Chapter 20: Thunder's Judgment and the Lizardmen's Lament
The doors of the throne room groaned open like the mouth of some primordial beast, swallowing Cocytus and his frost-touched subordinates into Nazarick's sanctum sanctorum. Within, the assembled Floor Guardians stood sentinel—silent, statuesque, severe—all save for Albedo and Rossweisse, whose conspicuous absence hung in the air like the promise of a storm.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Each footfall of Cocytus' insectoid limbs echoed through the cavernous chamber, a metronome measuring the weight of failure. Yet as his multifaceted eyes swept across the gathering, they caught on an unexpected figure—Demiurge, demon of demons, standing amongst them like a snake coiled in Eden's garden.
Cocytus: "I apologize profoundly for my tardiness. To think that even you had arrived, Demiurge—you, whom I heard was dispatched beyond Nazarick's hallowed halls."
The arch-demon's lips curled—not quite a smile, more a promise of pleasantries wrapped in razor wire.
Demiurge: "Worry not, my crystalline companion. I stand in charge of the Guardians whilst Albedo accompanies Lord Ainz. Tell me—do you harbor objections? Reservations? Concerns?"
Cocytus: "None whatsoever. Your command is... acceptable."
The politest way of saying 'I have no choice,' Thor thought from his vantage point, hidden from view. These creatures danced around their meanings like mortals around funeral pyres.
Demiurge: "Splendid, simply splendid. We shall proceed inward when the final member manifests."
Cocytus:(His thoughts crystallizing like ice)"The... final one?"
CREAK.
The doors of the Lemegeton—that gate of seventy-two demons—split asunder. Through them drifted an entity so peculiar, so profoundly wrong in its rightness, that even battle-hardened Guardians stiffened.
Aura: "That presence... that aura... Is that Victim? Guardian of the Eighth Floor?"
—Victim, Guardian of the Eighth Floor—
An Angel Born of Sacrifice, A Martyr Wrapped in Pink Flesh
Imagine, if you will, a paradox given form: a meter-long fetus, bright as a lotus blossom, pink as shame, crowned with a halo that hummed with holiness. Wings sprouted from its back—stick-thin, featherless, fundamentally wrong—jutting out like promises never kept. Without a neck to call its own, Victim surveyed the room by rotating its entire body, a grotesque ballet of necessity.
Beauty and horror, merged and married in matrimony most macabre.
Shalltear: "So that is him." (Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter something sacred)
Victim floated forward—no, drifted—like a soap bubble through a graveyard, coming to rest before the assembled Guardians. When it spoke, its voice carried the weight of gospel and gravestones both.
Victim: "It is... a pleasure... to meet you all. I am Victim." (Each word deliberate, delicate, delivered like last rites)
Demiurge: "Your arrival gladdens me, Victim. I am Demiurge, custodian of the Guardians in this... transitional tableau."
Victim: "Lord Ainz has illuminated me regarding each of you—your names, your natures, your purposes. Further formalities would be... repetition."
And with that, the Eighth Floor's Guardian dismissed them all with the gentle finality of a coffin closing.
Shortly thereafter, Demiurge marshaled his forces—Guardians and subordinates alike—into the throne room proper. They advanced in synchronized silence, a procession of predators approaching the apex. Upon reaching the throne's shadow, each knee bent, each head bowed, each heart hammered with reverence and fear intermingled, inseparable.
BOOM.
The main doors—those massive monuments to majesty—thundered open.
The Pleiades Six stood at attention near the entrance, bodies bent in bows so deep they nearly kissed the floor. And through this corridor of genuflection came they: Ainz Ooal Gown and Thor, followed by Albedo and Rossweisse like moons trailing their planets.
Yuri Alpha's voice rang out, clear as cathedral bells, cold as a killer's conscience:
Yuri Alpha: "Lord Ainz Ooal Gown—Supreme Leader of the Great Tomb of Nazarick! Lord Thor—the Thunder Berserker, the Storm Made Flesh! Followed by Albedo, Supervisor of all Floor Guardians, and Third Floor Guardian Rossweisse—they have entered!"
The procession was pageantry perfected.
Ainz moved with mechanical precision—a skeleton wearing sovereignty like a second skin. But Thor... ah, Thor. The God of Thunder walked as though the very stones beneath his feet should feel honored by his passage. His crimson hair—wild, untamed, alive with static electricity—seemed to crackle with suppressed violence. Those amber eyes, fierce as a falcon's, swept across the assembled Guardians with the calculating gaze of a predator assessing prey.
Mjölnir hung at his side, silent but never still, humming with barely-contained catastrophe.
As they passed Demiurge, Rossweisse—silver-haired and serious, her Valkyrie heritage worn like armor—peeled away from the procession. She took her place beside Demiurge, kneeling with military precision, her glasses catching the throne room's cold light.
Such discipline, Thor mused. Such delicious, delightful discipline. Like watching soldiers march toward their own funerals.
Ainz ascended to his throne—that monument to megalomania—and seated himself with skeletal grace. Thor took a position to the left and slightly behind, standing like a thunderhead about to break. Albedo claimed the right, her beauty terrible and terrifying in equal measure.
But Thor noticed—oh yes, he noticed—the way Albedo's golden eyes flickered toward Cocytus. Just for an instant. Just long enough to convey contempt, condemnation, and cold fury.
Politics, Thor thought with amusement. Even in death's kingdom, politics persist like parasites.
Albedo: "Raise your heads—raise them high!—and behold the magnificence, the majesty, the mastery of Lord Ainz Ooal Gown and Lord Thor!"
Like marionettes jerked by invisible strings, every Guardian, every subordinate, every servile soul lifted their gaze. And what they saw stole their breath, their hope, their very wills: two Supreme Beings, seated in power absolute, draped in dominion divine.
Albedo pivoted—a dancer's turn, a soldier's about-face—to address her masters.
Albedo: "Lord Ainz, Lord Thor—the Guardians of Nazarick have gathered, assembled, congregated. They await your word, your will, your whim. Command them as you see fit."
Thor's response was minimal—a grunt, low and rumbling, like distant thunder promising closer storms.
Thor: "Hn."
But Ainz, ever the orator, ever the overlord, chose a different path.
Ainz: "Your gathering gratifies me. Your presence pleases me. Your loyalty... delights me. Demiurge."
Demiurge: "Yes, milord?" (His voice dripped with honey and hemlock)
Ainz: "Apologies accumulate for my constant summons, yet your loyalty—unwavering, unquestioning, unbreakable—deserves acknowledgment and appreciation."
Demiurge: "No need, no need whatsoever, Lord Ainz! As servant to both you and Lord Thor, duty demands I answer your call—immediately, enthusiastically, eternally!"
Such devotion, Thor observed, his expression unreadable. These creatures would drink poison if their masters called it wine.
Ainz: "Understood. Now then—have those responsible for Shalltear's brainwashing revealed themselves? Have they emerged from whatever holes they hide in?"
Demiurge:(His jovial facade cracking to show steel beneath) "They have not. I have maintained vigilance—constant, consuming, comprehensive. Had anyone approached, I would have noticed. I would have known."
Thor: "Hmm..." (The sound carried weight, like a hammer testing metal)
Ainz: "Unfortunate, but unsurprising. Maintain your watch, Demiurge. Additionally—regarding that skin you procured—can we establish a stable supply? A steady stream?"
Demiurge: "Ah! That poses no problem whatsoever. We have already acquired a considerable quantity."
Ainz: "Excellent. And the source? The creature from which these skins are... harvested?"
Demiurge: "The creature is..."
Pause. Pregnant. Purposeful.
Thor's eyes narrowed—just a fraction, just enough. Whatever Demiurge was about to say, the demon was savoring it, rolling it around in his mind like a wine connoisseur contemplating vintage.
Demiurge:(His face splitting into a grin that would make demons weep with envy) "A two-legged sheep from the Holy Kingdom! We have dubbed it the 'Abelion Sheep.' Quite fitting, wouldn't you say?"
Two-legged sheep.
Two. Legged. Sheep.
The words hung in the air like corpses from gallows.
Thor:(His thoughts sharp as lightning)A two-legged species of sheep? Either this world breeds stranger livestock than Midgard ever dreamed... or Demiurge speaks in euphemisms most evil.
Ainz: "Sheep or goat—the distinction matters little. But tell me, Demiurge: would such harvesting damage the local ecosystem? Disrupt the balance?"
Demiurge: "I believe not, Lord Ainz. Through judicious application of healing magic, we can harvest their skins repeatedly. Sustainably. The sheep need not even die—though whether they'd prefer death is another question entirely." (That grin widened impossibly)
Ainz: "Very well. Continue your... operations."
Demiurge: "With pleasure, milord."
Thor said nothing, but his knuckles whitened around Mjölnir's handle. Two-legged sheep that speak of healing magic and repeated harvesting. Either I'm surrounded by fools who don't comprehend the implication... or by monsters who comprehend it perfectly.
He rather suspected the latter.
Ainz's hollow eye sockets turned toward the pink peculiarity hovering near the assembly.
Ainz: "Now then... Victim."
Victim: "Yes... Lord Ainz." (Each word a whisper, a prayer, a plea)
Ainz: "Your summoning serves a singular purpose: should circumstances spiral beyond control, we must utilize your special skill—the one requiring your... death. However, I give you my word, my vow, my promise: you shall be resurrected. Restored. Returned."
Thor: "We may need to kill you to prevent enemy escape. We may need to snuff out your light to preserve ours. For this... we ask forgiveness."
What madness is this? Thor wondered even as he spoke. What being creates life explicitly to end it? What twisted theology births martyrs pre-programmed for sacrifice?
Both Thor and Ainz inclined their heads—a gesture of respect so unexpected that Victim's entire body convulsed with shock.
Victim: "Please, please—do not concern yourselves! I am but a servant, a tool, a sacrifice waiting to happen. I was created for the express purpose of being killed. There exists no greater pleasure, no higher honor, no more profound purpose than to die for the Supreme Beings!"
The creature spoke of its own death like lovers speak of weddings.
Ainz: "I... see."
Thor: "Your words echo scripture—those ancient axioms about laying down life for friends. You embody that teaching, Victim. And for that love..." (His voice softened, just barely) "...we are grateful."
Victim bowed—or rather, its entire body dipped in what might charitably be called a bow. Gratitude and glory mingled in that gesture, grotesque and genuine.
Satisfied, Ainz shifted his attention to the next Guardian requiring acknowledgment.
Ainz: "Shalltear."
Shalltear:(Her composure cracking like ice) "Y-Yes!" (The stutter betrayed her—fear and hope fighting for dominance)
Ainz: "Approach."
She rose—graceful despite her terror—and stepped forward. When she reached the first stair, she sank to her knees once more, head bowed so deeply her crimson hair kissed the cold stone.
Ainz: "We must address... the thorn in your heart."
Shalltear: "AH! LORD AINZ, PLEASE—ISSUE PUNISHMENT! PUNISH THIS FOOL WHO FAILED YOU! THIS IDIOT WHO WAS MEANT TO PROTECT YOU AND YET—YET—" (Her voice broke, shattered, splintered into sobs)
Ainz: "Come closer still."
Fear flooded Shalltear's features—pure, primal, paralyzing. She ascended the steps like a condemned prisoner climbing gallows stairs. At the throne's foot, she knelt, lowered her head, and waited—waited for the axe to fall, the hammer to strike, the judgment to descend.
Instead, she felt... warmth.
Ainz's skeletal hand rested atop her head, patting gently, almost... tenderly.
Shalltear:(Shock stealing her voice) "L-Lord... Ainz...?"
Ainz: "The failure was mine, Shalltear. Against a World Class Item, you stood no chance—disadvantaged, outmatched, doomed from the start. I love all who serve Nazarick. That includes you—especially you."
Thor watched this display with the detached interest of a scientist observing specimens. Smooth. Practiced. The skeleton speaks comfort like a bard strums strings.
Momonga:(Internal panic)Is this working?! Am I doing this right?! Oh god, oh god, oh god—
Thor:(Internal amusement)Your nervousness leaks through like wine through cracked cups, old friend.
Ainz: "How can I punish you when you committed no crime? Made no mistake?"
Shalltear:(Tears streaming now, crystalline and copious) "Ah! Lord Ainz!"
Ainz continued his comforting, his gentle pats rhythmic as heartbeats. Thor noted—with barely suppressed mirth—that several other Guardians were sniffling, dabbing at their eyes with whatever appendages they possessed.
*An army of killers reduced to crying children by kind words and head pats. How the mighty have fallen—or perhaps, how they were never mighty at all, merely loyal.
Ainz: "There now, Shalltear. Cease your crying—it serves only to tarnish your beauty. Now then, step ba—"
Albedo: "Lord Ainz."
The interruption cut through the moment like a sword through silk. Both Ainz and Thor turned—surprised, suspicious, startled—toward Albedo.
Albedo:(Her voice iron wrapped in velvet) "Lord Ainz. I must respectfully insist: you should punish Shalltear."
Ainz: "Albedo, I have deci—"
Shalltear:(Rising to her feet, resolution replacing tears) "Lord Ainz, I concur with Albedo. I agree with her assessment. Please—please—pass down suitable punishment for my transgressions."
Ainz's skull swiveled toward Thor—a silent question hanging in the air between them like smoke.
Ainz: "Thor?"
Thor sighed—a sound like wind through mountain passes, carrying with it the weight of wisdom earned through warfare.
Thor: "Much as I despise punishing our comrades' precious creations... she will never find peace until proper penance is paid. Her heart harbors guilt like a wound harbors infection. It must be lanced, drained, dealt with."
Ainz:(His own sigh rustling through his ribcage) "Very well. I shall determine an appropriate punishment... later. Shalltear, step back."
Shalltear bowed—deeply, gratefully, desperately—before retreating to rejoin her fellow Guardians. But the mood had shifted, soured, sharpened. Albedo's expression morphed into something cold, something cruel, something cutting as her gaze locked onto Cocytus like a predator spotting prey.
Albedo:(Her voice dropping to arctic temperatures) "Cocytus. Lord Ainz has words for you—words you would do well to heed, to hear, to hold close."
Ainz: "I witnessed your battle against the lizardmen."
Cocytus: "Milord, I—"
Ainz: "You. Were. Defeated."
The words fell like executioner's blades—sharp, swift, severe.
Cocytus: "I apologize most profoundly for failing in my mission, for disappointing—"
Albedo:(Cutting through his words like winter wind through flesh) "Cocytus. If you mean to apologize—if you dare to apologize—you must raise your head. Face your failures with eyes open, not cast down like some coward!"
Cocytus's head snapped up instantly, his multiple eyes meeting Ainz's empty sockets and Thor's burning gaze.
Cocytus: "My deepest, most sincere apologies!"
Ainz: "Cocytus, I wish to hear from the defeated leader. What did you feel—truly, deeply, honestly feel—as commanding officer in that catastrophic campaign?"
Cocytus: "Milord, I failed to properly utilize the soldiers entrusted to my command! I squandered resources! I even lost the Elder Lich you personally created—Igva-41! I apologize for these inexcusable errors!"
Ainz: "Hm? The loss of a single Elder Lich troubles me not. Igva was replaceable, reproducible, and renewable. What I seek is understanding: how did you feel commanding that army? Note well—I do not intend to blame you for this loss."
Cocytus:(His thoughts churning like ice in spring thaw)"So it was truly as Demiurge said... Lord Ainz seeks not blame, but wisdom..."
Ainz: "Anyone can lose, Cocytus. Anyone. Defeat discriminates not between fool and philosopher, weakling and warrior..."
Thor's eyes flickered toward Ainz—a spark of challenge dancing in those amber depths.
Ainz: "...Even us."
Thor:(His thoughts thundering like storms)Speak for yourself, skeleton. Last I checked these annals, I remain reigning, undefeated World Champion of Yggdrasil's Arena.
Ainz, somehow sensing his companion's cocky internal monologue, responded with the metaphysical equivalent of nervous sweating.
Momonga:(Internal screaming)Yes, well, you've held that title for five consecutive years! Some of us aren't god-killing war machines!
Thor:(His grin invisible but palpable)Still bitter about your last bout with me? Still sulking over that sound defeat? Very well—I shall take the lead on this interrogation.
Momonga:(Internal resignation)Fine. Go ahead. Show off.
Thor stepped forward—stalked forward, really—moving with predatory precision until he stood directly before Ainz's throne. Then, with deliberate slowness, he turned his fierce gaze downward toward Cocytus.
The air itself seemed to crackle.
Mjölnir hummed.
Thor: "Cocytus. Let me rephrase the question, reformulate the inquiry, reframe the matter: What would you have needed to secure victory? What tools, what tactics, what truths did you lack?"
Silence stretched—taut, tense, terrible—as Cocytus considered. His mandibles clicked softly, nervously, a metronome measuring his mounting anxiety.
Cocytus: "I... I underestimated the lizardmen. Gravely. Grievously. Grotesquely. I lacked intelligence regarding their true strength, their tactical acumen, and their terrain advantages. I should have been more cautious, more careful, more calculated in my approach."
Thor: "Indeed. No matter how weak the enemy appears—no matter how insignificant, how inferior, how inconsequential—you must never underestimate them. Arrogance has slain more warriors than all the weapons in all the worlds combined." (His voice carried the weight of experience, the burden of battles beyond counting) "What else?"
Cocytus: "We lacked proper command structure. The lower-ranked undead required field commanders—lieutenants to direct them, to adapt to changing circumstances. Considering the lizardmen's weapon quality and combat capability, a sustained assault using expendable zombies could have exhausted their warriors, depleted their stamina, perhaps even annihilated them through sheer attrition."
Thor: "Hmm. Anything else?"
Cocytus: "My apologies, Lord Thor. That comprises the extent of my analysis at this time..."
Thor's eyes narrowed—just a fraction, just enough—before he turned away from Cocytus. His crimson hair swayed like flames as he pivoted to face Ainz, who met his gaze with those empty sockets that somehow still conveyed volumes.
A silent conversation passed between them—wordless, weightless, yet weighty with meaning. Thor gave a single, sharp nod.
The warrior understands his failures. Whether he learns from them... that remains to be seen.
Thor returned to his position behind Ainz's throne, Mjölnir settling against his shoulder with a soft thunk that echoed like thunder's whisper.
Ainz: "Splendid assessment, Cocytus. Truly, remarkably, exceptionally splendid. However... the fact remains: you lost. Defeat cannot be dressed with pretty words or polished analysis. Therefore, punishment must be administered. Originally, I considered relegating you to rear-echelon duties..." (He paused) "Thor? You have suggestions? Ideas? Insights?"
Thor: "Hmm." (He stroked his chin thoughtfully, theatrically) "I believe I do."
Ainz: "Then proceed. Pronounce your judgment."
Thor nodded once—short, sharp, decisive—before stepping forward again. This time, when he spoke, his voice carried across the throne room like thunder rolling across mountains: inevitable, inescapable, IMMENSE.
Thor: "Cocytus, Guardian of the Fifth Floor, Warrior of the Winter Winds—hear me well: You are hereby commanded to exterminate the lizardmen. Completely. Comprehensively. Conclusively. And this time..." (His eyes flashed like lightning) "...you shall receive no assistance. No reinforcements. No rescue. You succeed alone—or you fail finally."
The proclamation hung in the air like an executioner's blade suspended above a neck.
Cocytus' entire body tensed—every muscle, every chitin plate, every fiber of his being coiling like a spring compressed to breaking. His clawed hands clenched into fists so tight they trembled. Slowly—painfully slowly—he raised his head higher, higher, higher until his multiple eyes met Thor's amber gaze directly.
Cocytus: "Lord Ainz! Lord Thor! There exists something—something urgent, something essential—that I must request of you!"
BOOM.
The metaphorical thunder of that statement crashed through the throne room. Every Guardian stiffened. Every subordinate gasped. Even Albedo's perfect composure cracked—just barely, just briefly—showing shock beneath that beautiful facade.
He dares? Thought a dozen minds simultaneously. After failing, after being defeated, after staining Nazarick's glory... he DARES make demands?
But neither Thor nor Ainz moved. They simply watched, waited, their gazes narrowing in perfect synchronization.
Cocytus: "Please, I beg you—hear me out! Hear my words, my plea, my petition!"
Albedo's reaction was volcanic, instantaneous, and violent in its verbal fury.
Albedo:(Her voice ascending to a shriek) "YOU ABSOLUTE FOOL! YOU INCOMPETENT INSECT! Despite having STAINED Nazarick's glory with defeat—despite having SMEARED our reputation with failure—you DARE petition Lord Ainz?! You DARE make demands of the Supreme Beings?! KNOW YOUR PLACE! Know your station! Know your—"
Thor:(His voice cutting through her tirade like lightning through storm clouds) "Enough, Albedo."
CRACK.
It wasn't a sound. It was a feeling, like atmospheric pressure dropping before a tornado. Thor's single word carried more authority than Albedo's entire explosion, and it froze her mid-breath, mid-word, mid-fury.
Albedo:(Her anger evaporating like morning mist) "But... milord Thor..."
Thor didn't acknowledge her protest. Instead, he descended the steps—slowly, deliberately, each footfall a drumbeat counting down to judgment. His crimson hair seemed to float around his head as if buoyed by static electricity. Mjölnir hung at his side, silent but somehow screaming with potential violence.
He stopped directly before Cocytus, who still had his head lowered—shame, fear, and determination wrestling for dominance in that insectoid frame.
Thor: "Raise your head, Guardian of the Fifth Floor."
Cocytus didn't move. Fear had frozen him more thoroughly than any ice magic.
Thor:(His voice softening—just slightly, just enough to be noticed) "What troubles you, Cocytus? Speak. I am not angry..."
Slowly—painfully slowly—Cocytus lifted his head. His multiple eyes met Thor's gaze, and in those amber depths, he saw not rage but... curiosity. Interest. Perhaps even... respect?
Thor: "I simply wish to know what burns so fiercely in your heart that you would risk our displeasure to speak it."
The God of Thunder's eyes seemed to glow brighter—not with anger, but with something else. Something primal. Something that recognized courage when it manifested, regardless of the form it took.
Cocytus drew a breath—deep, steadying, strengthening—and when he spoke, his voice rang clear, crystalline, certain.
Cocytus: "I am against the plan to exterminate all the lizardmen. I formally, officially, firmly request that they be granted mercy!"
Silence.
Absolute. Complete. Comprehensive.
Every eye in the throne room locked onto Cocytus. Every breath held. Every heart—those that still beat, anyway—hammered against ribs like prisoners against cell bars.
Thor: "Hmm?"
Ainz: "Hmm?"
The twin sounds of surprise harmonized perfectly, creating a chord of confusion that resonated through the throne room like a bell tolling for... what? Funeral? Judgment? Revelation?
And there the chapter ended—balanced on a knife's edge, suspended between mercy and massacre, poised between compassion and cruelty.
To Be Continued...
Author's Note:Sometimes the greatest battles aren't fought with swords and spells, but with words and wills. Sometimes courage means not swinging your weapon... but sheathing it. Will Thor and Ainz honor Cocytus' request? Or will the lizardmen's fate be sealed in blood and fire? Find out next time in: "Between Thunder and Bone: A Warrior's Plea for Peace!"