The world came into focus with a jarring blur, as though someone had taken a brush dipped in chaos and smeared it across the canvas of his mind. Suzuki Satoru—or rather, Momonga, the Supreme Being—stirred from an abyss of nothingness, his senses assaulted by the damp chill of earth beneath him and the faint rustle of leaves overhead. His platinum-white hair, shimmering like liquid silver even in the dim light, clung to his forehead in a disheveled mess, and his cerulean eyes, flecked with golden nebulae, blinked rapidly against the unfamiliar scene.

Where was he? The last thing he recalled was the familiar hum of the Yggdrasil interface, the steady cadence of HeroHero's voice droning about work woes, and the grand march of the guardians into the throne room of Nazarick. He had settled into his skeletal throne, the weight of leadership settling over him like a well-worn cloak, and then… nothing. A void. And now this.

The air tasted different—crisp, untainted by the stale, recycled breath of a server room. His lean, angelic frame shifted, wings tucked instinctively against his back as he rose to his feet, hovering a mere inch above the ground. The golden halo above his head flickered to life, casting a gentle, holy glow that illuminated the darkened forest around him. Trees loomed like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches twisting into the night sky, and the distant hoot of an owl pierced the stillness.

"Wha—what is this?" His voice, smooth as silk with that faint rasp at the edges, trembled with confusion. This wasn't Nazarick. This wasn't any map he'd ever traversed in Yggdrasil. Had the game glitched? A hidden event, perhaps? His mind raced, grasping for logic in a scenario that defied it.

Before he could ponder further, a streak of fire tore through the air, a blazing comet that illuminated the trees with a fierce orange hue. Momonga's head snapped toward the source, his heart—if he still had one—skipping a beat. The fireball arced downward, striking something with a thunderous boom. A guttural roar followed, primal and enraged, and through the undergrowth emerged a hulking figure—beastmen, he surmised, their fur matted with dirt and their eyes glowing with feral intent.

Three of them, armed with crude axes and jagged spears, charged toward the spot where the fireball had landed. Momonga's instincts kicked in, his angelic form tensing as his three pairs of alabaster wings unfurled with a rustle of feathers. "Tch, PKers?" he muttered, the old paranoia of Yggdrasil's player-killers flaring up. But something felt off—these weren't players. Their movements were too wild, too unrefined.

No time to analyze. The beastmen spotted him, their roars turning into snarls as they pivoted toward this new target. Momonga raised a hand, his voice steadying as he channeled the magic innate to his Fallen Angel race. "[Black Hole]!" The air warped, a vortex of darkness spiraling into existence before him, sucking the nearest beastman into its maw with a howl of despair. The creature disintegrated, its form torn apart by the void, leaving only a faint echo of its cry.

The remaining two lunged, their weapons gleaming in the halo's light. Momonga danced backward, weightless, his robes fluttering like a storm of silver. "[Death Spiral]!" he intoned, and the ground beneath the beastmen erupted with shadowy tendrils, coiling around their limbs like living serpents. They thrashed, but the magic was relentless, draining their life force until they collapsed, lifeless husks crumbling into the earth.

Breathing heavily—though his new body required no air—Momonga lowered his hand, the halo above him pulsing with a soft hum. "Too easy," he murmured, a flicker of pride cutting through his confusion. But the victory was short-lived. From the shadows of the trees, the sound of clanking metal approached, and figures emerged—knights, clad in gleaming armor that reflected the golden light of his halo. Their visors were up, revealing faces etched with awe and fear.

"Who… who are you?" one stammered, his voice trembling as he dropped to a knee. The others followed suit, their swords clattering to the ground as they bowed low, heads pressed to the dirt.

"Great One!" another cried, his tone reverent. "A divine being, sent to save us! The castle—our home—is under siege! We beseech you, O Unknown Lord, deliver us from this darkness!"

Momonga froze, his mind reeling. Castle? Siege? Divine being? His lips parted, but no words came. The knights' prayers rose in a chorus, their voices blending into a fervent chant, hands clasped as if in worship. He stood there, an ethereal figure against the night sky, his wings spread wide and his halo casting a sacred glow over the scene.

What in Yggdrasil was happening?