Chapter XII: The Architect's Last Commission
Lionel sat in stillness, a spider waiting for its web to finish spinning. Learning through the Hive Mind was like swallowing lightning—one moment ignorant, the next moment knowing. Carpentry flooded through neural pathways like water through broken dams. Blacksmithing seared itself into muscle memory. Skills that should take lifetimes to master were devoured, digested, and distributed in heartbeats.
God, I love being a monster.
"The J'avo report completion of the first cast, Creator," Deborah announced, her voice cutting through his reverie like a scalpel through silk.
The cast towered before them—two hundred fifty feet of metal reaching toward heaven like a titan's finger, forty feet in diameter. A monument to ambition. A monument that would absolutely, catastrophically, hilariously collapse without support.
Small problem.
Heisenberg and Lucas had been busy little moles underground, their mining operations yielding quality metal like prospectors striking gold. But the exotic stuff? The legendary ores whispered about in this new world? Adamantite, orichalcum, the fantasy metals that made hardcore gamers salivate?
Still missing from the shopping list.
"We need something to anchor the cast," Lionel said, understating the situation with the casual grace of someone describing a mild inconvenience rather than an imminent structural catastrophe, "or it'll topple like a drunk giant and crush us flatter than pancakes at an IHOP."
For now, improvisation. Later, proper engineering. Maybe.
"Might I suggest an Ogroman, Creator?" Deborah offered, playing spokesperson while Radames and Simmons worked their Frankenstein magic in the depths below.
"An Ogroman?" Lionel's grin spread like an infection. "Now we're thinking with portals. Or, you know, thirty-foot-tall muscle-bound bioweapons. Same difference."
He opened the supersized entrance to the Umbrella Corporation base—an elevator shaft designed for creatures that made elephants look like house cats. The lift groaned under potential weight, hydraulics hissing like serpents.
Ten minutes crawled by. Ten. Whole. Minutes.
God, even my monsters run on monster time.
Two Ogromen emerged from the depths—hulking masses of muscle, mutation, and malformed fury, each standing thirty feet of don't-fuck-with-me tall. They gripped the cast with hands that could palm cars.
"Enough waiting, my precious Subjects." Lionel's voice carried theatrical weight, a conductor raising his baton before the symphony of chaos. "Let's see if William's mad-scientist brain actually works, or if we're about to witness the world's most expensive failure."
The cast rose. The Ogromen carried it like pallbearers at a giant's funeral, moving toward a nearby tree with surprising grace for creatures that looked like rage given form.
Lionel approached the tree—an ordinary, innocent, soon-to-be-extraordinary tree—and injected it with the virus. The needle pierced bark like a whisper of violence. Then he retreated, because standing near actively mutating bioweapons ranked somewhere between "stupid" and "suicidal" on the decision-making spectrum.
Before random mutation could turn the tree into something with tentacles and opinions, the Ogromen positioned the cast around it like a metal corset on nature itself.
"Now we wait." Lionel settled onto the ground with the casual confidence of someone who'd done this exact thing never before. The others joined him—a collection of horrors sitting like kids waiting for fireworks.
Less than ten minutes passed.
Less than ten goddamn minutes.
The tree exploded upward, shooting toward the sky like a green rocket fueled by viral ambition, stretching, growing, mutating until it pierced the top of the cast at exactly two hundred fifty feet.
Those present stared. Jaws metaphorically dropped. Eyes widened. Even the Ogromen looked impressed, and they were literally too stupid to be impressed by most things.
"Lift the cast! Now! Before physics remembers we're cheating!" Lionel commanded, voice cracking with urgency.
The Ogromen obeyed. The cast rose. Lionel lunged forward, syringe in hand like a matador with a needle instead of a sword, and injected the tree with the DEVIL Vaccine—the off-switch to viral mutation.
The tree stopped growing.
Success tasted sweet.
"William's mad idea actually worked," Lionel breathed, equal parts relieved and astonished. "But how in the biomechanical hell do we remove the cast without—"
"We've already considered that, Creator," Deborah interrupted, pointing toward small metal latches holding the cast sections together like the world's most obvious solution.
Of course. Because I'm apparently surrounded by people smarter than me.
"Alcina," Lionel's mental voice rippled through the Hive Mind like a stone through still water, "kindly send your daughters. We require their assistance."
"Very well, Creator," Alcina's response came with the warm indulgence of a mother indulging her children's requests. He heard her calling them before disconnecting—mental eavesdropping felt rude.
Moments later, the Dimitrescu sisters materialized from swarms of flies—insects coalescing into feminine forms with the casual supernatural flair that made other Subjects visibly uncomfortable.
"How may we be of service, Creator?" Bela asked, flanked by her siblings, all three wearing expressions of barely-contained mischief.
"Remove the latches from the cast," Lionel ordered.
The girls giggled—a sound like wind chimes made of knives—and transformed back into flies, swarming the cast, removing latches from bottom to top with supernatural efficiency.
"Don't. Drop. That. Cast." Lionel's voice dropped to dangerous registers as he addressed the Ogromen, each word punctuated like gunshots. "If it falls. If it destroys anything. You'll both be held responsible. And trust me, you don't want to know what 'responsible' means in my vocabulary."
The Ogromen grunted, understanding—or fear. Hard to tell with creatures that communicated primarily in growls.
Latches removed. Cast separated down the middle like a metal clam revealing its pearl. Each Ogroman carried one half away, setting them down with surprising gentleness before returning to standing positions.
What remained was magnificent.
Two hundred fifty feet of tree. Forty feet in diameter. A pillar of wood that would make ancient druids weep and modern lumber companies salivate.
"Now this," Lionel said, approaching with reverent awe, "is lumber."
"This has been a wonderful and successful experiment," Lionel announced, transitioning smoothly into dismissal mode. "You may all return to your posts—except Birkin."
The others bowed with synchronized precision—years of survival instinct teaching proper deference—and departed. The Dimitrescu sisters dissolved into flies and vanished like beautiful nightmares.
Only Birkin remained.
"You'll be stationed here," Lionel explained, gesturing broadly at everything and nothing. "Alongside Deborah and the Baker Family. You'll oversee these Ogromen and ensure our lumber supply never runs short. Think of yourself as... Director of Arboreal Acquisition."
Birkin nodded with the enthusiasm of someone receiving a promotion in hell.
"I hope you work well together," Lionel continued, tone shifting to something almost paternal. "No problems. No conflicts. No incidents. Understood?"
Another nod.
They walked to the Baker residence—a house that looked disturbingly normal despite housing a family of molded monstrosities. Lionel guided Birkin inside, preparing introductions.
"Good afternoon, Baker family and Deborah." Lionel's voice carried the forced cheerfulness of a corporate team-building exercise. "William Birkin will be joining your household. Please take care of him."
Jack immediately launched forward, gripping Birkin's hand with the enthusiastic violence of someone who desperately needed social interaction. Or wanted to establish dominance. Hard to tell with Jack.
Everyone seemed compatible. No immediate hostility. No threats. No murderous tension.
Small miracles.
"So," Lionel transitioned to business, "who will oversee construction operations?"
Silence answered him.
Profound, uncomfortable, nobody-wants-to-volunteer silence.
"No one?" Lionel's eyebrows rose. "Alright. I'll summon assistance."
He stepped outside, leaving them to their awkward quiet.
"Would Pedro Fernandez and Neil Fisher report topside?" His mental summons rippled through the Hive Mind. Pedro was a mechanical engineer, close enough to civil engineering with enough squinting and desperation. Neil Fisher, former TerraSave leader, could certainly command J'avo and document construction progress.
Besides, how hard could construction oversight be? It's not like they're building the Empire State Building. Yet.
"What should we build first?" Lionel pondered aloud, pacing like a general planning campaigns. "Walls? Housing? A gift shop?"
Walls meant protection, security, privacy—keeping prying eyes away and threats outside. But houses meant population expansion, more J'avo, more workforce, more everything.
Classic chicken-egg problem. Except with bioweapons and medieval fantasy architecture.
"How may we be of service, Creator?" Neil's voice interrupted his thoughts with the subtlety of a brick through a window.
Lionel actually jumped—just slightly—recovering with the dignity of someone pretending they hadn't been startled.
Both men knelt before him. Professional. Deferential. Ready.
"Construction detail," Lionel announced. Neil's mouth opened—protest forming—but Lionel cut him off with a raised hand. "The J'avo handle labor. You handle oversight. Clipboard work. Pointing at things. Saying 'build it there' with authority. Easy."
"My apologies, Creator," Pedro interjected carefully, "but we need blueprints. Neither of us possesses architectural expertise."
Well. Shit.
"Remain in the village," Lionel decided, pivoting strategies with practiced ease. "Enjoy the farms. I'll locate someone with architectural knowledge."
He scratched his chin thoughtfully—then someone interrupted via Hive Mind.
"Creator, J'avo on the Ninth Floor discovered a pod in Section Seven. I've ordered them to maintain distance," Radames reported, mental voice crisp and efficient.
"Thank you for the immediate notification, Carla. Investigate. I'll join shortly," Lionel responded, disconnecting with the mental equivalent of hanging up.
"Well, gentlemen," Lionel addressed Pedro and Neil with theatrical disappointment, "this project faces postponement. Stay on the farms. Enjoy fruit. Sample whatever Marguerite's cooked—and I assure you, now that it's not human organs, it's genuinely delicious."
He escorted them to the Baker residence, bid farewell, then returned to the laboratory.
The mouse enclosure sat empty—Radames already descended. Lionel took the elevator down alone, mind racing with possibilities.
"A pod?" His grin spread like an infection across his face. "I think I know what's inside."
The elevator arrived. He emerged into the city—vast, empty, inconveniently large.
"Where is the pod located, Carla?"
"Underwater facility, Creator."
Lionel thanked her, disconnected, then released an ungodly screech of frustration that echoed through empty streets like the death cry of patience itself.
Nearly an hour of flight later—an hour of nothing but flying—Lionel reached the underwater facility entrance.
And there it was.
"HAOS!" Lionel breathed the name like a prayer, like a curse, like recognition. The creature rested within its chrysalis—dormant, waiting, magnificent.
He passed it reverently, continuing to the escape pod area.
"I think I know who this is!" Lionel sang out, voice carrying musical enthusiasm as he opened the hatch.
Inside lay Piers Nivans.
Alive.
Actually, canonically, shouldn't-be-breathing alive.
"They actually did it!" Lionel's shout echoed through the facility, joy uncontained. "They saved you, you beautiful bastard!"
Piers Nivans had been heavily debated during character selection—infected but heroic, a good man caught in bad circumstances. His inclusion raised questions. If Piers made the cut despite everything, why not Rachel Foley? What criteria governed these decisions?
Maybe this explained why Resident Evil 6 characters were created secretly and are only now surfacing.
"Creator!" Piers knelt immediately, instinct and programming overriding confusion.
Lionel shook his head, helped him up—surprising nearby J'avo and Radames with the casual gesture of equality.
Piers was one of Lionel's favorites among characters denied plot armor, denied survival, denied fairness. If Ethan Winters were here too, Lionel would throw a party. He'd actually planned to create Ethan before the guild disbanded—plans interrupted by reality's inconvenient timing.
"Piers Nivans, at your service, Creator." He saluted with military precision.
Lionel laughed—genuine, warm—and uploaded recent events directly into Piers's mind through the Hive Mind. Information flooded through neural pathways: current situation, recent developments, immediate context.
Instant catch-up. No exposition required.
"You need an architect outside, Creator? May I accompany you?" Piers offered immediately.
"No." Lionel's refusal came gently but firmly. "I need you here producing more J'avo and specimens. Radames and Simmons will provide new human batches soon. Meanwhile, explore. Familiarize yourself. Learn the layout."
After the Dimitrescu sisters' incident—the near-disaster, the complications, the headaches—Lionel wasn't keen on companions.
"Very well, Creator." Piers bowed and departed with several J'avo, accepting orders without complaint.
Lionel waved goodbye, then turned to Carla.
"How's human creation progressing?"
"Smoothly, Creator." Radames's report was efficient and precise. "We can begin distributing created humans to each floor by tomorrow."
Lionel nodded, pleased, and thanked her.
"As Piers heard, I'm hunting an architect to consume." Lionel sprouted wings—black, membranous, grotesque—preparing for immediate departure. "Should I bring someone? Alcina, perhaps? She could pose as a noblewoman. Exceptionally tall noblewoman."
He laughed, already anticipating reactions.
This is going to be hilarious.
Lionel flew from the underwater facility, ascending to the twelfth floor and Castle Dimitrescu. He found Alcina in her quarters, smoking from an elegant long pipe—a picture of refined monstrosity.
Lionel knocked on the balcony door.
"How may I be of service, Creator?" Alcina invited him inside with a graceful gesture.
"I'm heading outside. I need a companion." Lionel's gaze met hers directly. "Not your daughters—delightful as they are, they're unsuitable for human disguise."
He recalled their attempted broad-daylight feeding with vivid clarity. Subtle, they were not.
"I deeply apologize if my daughters caused problems, Creator." Alcina bowed, genuine contrition in her posture.
"No apology necessary." Lionel waved dismissively. "I understand their hunger. But I came to see if you'd accompany me."
Alcina appeared stunned. Her height was decidedly, obviously, hilariously inhuman.
"Why me, Creator? I'll stand out immediately."
"Exactly." Lionel's grin turned mischievous. "This is an experiment. I want to gauge human perception—determine their boundaries for acceptable physique before something registers as abnormal. Plus, I genuinely need to devour an architect. Two birds, one stone. Or one very tall vampire lady."
Alcina nodded slowly, understanding crystallizing.
"What must I do, Creator?" Excitement colored her tone—anticipation of visiting human civilization bleeding through aristocratic composure.
"Bathe. I'll wait here." As Dimitrescu started toward her usual destination, Lionel stopped her with a raised voice. "In water! Humans don't smell like rotting corpses and dried blood! Water, Alcina! With soap!"
"My apologies, Creator." Dimitrescu departed, slight embarrassment coloring her pale cheeks.
"I'm tired," Lionel muttered, settling into the comfortable armchair. "Women take forever preparing. I'll just take a quick n—"
Sleep claimed him mid-sentence.
Lionel woke to paradise.
Alcina stood across the room, covered only in an oversized towel, selecting clothes from her drawer. Water droplets clung to pale skin like diamonds on marble. Curves that defied physics and propriety moved with casual grace.
His nose erupted blood like a broken faucet—pure anime protagonist energy.
"Those curves," Lionel whispered reverently, staring with unabashed appreciation.
This. This is why I became a monster. For moments like these.
Dimitrescu and Lionel stood outside on the farms, having used the Ogroman-sized elevator—normal elevators being tragically inadequate for nine-foot-tall vampire ladies.
Lionel planned to search E-Rantel. The Slane Theocracy was violently intolerant of perceived non-humans—not ideal for experiments involving questionably-human aristocrats.
"Would you kindly mutate and fly us to E-Rantel?"
Alcina transformed—bones cracking, flesh flowing, human form exploding into draconic magnificence. Wings spread like nightmares given flight. Scales gleamed like obsidian under moonlight.
Lionel mounted her without hesitation or innuendo. Mostly without innuendo.
They flew toward E-Rantel, landing far outside the city to avoid alerting guards to the mutated dragon currently serving as transportation.
"Wait—character time." Lionel morphed his face, shifted his clothes to resemble a butler's attire—perfect servant aesthetic.
"Remember," he instructed Alcina, "you're a noblewoman planning to build a manor. You're seeking a skilled architect. You're wealthy, refined, and absolutely not a nine-foot-tall vampire who drinks blood and murders people. Got it?"
Alcina nodded, suppressing a smile.
They approached E-Rantel.
The guards' reactions were magnificent.
Eyes widened. Jaws dropped. Postures straightened. Some stood at rigid attention—military discipline warring with base attraction. Others simply stared, transfixed, captivated by beauty and bearing that transcended normal human experience.
Lionel nearly laughed aloud. This is better than television.
"Excuse me," Lionel addressed the nearest guard with perfect politeness, "Lady Alcina Dimitrescu plans to construct a manor. Do you know any architects in this city?"
The guard stared at Alcina. She stared back—predatory gaze making him visibly sweat under armor.
"I-I'm sorry, b-but I—" The guard stammered like a teenager meeting a celebrity. "W-We can escort you while you search."
He summoned his fellows with a desperate gesture. They arrived, saw Alcina, and immediately exhibited the same fear-tinged attraction.
Fear-induced horniness. That's a new one.
Guards escorted them through the city as they inquired about architects. Hooligans were kept at bay—though casual catcalling occurred regardless, making Alcina grit her teeth with barely suppressed violence.
"Ignore them, my Lady." Lionel played his role perfectly—soothing servant, calming aristocratic mistress. "They're merely uneducated commoners. Horrendously stupid. Probably inbred. Not worth your attention."
Alcina relaxed slightly, though her hands still twitched toward invisible claws.
She could level this city in hours if provoked. Best keep her calm.
While walking, they passed Ainz—still in his adventurer disguise, looking perfectly normal and human and absolutely not an undead overlord pretending to be human.
Lionel saw Ainz's emotion suppression visibly activate—magical programming fighting biological response—before he simply fainted.
Did Ainz just faint from seeing Alcina? Did the undead overlord just get overwhelmed by vampire mommy energy?
Lionel filed that away for later mockery.
"Lady Alcina," Lionel reported, maintaining servant persona, "the guards located a renowned architect passing through—Wymond Hawkinge."
He paid the guards with coins the Dimitrescu sisters had previously stolen—blood money funding architectural consultations. Poetic, really.
"Greetings, Wymond." Lionel shook the architect's hand with professional warmth.
"Ah, Lady Alcina!" Wymond approached with practiced charm, kissing her hand with theatrical chivalry. "How may I serve you?"
Alcina offered a perfunctory smile—the expression of someone tolerating unwanted physical contact—before withdrawing her hand with barely-concealed disgust.
"My lady requires a professional architect to design her vacation estate," Lionel explained smoothly, producing a fake bag of platinum coins created from excess mold in his body. "For herself and her daughters. You'll be compensated generously."
The architect's eyes gleamed at the platinum—greed overwhelming caution.
Perfect. Hook, line, and sinker.
Wymond escorted them to his carriage, explaining his traveling business model as they rode—an architect who expanded operations by traversing the world, seeking clients, and building a reputation.
Good, Lionel thought, smiling falsely. No one will particularly miss you once I devour you for your talents. Your genius idea of hiding your carriage deep in the woods to prevent theft will instead facilitate your murder. Irony's beautiful, isn't it?
They arrived outside E-Rantel—carriage conveniently hidden deep in woods, isolated, perfect.
"Now that we're here," Wymond said, clasping hands with professional enthusiasm, "let's discuss arrangements."
"Before that," Lionel interrupted, smiling wider, "let's eat. My mistress is famished from walking all day."
He grabbed Wymond's face—covering his mouth as mold spread like cancer, ensuring silence, preventing screams.
"Alcina?" Lionel offered, pushing the struggling architect toward her.
Alcina shook her head, declining with slight disgust. Too common. Not worth drinking.
"More for me, then." Lionel laughed—sounds like breaking glass and dying dreams.
His jaw dislocated with a wet crack. Mouth opened into a gaping maw filled with serrated teeth—rows upon rows of nightmare dentistry. He consumed Wymond without ceremony, without remorse, absorbing flesh and knowledge with equal enthusiasm.
Bones crunched. Screams died in throats. Blood flowed and was forgotten.
The architect became memory, became knowledge, became a tool.
Lionel transmitted the information to Pedro Fernandez and Neil Fisher—architectural expertise flooding through Hive Mind, instant education, no school required.
He connected to the Hive Mind, issued instructions, and disconnected.
Business concluded. Loose end eliminated. Problem solved.
"Want anything, Alcina?" Lionel asked, acknowledging her assistance. Rewards for good behavior encouraged future cooperation. "You accompanied me. The least I can do is show appreciation."
"The castle is lonely," Alcina admitted quietly, vulnerability bleeding through aristocratic facade. "Just my three daughters and me. If I may ask something—could you acquire human slaves for me?"
Lionel pondered. She'd kept human slaves in the game—maidens, servants, victims. But what would female slaves cost in this world? What was the going rate for human livestock?
"I'll obtain some eventually," Lionel promised, "but for now, we must return home and begin construction."
He gestured for her to follow.
They needed distance before she could transform back—flying mutated dragons attracted unwanted attention.
Behind them, in the woods, a carriage sat abandoned.
Inside, nothing remained but blood and silence.
To Be Continued...