I've been inspired to write from the perspective of an NPC for quite some time now, a rarity in Overlord fanfics. It's why I'm trying my best to make it understandable and believable, his inner monologues and personality. I hope other people can enjoy this new perspective.

Also, do keep in mind english is my second language.

Enjoy

Chapter 5: Saviour

Ever since his promotion to Adamantite rank, Baldur had found himself at the center of attention in the Re-Estize Capital. Wherever he walked, crowds of commoners gathered, their eyes bright with admiration, faces lit with gratitude. Some even reached out to touch the hem of his cloak, as though he were a figure of divine blessing.

He nodded politely as he walked through the bustling market, acknowledging their words kindly. He had no ill will toward them, but he couldn't help but feel that the praise, the adulation—it was unnecessary. He was a protector, not a hero. His purpose lay in a far higher calling than mortal admiration.

Yet, as his golden eyes passed over the throngs of people, a new thought struck him—perhaps it wasn't so bad. The warmth in their smiles, the sincerity in their words of thanks, it stirred something within him. It had been so long since he had seen mortals with such pure hearts. Or maybe he hasn't been looking far enough.

Still, the attention grated on him sometimes. Too many eyes, too much exposure. It was good that he was acknowledged, but he can't just stop his march every time someone sings praises to him.

When the crowd swelled around him again, he took the opportunity to slip away. With a smooth turn, he stepped into a narrow alleyway, leaving the noise of the market behind.

The transformation in the atmosphere was immediate.

Where the main streets had been bright and lively, the alley was dark and oppressive. Shadows clung to the stone walls, and the smell of rot and filth hung in the air. The light of the setting sun barely reached this far, casting long, menacing silhouettes on the ground. The people here did not cheer. Instead, they eyed him with suspicion and fear, their postures shifting uneasily as he walked past. Some backed away, others simply glared.

It surprised him how a single step off the main road could lead to such a stark difference in attitude. Here, in this forgotten corner of Re-Estize, the mood was one of distrust. Antares, though he didn't show it, found it curious.

As his senses adjusted to the dim light, he heard the sound of voices—a heated argument, punctuated by the sound of flesh hitting flesh. His gaze followed the noise, and he spotted a group of men gathered around a figure on the ground.

A frail, elderly man was being beaten by three thugs, their fists mercilessly landing on his hunched form. The old man's gray hair was matted with blood, and his face was bruised and swollen, yet he still clung to some flicker of defiance in his eyes.

Antares stilled his breath, listening to the conversation between blows.

"You old fool," one of the thugs sneered. "That money was for medicine, wasn't it? Well, too bad, your debt's due now. If you don't pay up, maybe we'll pay a visit to that granddaughter of yours next." His vile face made clear his intentions.

The old man spat blood and glared up at them, defiant despite his battered body. "You touch her, and I swear—" He was interrupted as a kick hit him in the head.

"Hehehe… Oh, don't you worry, old man. Business in this corner of town is booming, especially the brothels! Maybe I'll get a piece of it as well…" The thug reared back to strike him again, but before the blow could land, a hand wrapped around his forearm, catching it mid-swing with a vice-like grip.

"Excuse me," Baldur said calmly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

The group of thugs recoiled, startled by his sudden appearance. Their eyes widened in alarm as they registered the tall figure standing before them. They hadn't heard him approach. Had he been there the whole time? The leader of the group narrowed his eyes, attempting to regain control of the situation.

"You got a death wish or something, pal!? Get the fuck off me!" the thug snarled, pulling his arm back, only to find it trapped in Baldur's iron grip.

"No," He grunted in pain as Baldur twisted, popping sounds permeating the alley. Then a sickening crack followed. The thug screamed, clutching his broken arm as he collapsed to the ground.

The other two immediately stepped back, their faces pale with fear.

"D-do you even know who we work for?!" One of them barked and pulled a knife, trying to sound braver than he felt. "We're with Eight Fingers! You don't want to mess with us!"

Baldur's gaze was cold as he glanced down at the injured thug and then at the others. His golden eyes remained unreadable as he took a step forward. In a flash, he struck out with his fist, his movements a blur, targeting the neck of the one who spoke.

He went down as his throat closed in on him, collapsing in a heap as his breath left him. The third barely had time to react before a backhanded strike knocked him unconscious, sending him crashing into the alley wall.

Baldur stood over them, impassive. The last thug, still writhing in pain on the ground with a twisted arm, looked up at him with terror in his eyes. He began to crawl backward, trying to escape, but Baldur took one step closer, pinning him with a withering stare.

"I don't care who you work for, filth." Baldur said, his voice low and deadly. "But mark my words, if you ever pull a stunt like this again, there will be a reckoning."

The thug let out a terrified cry and scrambled to his feet, clutching his broken arm as he ran off into the shadows, disappearing into the depths of the alley.

With the threat gone, Baldur turned his attention to the old man still lying on the ground. The elderly man coughed weakly, his chest heaving as he tried to sit up. His face was a mess of bruises and blood, but the fire in his eyes remained, though dimmed by pain.

"Easy now," Baldur said softly, kneeling beside him. From his pouch, he pulled out a small potion he had purchased earlier. The liquid inside glowed faintly, its color a pale blue. Baldur examined it for a moment—this world's potions were different from what he had known in Yggdrasil, their composition more primitive, yet still effective. He had bought one out of curiosity, and now it would serve its purpose.

"Here," he said, offering the bottle to the old man. "Drink this."

The man hesitated, but with a weak nod, he took the potion and drank. Almost immediately, his breathing eased, and the bruises on his face began to fade, his body starting to heal from the injuries inflicted upon him.

"Thank you… thank you, kind sir," the old man rasped as he struggled to his feet. His voice was filled with gratitude, his eyes wide with disbelief at the stranger who had just saved his life. "I don't know how to repay you…"

Baldur stood and regarded him. "There's no need for thanks. But tell me—who were those men?"

The old man winced, his face tightening with the memory of his torment. "They… they work for the 'Eight Fingers'. A criminal syndicate that runs much of the underworld. Drugs, debts, slaves… they prey on poor folk like me. I had no choice but to borrow money from them, for my granddaughter's medicine. Her parents are addicts—they wouldn't help her, and without the medicine…" He trailed off, his voice trembling with helplessness.

Baldur's eyes darkened, a quiet fury building within him. He had known about criminal organizations before, but the idea of enslaving and exploiting the weak stirred a deep rage in his soul. The weak are supposed to be nurtured, and slavery… was a grave sin in his eyes, a crime against the very essence of life.

"Criminals…" Baldur's voice was cold as he processed the old man's words. "They have no place in this world, or any world for that matter."

The old man looked up at him, surprised by the intensity in Baldur's gaze. "They're powerful… no one around here dares to stand up to them. I've heard the Royal Princess is trying her best to root them out, but—"

Baldur interrupted him, his tone resolute. "Fear not. Upon my name… as Baldur, and by the will of my Creator, Eight Fingers will be destroyed."

The old man's eyes widened in awe at the declaration. He had heard many bold words in his life, but there was something different about this man. Something unshakable in his conviction. For the first time in years, a flicker of hope stirred within him.

"Thank you, sir Baldur" the old man said again, his voice filled with emotion. "My name is Fane. If… if there's anything I can do…"

"Lay low for now, Fane," Baldur replied. "Keep yourself and your granddaughter safe. I'll take care of the rest."

With that, Baldur turned and walked away, leaving the old man standing in the alley, his heart lifted by the promise of justice.

As Baldur made his way through the darkened streets, his thoughts churned with a mix of anger and purpose.

'Eight Fingers…'

They would fall, just as surely as other scum like them. His hand clenched into a fist as he moved deeper into the shadows of the city. He had much to do.

…

As Baldur walked the darkened streets, his mind churned with unresolved thoughts. The weight of the city pressed down on him—its hidden crimes, the sinister forces that lurked in the underbelly, and the webs of corruption spun by organizations like Eight Fingers and Zurranon.

Antares' fists clenched as he walked, the desire to act—to tear apart these syndicates and bring swift justice to the innocents they tormented—burned hot in his chest. It would be so easy, in his true form, to crush them like insects. The thought of waiting, of moving so slowly, grated against his very soul.

But reason tempered the fire. He was not at full strength, not yet. His Adamantite rank was meaningless without the information and resources he needed to dismantle these organizations completely. A reckless assault now would scatter them like roaches, and they would burrow deeper into the shadows.

Patience. He would need patience. The frustration gnawed at him, a constant companion, but he forced himself to accept it. Timing was everything.

If only he could summon his army, the full force of the Eternal Army—his brothers, sisters and comrades. Together, they could wipe these evils from the earth in a single sweep, just as they had done in the old days. He longed to bring them all back at once, to see their gleaming armor, to hear their battle cries, to lead them in the divine cause once more.

But that was a dream far from his current reach. His connection to Yggdrasil had weakened since he awoke in this world. Summoning his brothers and sisters from their spiritual limbo required immense power, power he had yet to fully regain.

For now, he could only summon a fraction of his former might—a small force, enough to serve as a vanguard in this new world, but not enough for the war he intended to wage against the rot consuming these lands.

Eventually, he made his way back to the inn, his mind heavy with plans and uncertainties. As he approached his room, the sounds of laughter and the soft patter of paws greeted him, snapping him from his brooding thoughts.

When he opened the door, he found his loyal soldier, one of the few brothers he had managed to summon back to his side, playing with the small white puppy. The sight was so foreign, so uncharacteristic of the disciplined soldier, that for a moment, Antares simply stared.

The soldier hadn't noticed his entrance at first. The usually stern and stoic figure was crouched low, allowing the puppy to nibble at his human hand while he playfully petted his fur. But as soon as the soldier caught sight of his lord in the doorway, he snapped to full attention, his back straight and his demeanor returning to that of the disciplined warrior.

"M-my lord!" the soldier said, his voice carrying a mix of surprise and embarrassment. He gave a quick salute, his fist beating on his chest. "I have nothing to report on the mission!"

Antares raised a hand, his tone calm but with a hint of amusement. "Be at ease, brother." He wasn't the type to chastise his brothers for moments like this. They had fought and died by his side countless times. If the puppy brought some comfort to him, so be it.

The soldier visibly relaxed at his words, though his posture remained as stiff and formal as ever.

"I have decided to take a new course of action," Antares said, stepping into the room. "It's time I reunite with more of our brothers and sisters. We'll need them if we are to dismantle the forces moving against this world's people."

The soldier's eyes gleamed with anticipation at the prospect. "Truly, my Lord? Where shall we begin?"

Antares moved toward the window, his gaze drifting eastward, toward the mountains that loomed in the distance. "I will travel to the mountains, beyond the eastern borders. There, I can find the seclusion need to perform the ritual and summon more of the Celestial Guard. For now, you will remain here. Protect the cub."

The soldier beat his chest in a vigorous salute, his voice filled with unshakeable loyalty. "As you command, my Lord."

Satisfied, Antares gave him a nod, and with that, he moved to leave the inn. Night had fallen, and the streets outside were dimly lit by flickering lanterns. The shadows grew long as he slipped out of the inn's back entrance, avoiding any curious onlookers. He needed to stay hidden for what was to come next.

Once he was sure he was out of sight, he shed the guise of Baldur. The comforting disguise of a mortal man fell away, revealing his true form—his celestial armor shimmering faintly beneath the moonlight. His massive frame, a titan among men, gleamed with otherworldly light, his presence both majestic and terrifying. His golden eyes beneath his helm reflected the starlight above, and for the first time in weeks, he felt the weight of his true self.

With a deep breath, he reached into the depths of his abilities. The world around him seemed to hold its breath, and with a single motion, he vanished in a flash of light, teleporting far beyond the capital, to the place where he could conduct the ritual without interruption.

…

Meanwhile, in another part of the city, the thugs from earlier had limped back to their base, battered and terrified after their encounter with the strange adventurer. They made their way through the winding corridors of the city's criminal underbelly until they reached their destination—a lavishly appointed room where the head of Eight Fingers' slave trade division, Coco Doll, awaited.

The thugs, still clutching their injuries, hesitated at the doorway before entering. Coco Doll, a man of refined taste but a heart full of cruelty, sat at a grand desk, the faint smell of exotic perfumes filling the air around him. His long, manicured fingers tapped rhythmically against the polished wood, his eyes narrowing as the thugs approached.

"Well?" Coco Doll's voice was cold and clipped. "What excuse do you have for returning empty-handed?"

The leader of the group, nursing his broken arm, swallowed hard before speaking. "W-we were... stopped, sir. By a man—an adventurer. We never even saw him coming."

"A man?" Coco Doll's eyebrow raised in disbelief. "An adventurer? You're telling me a single adventurer stopped the lot of you?"

The thug nodded shakily, beads of sweat forming on his brow. "He was no ordinary man, sir. H-he... he's the new Adamantite-ranked adventurer. B-baldur, they call him, sir. We didn't stand a chance."

The room fell into a tense silence. Coco Doll's expression darkened at the mention of Baldur's name. He had heard of the new Adamantite adventurer—his rise had been meteoric, and the stories of his prowess were spreading fast. An annoying enemy to have.

For a long moment, Coco Doll said nothing, simply tapping his fingers against the desk in thought. Then, with a soft sigh of irritation, he leaned back in his chair, regarding the thugs with cold disdain.

"Very well," he said at last. "You may go. But rest assured, this will be dealt with."

The thugs scurried out of the room, grateful to have avoided further punishment. As the door closed behind them, Coco Doll steepled his fingers, his mind already working. An Adamantite adventurer was a dangerous obstacle, one that required careful handling. Their encounters with Blue Roses being proof of this.

"I'll have to bring this up at the next council meeting," he muttered to himself. "This Baldur will need to be dealt with... thoroughly."

…

After teleporting near the mountains, Antares stood alone, gazing across the vast, rocky expanse. The snow-capped peaks loomed high in the distance, casting shadows over the rugged terrain. A biting wind swept through the valley, carrying with it the crisp scent of frost and cold stone. The sky above was a dark shade of blue, pinpricked with the first glimmers of stars, as twilight descended upon the land.

For a moment, Antares—his true self—stood still, letting the silence of the mountain wash over him. His golden eyes swept the snowy cliffs and steep ridges, taking in the isolation, the peaceful stillness that the land offered. This was the perfect place for what he was about to attempt.

He needed to summon more of his brothers and sisters, the remnants of the Celestial Guard. But it wouldn't be easy. Even in this world, disconnected from the power of Yggdrasil, the act of summoning required intense focus and an enormous expenditure of life force.

The wind picked up, swirling snowflakes in the air around him, but Antares remained unmoved. His thoughts drifted back to those he had once commanded: the Harbingers, ascended mortals who shared his desire to defend the worlds. They had fought beside him in countless battles, leading their forces with unparalleled skill and devotion. But the Harbingers were gone now, lost in the final moments of Yggdrasil's fall, their spirits scattered beyond his reach. Just like the Verdant Wardens, the elementals, their connection was too strong to the World Tree for them to be spared.

All that remained were the Celestial Guard of the Eternal Army, his brothers and sisters—his Sentinels, the silent protectors of the Tree, and the Astrologers, the mystical wielders of the stars and elements.

The Sentinels had been the backbone of his forces. Clad in gleaming, silver armor, they were the embodiment of loyalty and discipline, standing as an unbreakable shield in the defense of Yggdrasil. Their armor was adorned with the sacred symbol of the World Tree, a radiant sigil that glowed faintly upon their breastplates, a testament to their divine origin. They carried spears and shields, the standard weapons of their kind, but their true strength lay in their unwavering unity.

Among the ranks of the Sentinels were their commanders—Elder Sentinels, the officers of their units. They wore heavier armor than their subordinates, their plate forged with intricate designs that denoted their rank and role. Instead of shields, they wielded massive two-handed weapons: great swords, warhammers, and battle axes. These were the warriors who could rally their troops, casting buffs and protective enchantments that empowered those under their command. They had led countless charges, held the line in battles that defied mortal imagination. Their presence on the battlefield was a force multiplier.

Then there were the Astrologers. Unlike the Sentinels, who thrived in the chaos of physical combat, the Astrologers were masters of arcane and celestial magic. Clad in flowing, dark gray robes, their faces were perpetually hidden beneath hoods that cast their features in shadow. They carried long, ornate staffs that shimmered with ethereal light, and their knowledge of magic was vast. They could manipulate the elements—fire, ice, wind, and stone—and harness the power of the stars themselves. Some could even summon meteors from the heavens as a Super-Tier spell, devastating entire legions in a single act.

Yet for all their power, they were enigmatic, often speaking in cryptic phrases and holding a detachment from the world around them. But they were invaluable. In battle, their spells reshaped the field, turning the tide when called upon.

Antares sighed softly. These were the warriors he would summon tonight. He needed them. Without their help, his plans to dismantle Zurranon and Eight Fingers would be delayed, and too many innocent lives hung in the balance. He had to act, even if it drained him further.

Closing his eyes, Antares extended his arms, his fingers curling inward as he began the summoning ritual. The world around him seemed to still, as though the very air had paused to witness the event. Snowflakes froze in mid-air, and the winds quieted to a whisper.

Summoning from the beyond was like reaching into a dark, stormy ocean, trying to find ships lost at sea. His soldiers were scattered, their spirits adrift in the spiritual limbo of the World Tree's destruction.

He was the lighthouse, his power the beacon that would guide them back. But his light was dimming—every summoning weakened him, chipped away at his life force, pulling him further into oblivion. It was like grasping at fading stars in a night sky that grew ever darker.

But it was necessary.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly as he focused, the world growing distant as his mind extended into the ether, searching for the familiar presence of his kin. The act took everything from him—his will, his essence, his very being poured into the summoning.

Strains to his form already started to show, and the ground beneath him began to tremble slightly as the ancient magic coursed through the air.

At last, he felt the first connection. One by one, the Sentinels began to appear before him, their forms materializing in the snowy landscape. The first was a standard Sentinel, his silver armor pristine, his spear held firmly at his side. Behind him, more Sentinels emerged, forming neat ranks in perfect silence. Their helmets gleamed under the moonlight, and the symbol of Yggdrasil glowed faintly on their chestplates.

A battalion's worth of soldiers now stood before him, their expressions hidden behind their helmets but their posture brimming with silent discipline. Among them were the Elder Sentinels, their heavy weapons resting on the ground as they stood at attention. Then, behind them, a single Astrologer appeared, his long staff crackling with arcane energy, the robes billowing around his feet as if carried by an unseen wind. His face remained hidden, but the glow from beneath his hood suggested eyes that could see beyond the material world.

The summoning had worked. But as Antares gazed upon his soldiers, his knees buckled, and he fell to one knee. The ritual had taken more from him than he had anticipated. His breath came in heavy, ragged gasps, and a flicker of life force escaped him, visible in the form of a faint, golden mist that dissipated into the air.

The soldiers, alarmed by their leader's sudden weakness, rushed forward to help him, their discipline momentarily broken. But Antares raised a hand, stopping them in their tracks.

"I'm… fine," he said, his voice low but steady. Slowly, he rose to his feet, though his body still trembled from the exertion. "There is no need for concern."

The soldiers hesitated and backed away, their loyalty and devotion unquestionable. Antares straightened his posture, his gaze sweeping over the battalion before him. His heart swelled with pride, seeing his brothers and sisters gathered once again under his command. They were fewer than he had hoped, a mere fraction of his once-mighty army, but they were here, and that was enough.

Once all were present, they bowed deeply before him. He, their Supreme Commander, the living embodiment of the divine tree itself, stood as their leader once more. Antares gestured for them to rise, knowing what had to be done next. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of sorrow.

"Yggdrasil… is dead."

The words cut through the air like a blade. Shock rippled through the ranks of his soldiers. For them, it was unthinkable. The World Tree, their creator and source of all life, gone? They exchanged uncertain glances, their voices trembling as they whispered amongst themselves, seeking clarity.

"How can this be?" one of the Elder Sentinels asked, his voice shaking with disbelief.

Antares raised his hand, silencing the murmurs. "Search your feelings. You know it to be true. We have lost, completely. There are… no words to soften this truth..."

The weight of his revelation hung heavy over the battalion. Even the Astrologer, enigmatic as ever, bowed his head in acknowledgment. Despite their training, despite their hardened spirits, the loss of Yggdrasil was a wound that struck deeper than any blade.

Seeing their morale dip, Antares knew he had to speak further. He understood their pain better than anyone. He, too, had felt the crushing despair of losing his Creator, the being that had given him purpose. He saw the way their shoulders sagged, their heads lowered in grief, and he remembered the dark thoughts that had plagued him when he first awoke in this strange new world. The temptation to give in, to lay down his arms and fade away, had been strong. But something had stopped him.

"I know what you feel," he began, his voice low but steady. "The sense of loss, of hopelessness, of futility. I feel it still, even now, as I try to acclimate to this world. When I first awoke under a different sky, I was ready to end my own life, for I believed I had failed in the greatest of my duties—protecting the one who gave us life."

He paused, letting his words sink in. The soldiers listened, their eyes trained on him, their grief palpable.

"But then..." He looked up at the stars, his golden eyes reflecting their distant light. "As the sun rose, I saw the simplicity of this world. The innocence of its green hills and quiet forests. It was unlike anything I had known. And then, I found a creature—a small cub, no different from the mortals we once watched over. It brought me comfort in a way I hadn't expected, my first companion in this world."

The soldiers shifted, curious. Some glanced at each other, confused by the mention of the cub, but none dared interrupt.

"A fire burned in my heart that day," Antares continued, his voice growing stronger. "A fire that told me to live. To protect. I felt the will of Yggdrasil in that moment, as if she spoke to me from beyond, telling me that her mission was not over. Telling me that we must continue!"

He raised his arm, his golden eyes burning with resolve. "That day, I abandoned all reason and followed my heart. I've seen the good, the bad, and the ugly of this world. I befriended its people, I saved the innocent, and I destroyed the wicked. And in doing so, I came to a single, undeniable conclusion…"

The soldiers straightened, their eyes wide with anticipation.

"There is beauty even in simplicity," Antares declared. "And that is why we will continue. Yggdrasil may be gone, but we—her legacy—will live on!"

For a moment, there was silence. The air was still, the world seemed to hold its breath, and all eyes were on their commander. Then, one by one, the soldiers began to kneel, their loyalty unwavering. The Astrologer, his voice echoing like a whisper from the void, spoke up. "No matter what happens, we will follow you, my master. To the end of time."

Antares nodded, pride swelling in his chest. He was satisfied with their devotion. It was time to act.

He outlined his plan: to dismantle the two corrupt organizations that plagued this world. Zurranon and the Eight Fingers. Zurranon, the necromantic cult, was an abomination to the ideals of the divine tree, and they would be destroyed. As for the Eight Fingers, they represented the worst aspects of mortal greed, perpetuating slavery and suffering. They, too, would be purged from existence.

"For now, we focus on Zurranon," Antares said, his voice firm. "We will establish an outpost in these mountains. From there, we will gather our strength and eliminate Zurranon's forces, one by one. After that, we move on to Eight Fingers."

The soldiers saluted in unison, their voices echoing through the mountains. "As you command, my lord!"

Watching them get to work, Antares couldn't help but feel a sense of pride. His army, his family, never disappointed. Even in this strange world, even after all they had lost, they remained strong, unwavering in their dedication to him and the cause.

He took one last look at them before teleporting back to the outskirts of the capital.

…

Returning to the inn as Baldur, he pushed open the door to his room, and as soon as he entered, the little white puppy bounded toward him. The creature had grown slightly since they had first met, but it was still small enough to leap into his arms, licking his face in excitement.

The Sentinel, his ever-dutiful soldier, snapped to attention the moment Baldur entered, giving a firm salute. "My Lord, the mission goes well. No disturbances to report!"

A smile adorned Antares' human face—a rare expression for him—and placed a hand on the soldier's shoulder. "You've earned a night of rest. Be at ease, brother."

The soldier blinked, surprised by the gesture, but nodded, his salute softening as he responded. "As you wish… brother."

Antares moved toward the bed, the puppy still cradled in his arms, and lay down. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he closed his eyes and allowed sleep to claim him for the first time since his advent.

The tenth world he had ever visited. Yet this one... this one might be worth staying in.

The following weeks passed in a blur of routine for Baldur, the Adamantite adventurer. By day, he took on quests in the capital, playing his role as a rising hero of the people. He completed requests that ranged from slaying rogue monsters in the forests to escorting caravans across dangerous roads. His name spread far and wide, cementing his reputation. But while his days were spent as a public figure, his nights were filled with another purpose.

Under the cover of darkness, he investigated Zuranon, the necromantic cult that had plagued the kingdom with their malevolent influence. Each night, after returning from his quests, Antares would gather with his summoned soldiers covertly and comb through the kingdom for any hint of Zuranon's whereabouts.

During this time, Antares also began to explore the capital's library, a vast repository of ancient texts and records. Among the shelves of yellowed parchment and leather-bound tomes, he pieced together fragments of the kingdom's history, trying to understand the deeper nature of this world.

One event in particular caught his attention: the ongoing invasion of the Draconic Kingdom southeast by a coalition of demi-humans. The conflict had been raging for years, with the Draconic Kingdom on the verge of collapse. The situation intrigued Antares—there were parallels between the demi-human invaders and the threats he had once faced in Yggdrasil. For a brief moment, he considered intervening, but the situation with Zuranon took priority. The cult had to be dismantled first before he could turn his attention to other global threats.

It was only with the reinforcements he gradually summoned from his fading life force that he truly began to see the full scale of Zuranon's operations. Through careful scouting and interrogation, his soldiers uncovered a network of bases hidden throughout the kingdom. These hideouts spanned across multiple nations, each base under the command of one of Zuranon's so-called "Executives."

These figures were considered powerful—beyond the capabilities of normal humans—and had all surpassed the limits of mortality to reach the so-called "Realm of Heroes", a state of being reserved for only the most powerful entities in this world. Antares recalled his previous encounter with "Momon." The dark warrior was a reminder that powerful beings often moved in the shadows, unseen by the common folk.

But what intrigued Antares most was the cult's leader, a being known as a "Night Lich". This particular form of undead was unfamiliar to him—an anomaly it seemed. Night Liches did not appear in Yggdrasil's natural progression of undead evolution, where Elder Liches typically advanced into Overlords, the pinnacle of undeath. The existence of this new form intrigued and unsettled him in equal measure. It was something he needed to investigate further.

Antares visited his hideout once again, hidden deep within the snowy mountains he had chosen for its isolation. This place had become the heart of his operations in this world, the center from which he would orchestrate the downfall of Zuranon and Eight Fingers. The entrance to the hideout was unassuming—nothing more than a cleft in the mountainside. To any passing observer, it was just another crack in the rugged landscape, a place overlooked by time and nature.

But beneath the mountain, hidden from prying eyes, lay the true extent of his base. With the help of his soldiers, and using his own Earth manipulation abilities, they had carved out a massive underground complex, a hidden fortress of stone and metal.

Walking through the secret passage that led into the mountain, Antares entered the base. The walls were lined with smooth, hewn rock, reinforced with the same silvery metal that adorned his soldiers' armor. Torches flickered in sconces along the corridors, casting long shadows as Antares made his way deeper into the heart of his fortress.

The base was still under construction. Plans for expansion were underway as more of his kin slowly returned to this world through his summoning. Every day, more Sentinels and their commanders joined his ranks, their numbers growing steadily. Yet, each summoning came at a price.

Every soldier he brought back drained a portion of his life force, weakening him further. He could feel the toll it was taking on him, but he didn't care. If he was to die, then he would die surrounded by his brothers and sisters, fighting for a cause worthy of their shared legacy.

He passed several of his soldiers as he walked toward his office, each of them standing at attention and saluting him with the utmost respect. Their loyalty and discipline were unwavering, and Antares couldn't help but feel pride swell in his chest as he returned their salutes with a nod. This was his family, his army, and they were as dedicated as ever to his cause.

Arriving at his office, Antares entered the room to find his map table already prepared, with several markers indicating the known Zuranon hideouts. In the corner, Sköllfrid—the small puppy that had become his unlikely companion—played with its caretaker, its tail wagging happily.

The sight of the playful cub softened Antares' expression, though only for a moment. Sköllfrid had grown slightly since they first met, his body starting to show signs of the larger, more imposing wolf he would become one day. The name Antares had given him was fitting—Sköll, the wolf of legend who chased the sun, and "frid," meaning friend. It was a reminder of the companionship the puppy had brought him in this lonely world.

Antares turned his attention back to the map, studying it closely. The information his soldiers had gathered was extensive. After weeks of scouting, interrogations, and covert operations, they had located every major Zuranon base.

There were twelve in total, each led by one of the cult's powerful Executives. The largest of these was the base of their leader, the Night Lich, situated south of the city of E-Pespel in a vast underground tomb. This tomb had once been overrun by demi-humans, but Zurranon had reclaimed it for their own purposes, turning it into a fortress of undeath.

Antares traced his finger across the map, following the lines that connected each base. Zuranon's influence was widespread, and their operations spanned multiple nations. It was clear that taking down the cult would not be a simple matter. The Executives might be as powerful if not more than the likes of Momon, proving they wouldn't go down easily.

What concerned him most, however, was the Night Lich. Unlike the other Executives, who had reached the Realm of Heroes, the Night Lich seemed to have transcended even that. His powers were unknown, his nature a mystery. Antares recalled his encounters with powerful undead in Yggdrasil, but none had ever taken the form of a Night Lich. There were too many unknowns here, and that was dangerous.

Still, it was a challenge that intrigued him. If this Night Lich was something beyond an Elder Lich, something unique to this world, then perhaps there was more to this place than he had originally thought. He would have to approach the final confrontation with caution.

As Antares mulled over his plans, a sudden flash of light crossed his vision. For a moment, all he could see was fire—burning, all-consuming flames that devoured everything in their path. His heart clenched in his chest, his breath catching as the familiar image flooded his mind.

Was it… them?

No, it couldn't be. The flames faded just as quickly as they had appeared, leaving only a faint echo of their presence in his mind. Antares stood still, his body tense. His senses slowly returned to the present, and he realized what had just happened.

It wasn't the past that haunted him. It was his [Eyes of Providence, the gift of foresight granted to him by the World Tree. The brief vision had shown him a glimpse of the future—one he could not yet fully comprehend. He shook his head, the vision a clear discomfort. Ultimately, it didn't matter. The future would come when it was ready. He had a job to do.

His attention returned to the map. There were battles to be fought, and tonight would be the first step. The enemies of peace will find his resolve to be greater than theirs.

…

At the entrance of a hidden Zuranon base, a group of cultists and their minions—lesser undead—stood guard. The cultists wore the dark robes of their order, each marked with the symbol of a twisted skeletal tree—the emblem of Zuranon's necromantic order. The air was thick with unease as they murmured amongst themselves, their voices low and laced with frustration.

"I can't believe we're stuck out here again," one of the cultists grumbled, kicking a loose stone across the ground. His hood hung low over his face, hiding his growing bitterness. "We should be inside, learning advanced magic, not stuck on guard duty in the cold!"

Another cultist scoffed. "You think you're the only one bothered? I didn't join to babysit some stupid hideout in the middle of nowhere. If I don't advance soon, I'll be stuck in this role forever."

"Keep your voices down," warned the third, a pale woman with hollow eyes. "The Executives don't take kindly to complaints. Besides, the leaders have their reasons. We've been suffering setbacks for months now—Khajit, that fool, failed the Death Spiral ritual and we've been raided ever since. It's not a coincidence."

As if in response to her words, a sharp rustle came from the forest surrounding the base. The cultists straightened, their idle complaints dying in their throats. But it was too late. Before any of them could react, the trees exploded with movement.

A line of soldiers in gleaming silver armor surged forward from the darkness of the forest, their movements precise and methodical. Their armor bore the unmistakable insignia of a tree, glowing faintly in the dim light. The soldiers were the Sentinels of Antares—warriors of discipline and focus. Their pristine armor was a stark contrast to the rugged terrain and the dark robes of the cultists.

In seconds, the guards were overwhelmed.

One Sentinel thrust his spear forward with unerring accuracy, impaling an undead minion before sweeping the weapon sideways to knock another off its feet. Another, an Elder Sentinel, slashed through a cultist's hastily conjured magical barrier with a gleaming sword, cutting through the defensive spell as if it were nothing. The Zurranon guards didn't stand a chance; their magic was weak, their numbers few.

A cultist tried to summon reinforcements, raising his staff and muttering a quick incantation. But before the spell could be completed, a spear whistled through the air and lodged itself in his throat. He gasped, dropping the staff as his hands flew to the fatal wound, but he was dead before he hit the ground.

In a matter of minutes, the ambush was complete. The Zurranon guards lay defeated, their bodies strewn across the ground. Some writhed in pain, others lay motionless, their lives snuffed out by the precision of the silver-armored soldiers. The base was now fully compromised.

From the shadows of the treeline, a figure emerged—an elderly man, dressed in flowing white robes. His steps were slow but steady, and though he looked aged and frail, there was an undeniable power radiating from him. It was Antares, disguised as an old man, choosing not to reveal his true form just yet. He wanted to practice with his brothers for the time being.

He approached the bodies of the defeated cultists, his golden eyes scanning the scene with a cold detachment. "These pests made their choice" he muttered to himself.

The Sentinels remained at attention, forming a protective line around their commander. Antares gave them a silent nod, signaling for them to advance.

"Search the base. Corner the Executive," he commanded, his voice measured and calm. "Leave none of them the chance to escape."

The soldiers moved without hesitation, spreading out and slipping into the hidden tunnels and passageways that led deeper into the Zuranon base. The entrances had already been blocked off, ensuring that no one would leave this place alive unless Antares willed it.

Inside the base, the sound of clashing weapons and the hum of magical energy reverberated through the narrow corridors. Antares walked slowly through the blood-soaked halls, his eyes trailing over the carnage left in his soldiers' wake. The bodies of cultists and undead minions lay scattered along the floor, some in pieces, others charred and lifeless. The Sentinels were thorough in their work, dispatching Zuranon's forces with ruthless efficiency.

Finally, Antares reached the door that led to the central chamber. He could sense the presence of an undead within—Still no match for him. He had worried over nothing, it seems. With a calm, deliberate motion, he pushed the door open.

Inside, a figure stood at the far end of the room. It was an Elder Lich, draped in elaborate robes of deep crimson and black. His skeletal face turned to Antares as the door opened, his hollow eye sockets flickering with the faint glow of dark magic. He sneered, the expression somehow arrogant despite his deathless form.

"You dare disrupt my time, senile fool?" the Elder Lich demanded, his voice a deep rasp, full of disdain.

Antares didn't respond. He simply stared at the undead being. The lich was nothing compared to the true threats he had faced—he was another minor obstacle.

The Elder Lich continued to speak, his tone dripping with arrogance. "Do you have any idea who I am, old man? I am—"

The lich's words were cut off abruptly as Antares shot forward with blinding speed, his palm connecting with the Elder Lich's skull in a single, devastating strike. The force of the blow sent the lich flying across the room, slamming into the far wall with a bone-shattering impact.

The undead crumpled to the ground in a heap, stunned and disoriented. Before the lich could recover, Antares was upon him again. A second strike—roundhouse kick—connected with the side of the lich's skull, sending it flying across the chamber. The Elder Lich's head separated from its body in a sickening crack, rolling across the floor before finally coming to a stop, lifeless and broken.

Antares stood over the now-headless body of the Executive, his breath even, his expression unchanged. He had expected more of a challenge, but there was nothing more to be done here.

Just as he was about to return back to his soldiers, one of his Sentinels approached and saluted, his armor clinking as he stood at attention. "Supreme Commander," the soldier reported, his voice echoing within his helmet, "we've found something odd. A chained undead, locked away."

Antares frowned slightly. An undead… prisoner? Very interesting… It was worth investigating.

The passage leading to the cells was damp and cold, the air thick with the stench of decay. Antares followed the Sentinel down the narrow hallway until they reached a set of rusted iron bars. Inside, a figure was hunched over in chains, its form barely visible in the dim light.

It was another Elder Lich, though this one was far different from the pretentious fool Antares had just dispatched. This lich was bound in heavy chains, its robes tattered, and the flesh from its body long gone, only bones remaining. Its head hung low, but as Antares approached, it slowly raised its eyes to meet his.

"Another one of your tricks, monster?" the chained lich rasped, its voice weak but defiant. "I won't fall for it again. You've tried this before."

Antares raised an eyebrow in genuine confusion. "What do you mean, 'trick'?"

The lich let out a dry, humorless laugh. "It doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore. I've been in this place ever since they turned me… in a ritual they called the 'Death Spiral.' They offered me power, but I refused. So they chained me, experimented on me… tortured me."

He paused, his voice trembling with the weight of years spent in torment. "They found a way to drain me, to make me feel pain again. After all these years, I've forgotten my name, my past, everything. But I still refused to join them." The lich's hollow eyes stared at Antares, a flicker of stubborn pride in their dark depths. "I will never give in to them, to you!"

For a long moment, Antares said nothing, simply observing the broken creature before him. This undead had suffered—more than most beings ever would. And yet, even after losing everything, it had retained its will. He was… undead, a perversion to the cycle of life, yet couldn't stop himself from being impressed by him.

With a nod, Antares turned to his Sentinels. "Release him."

The armored soldiers stepped forward without question, unlocking the heavy chains that bound the lich. The iron shackles clanged to the floor, and the lich slowly, shakily rose to its feet. It stared at Antares, disbelief etched into its skeletal features.

"Y-you… freed me?" the lich rasped, disbelief shaking his voice. "Why? After all this time… why?"

The words seemed to catch in his non-existent throat, as if he couldn't bring himself to believe it. Years of torment had worn him down, and the idea of kindness, of freedom, was an alien concept. He looked at Antares as if the answer might shatter him.

Antares knelt, his eyes unwavering. "Because you resisted. Even when they broke your body, they could not break your spirit."

The lich hesitated, skeletal fingers trembling as they reached for Antares' outstretched hand. The touch was tentative, fragile, as if he feared this was just another cruel illusion. But when the cold bones met Antares' palm, a flicker of something passed between them—a connection. And an itch, to which he retracted his hand. Strange, considering he wasn't supposed to feel anything.

Antares stood, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. "You have a choice to make," he said quietly. "Three, in fact."

The lich looked up at him, still unsure.

"First, I could release you from this existence, end your suffering right here and now. Second, I could let you go free, allow you to wander the world as you wish." Antares paused, watching the lich's reaction.

After so long, he didn't wish to die, that would be an insult to himself, after all the years of torture he went through. The idea to be free was appealing, there was no connection to his previous life, the years had already taken their toll. He also knew the outside world hates the undead, it wouldn't be long before someone put him down for good, even if he resisted.

"And… what would be the third option?"

Antares straightened his posture, the heat in the cell increasing by a few degrees. A flash of golden light flooded the room, blinding in its brilliance.

The lich stared, unable to comprehend the power that now filled the room. It was overwhelming—an aura so intense it felt like the air itself had thickened, pressing down on him like a weight. The temperature had risen, the heat radiating from Antares' form almost suffocating. Even the stones beneath their feet seemed to hum, vibrating with the presence of something far beyond mortal understanding.

When the light faded, the lich blinked, his sight returning to find a figure standing before him—a titan of radiant power, his armor glowing with an inner fire. Antares' eyes burned with golden light, his very presence crackling with untamed energy. He was no mere being. He was something divine.

"Serve me," Antares' voice rumbled like a thunderclap, each word reverberating through the lich's very bones, "and you will find purpose once more. Together, we will punish those who wronged you—and many more."

The lich trembled, his skeletal knees giving way as he bowed before the figure, unable to resist the sheer gravity of his presence. He, a god, wanted someone like him, to serve him?

"I… I accept."

Antares nodded, satisfied. "You have chosen wisely. Remember my name well, lich—I am Antares, the Son of Yggdrasil."

With a single gesture, he summoned the energy needed to teleport them both away, leaving behind the dark, desolate prison that had once been the lich's torment.

Together, they would rise and mark their presence in this world.

I have great plans for this fic. I've checked and my planning sheet already has 24k words with more to come. I hope it's enough for entertainment.

Thoughts? Opinions? Ideas?