Chapter 14: The Crimson Veil
The Great Tomb of Nazarick loomed eternal, a monument to power carved from darkness itself. Within its deepest sanctum—the throne room of the tenth floor—shadows danced like living things along walls adorned with the accumulated wealth of forty-one Supreme Beings. Here, where silence held dominion, two figures awaited their master's return.
Thor stood motionless as mountain stone, arms crossed over his crimson mantle. His silver hair caught what little light dared penetrate this sacred space, creating a halo effect that seemed almost mocking given his present stillness. The hammer Mjölnir rested against his hip, silent but radiating latent menace—a sleeping god that could wake at its master's whim.
Beside him, Albedo maintained her perfect posture, wings folded with geometric precision, golden eyes fixed upon the throne's entrance. The tension between them was palpable—not hostile, but expectant. The very air seemed to hold its breath.
Then came footsteps. Measured. Deliberate. The click of bone against marble.
Ainz Ooal Gown materialized from the shadows, his skeletal form wreathed in robes that whispered secrets with every movement. The red orbs of his eyes blazed brighter as they swept across his waiting guardians.
"Report, Albedo."
The words fell like anvils into still water, creating ripples that would soon become waves.
Albedo stepped forward, her movement fluid yet formal—a dance rehearsed ten thousand times in devotion. "I am here to report..." She paused, and in that pause, the weight of her next words seemed to bend reality itself. "...that Shalltear has betrayed us."
Thor's expression didn't change—a fact more unnerving than any dramatic reaction could have been. His mind, however, churned like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. How will Momonga face this thunder? Will he strike swift as lightning, or will he calculate like the strategist I've come to know?
"Master Source," Ainz commanded, his voice carrying the authority of absolute rule. "Open."
The air shimmered, twisted, cracked—and there it was. A translucent interface materialized before the Overlord, names cascading down like a roster of souls. Each bore the weight of creation, of hours spent crafting perfection by hands now absent from this world.
Most names glowed soft grey, peaceful as moonlight on still water.
But one—one name—burned.
Shalltear Bloodfallen. Red as fresh blood. Red as a warning. Red as war.
"I see why you believed Shalltear betrayed us," Ainz said, his skeletal fingers tracing the air before the crimson designation. Each word measured, weighed, considered.
"After conversing with Lord Thor, I checked the Master Source and discovered this abnormality," Albedo explained, her tone carrying professional detachment that barely masked the fury simmering beneath. "The corruption appeared without warning, without precedent."
Thor finally moved—a slight uncrossing of his arms, a minute shift in his stance. When he spoke, his voice carried the rumble of distant thunder. "The Vampire Brides that accompanied her have both perished. Their names vanished from the roster like smoke before the wind."
"Is there a chance Shalltear has died as well?" Ainz asked, though the question carried more hope than expectation.
"Were she deceased, her name would have followed her servants into oblivion," Thor replied, his gaze fixed on that crimson mark like a warrior studying an opponent's weakness. "Death leaves no lingering presence in the Master Source. This..." He gestured toward the glowing aberration. "This is something else entirely."
"Unfortunately, that hasn't happened," Albedo confirmed, her wings rustling with barely contained agitation—a whisper of feathers that spoke volumes her controlled voice would not.
Silence descended. Heavy. Suffocating.
Ainz stood motionless, his skeletal form a statue of contemplation. But Thor knew better—knew the calculating mind behind those burning eye sockets was racing through possibilities like lightning through storm-wracked skies.
Thor understood the dilemma without the need for explanation. They both did. Shalltear Bloodfallen—the True Vampire, Floor Guardian of the first to third floors—possessed an innate immunity that should have rendered mind control impossible. Her undead nature provided passive protection against all forms of mental manipulation. It was fundamental, absolute, unbreakable.
It should have been unbreakable.
"We've gathered that there are talents and martial arts in this world that didn't exist in Yggdrasil," Ainz said slowly, each word chosen with surgical precision. "Is it possible she has fallen under the influence of one of them?"
"I do not know," Albedo admitted, and the confession seemed to pain her. Her perfect composure cracked ever so slightly—a hairline fracture in porcelain. "However, it does not change the fundamental truth that she has revolted against the Supreme Beings." She drew herself up, wings spreading slightly, voice sharpening to a blade's edge. "I suggest we send a hunting party to deal with her immediately."
The temperature in the throne room seemed to drop.
The very shadows darkened.
This was no mere suggestion—this was judgment pronounced, sentence declared, execution demanded.
"I will lead our forces," Albedo continued, her golden eyes blazing with righteous fury. "Cocytus and Mare will accompany me as vice commanders. We will need that much firepower to take Shalltear down. Her strength, her abilities, her—"
"No."
One word. One syllable. Spoken with the finality of a mountain settling into its foundation.
Both Albedo and Ainz turned toward Thor, surprise flickering across their features—Albedo's more pronounced, Ainz's hidden behind his eternal death-mask grin.
Albedo had assumed—had believed—that Thor would support her decision. After all, hadn't he always advocated for decisive action? Hadn't his hammer fallen swiftly upon their enemies time and again? Hadn't he proven himself a warrior first, diplomat second?
But Thor was no mere warrior. He was a god. And gods played longer games than mortals could fathom.
"I feel that would be too hasty," Thor said, his words deliberate as glacial movement. "We must confirm whether she has revolted of her own free will or not. To act on assumption rather than knowledge is to invite disaster into our home."
"Agreed," Ainz said immediately, relief evident in the slight relaxation of his posture.
The Overlord's thoughts churned behind his skull's permanent grin. Thor could sense them, almost read them in the shifting intensity of those crimson orbs. If something like this can happen to the NPCs—to the children our friends created—we need to find out what it is and how to counter it. Otherwise, Nazarick doesn't crumble—it detonates from within.
"But—" Albedo began.
"If she betrayed us because she is displeased with me," Ainz interrupted gently, "or our treatment of her, I will understand. I will accept responsibility for failing one of our most precious guardians."
The confession hung in the air like morning mist.
Albedo's reaction was immediate and volcanic. "Displeased?!" The word erupted from her lips like magma from a ruptured earth. Her wings flared, her eyes blazed, her entire form radiated barely controlled fury that made the very air shimmer with heat. "If she truly thinks you've been anything less than benevolent—if she believes your mercy insufficient—I won't allow her to live! I'll tear her limb from limb myself! I'll scatter her ashes across—"
Thor moved.
One moment, he stood apart, the next his hand rested atop Albedo's head—firm yet gentle, like a father calming a tempest-tossed child. His fingers wove through her raven hair in slow, methodical strokes. The gesture was simple, primal, and effective.
The transformation was remarkable. Albedo's fury didn't vanish—it couldn't, not truly—but it banked like coals covered for the night. Her wings folded. Her breathing steadied. The murderous intensity in her eyes softened to mere determination.
"Please calm yourself, Albedo," Thor said quietly, his voice carrying the rumble of thunder heard from a distance—powerful yet not threatening. "Rage has its place. This is not it."
"Remember," Ainz added, stepping forward to join them, "our comrades—our friends, the Supreme Beings who walked these halls—created all of your personalities. They made you with all their hearts, pouring their creativity, their passion, their very essence into your design." He gestured broadly, encompassing not just Albedo but the entire tomb and all who dwelled within. "That includes the flaws as well as the virtues. The darkness as well as the light. You were made exactly as they wanted you—perfectly imperfect, wonderfully complex, beautifully real."
"And we love all of you for that," Thor said, his hand still resting on Albedo's head, his touch conveying warmth despite the cool temperature of his skin. "Every strength, every weakness, every quirk and quality. You are not machines to be programmed. You are people—created, yes, but no less genuine for it."
"So if Shalltear has indeed betrayed me," Ainz continued, his tone carrying sorrow now, "she is simply following the path that Peroroncino laid out for her. The seeds he planted, whether intentionally or not, have borne fruit. And we cannot condemn her for being what she was made to be."
But their philosophical discourse was interrupted by a sound—soft, almost inaudible, yet somehow thunderous in its implications.
"Loves me... loves me... Thor loves me..."
Both guardians turned toward Albedo, whose face had transformed into a portrait of pure, radiant joy. Her cheeks flushed crimson—not with anger now, but with something far more dangerous. Her golden eyes had gone distant, dreamy, lost in some private paradise.
Thor's hand stilled mid-stroke. A weary sigh escaped his lips—the sound of a god realizing he'd stepped into a trap of his own making.
"Albedo," he said slowly, carefully, like a man navigating a minefield in the dark, "are you listening? I said all of you. Meaning everyone in Nazarick. The entire collective. Not specifically—"
"I know, Lord Thor," Albedo interrupted, her voice carrying a sing-song quality that set off alarm bells in both male guardians' minds. "But 'all' includes me, doesn't it?" She turned her face up toward him, her expression hopeful as a sunrise, dangerous as a loaded crossbow. "Am I right, Lord Thor?"
Thor knew defeat when it stared him in the face with golden eyes and a too-sweet smile.
The memory of their conversation at the mansion flashed through his mind—that dangerous, wonderful, terrifying discussion that had shifted their relationship onto new and treacherous ground. He'd known then that he'd crossed a Rubicon of sorts. There would be no going back, no pretending, no comfortable distance.
Sometimes, a warrior must know when to retreat.
Other times, he must know when retreat is impossible.
With another sigh—this one carrying the weight of divine resignation—Thor wrapped his arms around Albedo from behind, pulling her back against his chest. His chin came to rest atop her head, his embrace firm yet tender. The gesture was possessive yet protective, intimate yet restrained.
"Yes," he admitted, the word rumbling through his chest and into her body where they connected. "That does include you."
The effect was instantaneous and dramatic.
"Yay!" Albedo's exclamation could have shattered glass if the throne room possessed any. "Lord Thor loves me! This is the greatest day of my life! I shall remember this moment forever! I shall carve it into my heart! I shall—"
"Really?" Thor interjected, amusement coloring his tone despite himself. "Even after what happened at the mansion, you still doubt my affection?"
Albedo turned her head slightly, catching his eye with a look of feminine wisdom as old as time itself. "No, my lord. But a woman loves hearing her man say that he loves her. The words themselves carry power beyond their meaning. They are ritual, affirmation, proof."
"What am I going to do with you?" Thor asked, though his tone suggested he wasn't actually seeking an answer.
"Make me your head wife," Albedo responded immediately, her voice carrying absolute certainty that this was the only logical conclusion to their exchange.
"Anyways," Ainz cut in, his skeletal voice carrying a note of exasperation that would have been comical if the situation weren't so dire, "before we dissolve into romantic comedy, we must find Shalltear. The longer she remains compromised, the greater the danger—both to her and to Nazarick."
Time flowed like honey through the Great Tomb, thick and sweet and deceptively quick.
When the next moment crystallized into awareness, Ainz and Thor stood once more in the throne room, but now a projection dominated the space before them—a window into another world, another reality, another problem.
The scrying spell showed a forest clearing bathed in pale moonlight. Trees stood like silent witnesses around the perimeter, their shadows long and ominous. And in the center—motionless, perfect, terrible—stood Shalltear Bloodfallen.
She wore her usual dress of crimson and black, her parasol held loosely in one hand. Her silver hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall frozen mid-fall. She was beautiful, deadly, wrong.
"This is worse than we thought," Thor said quietly, his eyes narrowing as he studied the projected image. "She stands like a puppet with cut strings—aware but not awake, present but not here."
"I know," Ainz replied, his voice heavy with the weight of the decision before him. "I might have to resort to using a world-class item."
"That might be the only option, my friend." Thor's words carried regret. World-class items were precious beyond measure—artifacts of such power that their use could reshape reality itself. To waste one on what might be a solvable problem felt like burning a mansion to cook an egg.
But before their deliberation could continue, both guardians felt the mental ping of an incoming Message spell. The sensation was distinct—like a knock on a door that existed only in the mind.
Narberal Gamma's voice echoed in their thoughts, carrying urgency despite her typical monotone delivery. Lord Ainz, Lord Thor?
Ainz's response came sharp as a blade. This had better be important, Narberal. I explicitly stated we were not to be disturbed unless the tomb itself was under siege.
His annoyance spiked, rising like mercury in a thermometer. The familiar green aura materialized around his skeletal form—that strange emotional suppression effect that kept his undead nature from consuming his human sensibilities. Rage cooled to ice, frustration transformed to calculation.
It's okay, he thought to himself, the mantra familiar from countless uses. Forget about it. Focus on what matters.
What do you need, Narberal? Thor's mental voice carried none of Ainz's irritation—merely calm curiosity, like a mountain asking about weather patterns.
You two have received a summons from the Adventurers Guild, Narberal reported with military efficiency. The guildmaster Ainzach requests an urgent meeting. A vampire has been terrorizing the area outside E-Rantel. Multiple casualties. They sound desperate, milords. The request carries a note of panic unusual for Ainzach.
Thor and Ainz exchanged a glance—the kind of wordless communication that comes from fighting side by side, from trusting someone with your life repeatedly until that trust becomes instinct.
A vampire terrorizing E-Rantel.
Shalltear is standing motionless in a forest.
The timing was too convenient, too perfect to be a coincidence.
We are on our way, Thor responded, his mental voice carrying the finality of thunder. Let him know we'll be there within the hour. And Narberal—prepare for combat deployment. This may become complicated.
Yes, Lord Thor.
The Message spell dissolved, leaving silence in its wake.
"Well," Ainz said, turning from the projection toward his companion, "it seems the world has decided to make our decision for us."
"Indeed," Thor agreed, Mjölnir seeming to hum with anticipation at his hip. "Sometimes fate lacks subtlety. Let's go see how the mortals wish to hunt a god."
The Adventurers Guild of E-Rantel bustled with activity even at this late hour—or perhaps especially at this late hour. Vampires, after all, preferred darkness for their work.
The building itself was utilitarian in design—thick stone walls, narrow windows, multiple exits for quick evacuation if monsters breached the city. It smelled of leather, steel, sweat, fear, and the peculiar musk of adventurers who'd spent too long in dungeons without proper bathing facilities.
Momon and Loke—their human disguises wrapped around them like familiar cloaks—navigated the crowded common room with practiced ease. Adventurers parted before them with a mixture of respect and wariness. Their recent promotion to mithril rank had earned them both admiration and jealousy in equal measure.
A guild attendant intercepted them near the stairs. "Sirs, Guildmaster Ainzach is waiting for you in conference room three. The others have already arrived."
"Thank you," Loke said with a nod, his voice carrying Thor's distinctive rumble even through the disguise.
They climbed the stairs, their footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell. The sounds of the common room faded, replaced by the muffled voices of serious discussion filtering through closed doors.
Conference room three sat at the end of a hallway lined with trophy cases—proof of past victories, a memorial to fallen heroes. Loke paused briefly before a particular case holding a dented breastplate, its owner's name engraved on a small plaque beneath. The adventurer had died fighting an ogre that had threatened a village. The ogre was dead. The adventurer was dead. The village survived. This was the calculus of their profession.
Momon pushed open the door.
The conference room was modest but functional—a large table dominated the center, surrounded by chairs of varying quality. A map of the region covered one wall, marked with pins indicating monster sightings and danger zones. The other three mithril-ranked teams had already assembled, their leaders looking up as the door opened.
Ainzach stood at the head of the table, his weathered face carved into lines of worry that seemed deeper than usual. The guildmaster had seen much in his years—monsters, disasters, deaths by the hundreds. But something about this situation clearly troubled him more than normal.
"Ah, Momon, Loke," Ainzach greeted them with visible relief. "Thank you for coming so quickly. Please, sit."
Momon and Loke took seats on opposite sides of the table, positioning themselves to maximize awareness of the room and its occupants. Old habits, necessary habits.
"Thank you, fellow adventurers, for taking time from your busy schedules to attend this emergency meeting," Ainzach began, his voice carrying the weight of command earned through decades of service. "Now let's get down to business, because time is a luxury we don't possess."
He placed both hands flat on the table, leaning forward with the intensity of a general briefing troops before battle.
"Last night, seven adventurers were attacked. Five iron-rank men were killed. The two survivors are..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "...traumatized. They claim it was a vampire. She ambushed them in the forest outside town, moving with speed they couldn't track, strength they couldn't resist. Here's what we know—the monster has blonde hair styled in some elaborate fashion, pale skin, and a large mouth containing very sharp fangs. When she smiled..." Another pause. "One survivor said her smile was beautiful and terrible, like watching a sunset before an execution."
That describes Shalltear, Momon thought, his skeletal mind processing information behind the illusion of his human face. Down to the disturbing poetic description of her predatory nature.
Loke's expression remained neutral, but his fingers drummed once against the table—a subtle signal only Momon would recognize. Confirmed. This is our quarry.
"If this creature is indeed a vampire," Ainzach continued, "we need to keep it from entering the city at all costs. Left unchecked, she could turn the entire E-Rantel populace into her personal blood bank—or worse, her slave army. One vampire is a disaster. A city of vampires is an apocalypse."
"Was this foul beast involved in the recent cemetery incident?" The question came from Bellote, leader of the Skywolf team. She was a woman who'd earned her scars fighting things that went bump in the night, and her sharp eyes missed nothing. Her hand rested casually on her sword hilt—casual, but ready.
"Well," drawled Moknack, leader of the Rainbow team, his laconic tone at odds with the tension in his shoulders, "I'm sure Mr. Momon and Mr. Loke here would know the answer to that. After all, they're the ones who cleaned up that particular mess."
"Must be nice," Igvarge cut in, his voice dripping with barely concealed resentment like poison from a blade, "to get bumped up to mithril after only one quest, huh? Some of us spent years earning our rank."
Igvarge, leader of the Kralgra team, sat with arms crossed and expression sour. He was a man who'd clawed his way up from copper rank through sheer stubbornness and moderate competence—enough to survive, not enough to excel. The fact that two newcomers had surpassed him in weeks that took him years had clearly festered into bitter jealousy.
Loke and Momon didn't react to the provocation. Didn't need to. The silence itself was a response enough—a void where Igvarge's words fell and died unacknowledged.
"Don't be like that, Igvarge," Bellote chided, shooting him a look that could have etched glass. "Jealousy makes you petty, and petty makes you dead."
Ainzach cleared his throat, reclaiming control of the meeting with practiced authority. "After investigating the cemetery, we know without doubt that Zuranon cultists were behind the attack there. The ritual circles, the sacrificed bodies, the summoning patterns—all match their methodology."
"Wait—Zuranon?" Bellote's eyes widened slightly. "The dangerous cult obsessed with death and the undead? Then the vampire must be involved with them! It's too perfect a connection—cultists raise undead, a vampire appears. Cause and effect."
"We can't say that for certain, though," Moknack interjected, his analytical mind working through possibilities like a lockpick testing tumblers. "Could be a coincidence. It could be misdirection. If I had to guess, the vampire might be a decoy—draw our attention while something else happens elsewhere."
"Sure," Igvarge said with a dismissive wave, "but it doesn't take a vampire to kill iron-ranked adventurers. A particularly motivated kobold could manage that. We're jumping to conclusions."
"Let's just concentrate on finding the fiend," Ainzach said, his patience clearly wearing thin. "She was last seen near some caves about three miles northeast of the city walls. I'll organize a search party, send out scouts—"
"I'm positive this creature is not affiliated with Zuranon."
All eyes turned toward Momon, whose calm statement had cut through the discussion like a sword through silk.
"How can you be so sure?" Ainzach asked, leaning forward with renewed interest.
"That vampire is known as Honyopenyoko."
The name dropped into the conversation like a stone into still water—except the ripples were all wrong, confused, bizarre.
Loke's head turned toward Momon with the slow, deliberate movement of a glacier changing course. Inside the disguise, Thor's mental voice carried through their private link with exquisite incredulity. Huh? What in the Nine Realms did you just say? Honyopenyoko? That sounds like you sneezed and tried to turn it into a word.
Just shut up and follow along, Momon's mental response snapped back. I panicked and made something up. Work with me here.
"So this honeyo..." Ainzach stumbled over the pronunciation, his tongue wrestling with syllables that seemed designed to trip human speech. "...uh, I take it you're familiar with this monster?"
"Indeed," Momon replied with the confidence of a man who absolutely knew what he was talking about and definitely hadn't just invented a ridiculous name on the spot. "We have quite a history with it."
"Quite so," Loke added, recovering his composure and sliding smoothly into improvisation. "We've been tracking this creature across three kingdoms for years. We've followed its trail of corpses through villages and towns, cities and crossroads. We've encountered such pointless death and destruction, so meaningless and without purpose."
Everyone turned to face Loke, confusion written across their features like graffiti on a wall. The statement had been delivered with such gravitas, such weight, yet its meaning remained elusive.
Ainzach decided to voice what everyone was thinking. "What do you mean by 'pointless'? Death is death, isn't it?"
"My comrade is a follower of a Destroyer God," Momon explained, and the capital letters in his tone were almost audible. "In their belief system, all destruction and death must be meaningful and serve a purpose—so that new life can be born and exist. Creation through destruction, rebirth through death, the eternal cycle. But pointless destruction and death..." He gestured vaguely, as if the concept itself was distasteful. "Those are frowned upon, since no life can be created from waste. It's anathema to his faith."
The four other adventurers in the meeting room exchanged glances—the universal look of people wondering if they'd just been fed an elaborate line of bullshit or stumbled into something genuinely profound.
"Quite a strange belief," Ainzach said diplomatically, the tone of a man who'd heard stranger things but couldn't quite remember when.
"Of course it is," Igvarge scoffed, his eyes fixing on Loke's helmet—a magnificent piece of craftsmanship shaped like a snarling wolf's head, silver and black, intimidating and beautiful. "Look at that dog helmet he's wearing. And a 'Destroyer God'? Really? Sounds like a bunch of nonsense some cult made up to justify murder. What's next? Does he pray before killing? Does he—"
"My comrade will disregard your comment," Momon interrupted smoothly, his voice carrying just enough edge to remind everyone present that he could disregard Igvarge in far more permanent ways if provoked. "But tracking this creature has indeed left a path of death and destruction, which makes it his sacred duty—his geas—to kill her and end the pointless devastation. It's not just business. It's personal. It's religious."
"Then maybe we should gather as many people as possible," Ainzach suggested, already mentally calculating how many adventurers he could muster on short notice. "Throw numbers at the problem until—"
"No," Momon said flatly, the single syllable carrying absolute finality. "She's powerful—not just any man could compete with her strength. Copper ranks would be slaughtered. Silver ranks would die quickly. Iron ranks would die very quickly. Even gold ranks would struggle. But my team..." He paused for effect, letting confidence radiate from every pore. "We will eliminate this nuisance for you. No problem."
"The hell you will!" Igvarge exploded, slamming his hands on the table hard enough to make the map pins jump. "Who do you think you are?!"
"You're sure you can kill her?" Ainzach asked, ignoring Igvarge's outburst with the ease of long practice. "Because if you're wrong, if you fail, she'll kill you and become even more dangerous—drunk on mithril-ranked blood."
"Definitely," Momon replied, then produced from his pouch a crystal that seemed to capture and refract light in impossible ways. It glowed with inner luminescence, pulsing like a heartbeat, humming with barely contained power. "Because I have this. There is eighth-tier magic sealed within this crystal."
The room went silent.
Utterly, completely silent.
The kind of silence that follows earth-shaking revelations.
"That's impossible," Ainzach breathed, his weathered face going pale. "Everyone knows the eighth tier is just a myth. Stories told to scare apprentice mages. Theoretical calculations that can't actually be achieved. No one has cast eighth-tier magic in living memory—if it ever existed at all."
"No way," Igvarge said, but his voice had lost its edge, replaced by something uncomfortably close to awe. "That thing's a fake. Has to be. You're trying to scam us."
"I can have it appraised by your guild's mage," Momon offered with a casual shrug, as if the idea of proving he possessed world-breaking power was merely a minor inconvenience. "But we'd be wasting valuable time while that vampire continues killing. Every hour we debate is another corpse added to her count. Your call, Guildmaster."
Ainzach stared at the crystal, then at Momon, then back at the crystal. The calculus was clear—if the crystal was real, these two were their best chance. If it was fake... well, two dead mithril-ranked adventurers were still better than a vampire rampaging through the countryside.
"Your reward?" he asked finally, the question of a businessman even in crisis.
"Details can be hammered out later," Momon replied with the confidence of a man who knew he had all the leverage. "However, I expect a promotion to orichalcum rank upon successful completion."
"Orichalcum?!" Igvarge's voice cracked on the word, climbing an octave. "You're insane! That's the highest rank! There are only a handful of orichalcum adventurers in the entire kingdom!"
"Must I demonstrate my strength time after time?" Momon asked, his tone carrying more weariness than threat—the exhaustion of a man tired of proving obvious things to slow students. "I killed an entire cemetery of undead. I possess eighth-tier magic. I've tracked this vampire across nations. What more do you need? A signed recommendation from the gods themselves?"
Ainzach studied Momon for a long moment, reading body language, gauging sincerity, calculating risks. Finally, he gave a slow nod—the gesture of a man making a decision he hoped he wouldn't regret.
"As you wish. Kill the vampire, bring proof, and I'll personally recommend your promotion to the guild board."
"I'm going to—" Igvarge began, already rising from his chair.
"No," Loke said, the single word carrying the weight of mountains, the finality of avalanches, the inevitability of winter. It wasn't loud, wasn't aggressive, wasn't even particularly emphatic. It simply was, and that was enough.
"What?!" Igvarge turned on him, fury and frustration boiling over. "What gives you the right to—"
"What my comrade means," Momon interjected smoothly, his tone almost apologetic, "is that you'll just slow us down. This isn't an insult to your capabilities. It's a statement of tactical reality. We've fought this vampire before. We know her patterns, her tactics, her weaknesses. You don't. In the time it takes to explain everything you'd need to know to survive an encounter with her, we could have already killed her twice."
"How dare you!" Igvarge's face had turned an impressive shade of red, veins standing out on his forehead like rivers on a map. "How dare newbies like you talk to me like that! Screw you both! We don't even know how powerful this vampire really is! For all we know, you're lying through your teeth, you're going to get yourselves killed, and we'll have to clean up the mess!"
"Knock it off, Igvarge," Moknack said tiredly, the voice of a man who'd dealt with this particular tantrum too many times. "You're embarrassing yourself."
"There's no need for such hostility," Bellote added, though her hand remained on her sword hilt—ready in case hostility escalated to violence. "We're all on the same side here."
"Tag along if you must," Momon said, standing from his chair with deliberate slowness. Loke rose as well, and suddenly the room felt smaller, their presence more dominating. "But..."
Loke stepped forward, and though he didn't raise his voice, didn't move threateningly, didn't do anything overtly intimidating, somehow the temperature seemed to drop. His wolf-helm caught the lamplight, casting shadows that danced like flames across his armor.
"We must warn you," Loke said quietly, his words falling like hammer blows, "it means certain death. Not probable death. Not a risky death. Certain death. You will die. Your team will die. And your deaths will be pointless, meaningless, wasteful—the very thing my faith abhors. So consider carefully whether your pride is worth your life."
The silence that followed could have been carved and sold as sculpture.
Igvarge opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. No words came out. For all his bluster, he wasn't stupid—and the absolute certainty in Loke's voice had finally penetrated his ego.
"Meeting adjourned," Ainzach said, sensing the moment to end things before they degraded further. "Momon, Loke—good hunting. The rest of you, prepare support teams in case things go wrong. And someone get me a drink. I feel like I'm going to need it."
Time passed.
The forest outside E-Rantel grew dark under a moonless sky. The kind of darkness that primitive humans had feared, huddling around fires and telling stories to keep the night at bay.
In this darkness, members of the Kralgra team moved through the underbrush with weapons drawn and nerves frayed. They'd ignored the warning, convinced that their pride and the promise of glory outweighed mere caution.
They had been wrong.
Now Igvarge leaned against a tree, his armor rent, his blood painting the bark dark crimson. His team lay scattered around him—bodies broken, lives ended, dreams terminated with extreme prejudice.
Before him stood figures that shouldn't exist, couldn't exist, yet here they were—real as death, undeniable as gravity.
Ainz Ooal Gown in his true form, skeletal magnificence draped in robes of power, staff in hand, red eyes blazing like captured stars.
Thor—no longer Loke, no longer disguised—stood with Mjölnir hanging from his belt, his silver hair stirring in a wind that touched nothing else. His crimson mantle flowed around him like congealed blood, and his expression carried no more malice than a mountain avalanche that simply happens to crush villages.
Beside them stood Narberal Gamma in her battle maid uniform, face expressionless as porcelain. Hamsuke the wise beast crouched nearby, intelligent eyes watching. Mare, the dark elf trap, beautiful and deadly, held his staff loosely. Albedo's wings cast shadows like judgment. And the Vampire Brides—lesser vampires but vampires nonetheless—waited with hunger barely contained.
"No..." Igvarge gasped, blood bubbling past his lips, understanding finally dawning too late. "You bastards... I can't believe this... You monsters... I'm going to kill you... all of you..."
Thor stepped forward, his footfalls silent despite his armored bulk. He crouched before the dying man, bringing their faces level. When he spoke, his voice carried no anger, no satisfaction, no emotion at all—just inevitability.
"We explicitly said this would happen. We warned you with words as clear as we could make them without revealing our true nature. You have no one but yourself to blame. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall." He paused, head tilting slightly. "Now it's time to face the consequences of your actions. Death might come swiftly, if you're fortunate."
"Damn you..." Igvarge tried to spit, but only managed to cough up more blood.
Thor stood, turning to the Vampire Brides with a gesture of casual dismissal. "Have your fill. Make it look natural—or as natural as vampire predation appears. We need credible evidence that Shalltear was responsible."
The Vampire Brides descended like wolves on wounded prey, and Igvarge's screams lasted precisely seven seconds before cutting off with wet finality.
"I hope that was satisfactory, milords," one of the Vampire Brides said after, wiping crimson from her lips with disturbing delicacy.
"Yes," Thor replied, his tone clinical, assessing. "Excellent work. The staging is convincing."
"Those men were so weak it was a waste of time to summon you," Ainz observed, his skeletal fingers drumming against his staff. "Though I suppose their deaths serve a purpose—misdirection has value."
"So what should we do with the bodies?" Narberal asked, her voice carrying no more inflection than if she'd asked about laundry. "Leave them or retrieve them?"
"Take them to Nazarick," Ainz commanded. "Let's see if we can create high-level undead creatures from their corpses. Waste not, want not. Even failure can be recycled into success."
"It will be done, Lord Ainz."
"Mare," Thor said, turning to the dark elf, "I need you to escort Narberal and Hamsuke back to Nazarick as well. Ensure safe passage."
"Yes, Lord Thor," Mare replied with a curtsy that seemed out of place, given the carnage surrounding them.
"Lord, afraid to go to Nazarick I am," Hamsuke said in his peculiar backwards speech pattern, his rodent features expressing genuine concern. "Eaten I will be by stronger creatures, yes?"
"You are the property of Lord Ainz," Narberal stated with absolute certainty. "As his pet, no one would dare harm you without explicit permission. You are safer in Nazarick than anywhere else in this world."
"If you say so, Mistress Narberal," Hamsuke replied, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "In your hands, my life is."
"Albedo," Ainz said, turning to his overseer, "let's continue our mission. The preliminaries are complete. Now comes the main event."
"Let's get this done," Thor agreed, Mjölnir humming with anticipation.
"Yes, milord," Albedo said, moving to stand between them, her wings folding with geometric precision.
They walked through the forest in silence, three powers that could reshape nations moving with purpose through mundane trees. The forest itself seemed to sense their passage—birds went silent, insects ceased chirping, even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
After what felt like both seconds and hours, they reached a clearing bathed in pale starlight. The grass was trampled, trees showed signs of combat, and the air itself tasted of old magic and violence.
And there, in the center like a statue in a forgotten garden, stood Shalltear Bloodfallen.
She was beautiful—grotesquely, terribly beautiful. Her blonde hair was styled in elaborate curls, her dress of crimson and black fit her petite frame perfectly, and her parasol rested against her shoulder at a jaunty angle. She looked like a doll, a work of art, a masterpiece of her creator's vision.
She also looked completely, utterly wrong.
"Shalltear," Ainz called, his voice carrying across the clearing like a command from the heavens themselves.
No response.
Not a twitch, not a glance, not even the subtle shift of weight from foot to foot that marked living things.
She simply stood, frozen, awaiting orders that would never come from the one who'd enslaved her.
"Shalltear, answer your masters!" Albedo's voice cracked like a whip, fury barely restrained behind each syllable. "You disrespectful little wh—"
"My dear," Thor interrupted gently, placing a hand on Albedo's shoulder, "be silent. This is not disrespect. This is imprisonment."
"Okay, milord," Albedo replied immediately, though her wings rustled with barely contained violence.
"Can this really be happening?" Ainz muttered, circling Shalltear slowly, examining her from every angle like a jeweler studying a flawed diamond. "No, it's impossible, but she is clearly affected even though she's undead. The passive immunity should be absolute."
"Hmm," Thor rumbled, his eyes tracking across the clearing, reading the story written in disturbed earth and broken branches. "I can see there was a battle here. The ground is churned, trees are damaged by high-tier magic, blood stains that are not Shalltear's, someone else's. The victor took control of her mind after defeating her in combat, then abandoned her here without further orders. Now she simply waits, a weapon unsheathed but forgotten. We need to break this spell over Shalltear."
"Yes," Ainz agreed, producing a ring from his inventory—simple in appearance but radiating power like a miniature sun. "Though it's a shame to waste such a valuable magical item on a counterspell."
"What is that?" Albedo asked, her eyes widening as she sensed the magnitude of power contained in such a small object.
"A super-rare ring known as Shooting Star," Ainz explained, holding it up so starlight caught in its facets. "Three times a day, it lets the wearer cast the spell Wish Upon a Star—super-tier magic that can reshape reality itself within certain limits."
The ring appeared utterly unadorned, no decorations or flourishes—just a simple band of unknown metal. But engraved upon it were three shooting stars that emitted silver light, pulsing in rhythm with something vast and terrible.
That thing wasn't cheap, Thor thought, broadcasting on their private mental link. It cost you your entire summer bonus from your job. Three months of overtime. I remember you complaining about it.
I know, Ainz replied mentally, his tone carrying resignation. But what good is wealth if not spent to protect what matters?
"That's powerful," Albedo breathed, staring at the ring with something approaching awe. "I've never seen a super-tier magic item before."
"You've never seen super-tier magic itself, have you?" Thor asked, already knowing the answer.
"No, milord. I've only heard rumors of its existence, whispered stories that it surpasses even tenth-tier spells. But I thought they were myths—powers too great for reality to contain."
"Correct on all counts," Ainz said. "Using super-tier magic requires a specific skill set, one that I happen to possess. Magic points don't affect the spell at all—it operates on entirely different principles. And there is a long casting time normally—"
"However," Thor interjected, "the ring circumvents the casting time limitation, plus it activates the spell without consuming any experience points. It's essentially perfect for emergencies like this, correct?"
"Yes," Ainz confirmed. "And I should be able to release Shalltear from her mental prison in no time with it. The spell Wish Upon a Star can break any enchantment, cure any status effect, and even reverse death if cast quickly enough. Mind control, no matter how powerful, should shatter like glass before it."
"But Lord Ainz," Albedo said quietly, her voice carrying an edge of confusion, "she is a servant. Valuable, yes, but ultimately replaceable. It seems unnecessary to use such an important item on her rescue." She paused, then added with dawning understanding, "Oh, your compassion knows no bounds, does it? You would spend treasures for even the least of us."
"Shooting Star," Ainz commanded, his voice resonating with power that made reality ripple, "I command you now! Cure Shalltear of all her status effects! Break every chain, shatter every binding, free her from all that constrains her will!"
The ring blazed with light—silver and gold and colors that didn't have names, light that seemed to carry weight and substance. A magic circle manifested in the air around Shalltear, complex geometric patterns layered upon patterns, equations written in language older than language itself.
The spell built, and built, and built—power accumulating like a tsunami gathering height, like a storm reaching critical mass, like a star preparing to go supernova.
Then, at the moment of release, the precise instant when the spell should have discharged and freed Shalltear—
CRACK
The magic circle shattered.
Not dispersed, not dismissed, not countered—shattered. Like glass struck by a hammer, like ice beneath an earthquake, like reality itself rejecting what had been attempted.
The backlash sent ripples through the clearing, and both Ainz and Thor staggered slightly from the magical whiplash.
"That's never happened before," Thor said slowly, his voice carrying equal parts confusion and concern. "In all our time in Yggdrasil, through countless battles, I've never seen a super-tier spell simply fail."
"What?!" Ainz's voice climbed toward panic before his emotional suppression kicked in with a flash of green. "This doesn't make sense. Super-tier magic is absolute—it's called 'super-tier' because it supersedes normal magical laws! Someone here is stronger than super-tier magic?" He turned toward Thor, red eye-sockets blazing with barely controlled emotion. "No... It's not someone stronger. It's something else."
"We're leaving," Thor commanded, his tactical mind already calculating dangers. "Albedo, come here. Now."
Albedo rushed forward, wrapping her arms around Thor's chest plate in an embrace that was equal parts devotion and relief. She buried her face against his armor, and for just a moment, she allowed herself to feel the fear she'd been suppressing—fear for her masters, fear for Nazarick, fear that something terrible had entered their world.
With a thought and a gesture, Thor and Ainz triggered their teleportation magic. Reality twisted, folded, compressed—and they vanished from the clearing, leaving only Shalltear standing motionless as a monument to failure.
They materialized on a clear plain miles away, the grass beneath their feet swaying in a gentle breeze that seemed inappropriately peaceful given their recent experience.
Albedo remained pressed against Thor's chest, enjoying the moment of contact, the reassurance of his solid presence. But the moment was shattered when Ainz, his emotional control finally breaking, began stomping the ground with the force of a battering ram.
"Damn it!" STOMP "Damn it!" STOMP "Damn it!" STOMP "Damn it!" STOMP "Damn it!" STOMP "Damn it!" STOMP
Each impact cracked the earth, sending fissures spreading like spider webs, grass disintegrating into dust beneath his fury.
"Lord Ainz, are you okay?" Albedo asked, pulling away from Thor to approach Ainz with concern written across her perfect features.
"Just give him a moment, my dear," Thor said quietly. "Let the storm pass."
The familiar green aura manifested around Ainz's skeletal form—that strange emotional suppression field that kept his undead nature from consuming his sanity. Rage cooled to ice, fury transformed to calculation, chaos resolved into order.
"I'm sorry," Ainz said after a moment, his voice once again controlled and measured. "I shouldn't have reacted like that. It was unseemly, unprofessional, beneath the dignity of a Supreme Being."
"It's okay, Lord Ainz," Albedo said soothingly. "But did something go wrong with the spell? The ring activated correctly, didn't it?"
"The ring was definitely activated correctly," Ainz confirmed, studying the simple band on his finger as if it had personally betrayed him. "The spell was cast properly, the power released as designed. However, the wish was not granted—the magic simply shattered against something stronger." He looked up, meeting first Albedo's eyes, then Thor's, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Only one thing is capable of withstanding a super-tier magic spell like that. Only one classification of artifact possesses that kind of absolute authority. And I honestly never thought this world could contain such power."
"No way," Albedo breathed, understanding dawning like a terrible sunrise. "You mean a—"
"A world-class item," Thor finished, his voice carrying the weight of mountains. "Albedo."
"Milord?"
"The security level of Nazarick needs to be raised to maximum immediately. All patrols doubled, all defensive measures activated, all contingencies prepared. And every Guardian needs to return home right now—not later, not soon, now. Because if there's one world-class item in this world..." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air like an executioner's blade. "There might be more. And that changes everything."
Albedo's wings spread wide, her expression hardening into something fierce and terrible. "I'll send the recall immediately. Nazarick will be locked down within the hour."
"Good," Ainz said quietly, staring back toward the distant forest where Shalltear still stood, imprisoned by power they couldn't break. "Because if someone has a world-class item powerful enough to control a Floor Guardian and resist super-tier magic..." He trailed off, but the unspoken conclusion hung heavy between them.
The enemy they faced was no longer theoretical.
The war they'd feared had already begun.
And they'd just lost the first battle without even knowing they were fighting.
To Be Continued