Chapter 12: Old World
The foundations of Nazarick trembled as Momonga felt the shockwave of the Crimson Demon's first explosion ripple through the game. Even in the deepest sanctum of the Great Tomb, eldritch energy crackled in the air. Dust rained from the vaulted ceiling, the once-impenetrable barriers of his guild base straining against incomprehensible forces.
The Mirror of Remote Viewing hung suspended before him, its surface rippling with scenes of devastation. Through its enchanted surface, Momonga watched the Crimson Demon's test shot carve a perfect sphere of nothingness into the heart of Muspelheim. The void hung there, edges crackling with residual energy as the game's terrain unraveled, lines of code peeling away like strips of burning paper.
He pulled up his status window and grimaced at the sight of a newly applied debuff:
[Crimson Rot: Unremovable]
[Reduces player's resistance to fire-type attribute magic by 5%.]
The debuff itself wasn't devastating, but its existence grated on his nerves. A faint red haze clung to his skeletal form, giving his regal figure an almost sickly cast. Years spent meticulously crafting every detail of his avatar's appearance, only to be tarnished by a tiny debuff with an unwanted cosmetic effect.
The Mirror of Remote Viewing reflected a world unmaking itself. Asgard's celestial spires tumbled into molten rivers, their divine gold bleeding like lifeblood through the cracks. Midgard shattered like fragile glass, entire cities collapsing into the void, their years of careful craftsmanship erased in seconds. Even Jotunheim's eternal glaciers were no match—centuries of frost melted into cataclysmic floods that swallowed the remnants of frost giant strongholds. The World Tree's branches, once a highway of realms, now twisted into impossible shapes, dissolving into cascading waterfalls of binary code.
"Magnificent," Momonga whispered, unable to contain a spark of professional admiration. The serpentine heads of the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown writhed as their jeweled eyes pulsed in time with the magic hammering against Nazarick's defenses.
Through it all strode the Crimson Demon, untouchable and terrible in her power. The Mirror tracked her relentless advance, each step leaving burning footprints in her wake. Where her staff pointed, existence simply gave up, too exhausted to maintain coherent form.
The Mirror's view shifted again, showing clusters of Crimson Cultists gathered in Asgard's ruined plaza. They scattered about like frantic ants, their robes swirling in disarray as they argued. Even now, as their world crumbled, they clung to their petty ideological squabbles—pathetic yet strangely admirable in its persistence.
Amongst them were those who embraced the chaos. A group of six high-level players charged headlong toward the approaching wall of hellfire. Striking as one, they unleashing their most powerful abilities in perfect synchronisation. Divine weapons flashed, sacred magics thundered and lit up the dying sky.
They lasted all of thirty seconds before being reduced to ash, their death cries cut short by the game's profanity filters. The Crimson Demon didn't even turn to face them. A casual wave of her staff, and the six vanished mid-attack. No death animations, no dropping of items. They simply ceased to be.
"Idiots," Momonga muttered, though he couldn't keep the grudging respect from his voice. At least they had gone down fighting.
Another tremor shook the throne room, more violent than the last, strong enough to rattle the golden banners hanging from the ceiling. The proud symbols of the Forty-One swayed with each shockwave. Through the Mirror, Momonga watched the Crimson Demon raise her staff high, eldritch energy gathering at its tip.
"Behold!" her voice carried across every realm through the world broadcast. "This is the power you feared, the strength you sought to contain!"
A lesser guild might have panicked. But Momonga had an image to uphold. He was an undead of culture and dignity. He straightened his back, spreading his arms in a grand gesture toward the assembled NPCs.
"Faithful servants of Nazarick! Your master speaks!" His voice echoed through the vast chamber. Sebas and the Pleiades remained perfectly still, their pre-programmed stances unchanged. Momonga continued anyway, because that's what a proper Overlord would do.
"Behold through this mirror the chaos that approaches! The Crimson Demon herself returns to unmake all of creation!" He paused for dramatic effect. "Truly, a worthy final boss for this world's closing chapter!"
He quickly tapped through a series of menu commands:
[Pop Spawns: Activated]
[Defensive Formations: Maximum Alert]
[Auto-Engage Protocols: Enabled]
The NPCs shifted into combat stances with mechanical precision. Momonga nodded approvingly—the animations were still smooth after all these years. He'd have to compliment the character designers, if he ever saw them again.
Another explosion rocked the virtual world. Through the mirror, Momonga watched a familiar guild base crumble—the Lunarian Palace, pride of the Eclipse Dynasty Guild. How many raids had they launched against Nazarick from those silver spires? Now their fortress dissolved and its treasures scattered, leaving nothing behind.
Something tightened in Momonga's chest. Yes, it was a game, but they were also memories. Every castle, every dungeon, every constructed town held stories of adventures shared with friends long gone.
His finger hesitated over the global chat interface. He could see the messages piling up:
"Need backup in Asgard!"
"Anyone have World-class items?"
"Protect the World Tree!"
But what was the point? This wasn't some raid boss they could overcome with careful planning and coordination. This was the end itself, wrapped in crimson robes and cackling with glee.
Momonga's shoulders slumped slightly. Then he caught himself—an Overlord must maintain perfect posture! He straightened again, grip tightening on the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown.
"To think," he mused aloud, his voice carrying the proper gravity an ancient undead should possess, "that our final battle would come not from some mighty raid party, but from the shitty developers themselves! How devious! How appropriate!"
He rose from the throne, robes swishing dramatically.
"Sebas!" The butler's immaculate form shifted slightly, acknowledging the command prompt. "Gather the Floor Guardians! Their master requires their presence for one final glorious stand!"
A simple checkbox confirmation appeared: [Execute Area Defense Protocol Y/N?]
Momonga selected 'Yes' without hesitation, watching as Sebas bowed perfectly before marching away, his movements as precise as the day he was programmed. The Pleiades remained in their ready stances, awaiting further orders.
Alone with his thoughts—well, as alone as one could be with six combat maids standing perfectly still—Momonga turned back to the mirror. The Crimson Demon's latest explosion had transformed an entire mountain range into what looked like modern art, a jagged expanse of crystalline wreckage, glimmering with refracted light and flickering system errors.
"She's really going all out," he muttered, momentarily breaking character. "Those particle effects must be murder on the servers."
His eyes drifted to the guild weapon in his hands, then to the flags hanging overhead. Each one represented a friend, a comrade, a piece of what had made this place into something more. A home.
Touch Me's banner caught his eye—the gold and red still pristine after all these years. What would his old friend say if he could see this ending?
Probably something heroic and cliche about never giving up, Momonga thought with fond exasperation. His fingers traced the familiar window of the guild menu interface, pulling up the member list one last time. So many grayed-out names.
"My friends…" he began, then stopped. Started again, putting proper dramatic weight into each word: "My dearest comrades! Though you've long since departed these halls, know that I shall defend our legacy to the last! The Great Tomb of Nazarick shall not fall unremarked!"
The NPCs said nothing, of course. Their expression sliders remained locked in their default positions. But Momonga liked to think—in the privacy of his own mind—that somewhere in their code, they lauded his dramatics.
Above, through the mirror's surface, he could see the World Tree beginning to splinter. Reality itself was coming undone, one explosion at a time. In the burning ruins of Asgard, a guild of crafters hurried to take screenshots of their greatest works before they vanished forever. Veterans who had fought through countless raids raised glasses in virtual taverns, toasting the spectacular end of their digital home. Some raged, some wept, but all watched in awe as their world died in crimson fire.
Soon, the Crimson Demon's rampage would reach Nazarick.
Good.
Let her come. Let the shitty devs have their spectacular ending. He would meet it as befitted the last Supreme Being—with style, with dignity, and with enough ham to fill a butcher's shop.
Momonga opened his inventory window, quickly equipping his best gear. Each Divine-class item materialised with a flash of light, their effects stacking into something approaching respectability. Not that it would matter against admin powers, but an Overlord had standards.
"Pleiades!" he commanded, spreading his arms wide. "Your master goes to face destiny itself! Follow, and witness the final performance of Ainz Ooal Gown!"
The combat maids fell into perfect formation as he strode from the Throne Room. Their footsteps echoed in perfect synchronisation—the sound mixing with the distant rumble of approaching destruction.
As he walked, Momonga's mind drifted to all the hours spent in these halls. The raids, the celebrations, the endless planning sessions that devolved into silly conversations about nothing in particular.
His steps slowed as he passed the Round Table Room. The open doors revealed the empty chairs, once filled with voices plotting grand adventures. Now they gathered dust, or would, if the developers had bothered to code dust physics.
"I wonder…" he mused, breaking character for just a moment, "if any of you are watching our ending? Herohero-san? Peroroncino?"
The empty chairs offered no response. With a shake of his head, Momonga resumed his dramatic stride. There would be time for melancholy later. Right now, he had a role to play.
The steps of Nazarick gleamed marble-white in the dying light. Momonga stood at their summit, the Pleiades and Floor Guardians arranged in perfect formation behind him. Above, the sky fractured like broken glass, shards of reality tumbling into an ever-expanding void.
"Let's make this properly dramatic, shall we?" Momonga muttered. His fingers found the familiar menu interface, queuing up a series of buffs. "[Body of Effulgent Beryl]. [Bless of Magic Caster]. [Anti-Life Cocoon]."
The spells settled over him like a comfortable shroud. Not that they'd make much difference against admin powers, but presentation was everything. An Overlord had to maintain standards, even at the world's end.
He raised the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown high, its crystals pulsing with stored power. "Time to signal our final guest."
Momonga began the super-tier spell's casting sequence. A magic circle blossomed beneath his feet, its intricate patterns spreading outward like ripples in a golden pond. More circles materialised in the air above, rotating in complex geometric patterns that hurt the eye to follow.
The countdown began.
[1:00] — Explosions rippled across the horizon, each blast creeping closer. The Crimson Demon was erasing Yggdrasil piece by piece.
[0:47] — A mountain range dissolved into corrupted data, collapsing into the void. Momonga clenched his skeletal fingers around the staff. He had farmed those peaks with his guildmates. Gone now. Like everything else.
[0:35] — The magic circles above him whirled faster, their glow sharpening into piercing clarity. Divine energy thrummed in the air, buzzing against his undead bones.
[0:21] — He took a breath, or at least the illusion of one. Just a little longer.
[0:10] — His crimson eyes flickered. This was it. His final performance.
Momonga drew himself up to his full height, letting his voice ring out with all the gravity an ancient undead should possess:
"O' divine light that sleeps within the highest heavens! Let your radiance pierce this twilight hour! Come forth and stand guard over these hallowed grounds! [Super Tier Magic: Pantheon]!"
The spell crystallized with a sound like breaking church bells, a noise that echoed across all nine realms. Six pillars of holy light pierced the fractured sky, so bright they seemed to push back the encroaching void itself. From each pillar descended a Cherubim Gate Keeper, their wings of burning light spread wide, holy magic crackling along their golden armor.
They arranged themselves in a defensive formation, their presence causing the air to hum with divine energy. The spell sent ripples through what remained of Yggdrasil's physics engine—a declaration and a challenge rolled into one.
"Quite the light show," Momonga nodded approvingly. "Surely that will—"
A voice like joyous destruction cut through the air: "Oho? What's this? A challenger appears!"
For a fleeting moment, the weight of her corporate existence pressed against her consciousness—endless meetings, quarterly reports, carefully measured words. How strange that it took the end of a virtual world to make her feel truly alive again. Here, facing down the last guardian of a dying realm, Megumin felt the familiar thrill of performance singing in her veins. This wasn't the stifled roleplay of boardroom politics or the careful navigation of office hierarchy. This was pure theater, grand and unrestrained, just as she remembered it.
Her robes rippled with impossible winds, crimson eyes blazing beneath her witch's hat. She struck a pose that would have made her old party proud.
"Greetings, O' foolish one who dares signal their presence to the harbinger of oblivion! Your light show was most impressive!"
Momonga felt a strange kinship with her immediate grasp of proper villainous dialogue. He spread his arms wide, bones gleaming. "Welcome, destroyer of worlds, to the Great Tomb of Nazarick! I am its master, Momonga, last of Ainz Ooal Gown!"
"The heteromorph guild?" Megumin's eyes sparkled with genuine interest. "Ah! Your reputation precedes you! Though I'm afraid it changes nothing—all must fall before the might of my explosion magic!"
Momonga nodded graciously. "Naturally, but perhaps we might converse briefly before the inevitable? It's not every day one entertains a world-ending deity."
Megumin considered this, then grinned. "A proper dialogue between powers of evil? How could I refuse! Let us exchange villainous banter as befits beings of our station!"
She floated cross-legged in the air, staff balanced casually across her knees. Momonga noted with professional appreciation how she'd positioned herself to have the fracturing sky as a backdrop. The girl clearly understood dramatic staging.
"I don't suppose," he ventured, "there's any chance of sparing this one small corner of Yggdrasil? For posterity's sake?"
"Impossible!" Megumin declared, but her tone held a note of sympathy. "The art of explosion demands total commitment! No half measures, no exceptions! Though I admit," she gestured at Nazarick's looming facades, "so much effort spent building these beautiful things. It almost seems a shame to destroy them," she murmured, thinking of her employee's pain. "But that's why it is worthy of the grandest finale possible!"
Momonga sighed. He'd expected as much, but it had been worth asking. Now he had no regrets.
"Then I'm afraid we must do this properly." He raised the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown into a guard position. "Cherubim! Battle formations!"
The six angelic beings wordlessly obeyed, forming a radiant perimeter around him, their holy magic condensing into gleaming spears of pure light. The Pleiades shifted subtly, their combat routines activating in response to the imminent battle.
Megumin let out an amused hum. "Oh? The NPCs too? How delightfully thorough!"
She slowly rose to her feet, twirling her staff as crimson arcs of energy crackled along its length. Then she spread her arms wide, eyes shining with manic anticipation.
"Undead! You stand upon the threshold of a grand saga! Let history remember this day, the day when the heavens trembled, the earth wept, and oblivion itself took form in my hands!"
Her grin sharpened. "Come! Let us paint the battlefield with the embers of creation! Let this clash be carved into eternity!"
Momonga struck first.
"[Triplet Maximize Magic: Reality Slash]!"
Three blades of void energy travelled through space itself, a spell that could cut through virtually any defense in the game. The Cherubim followed instantly, their holy spears weaving a web of divine light that would have trapped even a raid boss. Behind him, the Pleiades launched their most powerful skills in perfect synchronisation, their attacks flowing together like a deadly dance.
The combined assault could have one-shot a max-level player. Reality twisted and bent around her form as the attacks passed through. Megumin felt each spell like whispers against her skin, their carefully coded effects dissolving against her admin privileges. It was different from her days as a player, when every hit carried weight and consequence. Yet there was something almost melancholic in this invincibility—she was no longer truly part of this world, but rather its appointed executioner.
She didn't dodge. Didn't block. Reality-cutting blades carved through space. Holy spears converged, divine energy crackling in their wake—yet she remained untouched, an illusion wrapped in sanguine light.
"Is that all?" she asked, genuine curiosity in her voice. "Surely the great Ainz Ooal Gown has more to show me?"
Momonga's mind raced. "[Greater Teleportation]!"
He appeared behind her, Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown already swinging. "[Grasp Heart]! [Maximize Magic: Gravity Maelstrom]! [Triplet Maximize Magic: Call Greater Thunder]!"
Each spell activated perfectly, their effects layering and combining just as he'd practiced countless times. The Cherubim adjusted instantly, their holy magic converging from six different angles. Even the community's strictest PVP commentators would have praised the execution.
Megumin laughed in delight. With a casual wave of her staff, his spells simply ceased to exist. The Cherubim's attacks dissipated inches from her body, their divine energy unraveling like poorly knitted sweaters.
"Wonderful form!" she praised, spinning to face him. "Such precision! Such timing! But…" Her eyes blazed brighter. "Let me show you what true power looks like."
She leveled a casual finger at the nearest Cherubim, thumb cocked like the hammer of a gun. "Bang."
The level 80 summon, a being that could have cleared entire dungeons, simply vanished. Not killed, not defeated. One moment it was there, and in the next it wasn't. Erased from existence, its code unwritten with a word.
With a smirk, she lifted her hand to her lips and blew away the curling wisp of smoke drifting from her fingertip—a special effect she'd added purely for the style points.
Momonga couldn't even complain. It was cool.
"Now then…" Megumin spread her arms wide, a manic grin stretching across her face as she raised her staff. A miniature crimson star flickered into existence at its tip, no larger than a marble, yet thrumming with an ominous energy that made the very air retreat.
She let out a breathless chuckle. "Rejoice, for you stand upon the precipice of oblivion! Gaze upon this sphere—a cosmic ember, a spark of ruin, a harbinger of annihilation! This is the power that humbles kings, sunders mountains, and reduces all to naught but memory!"
Her eyes gleamed with unhinged glee. "Now, let me grant you a fleeting glimpse of a true god's might—" She thrust her staff forward, voice ringing with unfettered fervor.
"[EXPLOSION]!"
The blast expanded outwards.
Where it touched, matter forgot how to exist. The remaining Cherubim vanished as the ground beneath them began to dissolve, chunks of Nazarick's immaculate courtyard breaking apart into loose chunks flying outward everywhere.
Momonga watched in horrified fascination as his defenses crumbled like sandcastles before a tsunami. All his power, all his carefully accumulated items and skills, meant nothing before admin-level authority. What a cheat.
Yet still he stood his ground as his HP whittled away. "[Mantle of Chaos]! [Infinity Wall]! [Greater Full Potential]!"
The additional buffs settled just as another explosion erased what remained of his summons. The Pleiades continued their attacks, their AI unable to recognize the futility of their actions. One by one, they broke apart into scattering pixels, their carefully crafted forms returning to base code within the Tomb.
Momonga watched each maid vanish with a pang of regret he couldn't quite suppress. How many hours had his guildmates spent designing them, arguing over every detail of their appearance and personality? He thought of Albedo watching behind him, faithful to the end. She would face oblivion with that same serene smile, that perfect poise that Tabula had labored over for weeks. These were the last echoes of his friends' creativity, their passion preserved in digital amber. And now, like everything else in this dying world, they would return to nothingness.
"Magnificent!" Megumin declared. "Truly, you understand the importance of a proper final battle! But now…" Her raised her eyepatch. "Allow me to respond in kind!"
She raised her staff high, and Momonga felt reality starting to unravel. The air itself seemed to catch fire as she began her incantation:
"Darkness blacker than black, crimson deeper than blood! Let all creation witness this ultimate magic!" Power beyond comprehension swirled around her small form. "The culmination of magic itself!"
Momonga lowered his staff. He knew what was coming. An Overlord faced their end with dignity.
Their eyes met across the dissolving courtyard—crimson to crimson, player to player. In that moment, they shared an understanding that went beyond their performance. They were the witnesses to something precious: a world that had given countless players purpose, friends who had made that world worth living in, memories that would persist long after the servers went dark.
Megumin saw in Momonga's steady stance the same fierce love for this digital realm that she had once felt, that perhaps she still felt, even as she prepared to unmake it. He saw in her blazing eyes recognition. The weight of what was about to be lost, and the determination to make that loss meaningful.
"It was a good home," he said softly, his gaze taking in Nazarick one last time. Twelve years of friendship, preserved in perfect clarity until this moment. The NPCs remained in their combat poses, faithful to their programming until the very end. "Thank you, my friends, for leaving something to protect."
The light above pulsed, the universe itself drawing breath before its final sigh. For one last moment, he closed his eyes. He could almost hear them—laughing, arguing, planning. If this was to be the end, then let it be worthy of Ainz Ooal Gown.
"[EXPLOSION]!"
The world went white.
And in that final moment, as reality faded around him, Momonga could have sworn he felt something… shift. A tug, a twist in the fabric of existence itself. Then darkness took him, and Nazarick with it.
The Crimson Demon hovered in the void where the Great Tomb had stood. "Ainz Ooal Gown," she said appreciatively, "you would have been a formidable foe in another life."
She turned her gaze to the World Tree, its vast form beginning to crack under its own weight. There would be time to appreciate worthy opponents later. As she turned toward her final target, Megumin felt an unexpected weight settle in her chest. This destruction was different from her old explosions, which had been born of pure joy and obsession. This was a purposeful, necessary controlled burn to clear the way for something new.
Yet as she gathered power for the final blast, she couldn't help but think of Hana, of Suzuki-san, of all the others who found meaning in virtual worlds. Would they understand that sometimes an ending could also be a beginning? That destruction, when properly applied, could be an act of creation in disguise?
The World Tree's began to crumble beneath her gaze, and Megumin allowed herself a small, secret smile. In the end, she was still a Crimson Demon, and there was still beauty to be found in bringing things to their ultimate conclusion. With that thought, she raised her staff one final time, ready to paint her masterpiece across the canvas of a dying world.
It was time to make one anew.