Chapter 15: Thunder in the Treasury
The throne room of the Great Tomb of Nazarick swallowed sound itself—a cavernous maw of stone and shadow, oppressive in its grandeur. Albedo stepped forward through the gloom, her footfalls echoing like distant thunder, each step a drumbeat of duty.
"All Guardians who departed have returned." Her voice cut through the stillness, sharp as a blade. "All save Shalltear. No evidence of brainwashing among the others—no taint, no corruption, no compromise."
Thor, the God of Thunder, who had taken residence in this tomb of mortals-turned-immortals, nodded with the weight of mountains shifting. His crimson hair seemed to catch phantom light in the darkness, a blood-red banner in the black. When he spoke, his voice rumbled like distant storms gathering on horizons yet unseen.
"Good. The pieces move into position." He turned toward Ainz, eyes like winter lightning. "Momonga. The next phase beckons."
"Agreed." Ainz's skeletal countenance betrayed nothing—could betray nothing—yet something in his posture shifted. "Albedo."
"Yes, Lord Ainz?"
"Summon Yuri Alpha. Summon CZ Delta." A pause, pregnant with unspoken purpose. "We descend to the Treasury."
Magic bent reality—twisted, pulled, shattered the space between here and there. The world dissolved into arcane light, reforming on the tenth floor where few could tread. The Treasury entrance loomed before them, a gateway that demanded tribute: Guild rings, keys forged in brotherhood now scattered to the winds of time.
Yuri Alpha materialized beside them, her undead nature a study in stillness—death animated, duty personified. At her side, CZ Delta, the automaton whose mechanical precision sang a different song than flesh and blood could ever know.
"We proceed." Ainz raised one skeletal hand. "Mass Fly."
The spell erupted outward—a cascade of shimmering power that wrapped around them like silk spun from starlight. Gravity released its claim. They rose, drifting across the vast Treasury toward doors that stood like twin monuments to darkness itself, massive and foreboding and utterly, magnificently ominous.
"Yuri." CZ's voice held no inflection, no emotion—pure data transmitted through vocal cords that need not breathe. "Magical poison saturates the atmosphere."
"What?" Yuri's composure cracked, just barely.
"The girl sees truly." Thor's proclamation carried approval, thunder wrapped in words. "This treasury bleeds poison into the very air—a defense most thorough, most complete. Three steps would feel the unprepared. Three steps, and death."
Ainz elaborated, his tone matter-of-fact despite the morbid subject. "Without proper countermeasures—items of protection, skills of resistance—you would perish before reaching those doors."
Yuri's eyes widened, understanding blooming. "Ah. Is that why—forgive my presumption—is that the reason CZ, constructed rather than born, and I, a Dullahan who requires no breath, were selected to accompany you, milords?"
"Precisely so." Thor's smile was small, approving, touched with something almost paternal.
There's another reason for CZ, Ainz thought, the words echoing only in the hollow cathedral of his skull. Her knowledge runs deep—deeper than rivers, deeper than mines. She knows Nazarick's secrets.
Indeed, Thor acknowledged silently, their thoughts touching briefly across whatever bond united them in this strange new world.
They arrived. The doors rose before them—twin titans of carved darkness, ancient and absolute.
"Behold," Ainz announced, "the Armory."
Albedo tilted her head, golden eyes catching non-existent light. "Lord Ainz, if this chamber houses weapons, does that mean other treasures sleep elsewhere?"
"It does."
Thor's voice carried the weight of memory, of days when the guild hall rang with laughter and camaraderie. "Genjirou possessed a soul that craved order—demanded it. Every item is sorted, categorized, and catalogued. Weapons with weapons. Armor with armor. Accessories, equipment, consumables, crafting materials—each in its designated place, each filed and indexed and known."
"Though deeper in, the chambers connect," Ainz added, approaching the door. "Our entry point matters little in the end. Now then..." He paused. "The password is..."
Trouble, Momonga? Thor's thought carried amusement, warm as hearthfire.
Yes. I may have... forgotten it. Even in thought, embarrassment colored the admission. Years have passed since I last walked this path. The password exists for this very reason—to prevent unauthorized entry. But what use is a lock when the key escapes memory?
Thor spoke aloud, his voice rolling like thunder across mountains: "Glory to Ainz Ooal Gown."
Text materialized—ancient script, flowing letters in a tongue older than kingdoms, older than legends. Latin, the language of scholars and sorcerers, appeared like frost crystallizing on winter windows.
Tabula's work, Ainz observed internally. Always thorough. Always meticulous. Always prepared.
CZ could solve this in moments, Ainz continued thinking. Her mind contains all of Nazarick's accumulated knowledge—a library bound in flesh and metal.
"By this means," Ainz intoned, each word deliberate and measured, "you will acquire the glory of the whole world, and so will drive away all darkness."
CZ nodded once—a single, definitive gesture.
The doors groaned open, ancient mechanisms stirring after long silence. Stone scraped against stone, a grinding cacophony that spoke of weight and power and things built to last beyond ages.
"Come." Thor strode forward, his presence filling the space like storm clouds filling the sky. "The Mausoleum awaits ahead."
"The... Mausoleum?" Albedo's confusion was delicate, genuine.
She doesn't know, Ainz realized. Even she, the Overseer of the Guardians, walks paths we've kept hidden.
"Tell me, Albedo—do you know of Pandora's Actor?" Thor's question hung in the air.
"Yes, Lord Thor. He serves as Guardian of the Treasury, Manager of Nazarick's finances. His strength rivals Demiurge and me. Lord Ainz created him personally—a unique being, born from a Supreme Being's will."
"Exactly so. However—"
Ainz's words died stillborn.
A figure stood before them in the Armory's lobby—familiar, impossible, wrong. The robes, the staff, the bearing—all perfect, all precise, all a lie wrapped in truth's clothing.
Tabula Smaragdina. Or something wearing his face.
"Lord... Tabula?" Albedo's voice cracked like ice breaking on spring rivers. Then fury ignited, white-hot and terrible. "No. You're FALSE! A fake, a fraud, a mockery!"
Thor observed as rage transformed Albedo's elegant features. CZ and Yuri shifted into combat stances—subtle, professional, deadly.
"Identify yourself!" Albedo's command cracked like a whip. "However perfectly you imitate my creator, however flawlessly you wear his face, I will not be deceived! I will not fall for such base trickery, such vile deception!"
Silence answered. The false Tabula stood motionless, offering no explanation, no defense, no acknowledgment.
Albedo's composure shattered completely. "I see. Kill it. Tear it apart. Destroy this abomination!"
"Enough." Thor's single word carried the weight of divine authority, a commandment that brooked no argument.
Albedo whirled. "What?!"
"Are you certain, milord?" Yuri's hand remained near her weapon.
Ainz stepped forward, his voice calm as a millpond's surface. "Pandora's Actor. Reveal yourself."
The transformation rippled outward like water disturbed—form flowing, shifting, changing. The false Tabula dissolved like morning mist. In its place stood a being of theatrical grandeur: an ovoid head bearing three holes for features, dressed in a military uniform of brilliant yellow adorned with the guild's crest, crisp and immaculate and almost aggressively flamboyant.
Pandora's Actor bowed with an elaborate flourish.
"A doppelganger!" Albedo gasped.
"I welcome you, my creator, Lord Momo-nga!" The enthusiasm in Pandora's Actor's voice could have powered a small city. "It is a tremendous honor to receive your presence in my humble domain!"
Thor's eyes rolled skyward, seeking patience from gods who no longer answered—or perhaps commiserating with them about the theatrical creature before them.
"You're well, I see," Ainz said, his tone carefully neutral.
"Indeed! Quite well! Splendidly well! Magnificently well!" Pandora's Actor's excitement knew no bounds. "By what fortune do you grace this place? Have you come at last seeking my power? Do you require my abilities? My skills? My—"
"No." Ainz cut through the verbal avalanche. "We're here to retrieve certain World-Class items from the inner vault."
"What?!" Pandora's Actor's shock was operatic in its intensity. "The World-Class items?! Those treasures of immeasurable power?! Those artifacts capable of reshaping reality itself?! Those trump cards of ultimate authority?! You intend to deploy them?!"
Oh gods, he's insufferable, Ainz thought with internal mortification. So theatrical. So dramatic. So... me. Old me. Embarrassing me.
Hahaha! Thor's mental laughter rolled like thunder. And you crafted him thus—shaped him, molded him, programmed every gesture and inflection!
Shut up, you damned— Ainz caught himself. I know. I KNOW. It's like opening Pandora's Box, except the box contains every cringeworthy decision I made years ago, animated and speaking and saluting.
"Yes," Ainz said aloud, his patience clearly finite. "I'm taking 'Avarice and Generosity,' 'Hygieia's Chalice,' 'Billion Blades,' and 'Depiction of Nature and Society.'"
"And the remaining two, my lord?"
"They stay. Single-use items of such devastating power demand the perfect moment—the perfect crisis, the perfect enemy, the perfect storm."
Ainz paused, letting the weight settle. "Also, my name has changed. I am no longer Momonga. Henceforth, you will address me as Ainz Ooal Gown—the name of our guild, the name of our brotherhood, the name that will echo through this world."
"AS YOU COMMAND, LORD AINZ!" Pandora's Actor's salute was so crisp it could have cut glass.
"We proceed to the Mausoleum," Ainz announced. "Continue your duties here. Manage, protect, preserve—as you always have, as you always will."
"Understood! Take care, Lord Thor!" Pandora's Actor's bow was theatrical enough for a stage production. "And please, ladies, exercise caution within!"
"Ladies?!" Albedo's voice could have frozen fire.
"Oh! My most sincere apologies!" Pandora's Actor backpedaled verbally. "You simply radiated such beauty, such magnificence, such stunning elegance that the word escaped my lips unbidden! An honest mistake born of genuine admiration!"
"Why you—"
Before Albedo could complete the threat, Thor moved with divine swiftness—faster than thought, faster than reaction. His arm encircled her waist, pulling her against him with gentle firmness, iron wrapped in silk.
"Now, now, my dear succubus." Thor's voice carried warmth, affection, and amusement all intertwined. "Let us maintain decorum, hmm? Peace, not pieces."
Albedo's rage evaporated instantly, replaced by crimson blush spreading across porcelain cheeks. Being held close to her beloved, feeling his strength, basking in his attention—these things unmade her fury utterly.
Yet she managed a glare toward Pandora's Actor.
Thor's smile transformed. The warmth drained away like water through cracks. His eyes became winter storms—beautiful, terrible, promising. When he spoke, his voice carried thunder's edge, lightning's threat.
"And Pandora's Actor." Each word fell as hammer blows. "I trust you understand—completely and thoroughly understand—that you will refrain from flirting with my woman. Yes?"
The temperature seemed to drop. Power pulsed outward—not the full weight of Thor's divine might, but enough. A taste. A warning.
Pandora's Actor's theatrical confidence vanished like smoke before storm winds. "U-Understood, Lord Thor! My deepest apologies! My most profound regrets! I have erred gravely and will rectify this behavior immediately!"
Ainz, seizing the opportunity to escape this embarrassing tableau, grabbed Pandora's Actor and dragged him aside. Low, urgent whispers followed—a scolding delivered in hissed syllables. Something about excessive saluting. Something about never, ever speaking German in his presence again. Something about maintaining professional decorum.
When Ainz returned, his skeletal features somehow conveyed exhaustion. "Before we enter the Mausoleum, one final preparation remains necessary."
"Albedo," Thor said, his voice gentle again—storm clouds parting to reveal clear sky. "Your ring. Give it to Pandora's Actor."
"What?!" The word burst from Albedo like a physical thing. "No! Lord Thor, please, I cannot—"
"Peace, my dear." Thor's tone soothed like summer rain on parched earth. "This is temporary—necessary, but temporary. The Mausoleum's defenses make no distinction between friend and foe. The golems within, the Avatar standing eternal guard—they attack any bearing guild rings. An unfortunate security measure, but one we cannot bypass."
Albedo's expression crumpled. "Then... it must be done."
She removed the ring with trembling fingers—this precious thing, this symbol of belonging, this token of love received from Thor himself. He handed her a handkerchief, fine silk that she wrapped around the ring like swaddling a precious child.
But when she extended it toward Pandora's Actor, her fingers refused to release their grip. The ring—her ring, Thor's ring—remained clutched in her hand.
"Um, Miss Albedo?" Pandora's Actor's voice carried unprecedented nervousness. "If you could... perhaps... let go?"
"M-My ring." The words were barely whispers, laden with loss.
"Come now, my dear Albedo." Thor placed his hands over hers—large, warm, solid. Real. "Time presses, and duty calls."
At his touch, her fingers relaxed. The ring transferred. Thor guided her forward, following Ainz, Yuri, and CZ into the Mausoleum beyond.
The chamber they entered stole breath—would have stolen breath from those who still drew it. Statues lined both walls, dozens upon dozens, each unique, each distinct, each a frozen moment of remembrance rendered in stone and spell.
"Lord Thor." Albedo's voice carried wonder tinged with sorrow. "These statues—they resemble the Supreme Beings who left, don't they?"
"Your perception serves you well." Thor's hand swept across the silent stone congregation. "When companions departed, we crafted Avatars in their image—monuments to friendship, testaments to brotherhood, echoes of laughter that once filled these halls."
"Each departure earned a statue," Ainz added, his voice hollow with memory. "Each goodbye became stone."
"Though our skill proved imperfect," Thor continued. "The faces... close, but not quite right. The stances... almost true, but missing that ineffable quality that made them them. Shadows of the real thing—faithful shadows, loving shadows, but shadows nonetheless."
Albedo studied the statues with new understanding, new reverence. "They're beautiful, Lord Thor. Imperfect perhaps, but beautiful in their imperfection—love carved in stone."
"But Lord Thor..." Albedo's voice wavered. "You called this place a Mausoleum. That word—it means..." She couldn't complete the thought. "Does that mean the other Supreme Beings have... have they...?"
Thor didn't answer immediately. This wound ran deep—deeper than dungeons, deeper than oceans, down to bedrock and beyond. The silence stretched, elastic with unspoken grief.
Finally, he spoke. "Not... quite."
No, Ainz thought privately. That's likely the truth. They're gone—truly gone. Back to whatever world spawned them, living lives we'll never know. While I hope they're here, hope they exist somewhere in this strange new reality, the truth is colder. The truth is emptier. The truth is, silence answers when I call their names.
"Regardless," Thor continued, his voice strengthening, "you see those empty pedestals? Space remains. Space for two more—for Momonga and me. Should we fall, should we fail, should we join our brothers in whatever comes after... our Avatars will stand here, eternal guardians frozen in stone."
"P-Please!" Albedo's composure shattered like glass struck by hammers. "Don't speak such things! Don't even THINK such things!"
Both Thor and Ainz turned toward her outcry.
Tears streamed down Albedo's face—elegant, beautiful, utterly heartbroken. "Lord Thor! Lord Ainz! You two remained! You two stayed when all others departed! You gave us purpose! You gave us meaning! You gave us LIFE beyond simple existence!"
Her voice rose, desperate and pleading. "Please stay with us! Continue to rule! Continue to guide! I beg you—I beg you both—please, please, PLEASE don't leave us alone!"
Ainz glanced toward Thor, a silent question passing between them. Thor nodded—barely perceptible, but clear. Ainz withdrew with Yuri and CZ, granting privacy to what followed.
Thor approached Albedo, each step measured, deliberate. He knelt before her—a god kneeling before his creation, divinity acknowledging devotion. His thumb brushed away tears with infinite gentleness.
"Forgive me," he murmured.
"Lord Thor..." Albedo's voice broke. "Promise me. Swear to me. Vow to me that you won't abandon us!"
"My dear Albedo." Thor's voice carried regret like winter carries cold. "I cannot make such promises—cannot offer false hope wrapped in pretty words. The future remains uncertain, unwritten, unknown."
"But why?" Desperation clawed at her words. "If this concerns Shalltear, we could overwhelm her! Numbers! Strategy! Coordinated assault! You and Lord Ainz needn't face her alone—needn't risk yourselves when we could—"
"That's not the issue." Thor interrupted gently but firmly. "Momonga doubts himself, questions his worthiness. He worries about other players existing in this world—enemies unknown, powers unfathomable. He fears World-Class items have scattered to hostile hands. These concerns gnaw at him, erode his confidence."
"But those aren't his fault! You and Lord Ainz give us everything—meaning, purpose, direction! Let us atone! Let us face Shalltear as penance for our failure to protect her!"
"There's more." Thor's eyes held hers. "Shalltear stands isolated—conspicuously, suspiciously isolated. This speaks of traps, of plans, of enemies patient and cunning. If multiple Guardians engage her, the puppet master pulling strings will know we've discovered their game."
He paused, letting understanding dawn. "And there's a final reason—one involving Shalltear's death itself."
"Then I should go!" Albedo insisted. "I'm the Overseer! I'm qualified! I'm willing! Let me wield a World-Class item and end this!"
"Could you truly defeat her?" Thor's question fell like stones into still water. "Shalltear was optimized for combat—designed, crafted, perfected for battle. Her build, her skills, her equipment—all focused toward one purpose: overwhelming force. Among all Nazarick's inhabitants, only Momonga or I could triumph in single combat against her."
"But—"
"I know your concerns. Shalltear excels at close quarters—devastating, relentless, unstoppable in melee range. Her magic specifically targets the undead, exploiting their inherent weaknesses. Meanwhile, Momonga's arsenal proves largely ineffective against her—fire against fire, light against light, incompatible elements clashing uselessly."
"Then surely that means we should all—"
"He operates at a disadvantage, true." Thor's voice carried absolute conviction. "But you're also wrong, my dear. Your knowledge—vast, comprehensive, complete—was granted at creation. Bestowed, not earned. Given, not fought for."
Albedo frowned. "I don't understand, milord."
"How much experience have you accumulated?"
"Experience?" Confusion colored her features. "I can utilize all the powers the Supreme Beings bestowed upon me. I can access every skill, every ability, every—"
"That's not experience." Thor shook his head slowly. "The ability to use power differs fundamentally from experience wielding it. As Guildmaster of Ainz Ooal Gown, Momonga accumulated extensive combat records—player versus player battles fought and won, strategies tested and perfected, defeats that taught lessons, victories that proved theories."
He continued, his voice resonant with certainty. "He won't lose. Beyond statistics and numbers, beyond builds and equipment, Momonga shared a close friendship with Peroroncino—Shalltear's creator. He knows her inside and out: her strengths, her weaknesses, her behavioral patterns, her combat preferences. This battle concluded before it began."
Albedo's protests died unuttered. "Then... I'll withdraw my objections. But will Lord Ainz return to us? Can you promise me that much?"
"I can promise you this." Thor's eyes blazed with conviction absolute. "Momonga will defeat Shalltear. He will triumph over whatever mind-control afflicts her. He will shatter whatever conspiracy threatens us. And he WILL return home to Nazarick—victorious, unbowed, unbroken."
Thor extended his right hand—large, calloused from gripping Mjölnir, warm with divine vitality.
Albedo took it without hesitation, her small hand disappearing into his grip. They walked together from the Mausoleum, leaving the stone witnesses behind, returning to where Ainz, Yuri, and CZ waited in patient silence.
Thunder and shadow, god and skeleton, united in purpose.
The battle ahead loomed like storm clouds on distant horizons.
But for now—this moment, this heartbeat, this breath—they stood together.
To Be Continued...
In the depths of Nazarick, where darkness dwells eternally, where loyalty runs deeper than blood, where love and duty intertwine like threads in a tapestry—the pieces move into position. The stage is set. The players take their marks. And thunder waits to fall upon the world.