[23:59:40...]
The obsidian Throne of Kings stood in silent majesty, its sharp black angles catching the soft golden light that streamed through the enchanted crystals above. Seated atop it, Momonga rested a skeletal hand on the armrest, while the other gripped the [Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown]—a glorious weapon forged not just by his guild mates, but by his own hands as well. A culmination of their shared devotion: dozens of hours of grinding, dying, theorizing, and arguing over every spell and enhancement.
Before him, the grand hall of Nazarick stretched outward in solemn splendor. The NPCs—his friends' creations—stood at attention, perfect and unmoving in their eternal vigil. Albedo, regal and radiant. Sebas, ever composed. The Guardians…each a masterpiece carved from love, obsession, or inside jokes.
A living memory of bonds forged in a time long gone.
[23:59:49...]
He took it all in one last time.
"So this is how it ends," he murmured, the words lost in the room's stillness. "Guess I'll have to get up early for work tomorrow, huh?"
A sigh escaped him—dry, empty, but heavy with something close to sorrow. He closed his fingers slightly around the staff. It felt heavier than usual tonight.
[23:59:57...]
Momonga closed his eyes.
The world went dark.
[23:59:59...]
[00:00:00]
The ruins sprawled across the landscape, untouched by man or time, blanketed in silence and the slow decay of centuries. Crumbled stone and creeping ivy told the story of a civilization swallowed by the ages—its legacy reduced to fragments beneath the weight of history.
At the heart of this forsaken domain stood a lonely castle. Its proud towers long since shattered, now jagged silhouettes that reached skyward like the broken fingers of a dying giant. Dust lay thick across every surface, undisturbed and unchallenged, and the wind carried only the hollow sighs of a world that had long since moved on.
The great hall, once alive with voices and firelight, had become a tomb of stillness. Its vaulted ceiling loomed high above fractured chandeliers and tattered banners—faded symbols of a kingdom no living soul remembered.
The silence was not restful, but vacant. Suffocating.
Then it happened.
A tremor—soft, almost too subtle to notice.
A moment later, another. A deep, thrumming pulse, like the distant echo of a giant's heartbeat. The fractured walls groaned in protest, ancient stone grinding against itself as cracks spread like the veins of a disease. The remnants of the castle quivered as dust cascaded from the ceiling, banners swaying from the unseen force.
The air itself then shuddered. Not with the force of an explosion, nor the crackle of unstable magic, but with something worse.
The very essence of existence twisted around the void that manifested in the heart of the ruins.
An unseen force radiated outward, and the world trembled.
A presence had entered—a presence that should not be.
The unseen rhythms of nature faltered. Small creatures that once scurried through the undergrowth froze, their tiny hearts pounding with an instinctive, primal dread. The air itself carried a weight they could not comprehend, a suffocating presence that gnawed at the deepest recesses of their instincts. Rabbits bolted from their burrows, birds took frenzied wing, and even the insects fell into an eerie silence. Nature obeyed the warnings etched into its very being, vanishing just in time.
And then the land began to rot. The trees groaned, their trunks splitting as bark blackened and peeled away. Leaves curled inward, shriveling to dust in an instant. The grass at the castle's foundation browned, then decayed, sinking into the soil as if consumed by an unseen force.
The creatures that fled did not look back, their instincts sparing them by mere seconds from experiencing the creeping hand of death itself.
Something unnatural had taken its first breath in this world.
And with it, life withered in its shadow.
The last grains of Yggdrasil's time had slipped away…and yet, instead of oblivion, he stood within the wreckage of a castle.
Why am I still in my Yggdrasil avatar?
Had the servers glitched? Was this a forced event? A hidden expansion?
He clenched his fingers, tightening his grip on the [Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown]. The powerful guild weapon responded to him, pulsing with latent power, a weight both familiar and alien in his grasp. The perfectly crafted magic artifacts embedded within the mouth of each snake shimmered faintly, as if recognizing their master.
Everything felt…wrong. He could feel his body—not in the abstract way one would in a game, but with tangible, physical awareness.
The way the fabric of his robes draped over his form, brushing against him with the slightest movement.
The weight of the rings pressing against his phalanges, their magic seething with power.
The chilling, overwhelming presence of his own magic, roiling beneath the surface like a restrained storm, a force bound only by his will.
This level of sensory input should have been impossible in Yggdrasil. No. Not just impossible—downright illegal. That would have been an instantaneous lawsuit. In Japan, Full-dive games had strict in-game sensory restrictions to reduce the risk of dissociation; a lack of clear boundaries could blur the line between VR and reality—with deadly consequences.
There was no way the devs would allow something so…visceral.
Yet, here he stood. The crimson embers burning in his eye sockets flickered, betraying the thoughts racing through his mind.
He tried to use [Message].
Momonga's thoughts froze for a fraction of a second, a hollow silence filling the space where a system popup should have appeared.
His mind, still clinging to logic, began running through possibilities, breaking the situation down piece by piece. Calm. Stay calm.
The built-in game interface overlay was completely gone. No mini-map. No stat screen displaying his level, HP, or MP gauges. It was as if the very framework of Yggdrasil had been stripped away, leaving only raw existence in its place.
Was he powerless? Would his spells and skills work? If they didn't, that would be problematic to say the least.
Lifting a skeletal finger, he focused on the familiar command [All Appraisal Magic Item], its target being the guild staff. Instantly, knowledge flooded his mind. Not as a neatly displayed text box, nor as a system log detailing item parameters and backstory, but as pure understanding, seamlessly absorbed into his consciousness. He knew the [Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown] down to its very essence, its properties and enchantments whispering into his thoughts like an undeniable truth.
It worked. Yet, the realization did little to ease the cold uncertainty gripping him. Because this wasn't how it was supposed to work—there had been no spell cast delay. No visual indicator. No menu prompt. He had simply thought the spell—and it had responded.
A creeping sense of unease slithered through his mind. Not even the highest-tier magic or cash items could bypass the game's fastidious mechanics and menus. But here, it had been instinctive. Natural.
[Message]. He tried again. No screens, no audio cues to determine if there was a successful or failed message connection.
And then, a flicker of something terrible hit him. A rising panic. Where's Nazarick? What happened to the NPCs? Is anyone else here with me?
Growing desperate, he thought of something else: [GM Call]. Game Masters, as overbearing as they were with their extreme in-game moderation, had to respond to his call.
Silence was the only answer. His hands twitched ever so slightly. No automated response, no prompts. Just…nothing.
It was like throwing words into an empty void.
The last remnants of denial shattered. The implication struck him like a holy, flaming hammer to the chest. His skeletal hands trembled. Something stirred deep within the remnants of his humanity—panic, raw and suffocating. It clawed at the edges of his mind, an instinctive, desperate reaction to the impossibility of his situation.
Dark miasma oozed out of his body, wild, raw, and unimpeded.
Where am I? Did I die? Am I trapped in limbo? Did I…get isekai'd?
His breathing quickened—no, he wasn't breathing at all. But he felt it, the phantom sensation of what should have been a ragged breath, the way his body wanted to react even though it no longer could. The weight of the unknown pressed down on him, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he felt truly powerless.
And then, at the peak of his spiraling fear, his body reacted on its own. A wave of energy pulsed through every inch of his being, washing over him in an unnatural tide. Cold and absolute, it erased the panic, devouring his emotions like a starving beast.
The erratic flood of thoughts ceased, the creeping fear turned to static, and in its place—nothing. Stillness.
Momonga exhaled, his shoulders slackening. His panic had vanished, reduced to nothing but a distant afterthought.
Yet the situation remained unchanged. He knew, logically, that he had just been on the verge of a mental breakdown—but now he could examine his circumstances with cold detachment, as if the emotional storm had happened to someone else entirely. It was unsettling. Deeply unsettling. But he could not afford to dwell on it. The facts were clear: he was in an unknown land, and he was all alone.
Punitto Moe's words rang in his mind. "Panic is the seed of defeat, so you must maintain your calm and think logically. Remain calm, look beyond your surroundings, and don't waste your effort on unnecessary details, Momonga."
"I am at a disadvantage. Vulnerable. Exposed. I need information." His crimson eyes glowed, brighter now—sharper. His mind, once reeling, now worked like a strategist surveying the battlefield. If this was a real, functioning world rather than a game, he needed to act accordingly until he could figure out what was going on.
He gazed upon the [Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown], its presence grounding him in the face of so many unknowns. His surroundings came into sharper focus.
The air inside the ruins was thick with age, heavy with the scent of dust and decay. He took slow, deliberate steps, his fingers trailing lightly over the crumbling stone as he moved forward. Every inch of the structure spoke of an era long past—ancient, weathered stonework formed the skeleton of what must have once been a grand stronghold, now left in utter disrepair. There was no concrete, no titanium alloy—only crude masonry, fitted together by hands that had long since turned to dust.
Tattered banners clung stubbornly to the broken walls, their faded colors and unfamiliar symbols whispering of a forgotten kingdom. The language inscribed upon them was entirely alien to him, indecipherable.
A lost civilization. The thought barely settled before something else caught his gaze—bones.
Skeletal remains jutted from the debris, their jagged ends protruding from between fallen stones like the fingers of the dead reaching for salvation. Some were crushed beneath collapsed pillars, others half-buried in the dirt as though left where they had fallen. A battlefield. Not a peaceful abandonment, but a violent reckoning. Momonga's crimson orbs flickered with an unreadable emotion as he strode past the remnants of whatever conflict had transpired here. He knew not the victors or the vanquished, only that this place had once stood against something—and lost.
He reached what remained of the ruined threshold. Beyond it, the world stretched outward in the dim embrace of early morning.
With a single step, he crossed into the open air. The cold breeze carried the scent of damp earth and distant forests. The sky was beginning to stir, the sun marching steadily up and away from the horizon. Yet the gloom of the retreating night did little to hinder him—[Dark Vision] painted the landscape with perfect clarity, every shadowed detail crisp and precise beneath his gaze.
For a long moment, he simply stood.
Before him lay a significant, circular stretch of deadened land—a mark of his own presence, no doubt. The earth had blackened, cracked, the very essence of life drained from the soil itself. The trees closest to him were rotted husks, yet beyond the corrupted radius, the world was vibrant, alive.
He hummed. A surge of Negative Energy was the most likely culprit.
Wary of potential threats—especially the possibility of Player Killers lurking unseen—Momonga began to layer himself with spells, methodically and without pause. "[Body of Effulgent Beryl]... [Greater Resistance]... [Detect Magic], [Sense Enemy], [Perfect Unknowable]."
Each incantation left his lips with uncanny ease, every effect surging into place instantly—no cast time, no interface cues, no delay. The magic responded not to commands, but to his will alone. It was faster, more intuitive… disturbingly seamless. Like drawing breath. He barely had to think, and that fluidity—so effortless—unsettled him. His undead body couldn't feel a chill, but something deeper, a fragment of his former humanity, shivered at the wrongness of it.
And that old, familiar grip of paranoia tightened.
He remained still, scanning the forest with practiced wariness. Even in the absence of threats, he knew better than to relax without assessing his situation. Yggdrasil's most lethal ambushes often began in silence—still trees, quiet wind, and death waiting just out of sight. Traps. Stealthed PKers. Terrain-triggered disasters. All of it could begin with nothing at all.
The wind rustled through the branches, carrying no hint of magic. No hidden enemies revealed themselves. No detection spell triggered. And yet, his senses remained sharp, his posture still ready. Layers of defensive magic shimmered invisibly around him, coiled like a second skin, ready to respond in an instant.
But the longer he stood without provocation, the more the tension began to dull. Stillness remained just stillness. No counterattack. No trap sprung. Slowly—cautiously—his mind eased. He allowed himself the smallest breath of calm.
And yet… one more concern lingered.
Offense.
If his destructive spells failed—if the laws of this world rejected his arsenal—then every battle ahead could end in disaster. Defense alone wouldn't save him. He would need to test his magic.
He narrowed his gaze on a distant copse of trees. He lifted a skeletal hand, fingers curling slightly as he aimed at the treeline. "[Fireball]."
The roaring sphere of flame burst from his fingertips, colliding with a thick, ancient tree in the distance. The explosion sent a shock wave of heat and embers cascading outward. Wood splintered, bark blackened and cracked, the fire licking hungrily at its new meal. The damage was devastating, but more importantly, Momonga could feel the tiniest, almost imperceptible drain on his MP.
The scent of burning foliage reached his nonexistent nose, carried by the gentle breeze.
[Fireball] was a third-tier spell—basic by his standards—yet its effects had been undeniable. But a third-tier spell was nowhere near the peak of his power. He needed more certainty. If he was to move through this world with confidence, he had to confirm that his higher-tier magic remained intact as well.
"Let's try something with more damage output," A ninth-tier spell would suffice. He extended a hand skyward, crimson points of light gleaming from his eye sockets. Power gathered at his fingertips, an imperceptible pressure thickening the air as he uttered his next spell. "[Call Greater Thunder!]"
The heavens answered with a roar.
A blinding pillar of lightning lanced down from the sky, its descent instantaneous. The impact shattered the earth with a deafening crack, raw energy coursing through the soil as jagged bolts arced outward. The trees caught in the blast exploded into charred fragments, bark and branches disintegrating under the sheer force. Thunder rolled across the land, a delayed, ear-splitting roar that sent flocks of birds in the distance scattering into the sky.
Smoke and ozone filled the air. The once-vibrant treeline stood charred and lifeless, reduced to a cluster of smoldering husks. Momonga observed the devastation with a slow, deliberate nod.
His magic was intact. More than that—the spell had felt different. Not just raw damage calculated by Yggdrasil's mechanics, but true destruction. He had felt the energy surge from the skies as if the world itself had responded to his call. He had even felt the faint tingle of static buildup on his fingers! How that was possible when he was just a bundle of bones was beyond him.
This complexity was far beyond Yggdrasil's mechanics and the implications were vast, yet reassuring.
For now, there was one undeniable truth: he still wielded absolute power.
Momonga cast a final glance at the desolate ruins behind him. He felt no fear, no sorrow. And yet, standing amidst the remnants of the dead, a strange unease settled within him. There was nothing for him here. Casting [Fly], his body lifted effortlessly into the air, gravity an afterthought. The motion was precise, absolute. There was no lag, no rigid, pre-rendered animation—only seamless, fluid movement. Not an ability granted by a game engine, but an extension of his will.
From above, he would assess his surroundings, determine his next course of action. Knowledge was power, and in this unknown land, he could afford no blind spots.
He ascended, the earth shrinking below him. And then—he froze.
The sky stretched infinitely above, an endless canvas of shifting colors, painted in hues beyond anything he had ever seen in Yggdrasil or any arcology in Japan. The rising sun had just begun its ascent, a golden crown breaking the horizon, its radiance spilling across the heavens in a cascade of warm ambers, deep crimsons, and soft violets. Wisps of pink-tinged clouds drifted lazily, their edges glowing with the first touch of morning light.
Below him, the world unfurled in breathtaking detail.
A vast ocean of green spanned as far as his eyes could see—an endless forest untouched by civilization, its trees swaying in the crisp morning breeze. Each leaf shimmered with a unique vibrancy, shifting ever so slightly with the wind. Pockets of wildflowers bloomed in hidden clearings, their colors bursting in patches of vivid blues, soft lavenders, and rich reds that stood out against the deep green undergrowth.
The air was fresh. Clean. The scent of morning dew clung to the leaves, mingling with the faint, earthy aroma of damp soil. There was a hint of pollen, the crisp sharpness of pine, and the distant fragrance of blooming flowers. The smell was distinct, layered—so real that it sent a ripple of unease through his mind. He could have only dreamed of experiencing this back home.
Blue Planet, I know you would have loved to see this.
The gentle morning breeze stirred his regal robes, carrying with it the warmth of the rising sun. Though his skeletal frame lacked flesh, he could still perceive its comforting heat. The world around him was not a mere backdrop—it breathed, moved, and lived in a way that felt undeniably real. His eyes followed a flock of birds bursting from the canopy ahead. Their feathers caught the sunlight, each shimmer unique, their flight paths unpredictable and unbound. No mechanical loops, no pre-rendered sequences—only nature's perfect, chaotic rhythm.
It was too much detail. The sky, the trees, the scent of the earth—no game, no simulation, no matter how advanced, could replicate this. Momonga remained motionless, suspended in the open sky, his mind struggling to grasp the sheer enormity of it all.
He had left behind the digital confines of a game.
This was a world. A real world.
If this was not Yggdrasil—if this was no longer a game—then his very existence had changed.
That realization led to an inevitable question: What name should he use to identify himself?
Momonga was the obvious choice, but it was obscure—known to no one outside of Yggdrasil. And within Yggdrasil, it wasn't widely known. The name carried sentiment, tied to friendships that had faded, to battles fought alongside comrades who might never return. But here, in this unknown world, it might be just a hollow echo. A name without meaning.
Suzuki Satoru...definitely not. The thought alone was absurd. To use his real life name would be to reveal too much.
No—there was only one name that mattered.
He lifted his staff slightly, staring at the masterwork of his guild—their final legacy. If, by some miracle, one of his friends had also arrived in this world, there was only one name they would easily recognize. They would understand his affiliation, his power, his claim to the legacy they had all built together. It would be unmistakable. Undeniable.
He straightened, his skeletal frame radiating authority, his crimson gaze unwavering. "I am Ainz Ooal Gown. From this moment forth, I shall carve this name into history itself!"
And he would play his role to perfection. The declaration solidified something within him—a mental shift, a cold, calculated acceptance of the path before him. There was no use lingering on sentimentality or doubt. The past was gone until he could prove otherwise. The present demanded his full attention.
Hovering silently, he scanned the terrain below. Winding dirt trails twisted through the dense treeline, their paths shaped by the footsteps of countless travelers. He followed the trails for some time, his eyes seeking any signs of sentient life.
There. His eyes locked onto the shifting figures below. A wooden open carriage rolled along the uneven path, its worn wheels creaking with each jolt over the rugged terrain. Surrounding it was a group of humanoids, their postures relaxed yet armed. Bandits, perhaps? Mercenaries? Travelers? He couldn't be certain at a glance.
Curiosity stirred. Information was power, and he needed to understand this world—its people, its dangers, and its rules. Adjusting his flight, he drew closer from above, his presence masked by his magic.
It was five human men, their forms ragged and crude. Bare bone equipment. He could smell their stench too, they reeked of sweat, blood, and filth. Two carried wooden staffs topped with crudely cut gems, and they faintly flickered with magic. Mages. The rest bore rusted swords, jagged axes, and cheap pieces of armor barely held together by leather or cloth straps.
[Life Essence] assessed them below Level 3; their HP was unremarkable. Starter mobs, practically. The mages were the muscle of the group, but they were still painfully weak with appalling MP pools.
His attention was drawn to the bound figure slumped at the back of the carriage—a woman in a torn blue dress, her body marred with dirt, blood spatter, and fresh bruises. She barely stirred, her muffled breaths shallow beneath the filthy gag tied around her mouth. Bags of stolen jewelry and bloodied coins lay scattered around her.
So bandits it is.
Ainz observed the scene in silence. He knew, rationally, that this was a horrific situation. That once—perhaps as Suzuki Satoru—he would have felt some degree of righteous anger. But now? There was no empathy, only detached analysis. He pondered the muted response. Was it the result of his newly undead nature? He could acknowledge the horror, but he did not truly feel it to its full extent. It was as though he were recalling a scene from a movie rather than witnessing it firsthand.
It seems I've stopped being human in a physical and mental capacity. Is this what it means to be an Overlord? The thought came and went, vanishing beneath the weight of cold rationale.
Below him, the world continued its cruel march. The bandits jeered, laughed, utterly unaware of the presence looming above the treeline. They were comfortable, arrogant, their weapons lazily slung over their shoulders as if this was nothing more than a routine pillaging. Within moments, they steered off the beaten path to set up a hastily built bonfire, far enough from the road and any prying eyes.
They laughed as they circled the woman like vultures, their perverse intentions clear.
Ainz remained hidden, cloaked in magic and silence.
He could simply move on.
There was no reason to interfere.
He began to turn away.
But then—like a cruel trick—he heard it.
"Momonga, saving someone who is in trouble is common sense!"
It stopped him cold. Touch Me's voice—so vivid it felt like a heartbeat in his hollow chest. He remembered the luster of silver armor, the sincerity in those words that once inspired and annoyed him in equal foolish, infuriating optimism. The man who never compromised, who always charged first no matter the odds. A walking monument to justice and ideals.
"If you have the strength to act, then act! Otherwise, what was the point of gaining power?"
Ainz's jaw clenched. No breath. No heartbeat. But his hand trembled.
Why did those words still hold weight? Why did they sting? He didn't feel the swell of righteousness. No heroic impulse surged through him. Instead, there was an ache. Faint. Distant. Like the memory of warmth through frostbitten skin.
Ainz looked at the girl—the desperation in her eyes, the hopeless stillness of someone who expected death.
He was moving before he realized it—levitating forward, descending into the treeline like a shadow cast by judgment.
"Fine," He whispered, his voice hollow and low. "Let's see what that idealism is worth."
Maybe he couldn't feel what Touch Me did. But he could remember. And for now, that was enough.
His mercy would be sharp, and his judgment absolute.
Fifteen meters away, not a single leaf stirred at his landing. The air barely shifted. None of them reacted.
He then dispelled [Perfect Unknowable].
The horse was the first to detect him. Its eyes bulged, nostrils flaring wide as pure terror seized its body. It screamed—a horrible, ear-splitting whinny—and ripped free from its restraints, rearing violently. Two of the men barely had time to stumble back before it nearly trampled them in its blind, frothing escape. The woman bound in the cart tumbled to the dirt with a muffled gasp, curling into herself as the beast's hooves thundered away.
One of them cursed. "Son of a—! That damned horse—"
As they turned, their annoyed expressions quickly shifted to wariness.
Ainz stepped forward. He was an ominous silhouette beneath the shadow of the trees. His fine cloak draped over his skeletal form, the golden rings on his fingers catching the faint light.
"Greetings, lowly filth," His voice was deep—smooth, baritone, regal. It commanded attention. He carried himself with the slow, measured grace of a king inspecting filth beneath his heel.
And they felt it. Something was terribly, inexplicably wrong. The wind felt stifled, as if suffocated beneath an unseen force. The fire from their meager camp flickered erratically, struggling to maintain its form, shrinking against the weight of his presence.
Their bravado faltered.
One of the men spat. He wore a cracked helm and a terribly patched up broadsword that threatened to break if one looked at it for too long. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"You lost us a horse!" another snapped, this one toothless, bald, and reeking of weeks of unwashed sweat. "You better have enough gold to pay for that, or you're dead."
A third, a mage standing further back, narrowed his eyes. He had noticed Ainz's rings, and to a degree, the unnatural stillness that clung to this figure. His gut twisted, yet he feigned boldness as he aimed his staff at Ainz. "How about you drop them nice shiny rings before things get real ugly?"
Ainz let out a muted chuckle, thoroughly amused. NPCs in Yggdrasil never spoke like this. Their personalities were often bland, repetitive, and forced, especially random mobs. Yet here these men were snarling, scheming, thinking. Their mouths were moving too, in perfect sync!
He took another step forward, allowing the light to unveil his skeletal form. His crimson eyes ignited the darkness beneath his hood.
The second the bandits noticed his undead form, the air changed. Their confidence shattered like brittle glass. One of the mages froze, a single tremor racking his hands in recognition. "U-Undead?"
"A necromancer must be nearby…" the first mage whispered, his fingers fumbling frantically through a burlap sack at his hip. "But skeletons are mindless husks! Unless a Demon—"
"I care little for your speculation," Ainz interrupted, his voice a smooth, unyielding tide—calm, but absolute. "You will release the woman. Then you will answer my questions. Comply, and you may live."
It was not a plea. Not a threat. It was the voice of a judge issuing a single, final opportunity.
And yet, predictably, one among them broke. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps pride. Or maybe just the folly of a cornered, terribly stupid animal. The man with the cracked helm gave a guttural roar and charged, his rusted greatsword raised high in defiance.
Ainz sighed in disappointment. He raised a finger, his motion so slow, so deliberate, it felt as though the very air had grown thick with dread. "Suit yourself. [Death]."
The bandit's charge halted mid-step. A choked, wet gurgle rattled from his throat as his body convulsed violently. His eyes rolled back into his skull, his muscles locking into place before—with a sound like a collapsing marionette—he crumpled lifelessly to the ground.
"WILDE!" One of the mages choked out, staggering back in horror. His hands were shaking, yet in a desperate, final effort, he raised his staff—his voice shrill, cracking with panic. "DIE, DEMON SPAWN!"
A glowing projectile shot from the mage's staff, streaking toward Ainz—
Only to dissolve the instant it touched him. The meager spell disintegrated into motes of decomposing mana, breaking apart as though reality itself refused to let it exist in his presence. The Overlord tilted his head slightly, bemused. "My High Tier Magic Immunity is intact, just as I thought." His tone was uncomfortably casual, as though he had simply commented on the weather.
The bandits broke. Their bodies trembled, their wills splintering beneath the crushing weight of their impending doom. Fight or flight? Neither promised survival.
Ainz took another step forward, towering over them. "No more volunteers?" He raised his hand once more, a skeletal finger locking onto his next target. "A shame. I'll take the initiative, then. I only need one of you alive in any case. [Death]."
Another bandit collapsed, his life snuffed out like a candle in the wind. The others could do nothing but stare at their fallen comrades, the icy grip of realization constricting their lungs.
There was no fight to be had. No chance of escape.
The reaper had come for them.
"[Grasp Heart]." He then reached out with his hand, fingers curling as if grasping something unseen. A faint, eerie red glow shimmered to life in his palm, coalescing into the translucent image of a beating heart—not flesh, not real, but a projection of the very organ sustaining life within his victim's chest.
The mage's eyes went wide. His body shuddered violently, a primal terror overtaking him as his breath hitched, his hands clawing at his own chest—as if he could physically tear away the unseen force suffocating his heart.
Ainz's fingers tightened with malice. With a wet, sickening pop, the heart ruptured in his grasp, exploding into a fine mist of crimson gore.
The man made no sound—no time for a scream, no final words. His eyes rolled back, his body crumpling to the ground, pale and lifeless, as though the very essence of his being had been snuffed out in an instant.
Another heartbeat. Another pulse of twisting magic. A second, identical heart manifested in his grip, pulsing in its final moments. Across from him, another bandit—who had only begun to crawl in his desperate attempt to flee—froze mid-step. His limbs twitched. His breath came in shallow gasps. He had seen what happened, knew what was coming, and yet—
Squelch. The phantasmal heart detonated, and with it, the man's body seized before he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. His lips parted, exhaling a final, empty breath. His corpse lay motionless, his features twisted into an expression of utter horror.
Ainz lowered his hand. There was no struggle. No resistance. Only the quiet, merciless efficiency of instant death.
"Now then," He shifted his gaze to the last survivor, a mage. The man was frozen to the spot, his knees trembling. Ainz had left the most intelligent-looking individual of the lot for last. His hand reached out, lifting the mage effortlessly by the throat. "If you wish to live, you will answer my questions. What is the name of this continent?"
The man could not answer—not because of the hand gripping his throat, but because his body was already betraying him. A violent spasm wracked his frame, his limbs convulsing uncontrollably as death took hold. His skin paled, veins bulging grotesquely beneath the surface before rupturing. Blood oozed from his eyes, his nose, his slackened lips—a grotesque cascade of crimson. Flesh withered, decayed, peeling away in sickly patches until only a husk remained.
Ainz tilted his head. "Hm. I must ensure [Negative Energy Touch] is not active before making physical contact. It seems to have enhanced effects against weak mobs." At least he found out before attempting to free the woman. He lingered for a moment, still gripping the withered husk in his hand. With neither reverence nor disdain, he released it. The body hit the ground with a dull thud, limbs sprawled awkwardly like a discarded doll.
He stared at it longer than necessary. These were the first humans he had ever killed. Surely, that should have meant something. He waited for guilt to surface—anything at all. But there was no guilt. No hesitation. Not even the faintest flicker of triumph. Only cold, logical detachment, as if he had simply erased a line of code or deleted a corrupted file.
Why? Was it because they were scum? Bandits. Murderers. Rapists. They were the lowest rung of humanity. Did their depravity exempt him from feeling anything? Had their wickedness made their deaths meaningless?
Was it something else? Had his racial traits hollowed him out?
Or—perhaps it was Touch Me's words. They echoed now, louder than ever, resonating not in his heart—because he no longer had one—but somewhere deeper. Something immaterial. Whatever fragment of humanity still clung to the bones beneath his robes.
Maybe that was why he felt no remorse. Because somewhere, twisted or not, he had done what was right.
He didn't know what disturbed him more: the lack of emotion…or the faint, almost righteous approval that simmered beneath it.
Without another word, he turned—his crimson gaze shifting to the girl collapsed in the dirt, her fragile form trembling, her breath shallow.
Death.
The world had become Death.
She had known fear. Knew its shape, its smell, the way it slithered into her lungs during long, sleepless nights. Shackled, beaten, dehumanized—she thought she had felt the worst the world could offer.
But that illusion shattered the moment he arrived.
The horse sensed him first. One moment it was still—the next, its body tensed like a coiled spring. Its eyes rolled back, showing the whites, and a terrified snort escaped its flaring nostrils. She felt the animal's panic before it even moved, a wave of raw, primal fear radiating from it like heat. Then it screamed. The horse reared violently, snapping its restraints with a sharp, splintering crack.
The entire cart jolted beneath her. She barely had time to brace before the world pitched sideways. The carriage lurched, the world spun, and she was flung like a ragdoll from the back of the cart. Pain lanced through her side as her body rolled across the dirt, wrists still bound, the rough earth scraping skin raw. Dust filled her lungs, and the ringing in her ears dulled the rest of the world.
All she could do was lie there—helpless, gasping—and watch.
Because Death was here.
A figure stood fifteen meters away, wreathed in robes darker than the shadows he stepped from. Towering, unmoving. His presence was not loud—it did not need to be. It commanded the air, pushed it down like a boot on a dying flame. And when he moved, it was without weight or breath, like a god gliding through a dream.
She did not understand what he was. Not at first.
But then came the deaths.
It was instant—unreal. One moment, the bandit stood there, confused by the panicked horse. The next, he crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut, no wound, no cry, just... death.
The others flinched.
One of the mages—she didn't know his name, only his cruelty—stumbled backward and hurled a spell in blind desperation. Blue light arced toward the dark figure beyond the trees, and then it vanished. Not blocked. Not deflected. Unmade. The spell simply ceased to exist before it could reach him, as if the very world had rejected its presence near that thing. Even the light seemed afraid to touch him.
The mage stared, dumbfounded. Then, his expression cracked.
Panic spread like a disease. She could feel it in their voices—real fear, the kind that didn't leave room for bravado or commands. They weren't wicked soldiers of fortune anymore.
They were prey.
Two of the bandits collapsed before her eyes, their bodies crumpling as though life itself had been quietly erased. No cry, no resistance. One moment they existed—and the next, they were meat.
Before she could blink, he raised a hand. Something pulsed in his palm—a heart, still beating, still slick with the remnants of life.
And then he crushed it.
She did not hear it break, but she felt it. In her chest, in her stomach, in the way the world tilted violently off its axis.
Two more men dropped, twitching once before the stillness took them.
She couldn't scream. She couldn't even blink.
The last one tried to flee. She had seen him run before—fast, brutal, always in control. But now, he whimpered like a dog, tripping over his own boots.
Then Death was on him. A skeletal hand clamped around his neck. That was all. His scream never came. Only a gurgling, wet cough as his flesh began to peel and sag. His eyes bulged, turned bloodshot, then black. Blood poured from every hole in his face—eyes, ears, nose, mouth—until the ground beneath him was slick with it.
His skin stretched taut, split down the cheek, and sagged in strips like melting wax. His armor groaned and buckled, the smell of rotting meat filling the air as his body turned into a husk of gore and horror.
She couldn't look away, even as bile clawed at her throat.
Then, with a faint rustle of robes, he dropped the ruined corpse like trash.
And then—he turned to her.
She saw him fully then—and she knew: this was not a man. The jawline was serrated like a predator's, and the shape of his sockets and teeth gave the impression of an eternal, malevolent sneer. From deep within the hollows of his eyes, twin crimson lights glowed like coals left to smolder in a dying fire. His pauldrons were shaped from bone—massive, curved things that jutted from his shoulders like the claws of some ancient beast. His skull was a jagged thing, too angular, too sharp—inhuman. And within his rib cage, suspended in the center of his chest, was a floating red orb that pulsed softly—like a heartbeat stolen from some forgotten god.
As he stepped closer, a chill swept over her.
Her breath caught. Her body locked in place.
The embodiment of death approached, and she could do nothing but tremble in the dirt like an insect beneath a god's gaze.
But he didn't strike. He reached for her chains. His fingers, bones of polished ivory edged in power, closed around the metal.
With a lazy pull, the iron links shattered like glass.
"You are free." His voice was deep, smooth. Gentle, even.
That made it worse.
The bodies—the sheer, effortless death—still burned in her mind.
She couldn't hear his next words. Couldn't process them. Couldn't think. She only knew one thing:
Death had spared her.
And that was more terrifying than if he had killed her.
With a strangled, soundless gasp, she bolted. Branches tore at her skin, thorns bit into her legs, but she ran.
Ran until the world blurred and her lungs burned.
There was no gratitude in her soul. Only fear.
A/N:
I never expected to end up posting another story, but here we are. While I struggle with writer's block on my other stories, I thought I'd share this work in progress. It's been in the back of my mind for months now. I hope these notes will help clarify some questions too.
Timeline wise, at the moment, is months before the mage exams. I'm still adjusting it.
This story will explore Ainz in a world without Nazarick. Think something closer in tone and concept to The Vampire Princess of the Lost Country. Without the constant influence of his NPCs and the weight of the Great Tomb behind him, Ainz is more malleable—more vulnerable, in a way. His moral compass, untethered from the expectations and devotion of Nazarick's denizens, can be pulled in different directions depending on the people he encounters.
I want to explore that uncertainty. What happens when a being as powerful—and as emotionally stunted—as Ainz is thrown into a world where the rules are different, where some relationships aren't based on programming or loyalty but trust, perception, and choice?
Another aspect I want to explore in this story is Ainz's emotional detachment—not just as a result of his undead body, but something rooted much deeper, from long before he ever became the Overlord.
In the original setting, Japan was no longer the world we know. It was a contaminated, dystopian wasteland—grim, dehumanizing, and ruled by uncaring corporations. The line between life and death blurred beneath poverty and systemic neglect. At some point, Ainz—the man he once was—became accustomed to things no one should ever be numb to. His mother dying in his youth from being overworked. Dead orphans lying in the streets became part of the background noise of survival. It wasn't cruelty. It was normalization. He had learned to look past horror just to function.
Originally, he was not a terrible person, and that's part of what makes him interesting. He's someone who grew up in a collapsed world, desensitized to suffering because he had to be. And now, as Ainz in this new world, that detachment is amplified by his undead form. He struggles to feel what others feel. Emotions come to him slowly, like echoes of what he knows he should feel. His sense of empathy is fractured—not gone, but distant.
This story gives me a chance to explore what happens when someone like that—someone shaped by a world that taught him to suppress compassion—finds himself in a place where he might be able to recover some part of it. Or lose it completely.
He chose to go by Ainz Ooal Gown out of the faint, lingering hope that one of his old friends might have been brought into this world as well. As long as that possibility exists—even the smallest chance—he won't abandon the name. Until he's searched every corner of this world and found definitive proof that none of them are here, he'll hold onto it. In another situation, under different circumstances, he might have chosen a different name entirely. But for this story, Ainz is who he'll be.
I don't know where this journey will end just yet. I have a rough roadmap, but I want to leave space to be surprised by the world and by Ainz himself. I'm almost done with chapter two, although life and work have been slowing things down quite a bit.
Still, I hope what I've shared so far has been enjoyable.
Thanks for reading.
