Chapter III: THE NIGHT HAUNTER'S KINGDOM
I arrive wrapped in shadow.
One moment there is elsewhere—vox-crackle, coordinates carved in certainty—and the next there is here: stone and silence and the suffocating darkness of a cathedral built to swallow screams. The Guild Ring of Nazarick burns cold against my gauntlet as reality folds, fractures, fissures into place with the wet snap of breaking bone.
The Sixth Floor.
The arena.
My arena.
The hall exhales around me like a dying man's last breath. Vaulted ceilings loom like the ribs of some buried god, some forgotten leviathan left to rot in the deep places of the world. Every step lands with a metallic THOOM, the sound ricocheting, reverberating, remembering itself down endless corridors that twist like intestines. I walk anyway. Slowly. Deliberately. Let them hear me. Let the stones remember. Let the darkness know its master has come home.
I helped make them, after all.
That thought coils through my mind like venom through veins, like fond poison kissing the bloodstream. Albedo. Shalltear. Demiurge. Masterpieces of malice and loyalty, polished to perfection by design and devotion and the terrible love of creators playing god. My favorites. My failures. My legacy is written in flesh that does not forget.
Good, I think, flexing my hand as pale light crawls along ceramite joints like phosphorescent algae on corpse-flesh. The warp still answers. The ring still listens. Teleportation intact. Useful. A pause. A quieter thought slips through the cracks. Necessary.
The moonlight strikes first—silver and artificial, painted across the false sky as a beautiful lie told to children before bed. Then the arena reveals itself in all its terrible glory: the Roman coliseum, vast and violent, a bowl built to hold blood and cheers and history written in the screams of the dying. My eyes cut through the gloom—black sclera, midnight irises flecked with the pale fire of distant stars—predatory punctuation marks in a sentence written for war, for terror, for justice.
They knelt in the throne room, I recall. Smiled with mouths that know only loyalty. Swore oaths with tongues that cannot lie. Default settings held. A beat. A breath. A bitter truth. But loyalty untested is loyalty unproven. And I cannot—will not—afford what comes after doubt.
I cannot afford a fracture.
I cannot afford faith misplaced.
I cannot afford the knife I do not see coming.
And then—
"LORD CURZE!"
The name hits me like a thrown spear, sharp and bright and alive with impossible joy.
I am already on the sand. Had I walked here? When did that happen? Memory blurs—stream overtaking shore, tide consuming coastline—when I see her.
Aura.
She waves as if we are old friends, as if primarchs do not fall and empires are not born in blood and ash. As if the universe is simple and good and right. Then she jumps.
She plummets.
The impact is thunder incarnate. BOOM. Sand explodes outward in a violent halo, a corona of dust roaring skyward as if the arena itself gasps in shock and awe. Strength. Skill. Certainty made manifest. She rises from the crater she carved like punctuation at the end of a statement, as an exclamation point hammered into the earth: This floor is guarded. This floor is MINE.
Without pause, without doubt, without the hesitation that marks mortals from gods, she sprints.
Her feet pound-pound-pound, sand spraying, air screaming, momentum made manifest and deadly. She skids to a halt before me, grinning like the world is simple and good and right, like darkness has never touched her, as she has never known fear.
"Welcome, Lord Curze!" she beams, radiant, ridiculous, real. "Welcome to the floor that we guard!"
I don't mean to say it.
It escapes me like a confession, like a secret I never meant to share.
"...That was magnificent."
She flushes instantly—ears twitching, cheeks darkening, joy radiating off her in reckless, riotous waves. "Thank you, my lord! Praise from the ruler of all Nazarick—ah, it's—it's such an honor! Such a—a privilege!"
Ruler.
The word lands heavily, as a corpse dropped from a great height.
Aura stands before me—dragon-scale top catching moonlight like armor kissed by stars, white-and-gold vest immaculate, trousers crisp, boots gleaming as if war and mud and blood have never touched them. Blond hair cropped short, ears sharp and elfin, eyes mismatched and brilliant—one blue, one green—like gems stolen from different crowns. She looks like motion given form, like enthusiasm weaponized and set loose upon an unsuspecting world.
Word travels fast through Nazarick's veins, I think, watching her bounce on her heels. And she doesn't resent it. Doesn't question it. Doesn't fear it. No. She celebrates it.
"Where's your twin?" I ask, my voice a low rumble, thunder in the distance promising storms.
She stiffens.
Then spins like a dancer, like a soldier snapping to attention.
"MARE!" she shouts, voice cracking like a whip across flesh. "You're being disrespectful to Lord Curze! Get down here now!"
"I—I can't, sis!" comes the reply, thin and trembling and terrified, from somewhere above. Somewhere hiding.
"Mare!"
"F-Fine…"
A small figure peeks over the edge of the coliseum wall—hesitation incarnate, fear made flesh. Then he jumps, because she commanded it. After all, duty demands it. After all, there is no choice.
He falls awkwardly, one hand clutching his skirt, the other flailing for balance like a bird with broken wings. He lands—THUD—unharmed, absurdly resilient, brushes himself off like gravity is merely a suggestion, like physics is negotiable. Then he runs.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Exaggerated. Almost comically so, like a child pretending to obey while protesting with every step.
Aura groans, a sound of pure sibling exasperation. "Hurry up!"
I watch them—strength and softness, confidence and fear, loyalty shaped in opposite molds like mirror images cast in different metals—and something twists in my chest cavity, where twin hearts beat their endless rhythm, where something almost human still remembers what it means to care.
This place hasn't changed, I think, a bitter truth wrapped in nostalgia's poisoned gift. But I have.
And the arena waits.
And Nostramo's dead whisper in my bones.
Finally, finally, he arrives.
Mare stumbles to a stop beside his sister, hands on his knees, breath coming in short, sharp, staccato pulls—huff-huff-huff—as though the air itself has turned traitor, as though oxygen conspires against him. Not weak. Never weak. The numbers don't lie. Just… softer. Gentler. Less honed for spectacle, for slaughter.
He is her mirror, warped by kindness like light through water.
Same height. Same face. Same bones beneath the skin. But where Aura is sharp angles and forward motion, relentless momentum and unstoppable force, Mare is rounded edges and retreating steps, apologies made flesh. His movements beg forgiveness before they act. His posture curves inward, folding, collapsing, as though trying to make himself smaller than the world demands, invisible to cruelty's seeking eye. Their heterochromatic eyes match—but inverted, colors swapped like some deliberate cosmic joke, like God's gentle mockery. Even their outfits echo each other in reverse: white skirt fluttering like surrender's flag, green cape snapping softly in the artificial breeze like a nervous heartbeat made visible.
He performs a small curtsy, skirt pinched delicately between trembling fingers, grace and terror dancing together.
"I-I'm so sorry for making you wait, Lord Curze!"
They're traps, my mind screams instantly, recognition firing like neurons in darkness. You know they're traps. Bukubukuchagama made them like this. Why? Why did she make them precious? Why did she make them breakable? Why is this allowed? Damn her. Damn me. Damn this whole twisted—
"Yes," I say aloud, voice calm, controlled, reasonable—lies wrapped in logic's funeral shroud. "I arrived early to run diagnostics. Field tests. If you two don't mind."
The Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown answers my will, phasing into existence with a soft, ominous hummmm that vibrates in bone marrow, in the spaces between thoughts. Gold coils like frozen lightning, like fire made solid and cold. The serpents' gemmed mouths glow faintly, watching, waiting, hungry for violence.
"Whoa…" "Whoa…"
Perfect unison. Awe, pure and unfiltered and innocent.
"U-U-um," Mare begins, rocking slightly on his heels like a metronome of anxiety, "is that the staff that only Lord Momonga could use… before you?"
"Correct." Pride slips in uninvited but welcome, a guest I cannot refuse. "The strongest guild weapon ever forged. A collaborative effort. Perfection through unity, through sacrifice, through vision."
Though it looks absurd in my hands, I think, glancing down at the spindly, ceremonial excess of it, the ornate ostentation. All flourish. No function. All peacock display, no predator's tooth.
A memory stirs like a sleeper waking. An old solution to an ancient problem.
Chaos.
The word carries weight like worlds dying, like civilizations burning. History written in blood and madness. The warp-taint I carved into myself—upgrade, evolution, corruption, apotheosis—rebellion against the Emperor's bland design, against Father's perfect vision. The reason I look like this instead of the golden glory He intended, the radiant angel He demanded. The reason my skin is corpse-pale, my eyes midnight-dark, my mind fractured by visions of futures painted in screams.
Few chose this path. Too dark. Too damning. Most preferred the Emperor's light, His golden warmth, His bright certainty wrapped in lies. But I saw the truth. The margins where monsters live. The potential in pain, in fear, in the spaces between heartbeats where terror takes root.
One of the twenty.
Possibly the most honest.
Never fought the Lion—ironic, isn't it?—but I would've made him bleed for it.
The gift—the curse—was simple: perception twisted, reality refracted, truth revealed in all its hideous glory. Chaos didn't change power. It changed perspective. Horror without compromise. A prophet's burden.
I focus.
Pale light pulses through my veins—once, twice, thrice—like a mechanical heartbeat, like something struggling to mimic life. The gold of the staff softens, melts, flows like embarrassment made liquid, like shame given form. Reshapes. Refines. Reduces.
When it settles, the weapon is no longer a spiderweb of ornamentation, no longer art pretending to be armament.
It is a scepter.
One crystal. Singular. Brilliant. Brutal. God-class gems unified into a single blade-adjacent focus, sleek and lethal and purposeful. Magic and melee are in perfect, terrible harmony.
Now it fits my hand like it was born there.
Aura and Mare stare, mouths slightly open, eyes wide and reflecting pale fire like moons caught in orbit around a dying star.
"H-How did you do that…?" Mare whispers, voice hushed like prayer, like heresy.
"Chaos," I answer simply, the word tasting like ash and revelation. "The power remains unchanged. Only the lies were stripped away. Only the inefficiencies removed."
"It's beautiful!" Aura shouts, and I almost—almost—believe her.
"Thank you." I raise the scepter, feeling its weight, its hunger. "Now…"
The training dummy is dragged into place fifty yards distant, lifeless and ignorant, and doomed.
"[SUMMON: PRIMAL FIRE ELEMENTAL]"
The crystal screams crimson.
Fire erupts—not a blast but a birth, not destruction but creation through annihilation. A tornado of flame claws upward, wind howling like wolves at the moon, heat snapping-cracking-popping like a thousand whips kissing flesh. WHOOSH—CRACK—ROAR. The arena recoils like a beaten dog. Sand vitrifies, glass forming in tortured shapes. Beasts yelp and scatter as singed fur curls and smokes and burns. A barrier blooms instinctively around us, humming with defensive intent, with the desperate need to protect.
Aura and Mare cling behind me, eyes wide—reverent, terrified, thrilled—caught between worship and survival instinct.
From the inferno steps the elemental—burning muscle, living storm, rage given form and purpose.
"Adequate," I say lightly, conversationally, as if I haven't just birthed apocalypse. "Would you like to fight it?"
Aura is already bouncing, vibrating with barely contained violence. "OH BOY, WOULD I?!"
"I—I just remembered something very important—" Mare begins, edging away, survival overriding pride.
Aura hooks him effortlessly with one arm, dragging him along as he groans in protest, as duty drags him toward doom.
"Primal Fire Elemental. Engage the twins. Make them work for it."
I turn, walking toward the arena's edge as chaos blooms behind me—fire snapping-snarling-screaming, laughter ringing bright and sharp, Mare's protests dissolving into combat focus, Aura loving every second of this beautiful violence.
Blood moving. Reactions tested. Loyalty observed under pressure.
I lift two fingers to my temple, pale skin against darker skin, life against death.
Teleportation. Chaos. Summoning. Now… the Message spell.
"...Message?" I murmur, probing the system like a surgeon probing wounds.
The arena roars behind me like a living thing.
And Nazarick begins to answer, because it must, because I command it.
—Yes, Lord Curze. Is something the matter?
Sebas' voice blooms inside my skull like a miracle wrapped in manners, like civilization trying desperately to survive in darkness.
It works.
It works.
The relief hits first—bright, electric, almost giddy—followed immediately by the colder, sharper, darker realization: systems are responding. Nazarick is listening. The guild still functions.
Good, I think, watching shadows dance at the edge of vision. Very good. But trust nothing. Trust no one. Not even yourself.
"Sebas," I say aloud, lowering my hand from my temple as my gaze drifts back to the arena, to the twins dancing with fire, with death, with joy. "Status report. Comprehensive."
Aura and Mare are still in motion—circling, covering, compensating with the unconscious synchronicity of those who've trained together since birth. Where she lunges with reckless aggression, he anchors with defensive precision. Where he hesitates with careful calculation, she strikes with brutal confidence. It's a duet of instinct and intention, strength braided with support, violence tempered by love. Not perfect. But honest. But real.
Beautiful, in its way.
Like Sevatar and me, the thought whispers unbidden. Before. Before everything.
—Perimeter sweep complete, my lord. No sentient organic lifeforms detected within Nazarick's bounds or the surrounding territory. The silence is… troubling.
There's a hitch beneath the professionalism, a subtle tremor. The world is not behaving the way it should, and Sebas—ever dutiful, ever loyal—feels it too. The wrongness. The absence.
"Excellent work," I answer, meaning it. "I've summoned the Floor Guardians to the Sixth Floor arena. Return and deliver your report in person. I would see your face when you speak."
—At once, Lord Curze.
"ETA?"
—Five minutes, my lord. Perhaps four.
The connection snaps shut like a door closing on a tomb.
Almost on cue—because the universe loves its bitter ironies, its jokes written in blood—the Primal Fire Elemental collapses inward with a violent FWOOSH, flame folding back into nothingness, into the empty spaces between atoms. The sand is scorched black, glass-smooth in places, a miniature wasteland born and dead in heartbeats. The twins stand victorious—grinning, breathing hard, glowing with triumph and sweat and the simple, stupid joy of survival.
I clap.
Once.
Twice.
Then faster, building momentum.
"Magnificent!"
CLAP—CLAP—CLAP—CLAP—CLAP.
The scepter is tucked awkwardly beneath my arm as I applaud like some overproud father at his children's recital, like I am something other than what I am. Aura beams, radiant. Mare's smile grows hesitant, then bright, then unstoppable as they jog toward me, as if I am safety instead of danger, as if I am home instead of haunted.
"Bravo!" I announce, and my voice carries genuine pleasure, genuine pride. "Excellent performance, both of you. Your fighting styles—distinct, yet complementary. Individual strength forged into collective power. Balanced."
I spin the scepter lightly on one finger, showing off, because why not?
"Perfectly balanced, as all things should be. As all things must be, lest the universe tear itself apart."
Aura wipes sweat from her brow, laughing breathlessly. "Thank you so much, Lord Curze! It's been ages since I got to exercise like that! Since I felt alive like that!"
A chuckle slips out of me, dark and low and almost—almost—warm. "Then you'll be pleased to know I'll be assigning you both a comprehensive training regimen. Progressive intensity. Measured growth. I would hate for the Guardians of the Sixth Floor to grow complacent. To grow soft."
She pauses, processing. Thinks, wheels turning behind those mismatched eyes. Then nods sharply, decisively. "It'll be done, my lord! We won't disappoint you!"
"No," I agree quietly, meeting her gaze. "I don't believe you will."
"Good. Now—you're both parched. Dehydrated. Inefficient."
I snap my fingers.
Reality obliges, because it knows better than to refuse me.
Cups appear in their hands with a soft pop of displaced air. With the blade of my scepter—sharp and precise and eager—I slice open a seam in space itself, clean and surgical, and retrieve a pitcher of iced water from elsewhere, from nowhere. I pour slowly, deliberately, then seal the tear as if it never existed, as if I haven't just violated the laws of physics for convenience.
They stare.
Then drink deeply, gratefully, obediently.
Mare lowers his cup first, eyes wide and wondering. "I… I thought you'd be very scary, Lord Curze. The stories said—I mean, we heard—"
"I am scary," I reply mildly, hands resting on my hips like some reasonable authority figure. "Terrifying, even. When necessity demands it. When justice requires it. But fear is a tool, not a default state. If that's what you desire—fear—I can provide it. But I'd rather not."
"No!" Aura blurts, nearly spilling her water. "How are you now is the best! This is—this is perfect!"
"It's definitely the best," Mare adds, nodding so enthusiastically I fear his neck might snap. "Please don't change, my lord!"
I hum, amused despite myself. "Noted. Recorded. Filed away."
Then—
"Am I the first to arrive?"
The voice is smooth. Feminine. Familiar. Hungry.
I turn, arms already opening in greeting, in welcome, in something almost like love.
Shalltear Bloodfallen stands there in black lace and crimson ribbons and smug elegance, parasol poised like a weapon—until it drops, clattering forgotten to the sand.
"SHALLTEAR!" I boom, voice carrying genuine warmth, genuine joy. "How's my favorite bloodthirsty little lamprey? My precious parasitic princess?"
Her smugness evaporates like morning mist, replaced by pure, unfiltered delight.
"My beloved Night Haunter!" she squeals—actually squeals—sprinting forward with inhuman speed and leaping into my arms like a child, like something innocent and pure instead of a vampire queen soaked in centuries of slaughter. Metal groans softly, ceramite protesting, as she clings to my neck, giggling, burying her face against my chestplate as if she belongs there, as if this is home.
I hug her back without hesitation, without shame.
Loyal, I note, cataloging data even now. Enthusiastically so. Dangerously so. A thought slips in unbidden, unwelcome: If Touch-Me and Momonga were gods to them… then what does that make me now? What have I become in their eyes?
What monster do they worship?
I set her down gently, carefully, as if she's made of glass instead of steel and sanguine hunger.
Almost immediately—because the universe abhors peace—Aura and Shalltear are nose-to-nose, bickering with explosive enthusiasm, with sibling-adjacent violence. Something about stuffing bras, about lies and truth and feminine dignity. Irrelevant. Inevitable. Inevitably stupid.
Enter Cocytus like winter's wrath made manifest.
"You. Two. Are. Behaving. Im. Proper. Ly. Before. Our. New. Master," he declares, each word precisely measured, perfectly enunciated, as he slams his halberd into the sand with devastating finality. Ice spiderwebs outward with a sharp CRACK-SNAP-FREEZE, frost blooming like flowers of crystallized death. "Present. Your. Selves. As. Guardians. Not. Children."
Good timing, I think, appreciating the intervention. And excellent judgment. He understands hierarchy. Respects order.
"This little bitch slandered me!" Shalltear snaps, fangs bared.
"I merely spoke the truth!" Aura fires back, fists clenched.
They're seconds from blows, from blood, from chaos.
Cocytus raises his weapon again, ice gathering—
—but I step forward.
Deliberately.
Slowly.
"ENOUGH."
The word detonates like ordnance, like artillery shells kissing earth.
Black pressure rolls off me like a storm front, like a tsunami of psychic force, crushing and cold and absolute. My eyes blaze with pale fire, with the light of dying stars, with visions of futures where they burn. The air thickens, sickens, hums with potential violence, with the promise of pain. Every eye snaps to me—wide, terrified, aware.
"Aura. Shalltear." My voice is low, controlled, dangerous—a razor wrapped in silk, a knife hidden in flowers. "Cease this childish nonsense immediately. As entertaining as it has been historically, as amusing as I've found it in the past, I am not—not—in the mood today."
Silence.
Absolute.
Suffocating.
"Do I make myself crystal clear?"
"Yes!" "We're sorry!" The words tumble out in panicked unison.
They bow deeply, ninety degrees, ninety-one, trembling like leaves in a hurricane, like prey that has just realized the predator is watching.
The aura recedes slowly, reluctantly, like a beast called to heel.
"…In normal circumstances," I continue, softer now but no less serious, "I wouldn't mind your banter. Your rivalry. Your fire. But these are not normal circumstances. We do not have the luxury of time. We do not have the comfort of certainty. We do not have—" I pause. Breathe. "I do not have the patience today. I apologize for raising my voice. But understand this: unity. We need unity."
Their heads lift slowly, tentatively—astonished that I apologized, that something like me can feel regret.
I nod to Cocytus, acknowledging his wisdom. "Welcome, old friend. Right on time, as always."
"I. Will. Al. Ways. An. Swer. Your. Sum. Mons. My. Master," he replies with ponderous pride, with the weight of glaciers moving.
I smile—small, genuine, real.
Then—
"Apologies for the delay, Lord Curze."
Albedo enters like a dream in white and gold and terrible beauty, grace given flesh and purpose. Behind her glides Demiurge—red suit immaculate, smile razor-sharp and knowing, tail swaying with polite menace, with the controlled violence of civilization's thin veneer.
Albedo gestures grandly, dramatically, like an actress on history's stage. "Now, everyone. Kneel before our new Supreme Leader. The ritual of fidelity must be observed."
They kneel.
All of them.
All but one.
"Albedo," I say gently, carefully, like defusing explosives.
She looks up, blushing, beautiful, adoring. "Yes, my lord?"
"I asked for all Floor Guardians save the Fourth and Eighth."
"Yes…?" Confusion flickers across perfect features.
"There are twelve floors in Nazarick's design," I explain patiently, systematically. "You guard the Ninth with unwavering devotion. Victim holds the Eighth in silence. Demiurge commands the Seventh with terrible brilliance. Aura and Mare protect the Sixth with synchronized strength. Cocytus defends the Fifth with frozen fury. Gargantua occupies the Fourth with patient power. Shalltear patrols the First, Second, and Third with bloodthirsty efficiency. The Tenth belongs to the Treasury, to our accumulated wealth and weapons." I tilt my head slightly, deliberately. "The Eleventh is mine. My laboratory. My workshop. My sanctum."
Her eyes widen, golden and horrified, as understanding dawns.
"…Where," I ask softly, dangerously, each word a threat wrapped in velvet, "where is Pinhead?"
She drops to both knees instantly, desperately. "My deepest apologies, Lord Curze! I—I didn't think—I forgot to—"
A pale hand settles on her head, gentle, grounding, forgiving.
"I'm not angry, Albedo." And I mean it. Surprisingly, terrifyingly, I mean it. "I just want to know. Just need to understand. Where is he?"
—Here, my lord.
The voice echoes from the far side of the arena—distorted, layered, wrong in ways that make reality flinch. Chains rattle like laughter. Hooks scrape against stone like fingernails on a tombstone.
And Nazarick holds its breath.
And I smile, because my favorite monster has finally arrived.