[ The Great Tomb of Nazarick ]
The command raced through the Great Tomb like a surge of dark electricity.
To the outside world, the night remained silent and undisturbed. But within Nazarick, the Gears of War began to grind with terrifying, oiled precision. For the first time since their arrival in this New World, the organization was shedding its veil of secrecy and entering a state of "Total Mobilization."
Demiurge and Albedo walked side-by-side down the opulent corridor leading to the Throne Room.
"Let me verify this in my capacity as Guardian Overseer," Albedo said, her voice crisp and devoid of warmth. "Are the preparations complete? The defense of the 1st through 3rd Floors in Shalltear's absence? Countermeasures for the Argland Council State? Interception nets to prevent a single citizen of the Theocracy from escaping?"
"Everything is in perfect alignment, Albedo," Demiurge replied, his tail swaying with calculated rhythm. "However, unlike the Re-Estize Kingdom, our intelligence on the Slane Theocracy is imperfect. We must remain fluid, ready to adjust our strategies the moment the slaughter begins."
"Agreed."
They walked briskly, the heavy silence of the corridor swallowing the sound of their footsteps on the plush red carpet.
"Thanks to the data harvested from the Kingdom's destruction, our logistical chains are fully optimized."
"Indeed." Demiurge adjusted his glasses, a fanatical glint shimmering in his jewel-like eyes. "As expected of Ainz-sama. To think, the annihilation of the Kingdom was merely a warm-up exercise—a live-fire drill orchestrated solely to prepare us for this very moment."
"It goes beyond mere preparation," Albedo added, her smile widening into something predatory and beautiful. "I have spent nights analyzing the reasons behind Ainz-sama's sudden 'vacation' to the Elven Kingdom. I foolishly thought he merely sought relaxation. I never imagined he would use his own supreme personage as bait to lure out the Theocracy's ace, expose their weakness, and secure a casus belli all in a single, masterful stroke."
"His foresight is truly terrifying. He sees not just ten steps ahead, but ten thousand years into the future."
"We must not speculate too deeply," Albedo giggled, though her golden eyes remained sharp. "We simply bask in the brilliance of the Supreme One."
"True... Though, equally terrifying is his rage."
Demiurge's shoulders trembled imperceptibly.
Albedo swallowed hard, her throat clicking audibly in the quiet hall. "Yes. To be the target of such unbridled fury... I almost pity the humans. Ainz-sama informed me that, following this audience, he will personally descend to the 8th Floor."
"The 8th Floor...?! Does this mean he intends to mobilize Them?"
"He does. He cited the need for absolute defense against unknown variables like the Platinum Dragon Lord. But... the underlying message is clear."
"To maximize efficiency," Demiurge murmured. "And to ensure nothing remains."
They arrived at the massive, obsidian double doors of the Throne Room.
Inside, the air was heavy enough to crush a weak man's lungs. All the Floor Guardians were present, kneeling in absolute submission. Even Gargantua, the strategic siege golem, had been fully activated, its massive form looming in the shadows like a silent mountain.
And on the Throne of Kings sat the Supreme Ruler of Death.
He clutched the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown. The golden scepter radiated a divine, terrifying pulse that distorted the surrounding air.
Ainz's usual aura of majesty was different today. It wasn't just regal; it was oppressive. A dark, suffocating pressure radiated from him, filling the vast chamber with the scent of silent death.
"Thank you for your hard work, Albedo. Demiurge."
"We are unworthy of such praise!" they cried in unison, bowing their heads so low their foreheads nearly touched the floor.
"So," Ainz spoke, his voice deep and echoing, resonating in their very bones. "The preparations are complete?"
It sounded less like a question and more like an interrogation by a god of judgment. The Guardians, usually so confident in their power, felt the freezing touch of primal fear. They knew this wrath was directed at the enemy, yet their instincts screamed at them to flee.
"—We are ready to depart, Ainz-sama."
"Excellent," Ainz said. The crimson flames in his eye sockets flared violently, casting long, dancing shadows. "Then, starting tomorrow... we shall erase the Slane Theocracy from the map."
[ Internal Monologue: Ainz Ooal Gown / Suzuki Satoru ]
(Okay, okay, cut! That was a good line, right? That sounded super intimidating!)
Inside the ribcage of the Absolute Ruler, the imaginary heart of Suzuki Satoru was beating like a hummingbird's wings.
(Uwah, my stomach hurts. Look at Demiurge and Albedo, they're actually trembling! Did I overdo it? Was the "erase them from the map" line too cheesy? It felt a bit like a villain from a B-movie, didn't it? "I shall destroy the world!" sort of vibe?)
Ainz shifted his weight slightly on the throne, hoping the movement looked regal and not like he was desperately trying to find a comfortable spot for his non-existent butt on the hard artifact.
(But still... I can't back down now. I really messed up their plans by ordering this immediate attack. They probably had a ten-year economic takeover plan or some 500-page strategy document ready. I bet Demiurge is secretly crying inside. "Ainz-sama is an idiot," he's probably thinking. I'm sorry, Demiurge! I'm a terrible boss who rules by emotion!)
Ainz looked down at the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown in his hand. The guilt of the salaryman was real, gnawing at his nonexistent gut. But as he looked at the symbol of his guild—the crystallization of his friends' hard work and memories—the fire in his chest cooled into absolute ice.
(No. This is fine.)
The panic subsided, forcibly suppressed by his passive skill, replaced by the cold, calculating logic of the Guild Master.
(They hurt us. They spat on the name of Ainz Ooal Gown. If I let this slide for the sake of "efficiency" or "politics," I have no right to hold this staff. I don't care if it's strategic suicide. I don't care if it's childish.)
He looked down at his loyal Guardians. They were not trembling in doubt; they were trembling in anticipation. They were waiting for his command to unleash hell.
(Peroroncino. Touch Me. Everyone. Watch me. I will show this world exactly what happens when you mess with our family.)
"Raise your heads," Ainz commanded, his voice steady, cold, and final. "The Festival of Death begins now."
Author's Note
This chapter marks the beginning of the end for the Slane Theocracy.
I really wanted to showcase the stark contrast between the two sides in this coming conflict. On one hand, you have the Black Scripture—the absolute pinnacle of human potential. They are tactical, cautious, and equipped with the legendary artifacts of their Gods. To any other nation in the New World, the team led by the First Seat would be an unstoppable force of nature.
On the other hand, we see the "Total Mobilization" of Nazarick.
While the Captain of the Black Scripture is worried about search-and-rescue protocols, Ainz is contemplating the use of the 8th Floor—the most dangerous and secretive area of the Great Tomb. When Ainz mentions "The Festival of Death," he isn't just talking about a battle; he's talking about the systematic deletion of a civilization.
The Black Scripture is currently chasing the "ghost" of Zesshi Zetsumei into the Elven Castle, but they have no idea that the "Monster" at the end of that trail is no longer the Elf King... it's the Supreme One himself.
Next time: The two "Strongest" forces of the New World finally collide. Will the artifacts of the Six Great Gods hold up against the wrath of a Guild Master who has lost his patience?
The countdown to the Theocracy's fall has officially begun.