[The First Day of Destruction, 7:11 PM → 7:40 PM] [6th Floor: Amphitheater — The Great Tomb of Nazarick]
.
After a moment of silence, Ainz asked another question.
"And the others?" Ainz asked, his voice calm but edged with quiet expectation.
Demiurge inclined his head as if conducting an unseen orchestra. "As ordered, the Second Seat, the Fourth Seat, and the Eleventh Seat were granted escape via teleportation. When the barrier fell, they fled."
A faint, chaste smile passed over Ainz's face. The decision to capture the strongest and release the weaker had been deliberate. Stories mattered as much as victories. Panic could be engineered.
"Excellent," he murmured.
He leaned forward. For an instant, the presence of the Ruler of Death coalesced around him: not a howl but an authoritative prasher.
"Fear is a seed, my Guardians. And we have planted it in the heart of the Theocracy."
Albedo melted into a smile that was half devotional, half predatory. "They will crawl back with trembling voices, speaking not of defeat, but of an undying horror, an undead terror that toys with your finest champions, breaks their spirits, and leaves their precious pride splintered at its feet.
Demiurge's satisfaction was a sharp, deliberate thing. "They will believe conventional strength is useless against the Sorcerous Kingdom. Their angels, scriptures, and armies will seem like dust."
Ainz listened; the tastes of battle and strategy tasted metallic on his tongue. He had always preferred logic shaped with subtlety, manipulation performed like a scalpel rather than a sledgehammer, but when necessary, he could let the hammer fall.
Albedo finished the thought. "They will be forced to deploy Downfall of Castle and Country."
Ainz's lips pressed into a thin line as the memory returned, sharp and unpleasant. He remembered the dress Downfall of Castle and Country, the cursed World Item that had once stolen Shalltear's will and turned her against him. The thought left a bitter taste in his mind.
If that a thing still existed within the capital, then rushing forward blindly would be nothing short of foolish. No… he could not allow arrogance to guide his hand. Until the whereabouts of that dreadful artifact were certain, marching on the capital was a risk he simply could not afford to take.
(If they parade it, we will see it. If they hide it, we will still trace its lines.)
"Prepare Shalltear, Cocytus, Aura, and Mare," he said. The names were a command; the wards he imagined tightened like a glove.
Red fire lit his sockets, a private flare of intent. Demiurge's tail flicked with delight. "We will be ready to counter any mind-control attempts. We will ensure the spectacle is to our advantage."
Albedo bowed so low her forehead almost brushed the floor. "My Lord, let them present the relic in spectacle. We will expose it to the world and strip it of potency."
Ainz allowed himself a thin, wry inward smile. (They believed I had schemed every move; they believed the potion experiment was geopolitical foresight. Good.) He permitted the vanity; the image others had of him was as useful as any ward.
"If the Theocracy believes the relic is a miracle, they will show it off with pomp. Cardinals will bless it. Saints and angels will stand witness. Their faith will crown its appearance."
Demiurge's joy was almost audible. "They will put it where all can see. We only need to make sure it fails spectacularly."
"When their finest come to die under our shadow," Ainz said quietly, "and the populace learns that their gods and relics cannot save them, despair will be a lever. They will beg, they will be malleable. When they reach for another ultimate weapon, they will reach toward us."
There was an odd satisfaction in that calculation. War, to Ainz, was a system of pressures and responses; humans were variables that bent under certain forces. He had always felt a scholar's thrill at watching a theory prove true on the battlefield.
Demiurge spoke with lacquered precision of what had transpired. "The Eternal Death struck to incapacitate. The stab to the First Seat missed vital organs by millimeters, deliberate to ensure capture and ensure story. The vanguard's sacrifice was calculated to break morale."
A cold spike of pleasure touched Ainz's mind. "And the Frozen Prison?"
"Prepared. Pestonya stabilized them with wards and cauterization. They will not die before interrogation."
Ainz rose. The obsidian robes swirled about him like a dark tide. The Amphitheater felt smaller when he stood, as if everything had been set within his palm.
"The opening act is finished," he declared. His voice carried the infinite chill of tombs. "The Slane Theocracy has chosen war against the Great Tomb of Nazarick. Very well."
He gestured to the Mirror of Remote Viewing; the ruined Eye of the Water God smoked in miniature. Tiny figures flitted like insects among toppled altars.
"They seek war? Then let us teach them its true meaning." He let the words settle. For a moment, the Amphitheater was heavy with anticipation.
"Prepare the defenses. Ready our summons. Tighten the wards around the Guardians who will face them. And" his gaze sharpened to a blade that even his servants felt in their marrow" when they bring their relic to the field, make sure it becomes a spectacle they regret. Let their saints witness impotence. Let the Cardinals taste helplessness."
Commands are accepted like vows.
The Guardians dispersed, each to their duty, their faces lit with the same dark joy that Ainz felt: a carefully cultivated hunger for the approaching reckoning.
Ainz remained, skeletal hands folded, watching the mirror. Smoke curled and eddied. In that blackness, the future resolved into a clean equation: inputs, reactions, broken beliefs.
(They have decided to play with fire.)
He allowed a thin, terrible smile to crease his skull.
(Then we shall give them an inferno of certainty.)
The Amphitheater's silence received the thought like an oath. The first act was over. The play, pitiless and absolute, would continue at their signal.