A/N: Sorry I'm a day late with this one!
But anyway, I had a lot of fun with this chapter... if this doesn't justify this story's 'humour' tag, then I don't know what will :))))))
Chapter 22
"City of the Dead"
It was a chilly day, just two weeks before the Winter solstice—cloudy, windy, and perhaps soon, rainy.
In other words, a perfect day for a public execution: and that's exactly what hundreds of people, currently gathered in the town square of the Roble Kingdom's capital city, had come together to watch.
They were desperate for even just a sliver of entertainment to distract them from their troubles, if only for a few short minutes.
"Neia, Baraja, do you have any last words?" the minister tasked with running the execution finally asked after proclaiming the charges levied against her—high-treason, blasphemy, and all sorts of other colorful condemnations to rile up the audience.
'Death's Ranger', with a noose wrapped snugly around her throat, raised her head with a triumphant smile:
"All hail the Sorcerer King!" she bellowed resolutely for all to hear.
The crowd erupted in admonishing cries and vehement boos. A barrage of small stones and rotten vegetables were launched towards the gallows, battering poor Baraja's already-bruised body even more.
The minister turned to face the crowd with a panicked expression, begging for their cooperation.
…
When they finally calmed down, he turned back around to face the prisoner.
"And with that, then, your fate is sealed!" he decreed proudly, offering a theatrical bow towards the hangman, his fellow host, whose hand was resting heavily upon the lever that would drop Neia to her death.
A crooked grin etched its way across the hangman's greasy face, and he looked back and forth between the lever and the crowd with exaggerated swings of his head—this was his moment, and he would lap up as much attention as he could get.
The crowd broke out in cheers and boisterous guffaws.
"Pull it! Pull it! Pull it!" they chanted morbidly.
Children, perched high upon their fathers' shoulders, (and what considerate fathers they were, allowing their children a first-class view of such a family-friendly affair!) giggled innocently, pumping their fists excitedly through the air.
Perhaps some of them had not yet even come to grasp the concept of 'death', and so they cheered, compelled only by the crowd's infectious energy.
But it did not matter whether they knew what they were about to witness or not: they were human, and thus would inevitably become hopelessly desensitized to the concept of others dying soon enough; come to derive a perverse sense of gratification from it soon enough, and so it did not matter if they understood it yet—they WOULD understand soon enough, but even after learning the truth, they would continue to enjoy death to a repulsive degree until the end of their lives, so it did not matter what they knew now.
Humans were—to say nothing of their redeemable qualities—inherently sadistic by nature.
Women, most of which were docile housewives on a typical day, made ferocious glares, cackled gleefully, and demanded death as loudly, or perhaps even louder, than their husbands—making their fair contribution towards the aforementioned desensitization of their children.
Caspond could not help but avert his gaze and cover his eyes in shame.
Truly, humans are barbaric creatures. There was no justice to be found here.
Ker-chunk!
The Holy King's heart skipped a beat as a hollow sound, the buzz of wooden machinations, echoed out.
The floor slid out from under Neia's feet and she dropped two feet before the rope went taught and she began to choke, writhe about like a fish caught on a line, make asphyxiation-induced faces, all for the sake of entertaining the ravenous crowd.
And it would have been easy to have her drop far enough for her neck to snap instantly—but there was no fun in that. A death so swift could not hope to satiate the craven peasants, who lived vicariously through the executioner who was more than willing to sully his own hands if it meant he could be in the spotlight during invigorating moments like this.
In front of a population of death-starved people, a hangman like him had more power than the King himself.
And so they watched with unblinking infatuation, to ensure they could soak in every thrilling moment of this event: the reddening of Neia's face, the bulging of her veins, the musical chorus of gags and fruitless attempts to draw in breath—oh! And the way her eyes just rolled back into her head!
How absolutely exquisite!
Caspond white-knuckled the arms of his chair— he could not help but wonder: if this was the price of his kingdom's stability, then perhaps it would've been better to be unstable after all.
But, thankfully, it seemed the show was reaching its foregone conclusion—not soon enough, for weary Caspond. The climax had already been reached, and Neia's movements began to slow, dull, and lose their vigour. The light of her life was fading from the whites of her eyes: she could no longer even try to breathe.
Slower, slower, and slower.
Slower… slower… and slower.
Stop.
The crowd let out a contented sigh. They stared at her stiffened face, studying it intently, determined to burn as much detail into their minds as possible, so they could at least carry it with them, even just subconsciously, for a while longer to extend their high for as long as possible.
The executioner frowned—the spotlight was leaving him. Soon, everything would go back to normal. The wives would now go and do laundry, the men would go drink at bars, and the children would run about and play until it was time for bedtime, at which point they would sleep, awaken the next day, and forget all about this entire ordeal.
Until the next time.
Wuuuuuuong!
But just as the crowd was beginning to disperse, an ominous ring echoed out quietly overhead, catching the attention of the more intuitive peasants, the young and perceptive, who craned their necks back to stare up at the source of the sound.
A perplexing anomaly, a tear in the fabric of reality, a swirling vortex, hung high in the air.
Word spread quickly, and soon every member of the now-scattered crowd had their heads tilted back in confusion.
Caspond, from whose position the vortex was not visible, stepped off from his platform, out from the shelter of the outdoor canopy he had been sitting under.
"Caspond-sama!" Gustav cried out in alarm, racing to his side.
The King's blood ran cold.
"My God…" Gustav whispered, staring up at the sky with widening eyes.
"[Gate]! There's a [Gate]!"
The paladins on-site bellowed, relaying the message across the city. Frantic scouts climbed their watchtowers, grabbed hold of the bell pulls, yanked them with all their might, filling the air with thunderous chimes that permeated across the capital.
"Everyone, run for shelter! Get as far away from here as you can!" Remedios Custodio bellowed from the middle of the crowd, directly below the foreboding portal. Looking up, she could not help but scowl, grit her teeth, and brandish her sword.
At first, the confused crowd did not respond, like a herd of dazed and confused cattle.
"Demons! Demons are coming, hurry!" she urged them angrily.
And with that—the utterance of the magic word—there was utter pandemonium.
The members of the crowd who stood united with a common interest just moments ago turned on one another, shoved each other out of the way as they bolted for the exits, caring only for the safety of themselves and their loved ones—more than willing to trample on anyone who got in their way. The pavilion's exits quickly became clogged with bustling bodies, panicked screams, and crying children.
But at least the center of the area had been cleared away, allowing two divisions of paladins to join Remedios.
At the top of each of the four guard towers that constituted the corners of the town square, archers and tier-2 holy-magic casters stood at the ready, staffs and bows angled towards the [Gate].
Remedios let out a shaky sigh, clenching the hilt of her weapon tightly.
She could not help but smile nervously at the prepared readiness of the city's soldiers, the quickness with which they all seamlessly got into position at the sign of a spontaneous threat.
In the aftermath of Jaldabaoth's attacks, Remedios vowed to never let another citizen die at the hands of a demon for as long as she lived—she was glad that her men apparently felt the same way, that the seeds of fear that the demon emperor had sowed were long-lasting and poignant.
Thanks to that, they were ready for anything now, before the threat even became a threat. Nobody would die today.
Whatever ugly-horned devils decided to crawl out of that [Gate], they were prepared for it.
Surely, they were prepared for anything.
And yet, the incessant trembling of Caspond's hands informed him otherwise.
"Caspond-sama!" Gustav shouted: "Caspond-sama!" he repeated, grabbing hold of His Majesty's shoulder.
Startled, Caspond finally managed to tear his eyes away from the vortex and offer a sluggish nod.
Just as the vice-captain began leading him away, however—
"Something's coming out! Ranged attackers! shield wall! Get ready!" Remedios bellowed as the [Gate] pulsed with the promise of activation.
Wuuuuuong!
And from it, there emerged a single being, a lone skeleton. The being began to float, slowly, down to the ground, exuding no hostility or bloodlust to speak of.
And yet it was more terrifying than an entire demon army.
Caspond crumpled to his knees, much to Gustav's alarm.
"It's all my fault…" he whispered crestfallenly.
Clang!
Remedios startled at the sound of discordant clattering. She looked around her to discover, cleanly conveyed through the vacant stares and stoic expressions of resigned acceptance, that the men she had been so proud of a few moments ago were completely broken. This single being made them all completely lose the will to fight in an instant. Weapons and shields dropped from limp grasps, bounced off the ground below at their feet.
Arrows tumbled lamely from their drawstrings, and the hopeful light of the clerics' scepters fizzled out defeatedly.
Some of the men even dropped to their knees in capitulation—those who were even more afraid forced their trembling legs into action, staggered back a few steps, before breaking out into a shameless sprint, joining the civilians in the mosh-pit that was their evacuation line, and began to push their way through with all the strength their desperation could muster.
They were sick of it. Sick of fighting. Sick of putting on a brave face. Sick of participating in impossible-to-win battles, against impossible-to-beat monsters, which is all they had ever done for weeks and weeks during Jaldabaoth's invasion.
And at the sight of this particular monster, the Sorcerer King, descending upon them from the heavens above, their fragile sanities snapped. All they wanted to do was live, to survive another day, something they were sure they could not do if they remained here.
At the sudden appearance of fully-armoured knights infiltrating their ranks, the peasants shot confused looks over their shoulders—more screaming, more crying, more panic.
"It's the Sorcerer King! He's here!"
"He's here to kill us all!"
"For the love of God, fucking move!"
The only one who remained in the center of the square was Remedios, who, in complete disbelief of her men's cowardice, could not even bring herself to raise her voice and call them back—all she could do was stare blankly at the backs of the frenzied mob, as everyone threw their humanity to the wind, quite literally began throwing those ahead of them underfoot without a moment's hesitation to get away. And through this violent method, the street-ends finally unclogged, and the people gushed out towards the city's outskirts.
At last, there was silence—except for the sobbing of a poor child, standing dejectedly in the center of one of the street's exits, who had been separated—or abandoned—by her mother amidst the chaos.
And of course there were several trampled bodies: the bloody, twisted remains of those poor souls who were used as stepping stones by the others, littered the pavement.
The stench of piss and shit, parting gifts from a selfish crowd, assaulted Remedios' senses, a malodorous scent her nose recognized all too well, but had wanted to forget, from the times when she liberated citizens from Jaldabaoth's encampments.
Tap tap.
Remedios' eyes widened and she whipped around, raising her sword towards the Sorcerer King who had finally touched down.
She yelled and shrieked countless profanities, condemning his name and his actions, spouting something along the lines of 'haven't my people suffered enough?!'
It did not matter what she was saying, though: the Overlord was not listening.
His gaze was, as it had been the entire time he spent gliding down to the ground, fixed upon Neia, his beloved ranger, hanging limply on the gallows.
He was too late—he could only stare at her with a hollow sense of regret.
He had failed her. He had failed so much recently, it seemed. But there was no need to mourn her—he could revive her.
He would use a high-tier spell, of course, to ensure there was no loss of levels or cognitive abilities. It was the least he could do for her now.
He began walking towards her, ignoring the whiny paladin in front of him.
"[Magic Arrow]," he chanted, emitting a blue bolt from his index finger to slice through the rope so Neia could fall into his clutches.
Looking down at her in his arms, he could not help but notice, perhaps distastefully, how her eyes seemed even meaner in death.
With an inward apology, he reached down and slid her eyelids shut.
"Haaaaaaaaah!"
Schwing!
Ainz, without even looking back, extended a hand out to catch the blade that was whistling its way towards him, stopping it in its track with minimal effort.
He languidly turned around, narrowing a murderous glare towards the foolish whelp who had dared attempt to strike him from behind.
Remedios gritted her teeth in frustration, straining, pushing down with all her might—but the sword did not budge.
Then, pushing her blade out of the way to slip past her guard with a bored expression, Ainz reached out, grabbed her by the throat, and lifted her off her feet in an outstretched grip.
And then, he began to squeeze.
Finally, his hate and bloodlust began to leak out.
Remedios, the proud paladin of the Holy Roble Kingdom, began to thrash about wildly in the air, hands clutching desperately at her throat, clawing with all her might to pry the overlord's fingers off of her neck.
She swung her legs, delivering kick after kick to the overlord's chest and face—but he did not budge, his expression did not change.
Phoooom!
Sizzzz~!
Silver arrows and holy magic rained down on Ainz from all directions, originating from the archers and clerics of the watchtowers who had finally managed to steel their resolve, now determined to save Remedios.
[Physical damage has been negated]
[Magic damage has been negated]
But they were blocked, and ricocheted harmlessly off an invisible barrier. They were far too weak to penetrate his innate resistances.
Indeed, the force of the attacks was so paltry, that Ainz had not even noticed them yet—his attention was focused solely on the paladin in his clutches, in whose painfully-contorting expression he saw, overlapping, the faces of his guardians.
Squuuuuueze.
"Gack~!" captain Remedios retched painfully, feeling the overlord's ivory fingers dig into her flesh. The corners of her vision darkened insidiously, and her energetic thrashes devolved into hapless spasms, much like Neia's had. She lowered her gaze to look the Sorcerer King in the eyes—and in his depthless glare, Remedios saw a cold-hearted hate, so intense that she could not even blame it solely on his undead nature. It was so intense, in fact, that she tacitly understood that she alone could not possibly have engendered such visceral anguish within the sovereign of death.
She was merely being used as an outlet.
And of course, it would have been easy for the overlord to snap her neck in an instant from the very beginning—but there was no fun in that. A death so swift could not even begin to satiate his needs.
Krsch!
A sickening snap rung out as the Sorcerer King's fingers tore through her throat, crushing her windpipe.
A veritable river of blood gushed out of her punctured neck, flowing down the length of his outstretched arm, warm at first, but by the time the crimson snake had slithered its way to his elbow, it had cooled considerably.
The light in Remedios' eyes was swiftly dimming, and she sagged limply in his grasp. He continued to squeeze for several seconds before he finally released her, callously tossing her lifeless body to the side like the insignificant garbage that she was.
He stared down at his incarnadined hand, drenched and dripping, still oblivious to the incessant barrage raining down on him.
His hand was trembling—no, twitching, itching for more.
He had only wrung out a single drop of blood, hardly enough to quench the thirsty edge of his blade of cold, tempered steel. He still had so much hate left inside him.
But he could not let it out just yet: there was something he had to take care of first.
"[Gate]".
Kneeling down, he carefully offered Neia's body to the portal, lowering her gently on the grassy surface of a hill on the other side, a remote area far away from the city.
When the [Gate] closed, Ainz closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath.
Now, there was nothing to worry about.
Now, there wasn't a single thing left in this entire city he gave a shit about.
He could feel it: the anguish he had been suppressing since the moment he realized the guardians were responsible for Jade's death, bubbling to the surface.
The cork to his bottled lightning was popped, and the storm within could no longer be contained.
"D-did we get him..?"
"I-I'm out of arrows!"
"I'm… I'm out of mana!"
Trembling voices shouted out from the watchtowers.
The overlord rose to his feet.
"S-shit he's getting back up!"
"Why the fuck does nothing work on this thing!"
How annoying.
Extending a hand out towards the southern watchtower, a massive orange glyph appeared before his palm, bathing the entire town square in an ember-like glow.
"W-what the hell is that?! I-is that magic?! What tier is it?!"
"T-take cover!"
"M-monster..!"
He watched their heads duck below the towers' parapets.
A futile effort.
The orange glyph's light swelled to a blinding intensity, promising complete and unavoidable destruction.
"[Explosion]".
KABOOOOOOOM!
The entire ground shook mightily as the watchtower was blown to smithereens in a white-hot flash, spewing chunks of debris in every direction. A hideous column of black flame billowed out, and bursting from its cover, five smouldering bodies, black and raw, flew out, splattered unceremoniously against the ground as nothing but ashen stains.
Next.
"[Call Greater Thunder]".
KRA-KOOM!
A massive beam of electricity arced down from the heavens in the blink of an eye in answer to the overlord's summons. It struck the peak of the Eastern tower and burst through, crackled its way straight down the middle, right down to the base. The tower, split cleanly in two, promptly collapsed into a jagged pile of wood and stone: bloodied limbs, gnarled and snapped, poked out from the dusty debris.
Satisfied with his work, the supreme one spun around, wasting no time.
"[Black Hole]".
A pitch-plack sphere, a puncture in the fabric of reality, appeared between the North and Western towers. The buildings wobbled unsteadily, shook falteringly, and as the black hole continued to expand, they crumbled apart as if they were made of brittle sand and collapsed into the void.
Schluuurp!
And then the spell closed in on itself, leaving no trace of its existence, along with both towers and all the insects that had resided within them.
Now that the pesky gnats were taken care of…
Ainz extended both hands out to his side:
"[Create Undead: Jack the Ripper]"
"[(Boost Magic): Undead Army]"
All around him, a ghastly horde of undead materialized into existence—hundreds of them, perhaps even a thousand, filled the town square in an instant, contaminating the air with their foul rot. Banshees, wraiths, skeletons, liches and zombies all moaned and groaned with eerie rattles. The four Rippers let out a maniacal cackle, fidgeted anxiously in spot, scraping their knives together in anticipation.
All of them looked imploringly to their summoner, the God of Death, and dipped their heads—in the most courteous way such mindless undead could—towards him.
Their chatterings quieted down in an instant as the supreme one waved his hand authoritatively.
"Go!" Ainz bellowed: "Exterminate all life within this vile city—leave no survivors!"
With a collective howl of joy, the army of the dead dispersed in all directions, and the ground quaked beneath their earnest steps. From a bird's eye view, they appeared as an expanding ring of darkness, surging out from its epicenter, the Sorcerer King.
The Rippers, nimble creatures that they were, quickly pulled far ahead of the rest, leaping acrobatically down the narrow streets in pursuit of playthings to cut down.
"[(Widen Magic) Greater Detect Life]".
Reality darkened around Ainz as his vision switched spectrums.
The Overlord spun in place, sweeping the city with his infallible gaze—he could see the paltry blue lights, the pitiful lifeforce of humans, right to the edge the city's outer rim. None could escape his vision. Right now, he felt like he was in outer space, surrounded by twinkling stars: an incalculable number of dimly-glowing, living souls. Most of them were in dense clusters and overlapping indiscernibly, moving at a pathetically-slow pace away from where he stood, towards the city's gates.
And yet despite their overwhelming numbers, he knew immediately, intuitively, exactly how many people there were in this city.
135,436.
imbuing himself with another [Fly], Ainz took to the skies.
He could feel it—the dead were closing in on them at a terrifying rate. Those foolish enough to think they could simply hide in their homes and wait this out, undetected by the undeads' uncanny ability to hone in on the living, would be the first to perish.
Any second now—
"Aiiiiiiiiiiiiie!"
—There it was. A blood-curdling screech, the first one to be consumed by the voracious plague of darkness, rung out over the rooftops to tickle the overlord's impatient ears.
Let the massacre begin.
The dead had officially caught up. Now, they would overtake, swarm, and devour.
Ainz rotated in place incessantly, taking in the utterly dumbfounding rate at which the blue lights began to flicker out, dozens and dozens with each passing second, like waning candles being blown out by a harsh winter wind.
132,220.
By now, all the stragglers had been picked off, and all that remained was the condensed groups of those who were trying to evacuate from the city.
But they were painfully far from the city's limits—it would take a miracle for any of them to make it at this point.
And that miracle would not come.
125,474.
There was nothing to stop them, his unrelenting force of evil. The watchtowers had been obliterated, the paladins and clerics were all scattered, just as scared-shitless as the peasants themselves—and Remedios, this Kingdom's strongest warrior, was dead. All the people could do now was wait for their inevitable slaughter.
All their panicked running could accomplish now was the prolongation of their insignificant lives for mere moments longer.
112,308.
Yes, they had reached the most populated areas now.
The entire city was now, if it wasn't considered as such already, a veritable hellscape, Ainz noted contentedly as he gazed down at the streets far below him—at the humans, like rats in a maze, that ran and ran and ran, crying, screaming, wailing, shooting desperate looks over their shoulders as the dead closed in on their heels.
But even louder than the victims was the cacophony of the undead themselves, filling the air with gleeful cackles and sinister laughter; creaking bones and gnashing teeth; harrowing moans and poisoned whispers.
Blasts of fire and electricity crackled the air, the liches spells.
In the corner of his vision, Ainz saw a group of eight paladins scurrying down the road, trying to plow through a group of undead—about two-dozen skeletons and zombies—to clear a path for the group of ten or so women and children they were trying to escort.
They suppressed their fear admirably and stood their ground, and for a moment, it seemed they might just pull off a victory. One of the human warriors thrust his spear out, piercing a zombie's rotting skull. Another one, particularly burly, swung his mace in a wide arc, obliterating two skeletons in one mighty swing, smashing them to pieces and scattering bone fragments across the street.
Ainz scowled down at them: such a desperate and futile effort. All this effort, only to then round the next corner and encounter an even larger number of undead that would overwhelm their pathetic resistance in an instant.
But just as he deemed it not worth intervening and began to tear his eyes away, the images of his eight floor-guardians overlapped with the paladins.
And that was enough to change his mind.
"[Fireball]," he chanted apathetically, blasting a large orb of flame down on them.
The paladins' heads all swivelled up in confusion as the street was suddenly bathed in a rapidly-intensifying orange glow.
They didn't even have time to register what was happening as half the street was blown away. Two zombies were caught in the blast as well—inconsequential collateral damage.
When the magical fire and smoke finally cleared shortly after, the paladins were all gone: all that remained of them were empty pieces of armour and ownerless weapons which clattered to the ground.
Perhaps if the paladins' numbers hadn't been so coincidentally unlucky, the Sorcerer King wouldn't have felt compelled to interfere, and they could've preserved their lives for a few minutes longer.
Ainz shuddered relievedly.
The now-unprotected women and children's eyes widened in hopeless disbelief. Some crumpled to the ground in silent despair, others clung desperately to one another. The children buried their faces into the soothing waists of their mothers, from whom they had sought asylum all their lives.
Within seconds, the remaining zombies—and others that had been attracted by the commotion—were upon them, encircling them with outstretched arms and gaping jaws, eager to plunge their teeth into succulently supple flesh.
Ainz looked away. There was no need to watch, he knew full-well what would become of them. Besides, scenes like this were playing out all around the city, right this very moment, even without his meddling.
93,849.
"[Undeath Slave Sight]," he chanted, closing his eyes shut in concentration. He searched for one of his Rippers—ah, right there, heading towards one of the most plentiful groupings of human souls, fleeing towards the Northern gate.
Now implanted within his minion's head as a passenger, Ainz-opened 'his' eyes.
The Ripper was currently sprinting down the street at a breakneck pace, giggling insanely to itself. The knife-wielding arms Ainz saw pumping in the corners of 'his' vision were soaked in blood, absolutely dripping. He was certain that this Ripper alone must have taken hundreds of lives all on its own.
Finally, it rounded the corner, a good sprint-distance ahead of its lower-level, shambling compatriots.
The humans—safely 5,000 of them, packed like sardines in a messy row as a few dozen paladins desperately tried to corral them to safety.
"Ga-heeheheheHEE!" the Ripper reared its head back to let out a harrowing howl of laughter, overjoyed by the sight of new prey.
The humans in the rear looked back, eyes wide with terror, before turning around to vainly push against the people ahead of them, frantically urging them to move faster.
"Rally to me!" a brazen tone declared—a lieutenant, based on his armour, planted himself firmly in the Ripper's path.
Half a dozen more soldiers took up his flank, forming a protective semicircle around the rear of the citizens' line.
The lieutenant, foolishly emboldened by his advantage of numbers, risked looking over his shoulder:
"Clerics, ready the—!" he began to order.
But he had grossly underestimated the Ripper's speed, and as he whirled around in shock as the shadow of the pouncing undead loomed over him, a cross-slash of its claws sent his head sailing through the air.
A cry of terror rippled through the crowd as the soldier's blood-gushing head landed somewhere in the middle.
And so their already-fragile sense of organization promptly disintegrated into non-existence.
"S-shit—!" one of the other soldiers cried out, thrusting his spear out in a reckless lunge.
But the Ripper easily batted the haphazard attack away, slashing the spear in half between the soldier's two-handed grip, before slipping in close and plunging a knife into the man's throat.
Four of the remaining soldiers, with tears streaming down their faces, charged forward, swinging their swords wildly. Surely if they all attacked at once, they would at least be able to put a stop to this lone death machine..!
But with an effortless twirl, the Ripper easily twisted past the crude swings, and with blinding fast movement, slashed all four throats in an instant, rending spurts of blood from their jugulars. The four soldiers all crumpled to the ground in unison.
"W-what the fuck—!" the last two soldiers shrieked, clenching their weapons in fear-stiffened grips, frozen in place.
Should they attack now, or try to ru—!
Too late, the Ripper chose for them, zig-zagged forward in checkmark pattern to insert its blades expertly through the chinks in their armour.
"S-stop that monster!" one of the peasants cried out desperately, the first to realize that all the soldiers behind them were slaughtered, slumped against the pavement in pools of their own blood.
The ripper bowed theatrically, mockingly, and took a moment to run the edges of its blood-slathered knives against its serpentine-like tongue—before surging forward with a devilish grin.
Like a veritable meat-grinder, it began mercilessly tearing through the defenseless crowd—hacking, slashing, and stabbing at everything in its path; men, women, children, elderly, it did not matter. Its blades were indiscriminate tools of destruction, leaving minced meat, slashed guts and severed limbs in their wake.
With each stroke of its death-dealing paintbrushes, it coated its canvas, the street, red with the blood of the innocent.
So, so, so much blood.
A handful of clerics, overseeing the evacuation atop rooftops on either side of the street, sick and dizzy from the nightmarish spectacle below them, raised their staffs in trembling grasps, trying desperately to take aim at the frenetically-dancing undead below, who was carving through the people they had sworn to protect with such unrelenting ease.
"[T-turn Unde—!]"
Krakoom!
But a volley of fireballs silenced their voices, exploded at their feet, blew them away in an instant. Fiery debris and charred limbs rained down on the horde of retreating citizens.
The Liches and all the other undead for that matter had finally caught up and got to work cleaning up the few stragglers that had managed to elude the Ripper's undeterrable path forward. There was so much fresh meat ahead of it for hundreds of meters, it couldn't be bothered to backtrack for the few 'fortunate' individuals it had missed.
The red-running streets squelched horrendously under the undead army's hungry footfalls, treading onwards, following the path the Ripper had so considerately cleared for them.
Finally, the Ripper had reached the end—the front of the line. The numbers had been thinned so much that the last few hundred survivors could now sprint, unimpeded by the bustling bodies of other humans, who now lay dead behind and all around them.
This pleased the Ripper—it always loved a good chase.
And so they ran, desperately, extending wistful hands out towards the city's gate which was well within their grasp, less than a hundred feet away—!
But alas, that's as close as they would get.
From 5,000, all the way down to 0.
The Sorcerer King's eyes flashed open, now within his own body again: the only thing to greet him was a deafening silence. He was now far removed from the action—the streets below him, as garishly decorated with entrails as they were, were completely still and soundless. Nothing moved—all the living in his immediate vicinity had been butchered, and the undead had long-since moved on.
It was… peaceful.
For several minutes, he floated idly, attuned to his minions' desires, their unabating appetites as they continued to prowl the streets in search of the living. The screams were sounding perceptibly farther and farther away from him, fading in his ears as distant whispers.
With morbid curiosity, Ainz activated [Greater Detect Life] again and languidly scanned the city below.
"...ah…"
It was astonishing. In less than thirty minutes, it had already come to this…
Across this expansive city, which stretched for miles and miles beneath his ungrounded feet…
There remained—sprinkled, scattered, and lost—only 14,000 living souls.
It was inconceivable, to think his summons had ravaged this city with such uninhibited ferocity—thousands of lives had been taken with each passing minute. Even when taking into account the fact that, in all likeliness, some corpses were reanimating, joining his ranks, as was typical in places experiencing such extreme and wanton slaughter by the hands of the undead—Ainz had still expected this to have taken a few hours.
Were his own emotions, his fury and anguish, so impressionable that it frenzied his minions to such an extent?
Yes, that had to be it. All of it: all the death, the slaughter—the skeletons' weapons, the zombies' teeth, the banshees' wails, the lich's spells, the Rippers' knives—it was all him. Their appetite, although for a different craving, was very much his own.
And he, like them, was feeling better now.
Now, though—perhaps because he WAS feeling less agitated, and perhaps because the humans' numbers had dwindled so considerably—the death rate was slowing considerably. But it was still steady. The hunt was not over.
12,000.
The living souls, in the absence of all others, were now like beacons, attracting the throngs of undead to their increasingly-exclusive light.
Down, down, down the counter went in his head, so astonishingly quick that Ainz had very quickly become desensitized to the notion of what the number actually represented.
It was just a number. Counting down to the end of his misanthropic venting.
Time continued its insensitive march.
5,000.
Now there were only the stragglers, the few-and-far-between who had survived longer than everyone else only on account of sheer luck. Ainz could feel a shift in the air, primal and cold—the living were now outnumbered.
This was officially a city of the dead. His city.
He let out a long, weary sigh. He felt exhausted, having achieved such stimulating catharsis.
He was done now.
Touching gently down on the ground, he raised a hand and conjured forth a [Gate]. He dithered for only a moment, considering if he should wait until the counter hit 0. But that was not necessary. It would hit zero sooner or later, with or without his presence, and there was nothing left for him to gain from staying.
And so he stepped through, turning his back to the mess he created. Soon, his summons would be dispelled—but the undead that would naturally arise over the coming days would remain indefinitely to aimlessly meander about the streets. Would the Northern Holy Kingdom try and reclaim their city? It's doubtful they have the resources. Then perhaps the demihumans would?
Ah, but then he supposed if the humans used the runic equipment he had donated to them, they could probably mount a force strong enough to exterminate this death-ridden city, provided they didn't wait too long, or else the numbers would become too great.
Ah, he was getting lost in thought again. It didn't matter what befell this city in the future.
And with that final thought, the overlord stepped through the [Gate].
Fwip!
The world around him changed in an instant, from that of an apocalyptic cityscape to a lush, open-air countryside, in which he stood on the peak of a verdant hill. A few feet to his right was Neia's body, propped against the base of a lone tree, unmoved and untouched.
Far-off in the horizon, the impenetrable-looking walls of the capital city loomed—from this distance, it was impossible to tell that the city had been taken over by the dead.
The only evidence was the pungent smell of the dead, entrenched deeply within his nostrils. Not that he particularly minded.
The sun was beginning to set, and the Sorcerer King leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, relishing in the sun's consoling warmth, listening to the rustling of tawny foliage overhead.
Yes… all was well, now.
After a few moments of listless ponderance, he opened his eyes and knelt down, producing a wand from his robe.
"[Greater Revive]," he whispered, activating the eighth-tier spell.
An instant later, his loyal ranger's eyes flashed open, and she bolted upright, clutching at her throat, already on the verge of hyperventilation.
Until the Sorcerer King placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and she whirled around to face him.
"It's okay, Neia. You're safe now," he explained soothingly.
Neia's eyes widened in surprise. How did she get here? The last thing she remembered…
She raised a hand to rub at her bruised throat, clenching her tearful eyes shut tight.
She was confused about a lot of things right now, but there was one thing she was certain of.
"A-A-Ainz-sama… y-you came… you r-r-really came for me..!" she blubbered joyfully.
The sovereign silently nodded his head.
Consumed by emotions, Neia dove straight into the overlord's arms, burying her face into his chest.
It was a very rude and unbecoming act, she was well-aware of this, but she couldn't help it.
All the fear she had felt over the last few days—now that it seemed it was all over now—came bubbling back. The terror she felt leading up to her execution, the tense anxiety that had knotted her stomache as Remedios verbally and physically abused her until it was time. The fear she had felt in her final moments, choking, being strangled, on display for hundreds of laughing people: she was forced to accept the fact that Ainz-sama might not actually come to save her..!
It was horrible. By far, the most horrible thing she had ever endured, and she had been through a lot.
And so, much to her joy, when Ainz did not pull away, and instead placed a hand on the back of her head in acceptance of her feelings, what little amount of restraint Neia had completely dissolved.
She sobbed pitifully, her whole body a trembling mess, grabbing hold of her saviour's robes by the fistful, never wanting to let go.
"It seems you've suffered greatly because of my mistakes... and for that, I am sorry," the overlord apologized quietly.
She curled up tighter in his arms like a frightened little girl.
"You're safe now… it's all over," he assured, looking back towards the city in the distance.
Now, he supposed: it was time to go home.