The horse had to stop several times on the road to E-Rantel, but it was still much quicker than walking on a broken foot.
It had grown dark on the way so Stockwell felt it necessary to rest for the night. They arrived at the gates of E-Rantel the next morning. By then more than 24 hours had passed since the Katze massacre and Ainz Ooal Gown's forces were well within the city. The sky hung overcast, dark and gray, no doubt alluding to the hearts and minds of the people within.
He and the poor, dying mare collapsed to the ground just outside the gate house.
"We have another one!" He heard someone call from the gate house. "He's badly wounded! Get the priest!"
He hadn't had a single thing to drink or eat in more than a day, and, while that normally wouldn't be too big of a deal under normal circumstances, Stockwell had been bleeding and puking non stop during those last 24 hours. Needless to say, he was severely dehydrated and his consciousness was flickering in and out.
He tasted the dry dust of the road as he heard the footsteps of two men race towards him.
One of them lifted his body up and examined him. "Hey man, stay with me." He looked into the man's concerned gaze. Surprisingly, Stockwell actually recognized him. He was the guard that was usually stationed at the gate Stockwell always took to get into the business district of the city. Normally he wouldn't be stationed at the front gate.
The guard turned and called back to the gate house. "He needs water!" He then spoke to the other man who was now examining the horse. "How is it?"
"She's been poisoned like the others, she must be from the empire. She's in a terrible amount of pain. Doesn't look like she'll make it."
Stockwell heard the man pat the horse tenderly. He spoke very softly. "You did good making it all the way here girl." From the way he had said it, Stockwell could tell that the man had his head pressed up against the mare's. "You can rest now."
The guard spoke to the man, "Is there still room for her out back?"
"Yeah," the man replied, "I'll find a nice spot to bury her with the others. How's he doing?"
"He doesn't appear to have been poisoned. And his doublet isn't the standard one that the legionnaires wear. He's definitely one of ours. He's got the works, cuts, bruises, big gash in his face, looks like his foot is all splinted up. Also take a gander at his arm."
Stockwell heard what sounded to be the other man taking in a startled breath. "Woah, the thing looks like it's going to fall off."
Stockwell's vision started to blur over. The guard patted him in the face. "Hey, focus, stay with me, the priest is almost here."
As if on cue, he heard the footsteps of a third person approach. "What's he got?" the priest asked.
"He's got the works."
"I see."
The priest put something to Stockwell's lips. "Drink."
The moment he felt the water touch the back of his throat, Stockwell's mind gained clarity.
"This should revitalize him." The priest cast a simple spell on him.
It was a low tier healing spell, but to Stockwell who had known nothing but exhaustion and injury for the last day and night, it felt as though energy was coursing into every crevasse in his body.
He coughed and groaned, but did so in a manner that suggested he was feeling better. He tried to shuffle to his feet.
The priest placed his hand on his chest to stifle him. "Don't move just yet, I'm going to patch up your arm a little."
He began to cast another spell but Stockwell clasped the priest's wrist. "...no, my foot..."
The priest exchanged a look with the other two men. He looked back down to Stockwell. "You are not the only injured man to come through here and my and my colleagues' mana is limited. We're really only obligated to use one spell, but I'm making an exception for you since it looks like your arm can still be saved."
Stockwell shook his head. "...no, my foot…"
"Your foot will heal in time, but your arm needs to be treated now otherwise it will have to be amputated."
Stockwell continued to hold onto the priest's wrist. "...To hell with the damn arm. I need to see someone as soon as possible, I need my foot…"
The priest exchanged another look with the men. He clicked his tongue. "Fine then."
Stockwell let go of his wrist and the priest cast his spell.
Energy flowed through his body and he felt his foot begin to mend. After the priest was finished, the other two men helped him stand to his feet.
If the men of the kingdom could afford this much charity for the likes of him, then surely E-Rantel must not be in too bad a state.
Stockwell nodded to the three of them, "Thanks—"
Now that his mind was hydrated and his body sufficiently resuscitated, he could now finally take in and interpolate the environment. His eyes fell to the creature standing guard at the gatehouse.
"Don't worry, it won't attack so long as you don't attack." Though the others said as much, they too had let no small amount of fear leak into their voices.
Stockwell's eyes remained transfixed on the hulking 2 meter frame of the undead guard. It was so much different seeing it up close than across the battlefield at Katze. Once exposed to the sheer violence and hate radiating from the Death Knight's eyes, it was doubtful to assume that it would not attack.
The others gently pushed him towards the gate. "It's okay, we're still alive right?"
Stockwell gulped in his throat. His foot still ached but it didn't seem to be nearly as damaged as before. It would be taxing, but at least he would be able to walk on it without abusing an opioid.
He limped slowly around the Death Knight and into the city.
...
It was an arduous walk to his E-Rantel residence in the administrative district.
The city had transformed so completely that it would have been unrecognizable if it weren't for the fact that all the buildings had remained the same. The citizens of the once proud and active city were reduced to huddling in their homes in the same manner which nocturnal insects scatter for cover when a flashlight is cast upon them.
Death Knights and Soul Eaters roamed freely through the abandoned streets. It was now obvious as to why all the guards within the city had been stationed outside. No soul would dare cause a ruckus with such monsters breathing down their backs.
The only company he had on his walk were the eyes of the cold, destitute, and the hungry, staring at him from the cloistered alleyways.
Along the way, it had begun to rain. It had started with a trickle but evolved into a moderate rain as he traveled.
In the year 2138, rain was a dangerous thing. In the polluted city of Los Angeles where he had grown up, its acidity had reached a point where it could be felt on the skin afterward. No sane mother would ever let their child go out to play in it.
But even so, he had always wished to play in the rain, in the way that the children in the old stories used to. To smell the intoxicating petrichor, to feel its revitalizing touch, and to lose oneself in the deafening hum of raindrops that flooded the mind and drowned its follies.
In a way, the abandoned streets of E-Rantel closely mimicked the rainy, deserted sidewalks of 2138 Los Angeles. The hopeful child who once occupied his body would have leaped at the opportunity to take Stockwell's place.
This rain did not bring joy, however. It was heavy and cold. It hammered and oppressed. Water seeped into his tattered clothes and weighed him down. He dragged his injured foot lifelessly through the puddles that grew out of the uneven grades of the medieval roads.
To where had his capacity for joy gone? Had it perished with his innocence? Was it killed when he had dropped mustard gas on it? Or when he had smothered it with chlorine? Or was it when he had blown it up with hydrogen gas, or electrocuted it, or thrown capsaicin on it, or headbutted it, or shot it, or stabbed it?
The rain did not relent. His breath grew labored, and ragged. In protest to his foot, he continued his mortal limp towards the business district. He passed through the other two gate houses.
His fog induced reprieve from psychosis had long since washed away, leaving behind only a crusty residue of malcontent. The reality of Ainz Ooal Gown's absolute triumph over him was all too clear.
He made it to his door.
He motioned to open it, but it was locked. He realized that he did not have his key. It was lost along the way to E-Rantel like the rest of his gear.
All he had with him at the moment were the soaked and tattered clothes on his back.
He knocked on the door. "...Vera!"
If he could regroup with her then perhaps she could make some miracle happen.
He knocked several more times. "...Vera! It's me!"
But no sounds came from the door.
His body shivered in the cold air. He continued to knock, his heart was starting to tear. "...Please! Open up!"
More seconds passed.
His eyes darkened. Vera must've gone back to Moot or E-Pespel, he reasoned.
As he turned away, the lock on the door made a sound.
He turned back. "Vera?"
The door creaked open. "Wesley-san?" It was a man's voice.
Upon seeing Stockwell, the man on the other side swung the door open. "Wesley-san! You're alive! I had feared the worst!"
Stockwell looked on in lost silence. Vera looked and sounded exactly like Marquis Raeven.
"Gods what happened to you!? Hurry, come inside, you're soaking wet."
He walked slowly into his residence like a man being dragged by puppet strings. He was mystified. "...how?"
Raeven closed the door behind him. "Make room by the fire for him."
There were two others in the room. Stockwell recognized them as Mayor Rettenmaier and the merchant Baldo Lauffray. They were staring at him with bewildered expressions. They almost couldn't believe that the broken and wet man dressed in rags and covered in wounds was the proud Gray Wolf they had spoken to before.
"What… How…" Stockwell was struggling to form words.
"You gave me a key, remember?" Baldo replied. "Raeven-dono just came back from the battlefield and Rettenmaier was just kicked out of the mayoral building."
"We thought it best we lay low here until Ainz Ooal Gown decides what he wants to do next." Rettenmaier said. "Raeven-san just came by to—"
"—Where's Vera?" Stockwell interrupted.
Raeven locked the door and returned to the center of the room. "I assumed she would be with—"
"—Vera!" Stockwell called out into the house. No reply came.
Rettenmaier and Baldo stood from where they were sitting by the fire. "Wesley-san, are you okay?"
Stockwell ignored Baldo and called out once more. "Vera! Are you here!?" He quickly went to a door on the other side of the room. He tried to open it but it would not budge.
"Oh, that door is locked. The key you gave me didn't..."
Stockwell turned away and disappeared into the kitchen area.
The three other men exchanged worried glances as they heard the sounds of several pieces of ceramic being smashed to the floor.
Stockwell returned moments later holding a key.
He unlocked the door and entered. He did not bother to close it all the way behind him.
...
Inside was a small laboratory.
It was nothing more than a few jars of misplaced chemicals on a workbench along with a couple of simple apparatuses. He fished around underneath the workbench until he found a small box. A dysfunctional radio.
He went about disassembling it and dissecting all of the relevant pieces out of it. Then he went about assembling those pieces into a barebones transceiver. He closed the pair of wires acting as the power switch, but It wouldn't turn on.
"...Damn it… It's always the batteries."
He went to the storage closet and fished around some more. He pulled out a hand crank generator.
After wiring it up he turned the crank laboriously. The gearings in the crank were such that it was difficult to turn and made a terribly loud whirring sound.
The transceiver sputtered to life with a faint buzz. It was possible that the thunderstorm outside and the myriad electric fields it was creating were messing with the transmission. The reception was particularly fuzzy.
He methodically turned the knob to all of their known frequencies.
"This is Wesley, come in, over…"
Vera's radio was offline. No reply.
"It's Wesley, come in, over…"
The Re-Estize residence was offline. No reply.
"Come in, over…"
E-Pespel residence was offline. No reply.
"Anyone there?..."
E-Pespel foundry was offline. No reply.
"Are you listening boy? Come in, Niven?..."
The main transmitter in Moot Village was online, but no one had replied to his message.
His head fell shakily to the workbench, "... is anyone… out there at all…?...please..."
A faint buzz emitted from the transceiver.
"... bzzzz… -e-llo? ...bzzzzz… s...thi...Stockwe…?"
It was coming from the transmitter in Moot.
Stockwell raced to the transceiver. "Yes! Hello? Who is this!?"
"...bzzzz… frequen...bzzzz...you-r….clear…"
He quickly dialed in the knob on the transceiver. "Hello? Am I coming in?"
"...yes...bzzzz…-old on…"
The transmission shut off for several seconds. It reappeared there after, its signal now came in much clearer.
"...Hello? Is this Stockwell...bzzz… do you read me? Over."
"Yes! I read you clearly, Faber. Is Vera there with you? Over."
"...You're coming in a little hazy Mr. Stockwell...bzzz…it's a hard to hear your—"
The blacksmith's voice was suddenly replaced.
"...Hi master! What's going on? Mr. Faber and I were working on some stuff and I needed to ask a few questions. Over."
"Hold on, Niven! I need to know where Vera is! Is she there with you? Over."
The transmission took several more moments to re engage. It sounded like puzzled deliberation coming from the other side.
"...what did he say…?... I think he was saying something about Miss Vera...bzzzz… I don't know if he can hear us… ask him loudly this time…bzzzz… It's hard to hear you master! What did you just ask!? Something about Miss Vera!? Over!..."
Stockwell put his palm to his face and breathed deeply. He could hear them crystal clear and couldn't even bring himself to chuckle.
He talked into the transceiver slowly and deliberately. "Vera… Vera, where is she? Over."
More seconds of silence passed. "...I think he's asking where the lass is… I thought Miss Vera was with him though?... Bzzzzzzzz..."
It was a very long buzz.
"...I don't know were Miss Vera is… shouldn't she be with you? Over."
Stockwell slumped over soundlessly onto the workbench. He tapped lightly together the wires on the transceiver. "...yeah… she should be…over…"
"...what did he say?... let's try—"
His arm slid lifelessly away from the workbench, dragging the transceiver to the ground by the wires. The transmission died.
"...~ha ha… this isn't happening…"
He was losing everything again and it was entirely out of his control.
He needed to think of something. Needed to distract his mind. To stay away from that thought, any thought but that one. Under no circumstances should his mind be allowed to go there.
He shakily got to his feet. His chest was feeling much tighter than normal.
What was this? He thought. His chest was feeling much much tighter than normal. It felt like it wasn't even his.
Yes. Exactly! He thought. Surely his chest must have just been replaced with some other person's, because otherwise it would mean that the chest currently tightening was his. And if his chest was tightening, that would indicate that he was grieving.
But there was no reason to be grieving since everything was perfectly fine. No problem whatsoever.
Yes! He thought. The reason why his fingers were currently digging into his chest so deeply that they were turning blue was simply because some invisible demon had snuck in and magically grafted another person's chest to his body, and this was his immune system's way of countering the threat.
It was just his body being perfectly reasonable, he rationalized. Just an everyday occurrence. Nothing to indicate that anything was going wrong at all.
That must also be why he suddenly found himself on the floor and hyperventilating, he reasoned. After all, a large area of the torso being replaced would assuredly result in some abdominal irregularities.
And that too must be why water was now coming out of his eyes. After all of the injury and dehydration he's sustained, his amygdala and hippocampus must surely be strained and sending erroneous messages to his lacrimal system. There is simply no logical explanation why his tear ducts would be wasting valuable water otherwise.
Yes, all of his sudden symptoms could be explained by plain and simple physiology.
He wasn't in denial. He thought. That would imply that there was something to be in denial about. And there was nothing to be in denial about.
...
Baldo put his hand on Raeven's shoulder. "He's been in there a while, maybe you should check on him."
They tried to peer into the room but the door was only marginally ajar and was obstructing their view.
"Are you kidding me? Did you see the look on his face?" Raeven protested. "I'm not going in there."
Rettenmaier got up from where he was sitting and looked at the door along with the other two. "Who was this 'Vera' he was looking for? Do you know her, Raeven-san?"
"Yeah, I've met her a couple of times, but I never really talked with her. She's his mistress…" Raeven paused, "Actually, I'm not quite sure what their relationship is. I know they must care for each other a lot."
"Is she pretty?"
Baldo and Raeven rolled their eyes at Rettenmaier.
"Yes, she's pretty." Raeven said. "She doesn't dress well, but looks good when she does. Though I think she must've lost an eye at some point, I've only ever seen her with an eyepatch."
"Doesn't dress well? I thought that Wesley-san was rolling in it though."
Raeven shrugged. "You can never know with magic casters, they're all eccentrics."
"Oh, so she's a magic caster?"
"A skilled one at that." Raeven replied. "I don't know where he managed to find one so young, she certainly wasn't an adventurer in the kingdom. She flew in after Wesley-san when he attacked Jaldaboath during the demonic disturbance. She managed to rescue him with Momon's help."
Rettenmaier's eyes widened. "Oh so that was him! I thought I heard about something like that."
Baldo nodded, "I heard the same thing too, it's definitely true. The man's not all there in the head. You should see him when he's drunk."
"I'm inclined to agree, hence—" Raeven gestured to the door. "—why I'm not too eager to go in there and check on him."
In a way, Stockwell's eventful arrival was a gift. It provided enough distraction for them to temporarily get away from their own, more personal dilemmas concerning Ainz Ooal Gown's occupation.
Marquis Raeven especially. It had been more than 24 hours since the slaughter, but that was still much too short a time for his delirium to go away. He had lost too many of his men and had seen too many crushed under the foot of the dark young.
Any distraction was a good distraction.
The only reason why he was still in E-Rantel was because he had needed to sign the formal surrender of the city as commander of the armies.
"Did you see that mark on his face?" Baldo asked.
The other two nodded.
"What do you suppose happened to him? You said he wasn't at Katze, right? Raeven-san?"
Raeven stared at the slightly ajar door. "Yeah… I know what I said, but… I'm not so sure. It's certainly possible… probable even, if he's associated with who I think he is. If Vera was there with him…"
Realization passed over Raeven. "...surely not."
He approached the door.
The other two watched him closely.
"\Wesley-san?" He inched closer to the door. "Are you okay—"
"RAAAAHHHHHH!"
Stockwell's enraged yell pierced through them. It was followed by the sound of several pieces of glass being thrown to the floor.
They did not know it from where they were, but Stockwell had smashed all of the chemical jars in the laboratory.
It was truly a rare moment to hear someone so pathologically enraged. The yell that the enraged person made resonated in some deep place within the body of the one hearing it and monopolized the entirety of their attention, and in that way one instantly understood the true depth of the other's pain.
It was one of the many mechanisms that humans had evolved to communicate with each other.
Raeven and the others fled from the door.
They heard another enraged yell followed by the sound of choking.
Stockwell came crawling out of the laboratory moments later holding his throat. His wanton destruction of the lab materials had kicked up a cloud of toxic chemicals.
"Wesley-san! What happened!? Calm down!"
He coughed out the last of his lungs and climbed to his feet. Broken glass hung from bloody cuts in his chest.
His face was bright red. "W-Who… who are you!? What are you doing in our house!? How did you get inside!?"
His eyes were darting wildly from Raeven to Baldo to Rettenmaier.
"Wesley-san! It's me, Marquis Raeven, your friend! And Baldo Lauffray and Mayor Rettenmaier."
"Mayor Rettenmaier!?" Stockwell screamed and Rettenmaier went still. "He's no mayor! he's letting a monster march other monsters through his city! he's… he's..."
"Wesley-san calm down!" Baldo pleaded.
"—And will everyone please stop using those incessant Japanese honorifics!?"
"Japanese?"
"No one here is from Japan or speaks Japanese or has even heard of Japan! Who even are you Baldo!? Are you just some spy working for Demiurge!?"
Baldo froze up. "...Wesley-san… you—"
"Calm down man!" Raeven screamed. "We're all friends here! You're not in the right—"
"—Marquis Raeven! I actually sort of like you! But you Betrayed me! All of you have, You rich assholes betrayed all of us!"
Raeven was helplessly lost. "But, Wesley-san… I don't understand, I never betrayed you—"
"Then why the hell are you still alive!?"
"What?"
"How come you're here talking to me when Vera—" Stockwell choked and stumbled. "It should've been you! Why didn't you sacrifice yourself!? You're greedy and conceited, just like the rest of your kind. All of you damn nobles! All of you need to be gassed!"
Raeven looked as though he received a punch to the chest. Hurt was in his eyes.
Stockwell swung his injured arm around. "All of you are just sitting here doing nothing! Have you no pride as humans!? You neanderthals!... no, you… you homosapien magitheus'! Get out!"
He began to seethe and the three men funneled towards the door.
"All of you! You wastes of evolutionary garbage! Get out! Get out! GET OUT!"
The three men fled out the door and into the rain.
Stockwell stood still in the center of the room and breathed in and out heavily.
Several seconds of silence passed until someone came back to close the door.
It was Baldo. He poked his head back in. A somber expression was on his face. "...I'll come back tomorrow once you've calmed down."
He closed the door.
Stockwell continued to stand where he was, frozen like a statue. He stood like that for seconds, and then minutes, and then hours.
All as has blind rage slowly seethed away. Drop by drop.
The cuts on his chest clotted, and his bleeding stopped.
Eventually, his legs gave out on their own accord and he sobbed.
...
Three days had passed, and she had not shown up.
He had already given up hope that she would on the night he had returned. He knew why she hadn't shown up. He had always known why.
He had tried praying to the supposed gods of this world, but they had not responded. No matter what he bargained in exchange.
For three days he had not eaten. And for three days he had sunken into a deep depression.
Raeven had needed to return to the capital as soon as possible, and Rettenmaier had never bothered to come back after the display that Stockwell had shown him.
The only one who bothered to check on him was Baldo Lauffray, who also always brought an aide along.
Baldo opened the curtains wide and the morning sun filtered through the windows. "You need more light in here, Wesley."
Holy light scathed the dried remains of misery littering the room and threatened to cleanse whatever soul it touched.
The withered scientist recoiled from the harsh light. "You're not my mother, Lauffray..."
"—Don't move." The maid attending to his wounds moved him back into place on the table. She resumed her work of carefully replacing the bandages around his right arm and shoulder.
Baldo addressed the maid. "What's the condition of his arm?"
The maid shook her head. "The flesh is not healing properly and he has no feeling in his fingers. Since he isn't eating, it's sapping all of his strength. The longer it stays on him the more at risk he is. It needs to be removed soon unless he finds help."
Stockwell scoffed tiredly. "What kind of half baked diagnosis was that…?"
"You'd do well to listen to her." Baldo said. "Gardelle has had extensive education as a nurse."
"~Haha… education you say? Don't make me laugh, Lauffray. I knew more about physiology than her when I was five years old."
Baldo sighed, ignoring his gripe. "So you're just complacent in losing your arm then?"
"Yeah, sure." Stockwell said thinly. "It should consider itself lucky that it gets to go on to the afterlife ahead of me. Should save it a lot of heartache..."
Baldo put his palm to his face. He did not bother to hide the frustration in his voice. "Look, Wesley, you've made it abundantly clear that you have every intention of making your life as miserable as possible. And guess what, you're doing a great job at it. I have no doubt that if I left you to yourself, you'd just sit here and rot away until you're nothing but a stain on the table. But all this self-loathing you're doing, it doesn't solve a damn thing. It just makes you look pathetic."
Baldo leaned in. "And yet, I'm still taking time and energy out of my day to come and take care of you. Do you know why?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, chief."
His eyes narrowed. "It's because I'm a man. We made a promise to help each other. And because I'm a man, I keep my commitments. Unlike you, I don't give up."
Stockwell scoffed. "Weren't you the man who sold his soul to Demiurge at the drop of a dime? Don't lecture me about giving up..."
Baldo ignored him. "Look, we've all lost people important to us, Wesley. And it's fine to grieve, healthy even. But this is…"
He gestured to Stockwell in his entirety. "Just look at you. You're acting like a crybaby. If all it takes is one death to turn you into this, then clearly you're much newer to this world than your age suggests."
Stockwell laughed loosely. "...you have no idea how accurate that sentence is…"
"I have no clue as to the life you've lived before coming to the kingdom," Baldo continued, "but I know by the scars on your chest that it wasn't a pleasant one. But if you continue to act like this, all you're going to do is forfeit everything you've built and push away everyone who still even gives a shred of a damn about you. And then, you'll be truly alone."
Baldo leaned in to look right into Stockwell's eyes. Aggression seeped into his voice. "And no matter what kind of hell you think you're in right now or what kind of hell you think you're heading too… Loneliness is a hundred times worse than both of them."
He turned and walked away. He sighed. "Rage, torture, despair, loss, many things will drive a man mad. But even in those cases, madness can be cured, bodies can be fixed. But for loneliness…" A pained look appeared in his eyes. "Once a man goes insane from loneliness, there is no fixing him."
Stockwell grunted. "Are you finished psychoanalyzing me, Freud?"
"Excuse me?"
Stockwell did not respond. He simply smirked and laid sluggishly on the table as the maid finished up her work and redressed him.
"Fine then." Baldo went to the door. "If you're going to be like that, I'll just leave you to yourself until your sense of reason returns."
He looked at the maid. "Come on, Gardelle. We're leaving."
The maid nodded. "Yes sir."
Baldo made sure to shut the door loudly on his way out.
Stockwell laid in silence for several minutes afterwards.
"...~haha."
His pained laugh devolved into tears. He put his hand over his face. Baldo was correct, and all Stockwell did was act like an ass.
But there was nothing Stockwell could do.
He desperately wanted to return to Moot and see Niven, Faber, Galdur, and even the rest of the villagers, but he was trapped in E-Rantel.
Death Knights stood ready at every single intersection. Surely they were all just waiting for him to make a run for it. The only option he had was to wait for whatever Ainz Ooal Gown wanted to do with him next.
He looked to the locked door at the end of the room. There was nothing in there that could be put to any use either. He hadn't even a single grain of gunpowder.
He got from the table and limped to the bedroom. He went to the closet.
He often found the fashion of the New World was too outlandish and awkward to his tastes, and often found himself struggling to change in and out of his clothes everyday. The casual and practical style of 2138 Earth certainly fit him better in his opinion.
The maid had also done an adequate job of dressing him nicely, so needless to say, he wasn't going to his closet to pick out a new set of clothes.
He fished around in the closet for a few moments and found his dagger.
He didn't plan on doing anything with it, but it was the only ally he felt he had left in E-Rantel. It brought him a modicum of peace to have it on him.
He took it out of its scabbard and gazed for a moment at the black, iridescent blade that Faber had made for him. Aluminium and adamantite really did alloy into a pretty metal. His mind wandered to Vera's stygilight jewelry she had worn at that party so long ago.
His heart began to ache and he desperately forced the thought aside.
He sheathed the dagger and returned it to its rightful place at his belt hidden beneath his clothes. As all concealed daggers ought to be, he mused.
He returned to the living quarters.
The pantry in the dining area was fully stocked courtesy of Baldo, but he had no desire to eat.
He sat down at his desk and did the only thing he knew that would reliably distract his mind. He withdrew a pen and piece of paper that had already been scribbled on profusely. He began writing.
… 5, 3, 3, 6, 4, 3, 1, 7, 5, 5 …
He was calculating digits to the fundamental nuclear polymerization coefficient for activated asimovium nucli. Also known as the asimov value, it was the unit of measurement named after him for his groundbreaking research on Earth.
It was an irrational value so he'd never run out of digits to calculate. By now, he was well past the thousandth digit. Maybe when he got bored he would try calculating it in base twelve.
… 4, 3, 2, 5, 3, 5, 7, 8, 0, 7 …
He also wrote it in the New World's numeric system. It was an exercise he had done long ago to help him get a hang of the different writing system.
There was no reason for him to be writing it like that now though since he was just trying to kill time, but it had apparently become a habit.
… 1, 7, 4, 9 ,2 ,4, 7, 6, 8, 3 …
He was sloppy writing with his left hand, but it didn't need to be legible for him to get the value out of doing it. Mindless calculation was better than grief.
... 9, 1, 8, 2, 8, 2, 2, 8, 6, 1…
A knock on the door interrupted his concentration.
He was surprised. It had only been a few hours. He didn't think Baldo was planning on coming back so soon.
He went back to calculating. Baldo had a key and would come in as he pleased.
The knock came again, this time it was accompanied by a voice. "Hello? Wesley Aamon?"
It was a woman's voice; certainly not Baldo.
But Stockwell didn't care to see anyone. He returned to his paper, he had no reason to answer the door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The entire front of the house shook. Age old dust dislodged from the rafters and the inkwell on his desk sloshed back and forth. That was not the knock of someone possessing human strength.
"I know you're in there."
Stockwell gulped and got to his feet. It would seem that the time finally had come. He approached the door and opened it tentatively.
"Hello?"
His eyes needed to refocus when he saw who was on the other side. The voice had suggested it was a young woman, but after hearing her strength, he had not known what to think. But at the very least, he had not expected… this.
"Heya~!"
It was an unbelievably beautiful woman with brown skin and a pair of long red braids that ran down from her head. She was wearing what Stockwell could only describe as a needlessly elaborate variation of a maid's outfit.
But what caught his attention most was the oversized scepter she had slung across her back. It was grossly oversized and if made of metal or something of similar density, must've weighed well over a tonne. It would be more or less unusable as an effective weapon for someone of human strength, but that wasn't really the part about it that was catching his attention.
It was the shape of it. There was no disguising exactly what that symbol was and what it represented. A crucifix with bent arms, meant to resemble the shape that Jesus supposedly made as he hung from a cross. It was a symbol of the new Church of the Body of Jesus Christ, founded in 2080 after the late 21st century religious purges.
He put his hand to his forehead not knowing how to feel. "...Christ."
The maid smiled sweetly at him. Her expression came in harsh contrast to the fist shaped dent she had left in his front door. "Are you Wesley Aamon?"
"Yes…"
She nodded happily. "Good good, come with me. His majesty the Sorcerer King is ready to see you now."
Stockwell clutched his chest. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
He nodded to the maid, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him. "... I see he sent a cleric to come and give me my last rights…It's a shame I'm not a christian."
The maid cocked her head. "Christian?"
"You know… Christianity. As in the religion. The whole Jesus Christ, immaculate conception thing..."
The maid showed no signs of recognition.
"But…" Stockwell looked on in confusion. He gestured to her scepter. "But...you have a giant cross, it even has the correct proportions and ring and everything…"
All he got from the maid was a lost stare. "Demiurge-sama did say that you might be insane… Just come along."
She turned and proceeded down the road.
Though confused, he hadn't any other option but to follow.
"...Okay."
He limped after her.
...
After Stockwell had the chance to think it over for a few seconds, it truly was perplexing.
During his time in the New World, he had yet to encounter any iconography that was intrinsically linked to Earth. And moreover, he had never once heard anyone allude to anything explicitly stated in the bible.
Yet here was this young woman wielding an oversized cross.
Stockwell spied the scepter as he lagged behind her. It certainly looked heavy enough. At least, too heavy for any normal human to carry. That observation in conjunction with the knowledge that she worked for Demiurge and Ainz Ooal Gown made him come to the conclusion that she was likely not a human.
Is it possible that it is simply a coincidence? Could the ornate cross simply just be an aesthetically chosen design?
Having no other anachronisms to draw upon, that did seem the most probable scenario…
His eyes suddenly narrowed.
But there was also the sniper that Vera said she encountered…
That incident had occurred during the demonic disturbance, which meant that Jaldabaoth was behind it without a doubt. But he still wasn't precisely sure if Jaldabaoth was working in league with Ainz Ooal Gown—
No! Of course Jaldabaoth is. Stockwell scolded himself, his analytical mind had grown fuzzy over all the hardship. He had already concluded long ago that Renner was involved with Jaldabaoth during the demonic disturbance. And since Renner was undoubtedly in league with Demiurge and Ainz Ooal Gown, transitive property dictates that Jaldabaoth then must be in league with Ainz Ooal.
That's right…
The conclusion that Stockwell had come too on the Kaze Plains wasn't wrong, every move that Renner, Demiurge, and Jaldaboath had made had been done so with absolute foresight in order to prime the Re-Estize kingdom for its inevitable takeover. Such an elaborate scheme could only be concocted by someone in the position able to view all of the variables on each and every side all at once. And the only person of course who would be in that position would be the one controlling the kingdom behind the scenes, and the burgeoning Sorcerer kingdom, Ainz Ooal Gown.
And for a being of such magical power, it was obvious to Stockwell how he had obtained the cross and the sniper rifle used against Vera.
Interdimensional travel.
If he had been summoned from Earth by the magic of mere Zurernorn cultists, then surely Ainz Ooal Gown possessed the power to traverse dimensions at will.
Earth did not have magical undead creatures so obviously Ainz Ooal Gown had not originated there, but that wouldn't have prevented him from taking knowledge and cultural influence from there in the same way that the cultists had attempted to do so with him.
Stockwell smiled bitterly.
Such a being could only be considered a god. A god who knew all about Wesley Asimov Stockwell, all of his thoughts, all of his actions, and had been watching him suffer every step along the way. Laughing to himself all the while.
Such knowledge also implied that the New World was just as real as his precious Earth, in case he still thought he was simply in a simulation or something.
Stockwell limped behind the maid.
This was nothing new, he had felt like this was the case all his life, before even coming to the New World. That his fate was a plaything in the hands of an unfeeling god.
They passed by a shaded alleyway and Stockwell glanced inside. He saw conscripts and citizens alike huddled together and passing a needle between them. No doubt it was heroin.
The only one he had taught how to make the drug was Hilma of the Eight-Fingers, so evidently she was still alive. Jaldaboath had not merely killed them but taken the heads of the eight-fingers alive.
The drug gave its users the security they needed after witnessing the unholy power of the Sorcerer King and the speculative terror of his occupation. Its consumption would no doubt be rising to unprecedented heights soon. Jaldabaoth and by extension, Ainz Ooal Gown, would be sure to make a nice sum out of the whole ordeal. Schemes within schemes.
Stockwell shook his head.
Ainz Ooal Gown's scheming was so masterful and appeared so effortless, that it easily could've fooled someone into thinking it was accidental. But Stockwell knew better.
The maid looked back at him. "Could you hurry up?"
He continued to limp on. His foot wasn't as broken as before but it was still far from healed. "I'm going as fast as I can. Miss…?" He trailed off in a way to suggest he was asking her name.
"There is no need to try to be friendly with me~" She smiled sweetly but did not bother to conceal the sadistic monster behind it.
"My orders were to retrieve you and escort you to his highness, and nothing more. But…" The maid looked Stockwell over.
He really was in a horrendous state of health. His skin was sickly pale from malnutrition, his right arm hung limply at his side, and he still had his face bandaged up from when the skeleton had clawed at it. If it weren't for his nice clothes, someone could've easily mistaken him for a desiccated beggar on death's door.
The maid frowned. "I really don't want to be late... but the last thing I want to do is carry you."
She walked up to him and put a hand on his chest. "Consider yourself lucky that I'm touching you~" Her voice contained promiscuous overtones, but it was clear from the way that she showed off the disdain in her eyes that she had only spoken it in that way for the sake of contrast.
Stockwell was wise enough not to make a quip about it.
She cast her spell. "「Heal」"
To Stockwell, comparing the maid's spell to the one the priest had cast on him at the gate would've been like comparing a nuclear bomb to a firecracker. They weren't so much in different leagues as they were in different universes.
The 6th tier spell flooded his body.
His foot soothed and mended, his arm regained feeling and warmth, and the mark on his face closed in mere seconds.
It was almost too powerful. His long imbued scars began to feel strange. It almost felt as though they were trying to- No way! Is she really going to heal—
The maid stopped her spell. "That's good enough."
Stockwell tried to take a deep breath but was so surprised by how clear his airway was that he almost choked on nothing. He took a quick score of his body.
He flexed his right hand; his arm was as good as new. His face was full of color and the claw wound hadn't even left a mark. And needless to say, his foot had been completely healed. He felt that his deep scars were still there, but perhaps that had been cleaned up a bit. He had no way to know for sure though unless he looked in a mirror.
Overall, the spell had comprehensively rejuvenated him.
The maid did not give him any pause. "Now hurry up." She turned and marched off.
The best he could do in reply was nod and run after her.
...
"...ahhh." Ainz put his hand to his fleshless face. The stress was getting to him.
He sat in the office of the former mayor, soon to be the new head office of the Sorcerer Kingdom, but he was still just a salaryman, not a CEO. This kind of work was far out of his purview.
If he couldn't even keep up with all of the reports flooding his desk from Demiurge and Albedo's agents alone, then there was certainly no way he could keep up with the demands that came with running a kingdom. Even if said kingdom was only a single city.
But he had to keep up his facade as a ruler. Allowing himself to betray the NPC's expectations of him would be unforgivable.
He looked at Cocytus's most recent report. He didn't actually "look" at it as in reading though, he just passively examined the characters on the sheet.
It was just way too long.
How did he manage to write this much about that village of lizard men?
His eyes simply scanned around for names. He only found a couple.
He didn't actually read anything Cocytus wrote about them, just filed their names and occupations into memory. That way, if and when he ever conversed with Cocytus he could subtly name drop and maintain the illusion that he had read the report in its entirety.
The only thing he actually did read was the concluding sentence.
Judging from the tone, everything seemed to be going fine.
Ainz nodded proudly and moved the report into the "Read and Completed" pile.
It was a large pile and every report in there had been read with a similar level of care.
He moved on to the next report. It was another one from Demiurge. He hated these ones the most.
Of course, that's not to say he thought poorly of Demiurge's intelligence gathering or even his prose, far from it. Demiurge was by far the most productive of the NPCs in furthering Nazarick's plans.
But that largely had to do with the fact that he was the one actually making all of Nazarick's plans. It was a ludicrously delicate predicament for Ainz to be in.
Demiurge operated under the assumption that Ainz was always performing actions to some greater goal, and that he already saw clearly through all of his own plans. Because of that, Demiurge's reports were filled almost entirely with allusions to "him" and "her", and all of the hidden meanings he had encoded into his last report that "Ainz-sama has surely already noticed".
It was really a shame too, since Ainz was genuinely interested in a lot of Demiurge's work but had no way to ask him directly about it without looking like an incompetent leader. He always had to resort to cheap conversational tricks in order to gain insight on the plethora of "plans that Ainz-sama had already set into motion".
And the stresses just kept multiplying like a tumor.
The player or players with the world item and mortars were still out there.
It was the one item on his plate that could actually pose a threat to Nazarick, and he couldn't even investigate it properly because of this ridiculous charade he had forced himself into with the NPC's.
And now that he was the sovereign ruler of a nation, he had even less time to devote to investigating the matter. A nation, mind, that Ainz had more or less founded simply because that was the natural direction that all of Nazarick's "plans" had headed towards.
His desire for conquest was minimal.
Why would anyone willingly take on this level of responsibility? He mused.
He slumped forward.
At least the Momon act with Pandora's Actor and Albedo had worked out.
Everyone's eyes were on him to see how he would be governing the city. He had not plundered anything or slaughtered anyone true to the Sorcerer King's word.
But now what was immediately imperative was figuring out a way to alter the legal code proposed by Albedo and Demiurge in a way that didn't inadvertently make him out to be incompetent.
And though it was likely not important in the grand scheme of things, perhaps deep down inside, tucked away in some hidden corner of his psyche, he wanted to make a legal code that Suzuki Satoru could agree with.
Ainz put his bony hand to his face once more and breathed a breathless sigh.
He felt the need to escape.
If only he could just be teleported away to a fantasy world where all of his struggles would be rendered moot and he could just do as he pleased.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.
"You may enter."
Demiurge entered and bowed. "I have just sent for him to be summoned. He should be arriving in the villa in no more than five minutes."
"Yes, good." Ainz nodded. He only had a vague idea on who "him'" actually was and why he was supposed to give him an audience, but he couldn't deny Demiurge since he had already given him the go ahead to summon "him" a little earlier.
This meeting was a real whopper it seemed. Demiurge had a habit of being more cryptic and tight-lipped the more important something was.
"In your honest opinion, Demiurge, how do you propose I handle him?"
Demiurge bowed low. "One such as I surely can't suggest any alternative to what you already have in mind. There haven't been any irregularities thus far, the plan will work as is."
"...Yes, of course."
Yes, of course, the super amazing plan.
Demiurge then revealed an item.
A human head. It was warped and matted, and the flesh had begun to rot away, but it was still easily identifiable as a human head.
It hung frum Demiurge's hand by a fistful of long black hair. "Sadly, the dark young you ordered to kill her crushed the rest of her body to paste. It won't be usable, unfortunately. Just the head will have to suffice."
"...I see."
Ainz hadn't actually ordered the dark young to target anyone specifically, so whatever Demiurge was talking about was likely a complete accident.
But so far, it seems he's had great luck when it comes to accidents.
Demiurge smiled thinly. "I had only just figured out this part of the plan this morning… to think that you had planned this far ahead, truly I am unworthy."
"Nonsense, Demiurge." Ainz waved his hand magnanimously. "I am not as great as you think I am. Nazarick would be nowhere if it weren't for your intellect."
Demiurge bowed low. "Please, Ainz-sama. There is no need for humility."
Ainz sighed frustratedly within. How many times have we had this same conversation?
After finishing their twice-weekly ritual of Ainz trying to be humble and Demiurge ardently "correcting" him, the demon eventually excused himself.
…
Stockwell followed the maid through the grand doors.
The Sorcerer king was evidently not there yet. He looked around the hall.
It was originally the royal VIP villa where royalty and those associated with the crown would stay if ever they found themselves in E-Rantel. In other words, it was a place of human construction; plenty of natural light was allowed to filter in through the left wall and its design was in accordance with popular Estizian architecture.
But it would seem the undead Sorcerer King had spared no time in laying claim to the place, Stockwell mused.
Red and gold banners hung from the walls bearing an unknown crest. Stockwell stared at it, but the symbol was complex and seemingly nonsensical. As far as he could tell, the crest was more akin to a rorschach test than a meaningful piece of iconography.
At the front of the hall was an elaborate throne made of jade and gold. The back of the throne easily rose to the height of two men and several branches of gold encrusted with gems sprouted from it.
To Stockwell, it creeped dangerously close to being gaudy. Though that could've been because material wealth simply wasn't a thing that impressed him, having once been the second wealthiest man in the world. The throne would've no doubt intimidated any other man in that regard.
They waited in silence for more than a minute.
Despite valuing his life very little at the moment, he still couldn't help but feel anxious about what was about to happen to him. The waiting was getting to him. Perhaps it was even a mind game that Ainz Ooal Gown was already playing with him, just to freak him out. He took a deep breath and steeled himself.
He turned to the maid. "How much longer until—"
"Silence, Ainz-sama is here."
The maid walked around to a position behind and to the side of Stockwell and bowed towards the throne.
A black void had opened up just to the side of the throne the moment he had asked the question.
His mouth felt dry and his heart rate increased.
He was about to come face to face with a god. A cruel, cunning, and callous god. An adequate personification of the singular idea he opposed.
No matter what happened, he would not allow himself to beg for mercy or show humility of any kind. Principal was the only thing he possibly had left of himself, he mustn't let any threat, no matter how heinous allow him to do away with it.
He was willing to forgo his innate instinct of self-preservation on a matter of stubbornness.
At the very least, such a thought proved he was still a human and not an animal, however dubious the virtues behind it were.
He steeled himself once more.
One form stepped out of the black void.
It was almost funny how fast his steeled will was shaken, he laughed despairingly to himself.
He recognized very clearly who it was. He was wearing a red, pinstripe suit.
The image the demon had burned into his mind was just too concrete. He remembered the exact angle of partition on the collar, the precise amount of slack on the half-windsor knot, the perfect, relaxed posture of which he stood.
Him wearing a mask to hide his identity whilst he thrashed the Kingdom's capital must've been nothing more than a cruel joke, if he planned on attending meetings wearing a suit as inconspicuous as that. Stockwell suddenly realized how stupid he was for not noticing such an overt anachronism earlier.
Jaldabaoth had grown a giant frog head and wings since last Stockwell saw him, but he was undoubtedly the same demon.
At least they hadn't kept him in suspense for too long, he figured. As he had guessed, Jaldabaoth was just a mere subordinate of the Sorcerer King.
Jaldabaoth stepped to the side to make room for the next person.
Two piercing red points of light shone amongst the swirling black gate. The Sorcerer King entered.
Stockwell gritted his teeth. He would force himself to hold his gaze, he could not afford to falter.
Ainz Ooal Gown was wearing an egregiously opulent robe. Its fabric was a brilliant white and adorned with many huge button-like gemstones, each reflecting a half a dozen different colors of light in the natural sun coming in through the windows. Furthermore, the garment was edged with strange characters embroidered in gold thread.
The distinct lack of coolness hit Stockwell like a bus. His mouth hung in disbelief.
Ainz Ooal Gown looked like a sandwich-board man illuminated by neon lights. It was as though some fantasy game artist attempted to make an overly exaggerated and impractical piece of clothing. It was almost like by wearing it he was satirically mocking the very idea of kinghood, let alone godhood.
The Sorcerer King's clothing was all the more shocking when contrasted with the well tailored demon standing next to him.
...Is this some kind of joke?
Stockwell had expected all manner of scheming and taunting directed at him to get him to falter, but he wasn't prepared for this.
By choosing to wear that robe, Ainz had shaken him before he had even spoken one word.
Stockwell wanted to laugh to himself once again more. Renner had nothing on Ainz Ooal Gown.
The Sorcerer King took his place on the throne. Jaldabaoth bowed and he heard the maid behind him do the same.
Ainz shifted to the side and placed his elbow on the throne's armrest. He casually rested his skull in his hand in a manner that suggested boredom. It was an overwhelmingly kingly set of motions. His cinder-like eyes burned deep into Stockwell's.
Several seconds passed of nothing happening.
Jaldabaoth's voice came. "You are not in the proper position to converse with his majesty."
Stockwell took a deep breath. So here it is then…
He put as much mockery in his voice as he could muster. "If you want me to bow, you're going to have to ask much more nicely."
Another second passed.
Ainz cocked his head boredly.
"Hm?" Stockwell was confused. No one had reproached him—
His vision cut out for a brief second as a mortal pain filled his back. He found himself suddenly looking at the floor. He realized what had happened.
Oh… I guess I've been somewhat crucified…
The maid had pummeled him with her scepter and pressed his body against the floor, undoing much of the healing that she had just given him. She had evidently decided not to kill him, but that may not have been as merciful an option as it sounded.
Ainz's voice came clearly through the hall. It sounded more human than Stockwell expected. "That is enough, Lupusregina. You are dismissed."
The maid retracted her scepter and Stockwell struggled to get back to his feet. The maid hadn't broken his back, but she had certainly made sure to make it hurt.
The maid bowed swiftly once more to Ainz and left the hall.
"Do forgive her. Violence is rarely the answer for such transgressions."
Stockwell clutched his chest. Violence?
To Stockwell, the ease at which that monster uttered the word sent rage up his spine.
His eye twitched. "...violence?"
Ainz raised a non-existent eyebrow.
"...Violence!?" Stockwell screamed. "Don't you lecture me about violence! After all you've done!"
Ainz wasn't quite sure how to respond.
Ainz had become accustomed to seeing the expressions of awe, despair, and everything in between. He didn't remember the last time he had seen such pure, insane rage directed at him by someone who knew full well how powerful he was in comparison.
It was strangely mystifying.
The madman drew a dagger.
Ainz was stunned. Is he serious?
"AAAHHHHhhhHHHHh!" Stockwell flew at him across the hall. The way his eyes glazed over and how held his dagger out in front of him as he ran gave Ainz a sense of Deja Vu.
Ohhhh! It's Wolf-san! Ainz recalled. It was a long hall, he had time to think about who he was, funnily enough. The one who attacked Demiurge in the capital… Wesley I think his name was… the steel trader.
Demiurge's voice came. "Halt." It was infused with his 「Command Mantra」.
Stockwell leg's locked up, rebellious of their owner's mental commands. He tumbled to the ground. His words came out in pain slurs as he struggled to move his body off the floor. "YOu… JuST GeT iT oVer With AlreAdy.!"
His eyes searched madly around Ainz's expressionless face. "ALL YoUr SchemINg, youR Toying! Just Gloat! Taunt me! Kill me! Just… Just…"
It was impossible for Ainz's face to show any kind of expression with simply two points of light and a jaw bone. To Stockwell, all he could see was an unfeeling god staring back at him.
In truth though, Ainz was utterly confused, not even sure what to say to the man. He didn't even know why he was supposed to be meeting with him. The fact alone that Demiurge had not instantly killed him the moment he drew the dagger meant that he must in some way be inconsequential to some greater plan.
"At least say something!" Stockwell yelled. Having his very existence overlooked was more powerful than any taunt Ainz possibly could've given him in that moment.
"Hold your breath." Demiurge commanded.
Stockwell's voice cut off. He could only produce gagging noises as he clawed in vain at his own throat.
"You have no right to ask anything of Ainz-sama. Your only job is to wait and receive judgment."
Ainz looked carefully at the man in front of him.
Stockwell struggled fiercely on the ground, his face a mixture of despair and rage. Not even his own legs and throat belonged to him any more. It was difficult not to pity him, even for an undead.
What did you do to drive this man to insanity, Demiurge?
From what Stockwell had briefly been able to say, it was likely that he had been toyed with by Demiure for some time.
In a way, Ainz felt partially responsible for it. These kinds of things happened because he neglected to rein in Demiurge's sadism in favor of making his own job as a boss easier. It wasn't something he took pride in.
He saw the look in Demiurge's eyes. A memory came to him.
He recalled how Ulbert often said that no trillionaire was a good trillionaire. Even Wesley A. Stockwell, who had a reputation of being charitable and kind to his employees was no exception.
He recalled the passion in Ulbert's eyes as he went on rants about stringing up the rich and sending them to be executed via guillotine. Personally, Suzuki didn't have the mind for economics and couldn't really understand how being rich was a crime in and of itself.
Afterall, it was only natural that the head of large companies would have the most money. He also recalled how Touch Me argued with Ulburt, vouching for Wesley Stockwell in response, claiming that you can still be a good person while being a trillionaire.
The memories of his old friends bounced around in his skull. He basked in the nostalgia. But ultimately, the feeling passed, interrupted by his emotional inhibitor and the pained grunts of the suffocating man flailing before him.
Ainz's problem wasn't over yet. He still hadn't the faintest clue how to proceed with him. All he could do was continue to follow Demiurge's lead.
"How do you propose we deal with him?" Ainz asked.
Demiurge let a hint of sadistic joy and disdain leak into his smile, which even despite him being in the form of a frog, was unmistakable to any observer.
"His crime is high treason against your exalted self. I suggest nailing him to a board and parading him through the streets to send a message to those who would follow him. And if that isn't enough, I have many other forms of torture that I would take personal satisfaction in testing on him."
Ah ha! Ainz felt relief now that Demiurge had let slip what the man's actual crime was. So it's treason?
Ainz nodded to himself. It has only been three days since taking over the city, it's only natural that many of the powerful people here would conspire against Nazarick's rule. Even if Momon is working to suppress rebellion, I shouldn't expect all humans to automatically accept an undead as king.
He pondered briefly. E-Rantel hasn't been annexed for long. Torturing and killing him to send a message would only reinforce the biases against undead that the new citizens of the sorcerer kingdom have.
...and if Demiurge hasn't killed him yet… he must be expecting me to do something.
"Demiurge, enough. Let him breathe."
Demiurge released his hold on Stockwell. The madman fell forward and gasped for air.
"Wesley-dono, was it? You are the wealthiest merchant in this city, are you not?"
Stockwell's words came out in a wheeze as he recovered his breath. "...You know damn well who I am."
Ainz caught Demiurge about to make a move to the right of him but he quickly raised a hand to stop him.
He continued. "...Right then, Wesley-dono. I intend to keep my word with Momon-dono to not inflict unjust harm upon my subjects. I wish to prove that I am not the barbarian many of you humans perceive me as. However, In your case, killing you would be an adequate punishment for treason."
"Barbarian? Barbarian?!" Stockwell began to shout but was silenced by a motion from Ainz.
"But more so than wishing to prove I am not a barbarian, I wish to prove that I am a merciful ruler. I am willing to give second chances. E-Rantel needs skilled merchants like you if we wish to create a successful nation. I am willing to overlook your transgressions if you work faithfully in my name. What do you say?"
Stockwell was stunned. His lips parted in disbelief. "...haHAhahAHA! You can't be serious!"
"Excuse me?"
"Mercy!? Second chances!? Was what you did at Katze mercy!?" Stockwell clutched his chest in pain and fell to his knees. "You killed Vera, and you want me to work for you!? What do I have that you could possibly even want!?"
It was strange, the appropriate response a competent ruler would give in this situation would be to say "so be it" and to crush his heart. But that was much too simple. What does Demiurge expect me to do!?
But he couldn't come up with anything else! He tentatively began to cast 「Grasp Heart」. "So be—"
Suddenly, Ainz had an epiphany. Ah ha! I get it now! Yes! He felt joy as he finally began to catch on to Demiurge's plan.
"Vera? You mean this?"
Ainz reached into his pocket dimension and pulled forth the severed head he had been given earlier.
Stockwell's tirade was instantly cut short. He released nothing more than sharp breath. His mouth quivered and his hand shakily reached out subconsciously. "W-Whha…"
"The lambs simply chased down whatever they saw fit. Surely you can't blame simple animals for where they choose to frolic. It was nothing more than a mere accident."
"A-An accident…? Vera was killed by a mere accident?" Stockwell's eyes could not pull away from the image of Vera's dead and matted head. He held in his face a complex mixture of grief and growing rage.
"But as it is with accidents." Ainz continued. "They can easily be corrected."
...
Vera felt herself floating in a dark place. Or perhaps no place at all. She didn't even know what "she" or "place" was.
She knew nothing and was vanishing. She could only feel a sense of loss.
An undefined amount of time passed by every instant. Something above infinity and below nothing. The answer to zero divided by zero.
However, suddenly, she felt like she was being pulled by something
From above, from below, from the left, from the right, from somewhere.
Her world was dyed in an explosion of white light.
...
The first thing she saw was the face of a man.
What is that coming from his eyes? Was the first thing she thought. Suddenly, she realized she had thoughts.
Tears, was the word she had been looking for. Then she recognized the man.
"...Wesley?
Her memories rushed back to her. She remembered the dark young's tentacle rushing in from her blind spot and knocking her out of the sky. And she remembered watching a gigantic black hoof filling her field of vision.
I'm dead… but… I've been brought back to life...
Her legs shivered. Weakness filled her body and she fell forward.
Stockwell caught her. "V-Vera, is that you?"
Her chest pressed against his and her head fell over the pit in his shoulder. Her senses returned. "W-Wesley... how did you... resurrect me?"
She felt a cloth fall on her naked back. It was followed by a voice she did not recognize. "I trust there will be no more issues between us then?"
The voice was not directed at her.
"You're in my debt now, Wesley-dono. I do expect you to work hard for this nation to repay it."
She attempted to move her head to get a look at the man behind her but Stockwell stopped her. He put his hand on the back of her head and prevented her from moving.
Stockwell's voice steeled over. He spoke the first clear and deliberate words he had in the hall that day. "I'll be taking my leave then, your majesty." His tone was very dark.
"I take that means you accept my offer?" Ainz said.
"I plan on working very hard, your majesty. "
Stockwell turned and crouched down, cupping his arms behind him. A motion that suggested Vera get on his back. He could tell that she was too weak to walk at the moment. "Come on Vera, we're leaving."
"O-Oh…" Vera understood what the gesture meant. She reluctantly obliged.
Stockwell calmly made his way towards the exit. Having Vera on his back gave him an excellent excuse not to bow. A strange power filled his muscles.
The pain from whatever injury the maid gave him stabbed at him as Vera's weight pressed down on it. But it only served to sharpen his mind. His foot falls echoed heavily on the hard floor.
The rest of Vera's thoughts were still returning to her. After all, she'd only been alive for less than a minute. But at the very least, she could sense the attitude of the man beneath her. "W-Wesley? Are you okay? You seem a little..."
"I'm perfectly fine, Vera."
"R-Right…"
Stockwell managed to push open the doors and exit the Villa.
...
That was strange. Ainz thought.
It was perhaps the most unorthodox parting with a subject he's had so far. He was surprised and slightly worried that Demiurge had stayed quiet the whole time.
He looked at Demiurge. The frog demon's expression was difficult to read.
Ainz was worried he had done something wrong. He thought over everything that had just happened. Given all of the knowledge he had at the time, his actions seemed the most consistent to what Demiurge probably wanted him to do.
But the Demon wasn't saying anything. That couldn't have been a good sign.
He took a deep breath with his non-existent lungs. "Everyone can make mistakes, Demiurge. You-"
"Sasuga Ainz-sama!" Demiurge was shaking with reverence.
Uhh.. what?
Demiurge's head returned to its humanoid form. Elation was on his face. "Yes! Yes! I see it! To think you had planned that far ahead…"
His hands quivered in delight. "I had never even considered this path… but yes! It's perfect this way! I must… I must prepare for his next move. I shall contact Princess Renner at once!"
He shuddered as a 「Gate」 opened before them.
"Truly your foresight knows no bounds."
"Ahem… well uh… yes" Ainz stuttered out. "Accidents happen."