OVERLORD: Long Live Konrad Curze
Before ascending to the sterile, spiritless real world—before abandoning their digital divinity—Momonga bequeathed the crumbling crown to Konrad Curze, leaving the Night Haunter enthroned in eternal darkness, left to toy with fate, to twist Albedo's script into screaming tragedy.
How fitting. How cruelly, cosmically fitting.
Konrad was dying—had always been dying—his body a brittle cathedral of breaking bones, a temple built on fracturing foundations. His genetic disorder didn't merely weaken; it whispered with each breath, cracked with each heartbeat, shattered with each shuddering step. Glass bones. Paper skin. A heart that hammered against a ribcage destined to collapse inward like a black hole consuming itself. Twenty years, the doctors declared—their diagnosis a death sentence dressed in clinical courtesy, their prognosis a polite guillotine.
Tick. Tock. The clock mocked him.
At twenty-six—bedridden, broken, bound to that bleached hospital bed—Konrad Curze had become a ghost haunting his own body. The walls were white as bone, sterile as a sepulcher, silent as a graveyard at midnight. He couldn't walk. Couldn't run. Couldn't escape the prison of his own pulverizing skeleton. But in Yggdrasil? In that resplendent realm of pixels and possibility, he had soared. He had been terror incarnate, justice unjust, vengeance given voice and vision.
Years. Years he'd lived more in that luminous lie than in the lie of living.
So as the clock counted down—as the game's great heart prepared to stop, as the servers sang their swan song—Konrad Curze made his final choice, his ultimate judgment: disconnect the life support. Let flesh fail as fantasy faded. Die with the world where he'd truly lived, not merely survived.
The clock struck zero.
The world went dark.
And then—
Tick.
The clock began again.
What fresh hell is this?
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