Chapter 6: The Thunder God's Charade
The village materialized through morning mist like a wound torn into the earth—smoke coiling skyward in black ribbons, flames still gnawing at skeletal structures. Surviving villagers huddled in the town square like sheep cornered by wolves, their captors gleaming in polished armor that caught the sun's indifferent light.
Yet the predators had become prey.
A Death Knight—summoned from the abyssal depths by Ainz's necromantic will—carved through the knights with the methodical precision of a butcher. Each swing of its massive blade sent arterial spray painting the cobblestones crimson. Screams punctured the air, sharp and desperate, as metal buckled and bone shattered beneath relentless steel.
Crunch. Squelch. Clang.
The undead monstrosity focused exclusively on armored targets, passing within arm's reach of cowering villagers without sparing them a glance. Among the chaos, two figures stood out: Londes, his weathered face carved with grim determination, and Belius, whose gilded pauldrons betrayed wealth far exceeding his courage.
"It's only killing the men in armor—and it's savoring every moment!" Londes bellowed, rallying what remained of his scattered forces.
"Gods above, grant us mercy!" A young knight's prayer dissolved into a gurgling shriek as the Death Knight's blade found his throat.
"You incompetent fools! Take down that abomination!" Belius's voice cracked like thin ice beneath too much weight. "What do I pay you for?!"
But the Death Knight had already selected its next course. It pivoted toward Belius with the terrible inevitability of falling stone, each footfall a death knell echoing across blood-soaked earth.
"This—this can't be happening." Belius stumbled backward, his expensive boots slipping in pooled gore. "I'm too wealthy to perish in this wretched backwater! You there! Form a wall! Be my shield while I escape!"
"Stand your ground, Belius!" London roared. "We don't abandon our position!"
"Protect me! I'll pay handsomely! Two hundred gold pieces—no, five hundred!" Belius's voice climbed octaves with each offer, desperation stripping away aristocratic pretense. "One thousand! Name your price!"
The Death Knight closed the distance with unhurried certainty. Terror nailed Belius's feet to the ground, overriding every screaming instinct to flee. His bladder released. Warm liquid darkened his expensive breeches.
"Don't just stand there gawking! Help me! Please!" His voice broke entirely. "Take everything I own! Just save me!"
The remaining knights stood frozen, watching horror unfold like spectators at a macabre theater performance.
"No—no way. I didn't sign up for this." One knight dropped his sword, the metallic clatter swallowed by surrounding chaos.
"To hell with duty!" Another turned to run.
But Londes held firm, a lighthouse against overwhelming darkness. "Hold steady! Stay strong! Our brothers' sacrifice must mean something. Give the archers time to retreat. Prepare yourselves!"
The survivors—perhaps a dozen—gathered their courage like fragments of shattered glass and charged. They knew. Everyone knew. This was their final stand, a suicide mission written in blood and inevitability. Most fell within heartbeats. Londes died last, blade still clutched in defiant fingers even as life fled his eyes.
"Stop, Death Knight." Ainz's command cut through carnage like a conductor's baton, silencing an orchestra. "You've served me admirably."
Murmurs rippled through villagers and surviving knights alike as Ainz and Albedo descended from the sky behind the undead warrior, floating with supernatural grace. Ainz wore an ornate mask over his skeletal features—bone concealed by silver and sapphire, just human enough to avoid immediate panic.
"My name is Ainz Ooal Gown. It is my distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance." His voice carried cultured warmth. "Please, don't concern yourselves with my Death Knight."
"TREMBLE, INSIGNIFICANT MORTALS!"
Thunder cracked across a cloudless sky.
All heads snapped toward the source—a figure hovering opposite Ainz and Albedo, silhouetted against the sun like an avenging deity. Red hair whipped in the wind that existed solely around him, wild as flame. His muscular frame stood at least seven feet tall, wrapped in furs and leather, with a massive war hammer slung across his back. Lightning danced between his fingers, crackling with barely contained violence.
"BEHOLD! I AM THOR—THE BERSERKER, THE STRONGEST, GOD OF THUNDER AND DESTRUCTION!" His voice boomed like artillery fire, each word punctuated by theatrical thunder. "YOU PATHETIC INSECTS HAVE FORGOTTEN TRUE POWER! YOUR MEANINGLESS SQUABBLES OFFEND ME!"
Oh gods, oh gods, why did I agree to this? They're all staring. What if I mess up my lines? Should I strike a different pose? Is my voice loud enough? Maybe I should add more lightning effects—no, that might be too much. Stay in character. You're the mighty Thor. You're terrifying. You're—
"HIGH PRIEST AINZ!" Thor's hammer pointed dramatically at the masked figure. "Deliver my divine decree to these wretched creatures!"
Did that sound powerful enough? Should I have said 'warning' instead of 'decree'? Focus!
Ainz bowed slightly—a priest acknowledging his god. "Tell your superior—your master—of my Lord's mercy shown this day." His voice carried across the square, reaching every ear. "However, I must caution you: commit such heinous acts in this territory again, and Lord Thor shall bring death and destruction upon your entire kingdom. He will crack mountains. Boil seas. Turn your cities into fields of ash and lightning-scorched stone."
"FLEE, MORTALS!" Thor raised both arms skyward, and actual lightning streaked down, striking earth fifty feet away with explosive force that left glass where dirt had been. "SPEAK MY NAME TO ALL WHO WILL LISTEN! LET THEM KNOW THAT THOR HAS AWAKENED!"
Was that too much? The villagers look terrified. Mission accomplished? Wait, one of them fainted. Okay, definitely too much.
Within minutes, every surviving knight had fled—some on horseback, most on foot, all abandoning weapons and dignity in equal measure.
Acting is absolutely exhausting, Ainz thought, maintaining perfect stillness.
I think I pulled something in my shoulder with that last lightning strike. Why does dramatic posing hurt so much? Thor's internal monologue ran contrary to his unflinching exterior. Do gods get muscle cramps? They shouldn't, right? Oh no, my left leg is falling asleep from hovering like this.
The Village Chief approached with trembling steps, wringing weathered hands. "Uh—pardon me, sir."
Thor's head turned with calculated slowness, red eyes (contact lenses, actually, but nobody needed to know that) fixing on the elderly man. "SPEAK."
Too aggressive? Should I tone it down? He looks like he might have a heart attack.
"Why... why did you come here?"
Before Thor could thunder another dramatic response, Ainz interjected smoothly. "My Lord Thor has awakened from his ancient slumber—centuries of rest beneath northern mountains—and cannot stand idly by while innocent people are slaughtered like cattle." His voice carried practiced reverence. "He may be a God of Thunder and Destruction, but meaningless death offends his divine nature. He exists to test the strong, not permit the massacre of the defenseless."
Gasps propagated through the gathered crowd like ripples across still water. A god—a God of Destruction—had personally intervened on their behalf.
Thor descended slowly, boots touching earth with surprising gentleness despite his intimidating presence. Up close, his physique was even more impressive—muscles layered upon muscles, scars crisscrossing exposed skin like a roadmap of violence survived. His hammer—Mjölnir, he'd called it—radiated malevolence, as if the weapon itself hungered for battle.
"BE AT EASE, TINY CREATURES." Thor's voice dropped to merely thunderous rather than deafening. "THIS VILLAGE DWELLS BENEATH MY PROTECTION NOW. FEAR NOT THE DARKNESS, FOR MY LIGHTNING SHALL PIERCE IT."
That sounded better. More reassuring. Still godly, but friendly-godly. Is that a thing? It should be a thing.
Despite divine reassurance, uncertainty lingered in the villagers' eyes—the kind of wariness prey animals never quite shed, even when predators claim benevolence. Ainz recognized this immediately and adjusted strategy.
"However," the High Priest continued, voice carrying just enough edge, "my Lord does not dispense divine protection freely. He expects... compensation. Tribute befitting a god's intervention."
The atmosphere shifted instantly. Uncertainty transformed into eager gratitude—a problem they could solve, a transaction they understood. Gold for protection. Prayer for power. The familiar mathematics of faith and commerce.
Tension dissolved like salt in water. Villagers began pressing forward, voices overlapping in their haste to pledge service, offer goods, swear oaths. A religion was crystallizing before their eyes, faith forged in blood and desperation, and the primal human need to believe something stronger cared about their survival.
It's working, Ainz observed with satisfaction.
They actually believe me. Oh wow. Oh no. This is a lot of responsibility. What if I accidentally let something slip? Should I be taking notes? Do gods take notes? Thor maintained his intimidating stance while internally spiraling. Focus on the role. You're the mighty Thor. Unshakable. Powerful. Not at all worried about forgetting your lines or tripping over your own hammer or—
"HIGH PRIEST." Thor's voice cut through the growing commotion like an axe through butter. "ATTEND ME. WE MUST DISCUSS... DIVINE MATTERS."
Translation: I need a break before I panic.
Ainz spent the next hour in deep conversation with the Village Chief, extracting information with surgical precision. Currency values, trade routes, local power structures—every detail catalogued and analyzed. Thor loomed nearby, occasionally interjecting dramatically but mostly serving as an intimidating decoration while his mind wandered.
Should I practice my dramatic voice more? Maybe study some classical theater? Do they have a theater here? Focus, you're supposed to be listening.
The Chief outlined the geopolitical landscape: Three major powers carved up this region of the world. First, Nazarick—their own mysterious territory, origin unknown. The village of Carne belonged to the Re-Estize Kingdom, bordered by the immense mountain range called the Azerlisia Mountains, running north to south like a divine spine. Beyond those peaks lay the Baharuth Empire, aggressive and expansionist. These two nations maintained hostile relations spanning decades, their armies clashing repeatedly on the Katze Plains near the fortified city of E-Rantel. The third power, the Slane Theocracy, commanded territory south of both kingdoms—religiously zealous, politically cunning, perpetually meddling.
Based on heraldry adorning the attackers' shields, the Village Chief initially suspected Baharuth Empire involvement. However, he acknowledged another possibility—that the Slane Theocracy orchestrated the raid specifically to maintain tensions between Re-Estize and Baharuth, preventing an alliance against Theocracy interests.
"Is there something troubling you, High Priest?" The Chief noticed Ainz's contemplative silence.
"No, everything is satisfactory. Is there anything else of strategic importance I should convey to Lord Thor?"
"Let's see..." The old man's brow furrowed with concentration. "The nearest city is E-Rantel, our kingdom's capital—well, one of three capitals, technically. The surrounding wilderness harbors goblins, orcs, ogres, and worse. But the main roads are relatively safe. Adventurers hunt these lands regularly, culling monster populations before they can threaten settlements."
"Adventurers?" Thor leaned forward slightly, genuine curiosity penetrating his theatrical persona.
Oops, that wasn't dramatic enough. Should I add thunder?
"Mercenaries who specialize in monster extermination, Lord Thor," the Chief explained quickly, clearly nervous, addressing the god directly. "They work for coin, accepting contracts through guilds. If you require their services, there's an Adventurer's Guild in E-Rantel—the largest in the region."
"An organized guild system for mercenary forces?" Ainz's interest sharpened. "How large is E-Rantel's population?"
"I cannot provide exact numbers, High Priest, but substantially larger than our village. Perhaps forty thousand souls? The city serves as a critical fortress between Re-Estize and Baharuth—triple-walled, heavily garrisoned, perpetually prepared for siege."
"I see. Your information proves most valuable."
If we want comprehensive intelligence, we'll need to establish a presence in the capital, Ainz calculated. A god requires a temple. A religion needs infrastructure. This could work perfectly.
That afternoon, the village held funeral rites for their dead.
Twenty-three corpses lay wrapped in whatever cloth could be spared—sheets, tablecloths, curtains torn from windows no longer standing. The air hung heavy with grief, thick as morning fog, punctuated by choked sobs and whispered prayers.
Thor stood at the head of the mass grave, hammer planted before him like a gravestone, both massive hands wrapped around its handle. For this moment, the theatrics fell away. His voice, when it came, carried no thunder—just solemn weight.
"WARRIORS FEAST IN MY HALLS." The words weren't shouted but spoken with absolute certainty. "THOSE WHO FALL DEFENDING HOME AND KIN EARN HONORED SEATS AT MY TABLE. YOUR DEAD SHALL WANT FOR NOTHING IN THE AFTERLIFE. THEY FOUGHT. THEY BLED. THEY PROTECTED WHAT THEY LOVED UNTO DEATH."
He raised one hand skyward. Lightning descended—not explosive or violent, but controlled, elegant even. It split into twenty-three individual streams, each touching a wrapped body with ethereal blue-white radiance before dissipating like morning dew.
"I MARK THEM AS MINE. WHEN THEIR SOULS REACH THE GATES OF THE AFTERLIFE, THEY WILL BEAR MY SEAL. NONE SHALL BAR THEIR PASSAGE."
Please let that look impressive. Did I count right? Was it twenty-three bodies? Oh gods, what if I miscounted? Should I check? No, too late, committed now.
The villagers believed utterly, and that belief was all that mattered.
Ainz and Albedo stood apart from the ceremony, observing. Ainz held a Wand of Resurrection—a game item, cash shop purchase, capable of returning the dead to life with all memories and personality intact. They couldn't use it. Wouldn't use it. Corpses rising would shatter everything they'd built, transform gratitude into terror.
Some gifts were too expensive to give.
Later, Thor knelt in the dirt—pride swallowed, godly persona abandoned—and gathered two small bodies against his chest. Enri and Nemu, orphaned by the raid, clung to him like drowning sailors to driftwood, tiny fists twisted in his furs as they sobbed.
Their parents lay in that mass grave. Their world had ended this morning.
"Listen to me." Thor's voice dropped to barely above a whisper, meant only for them. "I know this hurts. I know everything seems broken. But I promise you both—I swear on every oath a god can make—I will be the best father I possibly can. You'll never want for protection, for food, for love. I'll teach you to be strong. I'll keep you safe."
Please let me be good enough for them. Please don't let me mess this up.
Enri's small voice emerged muffled against his chest. "You... you promise?"
"I promise."
They cried themselves into exhausted sleep against him. Thor didn't move for an hour, kneeling in the dirt, letting them take whatever comfort his presence could provide.
Later—after arrangements were made, after the Village Chief and his wife agreed to care for the girls while Thor established his "divine realm" elsewhere—the god rejoined Ainz and Albedo for a walk through the recovering village.
Reconstruction had begun immediately. Humans were resilient like that—they buried their dead and rebuilt their homes, sometimes on the same day. Hammers rang against nails. Saws bit through the timber. Life reasserted itself against death's temporary victory.
Thanks to our intervention, the story of Ainz Ooal Gown and the Thunder God Thor saving Carne Village will spread like wildfire across the countryside, Ainz calculated with satisfaction.
Our reputation should propagate rapidly through normal human gossip networks, Thor added internally, briefly dropping his constant internal monologue of insecurity. If other players from Yggdrasil are trapped in this world, they'll hear about us. They'll seek us out, either as allies or enemies. Either way, we'll have information.
We should minimize human casualties moving forward unless necessary, Ainz reflected. Can't risk antagonizing potential players. Besides, a god's reputation requires a worthy cause—something that could win popular support, maybe even backing from one of the major kingdoms. Thor could become a patron deity. I could establish a church. The possibilities—
"I'm exhausted," Thor announced aloud, the dramatic persona reasserting itself. His shoulders slumped slightly—the only crack in his godly facade. "Acting is harder than actual combat."
So much harder. My throat hurts from all the yelling. My dramatic poses have given me back pain. How do professional actors do this?
"Today's mission exceeded all expectations," Ainz agreed warmly.
"Let's return home, Albedo." Thor's voice carried genuine weariness beneath the theatrical layer. "I need to collapse in my bed and contemplate my life choices."
"Of course, Lord Thor." Albedo's response flowed smoothly as silk, perfectly subservient.
Their stroll was interrupted when a villager, a young man, early twenties, carrying lumber, crossed their path without noticing. Albedo's expression shifted microscopically, a flicker of disgust so brief it barely registered.
But Thor noticed. Thor noticed everything, hyperaware as a nervous actor scrutinizing audience reactions.
"That expression..." Thor stepped directly into Albedo's path, forcing her to stop. "You dislike humans."
Albedo's perfect mask remained intact. "What is there to like, Lord Thor? They're weak. Pathetic. Fragile insects that exist merely to be crushed beneath superior beings' feet."
Thor moved closer, invading her personal space with divine privilege. His hand rose to gently cup her chin, tilting her face upward until their eyes met—his red contact lenses meeting her golden irises.
"My dear succubus," he said softly, all thunder stripped from his voice, leaving only quiet intensity. "I understand your feelings. Truly, I do. I won't attempt to change what you believe about humanity's worth." His thumb brushed across her cheekbone. "But I need you to do something for me. Pretend. Just... pretend to care. Pretend to be friendly. For our plans to succeed, we need them to trust us."
Please don't argue. I'm too tired for an argument. Just agree. Please.
"Will you do that, Albedo? For me?"
Albedo's eyes widened fractionally—surprise, perhaps, at being addressed so intimately. She nodded slowly, almost shyly, the movement barely perceptible.
Thor smiled, genuine warmth breaking through his usual dramatic intensity. He was tempted to remove her helmet, reward her compliance with a kiss, when urgent voices drew his attention elsewhere.
"—more soldiers approaching at high speed—"
"—don't know whose banners—"
"—could be another attack—"
Ainz immediately diverted course toward the Village Chief. Thor and Albedo followed, the god's hand dropping casually to his hammer's handle.
"Problems seem to multiply like rabbits," Ainz observed. "Village Chief, what's the situation?"
"High Priest Ainz! Thank the gods—or, well, thank Lord Thor!" The old man's relief was palpable. "Scouts just reported more soldiers heading toward us at breakneck speed. Unknown origin."
"Is that so?" Ainz's tone remained utterly calm. "Don't concern yourself. We'll handle this situation. Please gather all surviving villagers around your house immediately. Once you've done so, meet me in the town square."
"ANOTHER BATTLE?" Thor's voice boomed suddenly, excitement bleeding through despite his exhaustion. "EXCELLENT! MY HAMMER THIRSTS!"
Oh no, please be friendlier. I don't have the energy for more dramatic fights today. Please just be friendly soldiers. Please.
The new arrivals thundered into the village moments later—perhaps thirty mounted warriors, armor gleaming, moving with military precision. Their leader rode at the front: a powerfully built man in his late thirties, handsome in a weathered way, bearing himself with the quiet confidence of someone who'd survived a hundred battles.
He made directly for the Village Chief, reining in his horse with practiced ease. Ainz stood nearby, Thor and Albedo positioned slightly behind—divine retinue observing mortal affairs.
"I am Gazef Stronoff, Chief Warrior of the Re-Estize Kingdom." His voice carried natural authority without arrogance. "His Majesty the King has commanded me to hunt down the rogue knights attacking border settlements. Your people are safe now. We'll protect you with our lives if necessary."
"Thank the gods—thank you, General Gazef!" The Village Chief practically wilted with relief.
Gazef's sharp eyes swept across the scene, cataloguing details: the blood-stained square, the destroyed buildings, the survivors' haunted expressions. His gaze lingered on Ainz's masked face, then tracked to Thor's imposing form.
"You're the village chief? And who are these... unusual individuals?"
"This gentleman saved—" the Chief began enthusiastically.
"No need to burden the good general with excessive details," Ainz interrupted smoothly, stepping forward. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, General Stronoff. My name is Ainz Ooal Gown. I am merely a traveling magic caster who happened upon this settlement during the attack."
"What?" Gazef's expression shifted to genuine respect. "These people would have been slaughtered without your intervention." He inclined his head formally. "You have the Re-Estize Kingdom's gratitude, Sir Ainz. And please convey my thanks to your... companion as well."
His eyes tracked to Thor, clearly uncertain how to address the seven-foot deity radiating barely contained power.
"GRATITUDE IS UNNECESSARY, MORTAL." Thor's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "I DO NOT SEEK THANKS FOR PROTECTING THE WEAK. IT IS SIMPLY WHAT GODS DO."
Was that too dismissive? Should I have been friendlier? He seems nice. I should be nicer to nice people.
"General!" One of Gazef's soldiers galloped up, horse lathered with exertion. "We've spotted a large force—unknown origin—surrounding the village! They're closing in fast!"
The temperature dropped. Metaphorically, and also literally, Thor unconsciously releases enough cold divine energy that breath misted.
Gazef's hand moved to his sword, decades of combat instinct taking over. "Battle formation! Protect the civilians! Archers to elevated positions! Prepare for—"
"HALT." Thor's single word cut through rising panic like a blade through silk.
Every eye turned to him.
Thor took a single step forward, and lightning crawled across his shoulders like living serpents. His hammer rose from the ground seemingly of its own accord, floating into his waiting hand. Red eyes blazed with barely contained violence.
"The Slane Theocracy's special operations unit attacked Carne Village specifically to draw you out, Gazef Stronoff," Ainz explained calmly, as if discussing the weather rather than imminent battle. "They want the Chief Warrior of the Re-Estize Kingdom dead. You understand this is a trap, yes?"
"I do," Gazef confirmed grimly. "But I cannot abandon these people to their fate."
"HOW NOBLE." Thor's voice dripped with theatrical approval. "HOW FOOLISHLY, MAGNIFICENTLY NOBLE."
He's genuinely brave. I respect that. Should I tell him I respect that? No, stay in character.
"Though he recognizes the trap, Gazef Stronoff prepares to face overwhelming odds to protect innocents," Ainz continued, something like admiration coloring his tone. "Admirable. Tragic. Ultimately futile."
"But we care little for human political squabbles," Thor added, hammer beginning to crackle with building energy. Lightning danced between his fingers, across his arms, down his entire frame until he resembled a god-shaped thunderstorm barely contained in flesh.
"THIS IS AN OPPORTUNITY." Thor's grin was sharp enough to cut. "A chance to test the true extent of divine power against mortal military forces. To demonstrate exactly what a God of Thunder can accomplish when properly motivated."
This is insane. We're actually doing this. Oh gods, what if I mess up? What if my powers don't work right? What if—no. Stop. You're Thor. You're the strongest. You don't fear anything.
"WE SHALL NOT WASTE IT."
Distant war drums began to beat, rhythmic as a massive heartbeat.
The enemy was closing in.
Thunder rolled across cloudless sky, and Thor threw back his head and laughed—a sound like mountains breaking, like storms given voice, like the end of the world finding humor in its own inevitability.
"COME THEN!" he roared toward the encircling army, hammer raised high. "COME TEST YOURSELVES AGAINST A GOD! SHOW ME IF MORTAL WEAPONS CAN PIERCE DIVINE FLESH! SHOW ME IF YOUR COURAGE MATCHES YOUR AMBITION!"
Lightning struck the ground around him—once, twice, a dozen times, leaving scorched earth and glass where dirt had been.
"I AM THOR! GOD OF THUNDER! THE BERSERKER! THE STRONGEST!"
Please let this work. Please don't let me embarrass myself. Please—
"AND YOU WILL LEARN WHY EVEN GODS FEAR MY NAME!"
The enemy army crested the hill.
And the true battle began.
To Be Continued