and an undead Sorcerer King.
The moment was witnessed by dozens of diplomats, spies, and nobles from across the continent standing in the courtyard below. And within hours, rumors began spreading on fast horses and magical winds.
The world was no longer dominated by petty kings and feudal lords. It was dominated by empires.
…
Far to the east, in the heavily warded sanctum of the Slane Theocracy, the news arrived like a death knell.
A massive Roman Empire in the west. A terrifying Sorcerer Kingdom in the north. A completely neutralized Re-Estize Kingdom in the center. A strengthened, opportunistic Baharuth Empire in the east.
The Cardinal Council gathered in an emergency midnight session. The air in the round chamber was thick with incense and palpable dread.
One elderly cardinal, his hands shaking, read the final intelligence report detailing the E-Rantel treaty. He finished, lowering the parchment to the table. "They have recognized one another. The undead abomination and the foreign conqueror."
Another cardinal, his face pale, asked, "And Rome? Will they not purge the undead in the name of humanity?"
"No," the old cardinal whispered. "They've made peace with them. They shook hands."
Absolute silence gripped the room. The very foundations of their religious worldview were cracking.
A younger cardinal slammed his fist against the table, his face red with fury. "This is unacceptable! We must mobilize the Scriptures! We must launch a crusade!"
The oldest cardinal looked at him with exhausted, hollow eyes. "Why?"
"Because humanity is becoming surrounded!" The young man stood up, frantically pointing at the massive map on the wall. He pointed west. "Rome." He pointed north. "The undead kingdom." He pointed east. "The Empire."
He swallowed hard, panic bleeding into his voice. "We are running out of time."
The oldest cardinal closed his eyes, resting his face in his hands.
"No, brother," the old man said quietly. "We are not running out of time. We are running out of options."
…
Back in the heart of Rome, miles away from the fragile peace of E-Rantel, Maximus stood alone in the grand imperial war room of Nova Roma.
The treaty with Re-Estize rested upon one marble table. The treaty with the Sorcerer Kingdom rested upon another. His empire stretched farther than he had ever imagined when he first arrived in this world with a handful of loyal men.
A year ago, Rome did not exist here. Now, it was arguably the greatest economic and military power on the continent.
Maximus stared at the master map covering the entire wall. Rome. The Sorcerer Kingdom. Re-Estize. Baharuth. The Holy Kingdom of Roble. The Slane Theocracy.
And beyond them... vast, uncharted territories still completely unknown.
He smiled, a dark, ambitious expression. The world had finally begun to understand what Rome intended. Rome was not here to raid. Rome was not here merely to survive. Rome was not here to defend itself behind high walls.
Rome was here to build. To conquer. To rule.
The heavy doors opened quietly, and Chancellor Gaius entered, carrying a thick ledger.
"Your Majesty," Gaius said softly, not wanting to break the Emperor's concentration.
Maximus turned, clasping his hands behind his back. "Yes, Gaius?"
"We've received the latest provincial census data, compiled from the newly annexed western territories."
"And?"
Gaius handed him the heavy document, a rare smile touching the bureaucrat's face. "The Roman Empire has officially crossed eight million citizens."
Maximus stared at the number written in neat black ink. Eight million souls. Eight million taxpayers, soldiers, farmers, and builders.
He smiled. "Good."
Gaius hesitated, adjusting his glasses. "There is more, Majesty."
"What is it?"
"The Imperial Senate has formally requested your authorization to begin planning the logistical framework for the next wave of expansion."
Maximus's smile widened, his eyes flashing with the cold fire of conquest. "Where?"
Gaius walked to the map and placed a series of small, black markers upon the southern territories, far away from the borders of Re-Estize or Ainz Ooal Gown. It was a region of independent city-states, rich, untapped farmland, deep-water ports, and poorly defended mountain passes. A completely new frontier.
Maximus looked at the markers. He looked at the vast, wealthy southern lands that had not yet felt the tread of Roman boots. Then he looked up toward the golden Roman eagle hanging proudly above the chamber doors.
"The treaties we signed in the north gave us peace," Gaius noted quietly.
Maximus picked up one of the black markers, rolling it between his fingers. "Yes, Gaius. They gave us peace."
Maximus slammed the marker down onto the map, right in the center of the wealthiest southern city-state.
"Which means," the Emperor smiled, "we finally have the time and secure flanks to conquer somewhere else."
Outside the palace, the great bronze bells of Nova Roma began ringing, echoing across the marble city. Across the sprawling capital, millions of Roman citizens celebrated another year of unprecedented prosperity and absolute security.
And in the barracks, beneath the fluttering crimson banners, forty thousand legionnaires quietly began sharpening their swords.
Because peace had not ended Rome's expansion. It had simply provided the Empire with a better, stronger foundation from which to launch its next conquest.