Chapter 16: The Thunder God's Vigil — When Lightning Waits and Loyalty Burns
In Ainz's personal office—a chamber draped in shadows and silence—Thor sat upon one of the couches like a storm contained, his massive frame somehow both imposing and at ease. Albedo rested against him, her back pressed to his chest as if seeking shelter in the eye of a tempest. His arm—thick with the memory of countless battles, scarred by divine wars—encircled her waist with surprising gentleness.
Across from them, Cocytus sat rigid, his insectoid stillness a counterpoint to the barely leashed power that hummed beneath Thor's skin.
The door opened. Demiurge entered, his movements precise, calculated. He bowed—not from fear, but from recognition of what Thor represented: the end of all things that dared stand before him.
"Lord Thor," Demiurge intoned, his voice carrying the weight of reverence and question alike.
Thor's eyes—those crimson orbs that had witnessed the death of gods and the birth of apocalypses—flickered toward the demon. He said nothing. Thunder needs no introduction.
Demiurge acknowledged Cocytus with a nod, then settled into his seat, confusion creasing his features like cracks in ancient stone. Why this summons? Why now?
Between the couches, a coffee table bore its burden: the Mirror of Remote Viewing, its surface rippling with images of distant forests, of Ainz walking alone toward his appointed confrontation. The glass shimmered, reflecting not just sight but fate—the terrible, inevitable collision of wills that waited beyond.
Demiurge's fingers drummed once—just once—against his knee. "May I speak freely?"
Thor's voice emerged like distant thunder rolling across mountains. "Speak."
Do not ask permission. Do not beg the audience. Just speak. Because Thor had never been one for ceremony, he had never cared for the trappings of divinity that lesser beings wrapped themselves in like burial shrouds.
"Why," Demiurge began, each word measured, weighed, "was Lord Ainz permitted to walk alone into this storm?"
Thor tilted his head—a minute movement, barely perceptible, yet somehow vast. "Hmm."
A sound. A syllable. A mountain is shifting.
Albedo stirred against his chest. "Lord Ainz chose this path himself. We can only—"
"Why?" The word cracked from Demiurge's lips like breaking stone. "You and Lord Thor opposed Lord Ainz visiting human settlements without escort. You argued against it. Yet now—when the stakes rise higher than mere mortals, when Shalltear herself stands as the adversary—now you allow him to face her alone?"
Thor's gaze slid sideways toward Demiurge, slow as glaciers, heavy as judgment. He did not speak. Did not need to. The Thunder God had learned long ago that silence could crush more effectively than words.
"You received Lord Ainz's message," Albedo said, her voice carrying the smoothness of silk drawn over steel. "His intentions were clear."
"His intentions were lies," Demiurge countered, rising heat coloring his tone. "Transparent misdirection. Rather than remain here—safe, strategic—we should mobilize. All the Guardians, attacking in coordinated waves. Overwhelming force. Absolute certainty."
"You truly believe," Albedo replied, her words falling like snow, cold and inevitable, "that Lord Ainz failed to consider what even we can devise? He intended our confusion. He orchestrated our doubt."
"Then why—" Demiurge's hands clenched, unclenched. "Why did you permit this madness?"
Thor listened. Not because he lacked opinion—the Thunder God's thoughts were as definite as lightning, as absolute as the crack of his hammer against divine skulls—but because battles were won as much in the waiting as in the striking.
Albedo continued, her explanation weaving through the air like incense smoke, attempting to soothe, to settle, to convince. But Demiurge's agitation only grew, fed by the fuel of his loyalty, stoked by the flames of his devotion.
"That's naive!" The word exploded from Demiurge, shattering the careful calm he'd maintained. "Dangerously naive!"
Thor's eyebrow raised—a minimal movement that somehow contained volumes. "Hmm."
"To let emotion govern action!" Demiurge stood now, his frame trembling with the force of conviction. "To let hope replace strategy! Lord Ainz is one of only two Supreme Beings who remained. Two! The last pillars of Nazarick's divine foundation. We should throw ourselves into the fire to preserve him. We should defy his orders if it means his survival. We should—"
Thor's right hand closed into a fist. Not violently. Not with a threat. Simply... closed. Like the sky gathering itself before the storm breaks. Like destiny condensing into inevitability.
Enough, the gesture said without sound.
But Albedo's hand descended upon his—smaller, gentler, yet carrying its own undeniable force. Her head shook, barely perceptible. Not yet. Let me.
Thor's fist relaxed. The storm, for now, remained contained.
Demiurge didn't wait for a response or permission. His body moved before his mind could catch up, striding toward the door with purpose blazing from every line of his frame.
"Where are you going?" Albedo's question fell like a blade between Demiurge and his destination.
"Where do you think?" Demiurge shot back, not turning, not slowing. "To gather my subordinates. To—"
"Cocytus."
Thor's voice. Not raised. Not strained. Simply... spoken. Yet it carried the weight of divine command, the inevitability of thunder following lightning.
Cocytus rose—all chitinous grace and lethal purpose—and positioned himself before the door. Between Demiurge and his desperate plan. An immovable wall of loyalty and ice.
Demiurge stopped. Turned. His eyes swept across the room, seeing clearly now what he'd been too agitated to perceive before.
"I understand." His voice had gone quiet, hollow. "This is why you summoned me. Not to inform. To contain."
Thor remained silent, watching, waiting. His crimson eyes—those windows into wars beyond counting, into struggles that had rent the heavens themselves—held neither judgment nor mercy. Only observation.
"You're all fools!" The word tore from Demiurge's throat, raw and bleeding. "What will you say when Lord Ainz falls? How will you account for this failure? How will you—" His voice cracked, shattered. "Lord Ainz is one of two. Two Supreme Beings remain in all existence. How can you gamble with something so precious, so irreplaceable?"
"Lord Ainz will return," Albedo stated, simple as sunrise, certain as stone.
"How can you know that?!" Demiurge's composure had finally broken completely, leaving only the desperate core of his devotion exposed. "How can you guarantee it?!"
"Because," Albedo replied, her gaze shifting to Thor, "we believe in the Supreme Beings who created us. In their strength. In their wisdom. In their divinity. Is that not so, Lord Thor?"
Three pairs of eyes—Demiurge's wild with worry, Cocytus's calm with duty, Albedo's soft with faith—turned toward the Thunder God.
Thor sat motionless, his right hand supporting his head, elbow resting on the couch's arm. His posture spoke of ancient weariness, of battles fought across countless ages, of victories won and costs paid that mortals and demons alike could scarcely comprehend.
When he finally spoke, his voice rumbled like distant thunder approaching. "Demiurge. Do you doubt Momonga's strength?"
"No, but I—"
"Do you question his cunning?"
"Never, Lord Thor, but the circumstances—"
"Do you believe Shalltear is superior?"
"Of course not, yet—"
"Then why," Thor interrupted, each word a hammer blow against stone, "do you presume to know better than he does what battles he can win?"
Silence crashed into the room like a falling star.
"I have walked beside Momonga through conflicts that would break most beings," Thor continued, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "I have witnessed his mind at work—calculating, adapting, conquering. I have seen him triumph when all odds screamed otherwise. When gods themselves would have faltered, he prevailed."
Thor's gaze was fixed on Demiurge with the intensity of lightning finding its target. "You speak of faith, of loyalty, of devotion. Then trust. Trust in the being who has earned that faith through countless victories. Trust that Momonga knows—better than we—what must be done and how to do it."
"But—" Demiurge's voice had weakened, crumbling beneath the Thunder God's conviction.
"If he falls," Thor said softly—and somehow that softness carried more menace than any shout, "then we fall together. If he triumphs, as I know he will, then we honor his victory by having faith in his strength. That is what loyalty means. Not protecting him from himself. Not questioning his judgment. But believing in him when doubt would be easier."
Demiurge stood frozen, caught between his fear and his faith, between his logic and his loyalty.
"However," Demiurge managed, his voice steadier now, directed with new purpose, "if Lord Ainz returns—when he returns—and something had gone wrong because Overseer Albedo failed in her duty to counsel against this risk, then I formally request she relinquish her position as Leader of the Guardians."
"You would have her abandon a role the Supreme Beings themselves assigned?" Cocytus's voice crackled with ice and outrage. "Demiurge, that borders on—"
"She will do no such—" Thor began, his tone hardening.
"I accept."
Albedo's words fell into the space between them like stones into still water, sending ripples of shock through the room.
Thor's hand moved before thought could catch action, cupping Albedo's cheek with surprising tenderness. His palm—scarred from gripping Mjölnir, calloused from eons of divine warfare—cradled her face as gently as one might hold a fragile treasure.
"You needn't do this," Thor rumbled, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. "You are exactly what an Overseer should be. This wager is unnecessary, unwarranted."
Albedo leaned into his touch, her eyes closing briefly as if drawing strength from his presence. "It's not a wager, Lord Thor. It's a declaration. I share your faith in Lord Ainz's victory. Completely. Absolutely. Without reservation."
Thor studied her face—searching for doubt, for hesitation, for any crack in that perfect certainty. Finding none, he exhaled slowly, like thunder receding after the storm's peak has passed.
"Very well." His hand fell away, though reluctantly. "But understand this, Demiurge—" Thor's gaze swung toward the demon like a weapon being brought to bear. "Such requests require substantial cause. Evidence. Justification. You will not make them lightly again. Are we clear?"
"Crystal clear, Lord Thor." Demiurge bowed, deeper this time, acknowledging both the rebuke and the mercy. "I apologize for overstepping."
"We're done with this," Thor stated, finality ringing in every syllable. "Cocytus. What odds do you give Momonga?"
"Seven to three," Cocytus replied without hesitation. "The three representing Lord Ainz's chances."
"Pessimistic," Thor noted, a slight smirk touching his lips—the first hint of expression he'd shown since the conversation began. "But we'll let the battle speak for itself. Watch, and witness how Momonga defies expectations."
"Lord Thor," Demiurge ventured carefully, "you do know Lord Ainz's strategy, don't you? His plan?"
Thor's expression went completely blank. Deadpan. Unreadable. "No."
"What?!"
The Mirror of Remote Viewing continued its faithful chronicle, showing Ainz's solitary march through the forest. He walked with measured steps, paused occasionally—lost in thought, planning, preparing. Thor recognized those pauses, understood them. Momonga was composing his symphony of destruction, arranging the movements that would lead to victory.
Meanwhile, elsewhere, Mare and Aura waited on standby, each clutching World-Class Items, ready to intervene should outside forces attempt to disrupt the sacred duel.
Ainz finally reached the clearing. There—frozen, trapped, broken—stood Shalltear.
Before engaging, Ainz began his preparations. Buff after buff layered onto himself, magical protections stacking like armor plates, enhancements weaving through his form.
Excessive, Thor thought, though approval tinged the observation. But thorough. Momonga never leaves anything to chance.
The battle opened with spectacle: Fallen Down. Super-Tier Magic that tore reality itself, that carved devastation into the landscape, that announced Ainz's presence with the subtlety of apocalypse.
The clearing—already damaged—became a wasteland. Trees vaporized. Earth scorched. Reality scarred.
But Shalltear responded. Moved. Transformed into her armored state, her true battle form emerging like a crimson nightmare.
Spells flew. Tier after tier, magic clashed against magic, strategy against instinct, calculation against controlled madness.
It became clear—painfully, obviously clear—that Shalltear held an advantage. Her specialized build, her vampiric regeneration, her savage efficiency... all combined to create a predator perfectly designed to hunt magic casters.
Thor watched, unmoving, his expression carved from stone.
A knock at the door shattered the heavy silence.
All eyes turned. None had summoned anyone. None expected an interruption.
"Enter," Thor commanded, his voice carrying curiosity beneath its thunderous weight.
The door opened, revealing a cart—laden with delicacies, treats, and beverages—being wheeled in by a Homunculus Maid. Cixous, her movements precise and graceful, entered as if walking onto a stage.
"Lord Demiurge. Lord Cocytus. Lady Albedo." She nodded to each in turn, her greeting warm yet professional.
Three confused Guardians stared.
"Master Thor," Cixous continued, unfazed by their bewilderment, "I've brought the refreshments you requested."
"Excellent work, Cixous," Thor rumbled, genuine approval in his tone. "Well done."
"Your praise honors me, Master Thor."
"Lord Thor," Albedo ventured, twisting slightly to look up at him, "you... requested food? Now?"
"We're observing a battle," Thor replied, his tone matter-of-fact, as if explaining something obvious to a child. "A battle that will span considerable time. I see no reason to sit here hungry, uncomfortable, unable to properly appreciate what we're witnessing."
Cixous began her work, distributing teacups with practiced efficiency, placing small plates before each Guardian. When she reached Thor, she set down a plate bearing a slice of cheesecake—strawberry, with perfect crust and flawless presentation.
"Your favorite, milord. Strawberry cheesecake."
"Perfect." Thor's voice carried genuine warmth—rare, precious, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
He took a bite, and for just a moment, the Thunder God's expression softened. Pleasure—simple, uncomplicated, human—flickered across features usually locked in divine severity.
Albedo watched him, transfixed. His smile—small, genuine, unguarded—transformed him completely. The god of destruction became, briefly, just... a being enjoying something sweet.
He noticed her staring.
"Albedo."
"Yes, milord?"
"Would you like some?"
Surprise bloomed across her features. She glanced at the cheesecake—already bitten, already his—and understanding followed shock.
"I would, Lord Thor."
"Good."
She reached for the plate, but Thor pulled it back smoothly, holding it just beyond her grasp. Confusion creased her brow.
Then Thor lifted the fork, bringing it toward her lips, and comprehension crashed over her like a tidal wave.
"Say ahh," Thor instructed, his voice carrying gentle command.
Albedo's face flushed crimson—deeper than blood, brighter than roses, hot as forge fires. But she complied, parting her lips.
"Ahh..." The taste hit her tongue—sweet, rich, perfect. "Delicious, Lord Thor. Truly delicious."
"I thought you'd enjoy it," Thor replied, satisfaction evident. "It's my preferred treat. I'm glad our tastes align."
"Very enjoyable," Albedo murmured.
"The cheesecake," Thor asked, his tone deceptively casual, "or the indirect kiss?"
"What?!" Albedo's blush intensified impossibly, her entire face burning.
She hadn't realized. Hadn't considered. The fork—his fork, already used by him, carrying the taste of his lips—had touched hers. An indirect kiss. Intimate. Intentional.
Thor finished the cheesecake, his expression pleased, almost playful. "We've kissed properly many times, Albedo. Why does this make you shy?"
"Because," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper, "I've never... You gave me my first indirect kiss, Lord Thor."
"Your first," Thor repeated, something warm and possessive coloring the words.
Before they could continue, Demiurge's pointed cough cut through the moment like a blade through silk.
"Lord Thor," he said carefully, "perhaps we should refocus on the battle."
Thor blinked, then glanced at the Mirror, then back at Demiurge. "Ah. Right. Yes. The battle."
They resumed watching, and the brutality intensified.
Ainz unleashed Shark Cyclone—a spell that summoned spectral predators from nightmare oceans, their teeth gnashing reality itself.
Shalltear responded with her Spuit Lance, each strike draining life force, healing her wounds, perpetuating the cycle of damage and recovery that made her so terrifyingly effective.
Ainz summoned a Wall of Skeleton—undead defenders rising from nothing to shield him.
Shalltear shattered them with Force Explosion—raw power overwhelming summoned defense.
Ainz countered with Magic Arrow—simple, efficient, relentless.
Back and forth. Attack and defense. Strategy and instinct.
Then Shalltear created distance, her movements suddenly purposeful, and Thor's eyes narrowed.
"Her trump card," he murmured.
Einherjar manifested—an avatar, a perfect copy bearing Shalltear's equipment, her statistics, her killing potential, though lacking her magical capabilities. Still, the addition turned a difficult fight into something nearly impossible.
Two Shalltears. One Ainz.
The math screamed defeat.
The golden clock appeared behind Ainz—The Goal of All Life is Death—and began its inexorable countdown.
"Clever," Thor whispered, approval threading through the word. "Equalizing through inevitability."
Shalltear grew desperate, aggressive, throwing everything at Ainz before the clock could complete its revolution.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Each second is an eternity.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Shalltear's attacks intensified, frenzied.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Zero.
Everything went white.
When vision returned, the landscape had transformed. Sand replaced grass. Death replaced life. All of Shalltear's summons lay destroyed, erased, ended.
Shalltear herself survived—barely—only through the emergency use of a magical resurrection item.
Ainz began explaining his deception, his strategy, his knowledge of her capabilities gained through friendship with her creator, Peroroncino.
Then came the next surprise.
Perfect Warrior.
Ainz's form shifted, transformed, and class-changed from magic caster to warrior. His robes became armor—Touch Me's armor, legendary, divine, perfect.
"Impossible," Cocytus breathed.
"Very possible," Thor corrected, leaning forward now, interestedly engaged. "That's why he visited the Mausoleum."
"The spell Perfect Warrior allows equipment from another class without penalty," Demiurge noted, understanding dawning.
Then Ainz summoned his first weapon: Takemikazuchi Type 8.
"Shalltear now faces not just Ainz," Thor observed quietly, "but the combined might of all forty-one Supreme Beings channeled through him."
The battle shifted. Ainz wielded weapon after weapon—each belonging to a different Supreme Being, each carrying unique properties, each catching Shalltear off-guard.
Dual daggers infused with Holy Magic, devastating against her vampiric nature.
Heavy gauntlets for crushing impact, disrupting her rhythm.
Then—the final weapon—an elegant bow that had once belonged to Peroroncino himself.
Shalltear's reaction was immediate, visceral, primal. Rage and shock and betrayal all twisted together as she saw her creator's weapon turned against her.
She attacked with everything remaining—all restraint abandoned, all strategy forgotten, pure fury given form.
Exactly what Ainz wanted.
"His victory is assured now," Thor stated.
"You're certain, milord?" Demiurge asked. "The battle still seems—"
"I'm certain."
Ainz began casting Fallen Down again—the same Super-Tier Magic that had opened this confrontation, now returning as its conclusion. He used a time-reduction item, accelerating the casting, turning what should have been impossible into inevitable.
For one split second, Shalltear moved to interrupt, positioned perfectly to disrupt the spell, positioned to steal victory from—
She stopped.
Froze.
Something had caught her attention. Pulled her focus. Distracted her at the critical moment.
Aura, Thor thought, recognizing the external interference. Perfect timing.
Fallen consumed Shalltear completely. Light, heat, destruction—absolute and total.
When it cleared, she was gone.
Destroyed.
Dead.
Before fading completely, Shalltear's last thoughts acknowledged Ainz's supremacy over all beings in Nazarick—except perhaps one other, though she would never admit that aloud.
Victory.
The Treasury of the Great Tomb of Nazarick.
All Guardians assembled, forming a circle around Ainz and Thor, prepared for the resurrection ritual.
"Everything prepared?" Ainz asked.
"Yes, Lord Ainz," Albedo confirmed.
"If she's still controlled—" Thor began.
"We'll handle it, Lord Ainz, Lord Thor," Albedo interrupted gently but firmly. "Trust us."
All the Guardians nodded in agreement, their resolve unified, absolute.
Ainz and Thor exchanged glances—brief, meaningful—then nodded.
"Very well. Proceed."
Ainz initiated the ritual. Five hundred million gold coins melted, reformed, transmuted from wealth into flesh, from treasure into life.
Shalltear materialized—naked, vulnerable, reborn.
Ainz immediately summoned a blanket, covering her.
"Albedo?" Thor prompted.
"The mind control is broken," she assured him.
"Good."
Shalltear stirred, consciousness returning like dawn breaking after endless night.
"Lord Ainz?" Her voice—confused, uncertain, lost.
"I'm glad..." Ainz paused. "No. I'm sorry."
"Sorry? For what? You couldn't possibly—"
"This was my fault. My responsibility. My failure."
"Lord Ainz cannot be at fault!" Shalltear insisted fiercely, suddenly clinging to him, arms wrapping around his neck. "Never! You're perfect! You're—"
"I will experience my first here..." she whispered, voice carrying a strange intensity.
"You're what?" Ainz stammered.
Thor coughed—not to clear his throat, but to suppress laughter threatening to escape. Some things never change, he thought, amused despite himself.
"Shalltear," Thor interjected smoothly, "this probably isn't the ideal time. You must be exhausted."
"But—"
"We'll discuss this later," Ainz said quickly, gratefully. "First, tell me—what do you remember?"
"I... attacked a mercenary camp. Then..." Confusion clouded her features. "Nothing. Blank. Empty."
Five days ago, Thor noted internally. Significant gap.
"Anything else unusual?" Ainz pressed.
"No, I feel fi—AAAH!"
"What?"
"My breasts are gone!"
Silence crashed through the Treasury like a dropped anvil.
Then chaos erupted.
"You bonehead!" Albedo shrieked. "What are you talking about?!"
"Right?!" Aura joined in. "And this whole mess is your fault anyway!"
Thor... laughed.
Not politely. Not quietly. A deep, rolling thunder of genuine amusement that filled the Treasury, echoing off ancient walls, shaking dust from forgotten corners.
The Guardians' scolding reminded him of old times—of his fellow gods bickering, arguing, living with passion and fury and joy all tangled together.
He noticed Ainz sitting still, silent, watching the chaos with what might have been nostalgia if skeletons could feel such things properly.
"Momonga."
Ainz looked up, meeting Thor's crimson gaze.
Thor placed his hand on Ainz's shoulder—heavy with meaning, light with camaraderie. "Come on, skeleton. Nazarick still needs its Guild Master."
"You're right," Ainz replied, rising. "Let's finish this."
They stood together as the Guardians continued their affectionate scolding of Shalltear, who looked increasingly bewildered.
"I deserve the scolding," Ainz announced, drawing everyone's attention. "Despite our intelligence gathering, I never anticipated this possibility. The mistake was mine alone. Shalltear—" He turned to her, voice carrying absolute conviction. "You are not guilty of anything. Remember that. Always."
"Thank you, Lord Ainz," she whispered, tears forming.
"Demiurge," Thor commanded, "explain everything to her once she's rested."
"Understood, Lord Thor."
"Lord Thor, Lord Ainz," Albedo reported, "Sebas hasn't returned as ordered."
"He's bait," Thor stated flatly. "We don't know who targeted Shalltear or why, but Sebas was with her. Logical, he'd be next."
"Albedo," Ainz continued, "assemble a stealth team. Position them near Sebas. He's bait, yes—but bait we protect. If our enemy makes even the slightest move, we end them."
Thor and Ainz shared a look—an unspoken understanding passing between them. Whoever wielded that World-Class Item against Nazarick would pay. Thousandfold. Absolutely.
"Question, Lord Ainz?" Mare ventured timidly.
"Yes, Mare?"
"You left a large scar on the forest. Should I repair the damage?"
"No need," Ainz replied smoothly. "When magic sealing crystals are destroyed, the released power goes wild—capable of devastating large areas."
"Really? I didn't know that."
"You didn't know because I just invented it," Ainz admitted. "But people will believe it. Sealing crystals are rare enough that no one will waste one testing the claim."
Plans formed. Armies to raise. Undead to create. Corpses to gather. Nazarick would grow stronger from this near-disaster, this brush with a genuine threat.
Later—much later—Thor stood in his private corridor, before the painting.
The curtains had been drawn back, revealing the full image: a woman, blonde and beautiful, embracing two small girls who smiled with innocent joy.
"Sorry for cutting the last visit short," Thor rumbled, his voice softened by privacy, gentled by grief. "Leadership keeps me occupied. Not as busy as Momonga—he drowns in paperwork—but still. Enough."
He lifted a cup of sake, sipping the rich liquid before continuing his one-sided conversation.
"I have four daughters now. You'd have liked them. Ninya's sweetness would've charmed you. Nemu's adorableness would've made you smile."
His voice caught, just slightly. "Nemu reminds me of our lilies. They could've been friends. Should've been. But time ran out. Cut short. Stolen."
Another sip. Another moment of silence.
"I should return. Momonga needs me. Nazarick needs me. The living need me." He paused. "But you know that. You always understood duty."
Thor approached the painting, his massive hand reaching out, touching the canvas with infinite care. A single tear—crystalline, perfect—fell from his crimson eye, tracing down his scarred cheek before he wiped it away.
"Goodnight, my beloved wife," he whispered, voice breaking like distant thunder fading into silence. "Sleep well. Watch over our lilies. Make sure they sleep soundly. And please..." His voice dropped even lower. "Read them their favorite bedtime story. The one about the thunder god who learned gentleness."
Thor turned away, each step heavier than the last.
Behind him, the Thor Guards closed the curtains reverently, hiding the painting once more: the blonde woman, the two smiling girls, and below them, a plaque bearing simple words that contained infinite sorrow.
Gone But Still Loved.
To Be Continued