Chapter 17: Thunder Walks Among Shadows
The Great Tomb of Nazarick had settled into an uneasy peace since the Shalltear incident—a calm that felt less like tranquility and more like the breath held before a storm breaks.
Through the obsidian corridors of the 9th Floor, footsteps echoed with the deliberate cadence of distant thunder rolling across mountains. Thor—the God of Thunder himself—strode toward his personal quarters with the unhurried confidence of one who had shattered giants and toppled titans. His mortal guise wrapped around his divine frame like storm clouds concealing lightning, but even disguised, his presence made the very air thrum with barely contained power.
A low hum emanated from his throat—not quite a song, more the rumble of distant tempests translated into melody. His crimson eyes, sharp as Mjölnir's edge, flickered with thoughts that danced like chain lightning across his consciousness.
The Clementine woman clings like ivy to ancient oak, he mused, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Yet her protectiveness toward her sisters burns with the fierce devotion of a Valkyrie guarding fallen warriors. And little Nemu... the child's warmth has begun to thaw even Clementine's frost-touched edges.
The corridor stretched before him like the Bridge of Asgard—eternal, magnificent, touched by shadows that seemed to bow as he passed. Tapestries depicting conquered realms whispered against stone walls, their threads catching the ethereal light that pulsed through Nazarick's veins like luminescent blood.
When Thor finally reached his door, his calloused hand—scarred from countless battles, each mark a saga unto itself—grasped the ornate handle. The metal warmed beneath his palm as if recognizing its master. Then he paused, nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly.
Hmm. His eyes narrowed with the knowing gleam of one who had weathered countless ambushes and faced down deception itself. Why does the air taste of anticipation? Like the charged silence before lightning splits the heavens... Momonga must have been keeping her occupied. We've become quite the pair of conspirators, he and I—death and thunder, plotting beneath these ancient stones.
Thor drew a breath deep enough to fill the lungs of a storm giant, squared his shoulders—each one broad enough to bear the weight of worlds—and turned the handle with theatrical deliberation.
The door swung open like the gates of Valhalla itself.
Albedo stood in the center of his quarters, positioned with such calculated precision that every curve, every angle of her form caught the ambient light like a masterwork sculpture. Her golden eyes gleamed with predatory anticipation, and her black wings—those magnificent obsidian feathers that could shame ravens—trembled with barely suppressed excitement.
"Welcome back, Lord Thor," she purred, her voice liquid honey laced with something far more intoxicating.
"My dear Albedo." Thor's voice rumbled from his chest like distant thunder promising rain—deep, resonant, carrying the weight of ages. His lips curved into a smile that had once made goddesses weak and giants flee. "What delightful mischief have you been brewing in my absence?"
"Would you like to eat something?" Albedo asked, taking a single step forward that somehow contained entire volumes of suggestion. "Would you rather take a bath?" Her wings fluttered, each feather catching light like polished jet. "Or perhaps..." She paused, letting the word hang in the air like Mjölnir suspended at the apex of its throw. "...me?"
Boom.
Not a physical sound, but the emotional equivalent—the thunderclap of desire meeting amusement meeting genuine fondness.
Thor's laughter rolled through the room like summer storms across wheat fields—rich, genuine, utterly unrestrained. He crossed the distance between them with steps that made the floor groan beneath divine weight, each footfall a drumbeat heralding the approach of something magnificent and terrible.
His hand—large enough to cradle stars, gentle enough to hold hatchlings—cupped her chin with surprising tenderness, tilting her face upward. Calloused fingers, weathered by millennia of gripping Mjölnir's leather-wrapped handle, traced the delicate line of her jaw with reverence reserved for sacred things.
Albedo's composure shattered like glass struck by lightning.
Her wings erupted into frantic motion—flap-flap-flap-flap—beating the air with all the dignity of a startled chicken, black feathers creating miniature hurricanes that sent dust motes spiraling in chaotic patterns. Her porcelain cheeks blazed crimson, the blush spreading down her neck like wildfire consuming dry tinder.
"Now that is quite tempting, my dear succubus," Thor murmured, his voice dropping an octave into registers that made souls tremble. His crimson eyes glinted with mischief older than mortal civilizations. "I find myself most favorably inclined toward this reception. But tell me—what inspired this particular... performance?"
"Well, I am pretending to be a newlywed wife," Albedo managed, though her voice wavered like flame in wind. She struggled valiantly to reclaim her composure, squaring her shoulders even as her wings continued their betraying flutter. "I was told that it is only natural for a new wife to greet her husband in such a manner after he returns from an extended journey."
"Oh?" Thor's eyebrow arched with the slow, dramatic rise of the sun cresting mountain peaks. "I'm your husband now, am I?"
The words rolled from his tongue with amused indulgence, like a father entertaining a child's fantasy—except the heat in his gaze suggested something far less paternal and infinitely more dangerous.
"Yes... possibly... maybe... soon?" Albedo's voice diminished with each word, growing smaller and smaller until the final word emerged as barely more than an exhaled breath. Her golden eyes darted away, unable to sustain contact with his burning crimson gaze.
"Perhaps," Thor conceded, his thumb tracing idle patterns along her jawline—gentle circles that sent visible shivers cascading through her frame. "However, my dear succubus, you have committed a grave tactical error in your wifely duties."
"W-what?" Albedo's eyes snapped back to his, now wide with something between concern and desperate curiosity.
"According to the sacred traditions of... certain mortal cultures I've observed..." Thor's grin turned positively wicked, sharp as Mjölnir's edge and twice as devastating. "...a proper wife greets her returning husband while wearing only an apron. Nothing else. Just the apron."
Crack.
The sound of Albedo's composure fracturing completely.
"What a catastrophic oversight!" She gasped, hands flying to her face in genuine distress. Her wings snapped open to full extension—a span that could shadow small buildings—quivering with agitated energy. "This is unforgivable! Please, Lord Thor, give me the order immediately, and I shall rectify this egregious blunder at once!"
Thor's laughter boomed again—rich, rolling thunder that shook the very foundations of the room. "Now, while witnessing this particular... correction... would indeed prove most entertaining—" His eyes gleamed with promise dark as storm clouds. "—we have obligations that supersede pleasure. Momonga requires our presence for matters of state."
The change in Albedo was instantaneous and heartbreaking.
Her wings drooped like wilted flowers after frost, black feathers losing their lustrous sheen. Her shoulders slumped beneath the weight of crushing disappointment. Her expression—so carefully crafted, so beautifully arranged—crumbled into something wounded and vulnerable and achingly genuine.
"Oh... okay," she whispered, the words carrying all the devastation of abandoned hopes.
Thor exhaled—long, slow, the sigh of someone who knew they were about to indulge a weakness, fully aware of the consequences, and choosing it anyway.
"My beautiful wife—" His voice softened like thunder heard from safe distance, still powerful but no longer threatening. "—must never wear such a sorrowful expression." His other hand rose to cup her face fully, cradling her between his palms as one might hold something infinitely precious and impossibly fragile. "I much prefer seeing that radiant smile that could outshine even Bifrost's seven colors."
Albedo's head snapped up.
Wife. He'd called her his wife.
Beautiful. He'd called her beautiful.
The blush that had been fading returned with renewed vengeance, spreading across her features like sunrise consuming night. Her lips parted to respond—to say something, anything—but Thor moved with the decisive swiftness that had once driven his fist through Jörmungandr's skull.
He kissed her.
Not roughly. Not demandingly. But with the kind of controlled tenderness that only beings of overwhelming power can truly achieve—the same careful strength that prevents Mjölnir from obliterating everything it touches when Thor wills it so.
His lips claimed hers with deliberate care, tasting honey and desperation and devotion so pure it could shame the prayers of saints. Albedo melted against him like snow against forge-fire, her wings wrapping forward to embrace them both in a cocoon of black feathers.
When Thor finally pulled back, Albedo swayed like wheat in gentle breeze.
"Business now," Thor murmured against her lips, his breath warm and electric, carrying the ozone scent of distant lightning. "Play later. Agreed?"
Albedo nodded mutely, incapable of forming words, her usual eloquence utterly obliterated.
SCENE TRANSITION: The Office of Schemes and Sovereignty
Ainz Ooal Gown's personal office existed in a state of organized chaos that only the undead could truly appreciate. Papers arranged in stacks that defied conventional geometry. Maps weighted down by skulls that might have been decorative or might have been someone he'd killed—with Ainz, one never quite knew. The ambient light possessed that peculiar quality of illuminating nothing while revealing everything.
Ainz himself sat enthroned behind his obsidian desk, a skeletal figure of terrible majesty draped in robes that swallowed light. Albedo stood at his right hand like a guardian angel who'd taken a wrong turn and decided she preferred the scenery in hell.
Thor, meanwhile, had claimed the room's most comfortable couch with the unapologetic entitlement of someone who'd once lounged in Odin's own hall. He reclined with casual magnificence, one arm thrown across the couch's back, one leg crossed over the other, radiating relaxed power like the sun radiates warmth—constant, inescapable, life-giving or life-ending depending on proximity.
Knock knock knock.
The sound echoed with perfect precision—three strikes, evenly spaced, the rhythm of someone who understood protocol instinctively.
Yuri Alpha entered with mechanical grace, pushing a cart laden with confections that would make master pastry chefs weep with envy. Chocolate-covered strawberries arranged like jewels. Pastries so delicate they seemed to defy the laws of physics. Candies that gleamed like captured starlight.
All for Thor, who had made his preferences abundantly clear: he'd rather fight an army of frost giants than endure a single afternoon of paperwork.
"Firstly," Ainz began, his skeletal fingers steepling before his face in a gesture that somehow conveyed both authority and weariness, "this is the money I obtained in E-Rantel." He gestured to several heavy pouches that clinked with satisfying weight. "Summoning and strengthening monsters as defenses required gold back in Yggdrasil. We must ascertain whether the same economic principles apply in this world."
"Very well," Albedo replied, gathering the coin pouches with practiced efficiency. "I shall conduct experiments immediately to determine the conversion rates and applicability."
Ainz produced a map with the flourish of a stage magician revealing his final trick—unfurling parchment that showed the known world in frustratingly vague detail.
"Now, on to more pressing matters. I finally managed to obtain a map of this world during my excursion to E-Rantel."
"This is..." Albedo leaned forward, her analytical mind already cataloging routes, distances, potential threats.
"The scaling is rather vague," Ainz admitted, tapping one skeletal finger against the parchment with a soft tik-tik-tik. "And only one of the non-human countries bears proper labels. However, it represents the best intelligence currently at our disposal."
"Understood. I'll have copies distributed to all Floor Guardians for strategic review."
Ainz's empty eye sockets turned toward the couch, where a scene of domestic bliss had somehow manifested in his office.
Thor reclined like a conquering emperor receiving tribute, his head resting comfortably in Yuri Alpha's lap. The Pleiades maid attended him with serene professionalism, her delicate fingers holding a chocolate-covered strawberry to his lips. Thor accepted it with leonine contentment, his eyes half-closed in satisfaction, a low rumble of pleasure emanating from his chest like a great cat purring after a successful hunt.
Crunch.
Albedo's jaw clenched so tightly her teeth should have cracked. Her left eye developed a subtle twitch. Her wings rustled with barely suppressed agitation—whisper-whisper-rustle—betraying the storm of jealousy raging beneath her composed exterior.
But when Ainz glanced her way, she smiled with such radiant sweetness that one might believe she'd never experienced a negative emotion in her immortal existence.
"Anubis," Ainz said, then paused. "Thor," he corrected, his tone carrying the long-suffering patience of someone who'd dealt with troublesome subordinates for centuries. "You should probably join this conversation."
"Must I, Momonga?" Thor replied without opening his eyes, his voice thick with contentment. "I find myself most agreeably situated at present."
"Lord Thor," Albedo interjected, her voice saccharine sweet with undertones sharp as obsidian blades. Her smile remained perfectly fixed, but her eyes promised retribution of the most creative varieties. "I would strongly advise that you grace us with your participation in this strategic discussion."
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.
Thor's eyes opened slowly, crimson orbs focusing with the lazy awareness of a predator deciding whether prey was worth the effort of pursuit. He'd survived Ragnarok. He'd battled Jörmungandr to mutual destruction and walked away. He knew when discretion outweighed valor.
Besides, he quite enjoyed sleeping in a bed that wasn't booby-trapped with succubus-related surprises.
With theatrical reluctance, Thor rose from his comfortable position, each movement deliberate and exaggerated—a silent performance of martyrdom that would make Greek tragedians proud.
"My gratitude for the... most agreeable interlude, Yuri," he rumbled, his hand briefly touching her shoulder with the casual affection one might show a favored hound.
"Of course, Lord Thor," Yuri Alpha replied, her professional composure never wavering even slightly. "Should you require anything further, you need merely speak the word."
"Naturally. However, I prefer not to distract you from your appointed duties." Thor's expression softened marginally. "The efficiency of Nazarick depends upon all fulfilling their designated roles without interference—even mine."
"Attending to the Supreme Beings' comfort is among our primary duties," Yuri countered with impeccable logic.
"Ah. Yes. Well." Thor's momentary awkwardness—a rare sight—flickered across his features before being subsumed by his usual confidence. "Quite right, of course."
Yuri Alpha executed a perfect bow—spine straight, angle precise, duration exact—acknowledging both Ainz and Albedo before gliding from the office with the silent grace of falling snow.
The door clicked shut with soft finality.
Albedo's smile gained several additional watts of brightness and approximately three degrees more threat.
Thor crossed the distance to Ainz's desk with measured steps, each footfall carrying weight that made the ancient floor groan in recognition of something truly substantial passing over it. He leaned over the map, crimson eyes scanning terrain with the practiced assessment of one who'd led armies across countless battlefields.
"Let's quickly review the strategic landscape," Ainz began, pointing to the map's center with one skeletal claw. "E-Rantel occupies this central position. To the north lies the Great Tomb of Nazarick—our current stronghold and seat of power."
"This territory," Thor interjected, his finger tracing borders with confidence born of divine intuition, "represents the Re-Estize Kingdom. And here—" His hand swept eastward. "—the Baharuth Empire, separated from the Kingdom by the Azerlisia Mountain range. Natural fortification. Difficult to traverse with large forces. Ideal for defensive positioning."
"Correct," Ainz confirmed, something like approval coloring his eternally neutral tone. "According to intelligence gathered from the Magician's Guild leader, to the northwest of the Kingdom lies the Argland Council State. Non-human territory, allegedly governed by several dragons of considerable power."
"That's the destination Demiurge selected for his reconnaissance mission, is it not?" Albedo asked, her tactical mind already calculating angles and possibilities.
"Indeed."
"Hmm?" Thor's attention sharpened like a blade being drawn from its sheath. "I appear to have missed this particular briefing."
"If you graced our strategic meetings with more regular attendance," Ainz replied with the dry tone of someone who'd delivered this particular lecture before, "you would remain apprised of current operations."
"Well," Thor spread his hands in a gesture of theatrical innocence that fooled absolutely nobody, "I have chosen to honor this gathering with my presence now. Surely that counts for something?"
"Yeah. Yeah." Ainz's skeletal hand waved dismissively—flap flap—like someone shooing away persistent flies. "Regardless. Moving on. On the opposite side of this wasteland—" His claw traced barren regions. "—lies the Slane Theocracy. This organization warrants particular caution and scrutiny."
"Is this demarcation their border?" Albedo's finger followed suspected boundary lines.
"Most likely, though I would not place excessive faith in this map's accuracy. The cartography leaves much to be desired." Ainz shifted his focus. "Concerning the Empire—numerous city-states scatter across the northeastern territories. Meanwhile, to the southwest, various tribal confederations maintain mastery over the wyverns that nest in the region's extensive cave systems."
"Wyvern riders?" Albedo's eyes gleamed with strategic interest. "Aerial superiority units."
"Wyverns could prove most valuable for enhancing Nazarick's defensive capabilities," Thor mused, his mind already calculating force projections and tactical applications. "Flying mounts. Capable of rapid deployment. Psychological impact on ground forces. Yes. Most useful indeed."
"Potentially," Ainz conceded. "We possess the capability to intercept and dominate such forces with relative ease. However, overconfidence has destroyed empires greater than ours. Vigilance remains essential." His attention returned to the map. "Furthermore, to the east of this Great Lake exists a kingdom allegedly ruled by dragons, though this map frustratingly provides no specific details."
"Dragons?" Albedo's voice carried the reverence of someone recognizing true power.
"This," Thor declared, his entire demeanor brightening like storm clouds suddenly pierced by sunlight, "proves considerably more interesting than economic reports and supply chain logistics."
"Oh, now you demonstrate engagement," Ainz observed with the weary amusement of a parent watching a child suddenly pay attention after ignoring important lessons.
"Well," Thor replied with shameless honesty, "you possess superior aptitude for paperwork, administrative coordination, and intelligence analysis. I, conversely, excel at immediate action, direct confrontation, and combat resolution. We each serve according to our strengths, yes?"
Ainz's skull somehow managed to convey an exasperated sigh despite lacking the necessary anatomy. "Anyway. According to various reports, this dragon kingdom was supposedly founded by an exceptionally powerful progenitor dragon, with governance now maintained by his descendants. However, the veracity of such claims remains questionable. Legends tend toward embellishment."
"Hmm." Thor's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "But presently, they pose no immediate threat to our operations."
"Correct. Though future conflict remains possible as our sphere of influence expands." Ainz continued his geographical briefing. "Additionally, an artificial island city exists in the eastern waters. And to the south lies perhaps the most intriguing location—a floating city supposedly created by the Eight Greed Kings."
"A floating city?" Albedo repeated, her analytical mind immediately recognizing the magical and engineering implications.
Why does that sound familiar? Thor's brow furrowed, ancient memories stirring like dragons shifting in sleep. Something about the Greed Kings... something Momonga mentioned in passing...
"Indeed. A city built beneath a floating castle. The entire settlement exists within a protective barrier of extraordinary power, suggesting the presence of a World-Class Item." Ainz leaned back in his throne-like chair. "That concludes the geographical overview."
"I comprehend the strategic situation," Albedo confirmed, her mind already filing away information for future reference.
"Quite substantial information to assimilate in a single session," Thor acknowledged, his fingers drumming thoughtfully against the desk's edge—tap-tap-tap-tap—like rain against stone. "Yet vital for our long-term planning."
"May I inquire, Lord Ainz," Albedo began, her tone shifting to something more carefully measured, "which of these nations do you assess as presenting the greatest threat to Nazarick's interests?"
"The nations themselves prove relatively insignificant," Ainz replied with the cold logic of the undead. "What concerns me is the possibility of exceptional individuals—heroes, legendary warriors, powerful magic-users—who might reside within these territories. Individual power can shift the balance of nations."
"My apologies," Albedo said, bowing slightly. "I should have phrased more precisely. We should maintain vigilance regarding all nations until we can conduct more thorough reconnaissance."
"Exactly." Ainz's skeletal fingers steepled again. "Also... how is Shalltear progressing?"
"Yes," Thor added, his voice carrying genuine concern beneath its thunderous depth. "I confess considerable interest in her current state, as I haven't encountered her since the incident's resolution."
"Physically, she appears completely recovered," Albedo reported, though her tone suggested complications lurked beneath the surface. "However, I harbor significant concerns regarding her mental and emotional stability."
SCENE SHIFT: The Bar of Sorrows
At that precise moment, deep within the luxurious bar on Nazarick's 9th Floor—a establishment that could make mortal taverns weep with envy—Shalltear Bloodfallen sat slumped over the polished counter.
Before her stood an impressive array of alcohol. Wines that could bankrupt kingdoms. Spirits so pure they should have dissolved mortal throats. Liquors aged in casks blessed by ancient rituals.
She drank methodically, desperately, with the determination of someone trying to drown memories in ethanol.
It wasn't working.
Her vampire physiology rendered her functionally immune to intoxication—a cruel joke of biology that left her achingly, devastatingly sober no matter how much she consumed.
Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.
The sounds echoed in the empty bar like a sad metronome marking time for tragedy.
BACK TO THE OFFICE: Strategic Discussions Resume
"Hmm?" Thor's head tilted slightly, his divine senses picking up... something. Distress, perhaps. Emotional turbulence radiating from somewhere within Nazarick's depths.
"Is she still experiencing residual effects from the mind control?" Ainz asked, leaning forward with genuine concern.
"No, that's not the issue," Albedo replied, her wings rustling with agitation—whisper-flutter-whisper. "The problem stems from her having fought you, Lord Ainz. She regards this as an unforgivable sin—a transgression so profound that no punishment could adequately address it." Albedo's expression hardened with determination. "I apologize for questioning your judgment, but I strongly believe she should receive formal punishment, Lord Ainz!"
"The logic holds," Thor interjected, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd witnessed countless warriors grappling with guilt. "Particularly given her profound admiration for you, Momonga. To have raised her weapon against you—even while controlled—tears at her very essence."
"Quiet, you damn furry," Ainz muttered, though the insult carried no real heat.
"I merely speak truth as I perceive it," Thor replied with a shrug that somehow managed to be both casual and regal.
"It's perfectly natural for actions to yield consequences—rewards for success, punishments for failure," Albedo continued, her tone taking on the quality of a professor delivering a lecture. "By imposing appropriate punishment for her actions, her guilt should dissolve, replaced by the sense of having atoned. Currently, she possesses no mechanism for processing her feelings except endless self-blame—a spiral that will only deepen without intervention."
Ainz released a long, rattling sigh—the sound of air escaping through spaces where lungs should be but weren't. "Very well. I'll devise an appropriate punishment for her transgressions."
"Like a proper Guild Master," Thor added with approval warming his voice like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"I apologize for overstepping my bounds," Albedo said, executing a slight bow, though her smile suggested satisfaction rather than contrition.
"No apology necessary, my dear succubus," Thor rumbled, genuine fondness coloring his words. "You serve as the binding force that maintains unity among all Floor Guardians. Your counsel proves invaluable."
"Thank you very much, Lord Thor!"
Pure, radiant happiness exploded across Albedo's features like dawn breaking over mountains. Before conscious thought could moderate her actions, she rushed forward with the enthusiasm of a puppy greeting its returning master.
She seized Thor's left arm with both hands, pressing it firmly between her breasts—those magnificent curves that could inspire poetry and wars—while rubbing her cheek against his bicep with contented, purring affection.
"Moving on," Ainz interjected, his tone suggesting he'd witnessed this particular display more times than he cared to count and had developed immunity through repeated exposure. "I'll be resuming my role as Momon the adventurer. I'm entrusting you both to manage affairs during my absence."
"I shall endeavor to fulfill my duties admirably," Thor declared, though he immediately added a significant caveat, "when time permits between my responsibilities toward my daughters."
"Please leave everything to me, Lord Ainz," Albedo said, her voice ringing with confidence. "I will ensure Nazarick operates with perfect efficiency during your absence."
"Good."
This presents the perfect opportunity to play housewife with Lord Thor~ Albedo whispered to herself, the words barely audible, emerging as quiet as butterfly wings brushing flower petals.
Thor's right eyebrow rose incrementally—a subtle gesture that somehow conveyed volumes.
His hearing, honed across millennia of battle where the whisper of drawn steel meant the difference between life and death, had captured every syllable. A smile curved his lips—small, knowing, dangerous as lightning contained in flesh.
Without warning, his tail—that magnificent extension of divine will—snaked around Albedo's waist with the fluid grace of a striking serpent.
"Eeeep!"
The sound Albedo produced could only be described as adorable—high-pitched, startled, utterly unlike her usual composed demeanor. She jumped approximately three inches off the ground, her wings snapping open reflexively, black feathers creating a momentary explosion of obsidian confusion.
"Cute," Thor murmured, the word emerging as a low rumble meant only for her ears—intimate, possessive, carrying promises of future mischief.
"Is something the matter?" Ainz asked, his tone suggesting he suspected shenanigans but couldn't quite prove them.
"Nope! Nothing the matter at all!" Albedo squeaked, her face blazing crimson, looking anywhere except at Thor's smugly satisfied expression. "Though..."
"Hmm?" Thor's eyes glinted with innocent curiosity that fooled absolutely nobody.
"What is it, Albedo?" Ainz prompted.
"You should exercise extreme caution, Lord Ainz," Albedo said, forcing her scattered thoughts into coherent tactical assessment. "There exists a non-negligible possibility that the owner of the World-Class Item that controlled Shalltear might launch a direct assault against you."
"I suppose prudence dictates heightened alertness until we can identify them definitively," Ainz acknowledged.
"Additionally," Thor interjected, his mind shifting from playful to strategic with the ease of someone who'd commanded armies, "I should inquire about the current status of the plan to strengthen Nazarick's military capabilities."
"I await Cocytus's report on that matter," Albedo replied, grateful for the return to professional topics—though Thor's tail remained firmly wrapped around her waist, a constant, distracting reminder of his presence. "According to Entoma's reconnaissance, we should deploy the forewarning to the Lizardmen clans within the day."
"Excellent," Ainz said with the satisfaction of a plan proceeding according to schedule. "The Lizardmen allegedly possess superior physical capabilities compared to humans. Stronger. Faster. More resilient."
"I confess considerable interest in observing how effectively they combat our forces," Thor mused, his eyes gleaming with the anticipation of someone who appreciated skilled combat regardless of the participants' species.
"The undead created from Lizardmen corpses will substantially enhance Nazarick's defensive capabilities," Albedo concluded with absolute certainty. "Their superior base physiology should translate to more powerful undead soldiers."
SCENE SHIFT: The Great Lake—Where Prophecy Comes to Call
The Great Lake stretched vast and serene beneath azure skies—water so clear it reflected clouds like liquid crystal, so deep its darkness suggested secrets older than memory.
Within this aquatic realm lived the Lizardmen—humanoid reptilian beings who'd carved civilization from swamp and water, who'd learned to forge steel and farm fish and build villages that floated on interconnected platforms.
The Village of the Green Claw stood as one such settlement—home to warriors, fishermen, craftsmen, families. Hatchlings played in shallow water while elders discussed philosophy and hunters returned with the day's catch.
Everything was right with the world.
Until it wasn't.
The change began subtly—a dimming of light that could have been natural cloud coverage. But then the clouds darkened further, shifting from white to gray to something deeper and more terrible. The color of storms. The color of endings.
The temperature dropped ten degrees in thirty seconds.
Birds that had been singing fell silent and fled.
Fish dove deep, seeking the lake's darkest depths.
Then the Messengers appeared.
They materialized from the darkening clouds themselves—manifestations of pure death wrapped in swirling black mist. Each one measured approximately one hundred and fifty centimeters, hovering in mid-air like harbingers from nightmare. The black clouds surrounding them spun endlessly—whisper-spiral-whisper—creating patterns that hurt to observe too closely, that suggested geometries incompatible with mortal comprehension.
The air tasted of endings.
"HEAR ME NOW!"
The voice erupted from all the Messengers simultaneously—a chorus of death speaking with unified purpose, carrying across the lake with supernatural clarity that ensured every Lizardman, from eldest chieftain to youngest hatchling, could hear.
"I HAVE COME HERE ON BEHALF OF THE GREAT BEINGS TO DELIVER A FOREWARNING!"
Lizardmen hands flew to weapons—spears, swords, clubs. Warriors instinctively formed protective circles around non-combatants. Every reptilian eye fixed upon the floating heralds of doom.
"YOU HAVE ALL BEEN SENTENCED TO DEATH!"
The words hung in the air like Mjölnir suspended at the apex of its arc—inevitable, terrible, carrying the weight of absolute finality.
"THE GREAT BEINGS HAVE ALREADY MOBILIZED THE ARMY THAT SHALL BE YOUR DOOM! HOWEVER—" The Messengers paused, allowing dread to build like pressure before an avalanche. "—THE SUPREME BEINGS, IN THEIR INFINITE MERCY, HAVE DECREED YOU SHALL BE GRANTED TIME TO PREPARE A MEANINGLESS DEFENSE!"
The Messengers began to dissipate—dissolving like smoke in wind, breaking apart into fragments of shadow that scattered across the darkening sky.
But before vanishing completely, they delivered their final proclamation:
"EIGHT DAYS FROM TODAY, THE LIZARDMEN TRIBES OF THIS LAKE SHALL BECOME THE SECOND SACRIFICE! RESIST AS BEST YOU CAN, SO THAT THE GREAT BEINGS MAY SNEER AT YOUR FUTILE STRUGGLES! REMEMBER WELL—"
The last fragments of the Messengers swirled together, forming momentarily into a shape that could have been a skull, a crown, or something altogether more terrible.
"—YOU HAVE EIGHT DAYS."
Then they were gone.
Silence crashed down like physical weight.
For three eternal heartbeats, nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The entire village stood frozen—warriors gripping weapons, elders wide-eyed with shock, young ones trembling with fear they didn't yet fully understand.
Then, like dam breaking, chaos erupted.
TO BE CONTINUED...