For the longest time, his friends could not contact him. It was frustrating, especially now that they needed him. But they were not aware of the truth of his current circumstances. Touch Me could not answer because there was no possible way for the [Message] spell to successfully contact someone in his condition.
[Message] could not talk to the dead.
His body sat cross-legged at the tavern where the demihumans once had a thriving business. The air still stank of the ale and wine the lot had been drinking before he and Sebas Tian had swept into the room like a wind.
To all observers, he was like a statue, unmoving and silent, forever locked into the position carved for him. This was true—in a sense, the figure sitting in the middle of the tavern was dead, for all intents and purposes.
And yet the truth was not that simple. Even Touch Me would protest that he had not planned for things to be this way. He had simply tried to find a way to meditate, and somehow his soul had left his body to wander around like a ghost.
It happened like so:
After seeing the effects of demihuman justice in all the humans he had liberated in Lundiz, he had sought out a means to numb the emotions coursing through his soul. Alcohol was a good standby, but he found that no matter how much of their damned swill he imbibed, nothing was yet able to give him a buzz. He suspected it was because of his changed biology—he was still trying to get used to one that was partly insect.
Next, he sought to retreat into the sanctity of the inner peace that dwelled within his consciousness. It was a mental construct that he had made so long ago, inside of which none of his worries and woes were permitted to enter, no matter what. He hadn't had needed to use it not since a particularly gruesome case not too long ago (in the real, original world), when he had needed to seal off his emotions behind an armored mask just to ensure he was able to work, and that he would get paid.
His family was the only constant he clung to, that helped him bear the mental scars of the unspeakable and press on. This meditation, therefore, became only half as effective when he recalled that he was trapped in this nightmare world with five other people he didn't even consider close, where only the fantasies of a particularly deranged mind was allowed to exist.
It was then that things began to happen. In his desire to recreate the mental construct that was failing to form, his body fell back instinctively into a skill he had almost forgotten existed.
[Warrior Ascend]. It was a modified version of the old magic caster standout [Project Astral]. The latter was a utility spell intended mostly for players to gain an unconventional way of scouting. The player's spirit was separate from his physical body and entered an ethereal-like state that could phase easily through the environment. It was described early on as a "VR experience within a VR", as the players were treated to a sepia background and could move through the game world like a ghost, while their actual bodies remained behind. They could see, hear and sense anything, and were only limited with being unable to interact with the physical world itself. Unfortunately, its use as a scouting tool was negated when players soon discovered that the astral forms were classified as undead, which meant they were easily tracked by those who could detect undead—and that was most players—and be likewise destroyed by basic anti-undead methods. There was even an easily purchasable potion! Their use further diminished when they were prohibited from entering guild bases as a ghost, which left the spell squarely in the realm of novelty.
The former ability, [Warrior Ascend], operated on the same principle, but with a marked difference. The spell made the player enter a specially phased portion of the game world. In it, only those who used [Warrior Ascend] could see or be seen by others. Otherwise, the players could not see or hear the physical world, nor could they be detected in turn. While in [Warrior Ascend] mode, the player's ethereal body was granted a great increase in attributes, meaning one could hit a thousand times harder, move a thousand times quicker, or even take a thousand times more punishment than before. Players could thus literally punch the shadowy land and create craters, or could shatter a mountain in two. Duels between astral bodies were said to invoke images of old Japanese cartoons, where players could fly around, fight each other in midair, and kick an enemy thousands of miles away.
It was all in the name of fun. There was no reward for doing well in the astral world, which was fortunate for Touch Me, as he hadn't had the reflexes to process all the jumping around, which only served too make him dizzy as hell. The ability therefore gathered dust in a corner of his ability list until he unwittingly used it again, and this time in the new world.
This made him appear in an empty copy of the new world. He panicked, as though he could move fast and almost fly by jumping around, he didn't recognize anything about his immediate surroundings. He struggled to recall the landscape and terrain around Lundiz and Nazarick, and therefore came to the conclusion that he was far away from his body. It was chilling to consider, but he literally could not escape this forlorn place without returning to the spot of his physical body.
And so, he searched and searched, flying around like a madman and skipping past cities and towns that were completely void of any inhabitants. He almost thought he was going mad from the sheer silence, the complete emptiness. There was also a persistent feeling of something oppressive, like he were running on a timer he didn't know existed, and was currently counting down to something he didn't even want to contemplate.
And so he ran and jumped and flew, until he was able to find a set of forest that was familiar. He leaped forward and saw that Nazarick had mysteriously disappeared, yet he was sure this was the place. He went to the Crossroads and sure enough it was there, but for the strange structure that had been placed there. It looked incomplete.
Thanks to that, he quickly zoomed along and retraced his steps back to Lundiz, and to his body inside the tavern.
Touch Me opened his eyes to true light, to true sound, and smell, and almost wept from joy. Being stuck with an insect body unable to drink himself to oblivion was miles better than being stuck in that joyless space.
He dashed out of the tavern, wishing to confirm to himself that he was indeed back. The sight of the freed slaves in the distance and the dusty wind nipping at his legs reassured him. He patted his chest in relief, before he looked around.
"Now, where's Sebas..?"
Their method of attack was a repetition of three basic steps. A magic caster used Gate, using the metamagic to randomize the location. Next, Bukubukuchagama, equipped with the Lidless Eye, would step through, escorted by Herohero. The former would use the Soul item together with the EDEN tools to see if the material she needed to create a weight to counteract floating Nazarick could be found in the location, while Herohero (and whoever the caster was, behind the portal) would watch for any potential dangers. Lastly, if no successes were reported, the two slimes would return and await the next Gate.
As they were completely starved for time, it was necessary that a Gate be created one after another. Doing that, however, turned out to be exhausting on the magic casters capable of it, which amounted to a total of two: Momonga and Ulbert. It didn't exactly tax their mana reserves, but it was tiring, like being forced to hold one's breath in while the portal stood open. Therefore, they had to swap after every Gate used, to give the previous caster a chance to breathe.
Because someone needed to guard the newly freed humans from the destroyed city, Peroroncino was assigned there. Part of the reason why was in an attempt at making up for accomplishing a massacre (that hadn't quite sunk into their minds yet). Another was that Peroroncino's presence was unnecessary, as he had inferior detection skills compared to Herohero, and therefore would not be of much use.
Open, close. Open, close.
For every gate they opened, a different place was revealed to them. It showed them an unknown forest, a view on top of a cliff, a rolling plain, a steep and craggy mountain, an underground cave filled with flowing magma.
The Gate even opened underwater, which ended up splashing all the Players with a surge of seawater before the Gate closed, leaving a large puddle of it all on the surface of Nazarick.
"Bhuwah! Damn! Now I'm wet!" Ulbert complained, spitting out and coughing.
"Kyaah!" Chagama-san cried, her smaller form having easily been knocked away.
"…Never expected to take a bath like this," Herohero remarked.
Momonga shook his head, causing water to splash everywhere. He felt neither the wetness nor the cold. Though he did feel weighed down, as his clothes had taken up water. The slimes had been more fortunate, as water slid off their bodies like oil.
He imagined it was cold here for someone who felt it. Nazarick was currently floating through a literal sea of clouds—obscuring their vision of anything outside its walls—and was already on the verge of floating higher. He summoned a bonfire to dry off Ulbert and his clothes, then motioned for the group to continue. "Let's continue, everyone."
If the situation hadn't been so desperate, he was sure they would have all paused to laugh in wonder and delight at being suddenly drenched by so much saltwater; but as it was they were racing against time, and their hopes continued to dwindle for every negative report that Bukubukuchagama brought.
All Momonga could do was keep the casting going.
Not all who betrayed Humanity all those years ago went over to the Demon King's side and became his willing hierophants, nor did they succumb to the temptations of undeath in the Night Queen's court. A few of them instead went to the closest Dragon Lord they could find and pledged their eternal allegiance, and thereafter became the first Dragon Thralls.
These few were certainly ambitious, as they thought they would gain something more than protection from the Dragons. These were one of the most powerful creatures in Creation, and would therefore have means to exercise that power. Perhaps their fealty would be rewarded richly, and they might even become ascend to become newer, more powerful beings under the Dragons' tutelage.
Alas, all they ever amounted to was to become pawns on the board. The dragon-lords were wiser and more cunning than any mortal, and jealously guarded their trove of power besides. These traitors were granted small boons, which to their small minds meant great power. They were suffered to ride their smaller, younger brethren, becoming powerful dragonriders. Each of the traitors imagined themselves becoming great captains of their own armies, leading a host of dragons and dragonriders to liberate humankind from the demonic threat and thereby become elevated as new heroes and champions for centuries to come.
But they were nothing more than emissaries and spies, sent to probe and assess the newborn Demon Kingdom. And even when open war was waged between dragon-lord and Demon King, these traitors were left in the troves and given strong enthrallments to guard them as jealously as any dragon, without even realizing their minds had been tampered. Their minds wasted and withered beneath the spell, which was left unlifted by their casters for many years as the dragon-lords retreated to lick their wounds after the disastrous rout at Eryuentiu.
Now the thralls forever stalked the treasure rooms of their masters, sword and magic at the ready, snarling at imaginary things in the shadows. Their souls had been bound to the artifacts they had been gifted, leaving their bodies as sinew stripped clean up to the bone. Their delusions told them they were their Masters turned into this inferior form. For this they were ever wrathful, and believed the throbbing of their nonexistent hearts to be the fires longing to be unleashed from their mouths.
When the strange portal opened into the treasure chambers of Ninnyrob, He Who Slew the Demonic Ice Warrior, the Dragon Thralls immediately surged towards it, their weapons bared and ready to strike mercilessly. They were veterans of a thousand battles against the demonic and demihuman hordes, and were not shy of utter brutality in the defense of their hoards.
A slime walked out of the portal, followed by another one. Like flies settling on a rotten feast, the Dragon Thralls descended, casting spells and bringing their weapons to bear on the poor slimes that had dared enter their domain.
"Enemy attack!" burbled one of the slimes.
"Leave it to me," said the other slime. "I'll keep them away."
"Damn it! We don't have time for that!" came a voice, sounding much more sinister and distorted. A skeletal hand emerged through the Gate's blurry entrance. For something that looked so comical and out of place, it did foretell a grim fate. But it was not as if any of the Dragon Thralls were able to notice, as they had been aroused to much fury.
Then the bony fingers snapped, once.
A great, ghostly cacophony assaulted the Thralls' ears, as if they were once more beholden to the senses which the draconic slavery had imposed wholesale upon them. They fell, weapons dropped and forgotten, their forms filled with a wretched burning that no man or beast could ever soothe. One by one, their resplendent, jeweled armor faded and cracked, as if ruthless time had come at last to exact its toll from the artifacts that draconic magic had jealously safeguarded, returning them once more to their base components with every passing second. At last, as the seconds passed, each of these who had become traitors to humanity passed along to the afterlife as should have been their fates long ago, their service to their draconic masters fulfilled in a most caustic fashion. They left behind twisted hunks of metal that began to cool and steam in the damp air.
And then, there was silence.
"Huh…" said Herohero. "You sure did beat me to the punch, Momonga-san."
"Just wanted to speed things along," Momonga replied from the other side. "Anyway, how's it going, Chagama-san?"
The pink slime, who had hitherto completely ignored the threat of the strange enemies, had nothing to say for a few moments, until she gasped and pointed. "Look! Over there!"
"What? Where, you found it?"
"No, I mean, I didn't find that material. But look over there! Isn't that one of our NPCs?"
Momonga and Ulbert stuck their heads through the Gate to see what their guildmate was talking about. They blinked in surprise when they saw what Chagama had found, placed on top of a throne like it was some sort of trophy.
"Oh my, isn't that…" Ulbert began, then he shook his head. "Eh, no, I don't remember him at all."
"That's Warrior Takemikazuchi's NPC! What the hell is it doing all the way out here?" Momonga wondered aloud.
"And… well he seems kinda dead," Herohero observed.
It was then that the dragon struck.
The battle of the Dread Forest raged in earnest. By now, even those reluctant to disobey their superiors' directive to keep their forces away from the enemy army had no choice but to wade in and take command of the ragtag, scattered mess of battles.
No longer were there skirmishes limited to the scouts in the Dread Forest. The battle now involved the other parts of the armies, involving massive war machines coming to life and great hordes of rotting undead charging through the plains. Over time, contact with the elements of the army within the forest was lost, but in the heat of battle no one took notice.
Great champions on each side bellowed challenges, and soon many of these met in the midst of battle, as steel pounded against steel and magic sang like it had never sung before. Whoever the victor turned out to be, their single paean of victory was usually short-lived, as another would challenge them, and if they yet survived, then another and another. Such were the facts of a battlefield now slowly running red with blood and stinking of ash and burnt fat, as the armies of the Demon King in the rear set to burning their own dead and dying to deny the undead army their reinforcements.
However, there were those who completely ignored the life or death struggle that was slowly reshaping this section of the land into a lifeless field of ash and melted iron. Certain beings flew on great wings over the battlefield, completely bypassing the chaos down below as they each went towards the one thing more important to them than any victory.
These were the Night Queen, Shalltear Bloodfallen, and the Demon King, Jaldabaoth, though known to Nazarick as Demiurge. The two Floor Guardians swept past the border of the Dread Forest that they had abandoned long ago, and went directly to their former abode.
For something had filled them with much fear. It was the feeling of something being stolen right out from their beings, like they were missing an arm or a leg. It was maddening for the both of them, as they also instinctively knew the reason for such foreboding. And yet, hope struggled against doubt in their minds as they hurried towards their destination.
And there, where the Tomb should be, was nothing.
"What…? What? What!" Demiurge fell to his knees, his great, transformed claws gouging out grooves on the soil. Where his masters' home had been, there now was a great, yawning crater, utterly empty. Something burned in his jewel-shaped eyes. For all his great and intricate weave of plans and stratagems, for all the control he wielded over many lives, all had been in made in earnest, in the hopes of pleasing his absent masters. Yet now, not only had they gone, but so too had been his charge, the Great Tomb itself—lost to nothing, just as his masters.
"Now we are truly alone…" came a singsong voice, on the other side of the crater. There stood Shalltear Bloodfallen, once beautiful and child-like, now a wretched mess of drool and sharpened fangs and claws. This was her true form, only reserved for great and desperate battles, as she preferred to use her beauty to ensnare and dominate. And yet now, just like Demiurge, she did not seem to care. Not anymore. "You told me it would work, Demiurge. You promised us this wretched scheme would bear fruit! And now! NOW!"
For once, the silver-tongued Devil, who had orchestrated the fall of a hundred nations, had nothing to say. There was no rebuttal for what they had all lost.
"And I promised her I would ensure the Masters would return for them. For us all!" Shalltear all but shouted. "And yet now, that bitch was right after all! They're never coming back! They're never coming back!"
The strength of such a declaration, accompanied by a loud, ear-piercing shriek, and accompanied by the horrific visage that the true vampire had been reduced to, was suffice to terrify even the hardiest of adventurers. And yet it produced nothing but fatigue for Demiurge. The great gambit had utterly failed. Now they were all stuck on this wretched world.
"We should have followed my plan from the start!" proclaimed Shalltear. "The Masters shall never return until this whole world is purified for their use! Blood shall flow, and Night shall usher in their New Dawn!" The maddened vampire cackled, then turned away with the speed of sound, straight into the forest. She was sure to now be descending upon the army, and show them the real power of the Night Queen.
But Demiurge could not find it in him to care much, even if his army was decimated. Mortals could grow and grow once more, if needed. Their minds were too feeble to resist control and temptation. Yet, what did it matter now? Nothing mattered now.
He looked up at the cloudy skies above, and finally felt the surge of failure crashing down over his head. And yet the merciless silence had no answer, revealed no succor, just as the cloud suffocating the sky above.