Ainz walked through a sea of blood, his gaze met with severed limbs, broken swords, shattered armor, and corpses. Blood gushed and pooled, staining the earth, soaking the streets, and crusting in the cracks between stone bricks.
Among the heaped piles of the dead, a soldier—sliced clean in half, only his upper body remaining—groaned in the blood-soaked mire. He wailed in agony, clutching the mangled corpse of a comrade, dragging his blood-spurting torso across the ground with his hands.
With his remaining arms, he clawed forward inch by inch, leaving a crimson trail smeared across the street. At last, he neared the path where Ainz Ooal Gown would pass.
Defiant, he raised his head, locking eyes with the skeletal demon god. His bloodied lips trembled, as if ready to hurl curses or roar in rage. A death knight stepped forward, its blood-drenched longsword flashing, and severed his head.
No blood sprayed from the severed neck—it had long run dry. The head rolled with a dull thud, its unyielding eyes still wide, staring up at the sky.
This was the capital of the Slane Theocracy, its central district. Once, the Pope issued decrees here, cardinals debated doctrine, wealthy merchants in lavish silk robes came and went, and soldiers in gleaming silver armor patrolled the streets.
This had been the political, economic, and cultural heart of the Slane Theocracy. Now, it was nothing but a blood-soaked battlefield, a hell on earth.
Several level-100 guardians of the Sorcerer Kingdom descended upon the city. Towering death knights smashed through the gates. A hastily erected teleportation array pulsed with dark light as undead soldiers, swords in hand, marched out in formation.
The armies of the Slane Theocracy threw themselves forward, shouting battle cries to defend their homeland and protect the Six Great Gods, charging fearlessly at the soldiers of the Sorcerer Kingdom. Death and sprays of blood bloomed on the edges of blades.
No warrior of the Slane Theocracy was a coward, but against the might of the Sorcerer Kingdom, they were merely frail lambs charging toward the butcher's knife.
"Lord Ainz, after a night of battle, the capital of the Slane Theocracy is fully under our control," Cocytus reported, his long blade faintly stained with blood.
"Good." Ainz nodded slightly. "How did you uncover the Slane Theocracy's plot?"
"Last night, a massive surge of magical energy erupted above their capital. A colossal vortex of mana formed, and a towering beam of light connected the sky to the ground.
"We sensed the disturbance, and our spies embedded in the Slane Theocracy sent word that the Six Scriptures were attempting to resurrect Surshana, the God of Death. We mobilized immediately, recalling nearly all our level-100 guardians scattered across the world and seized their capital."
"You did well," Ainz said, then asked his most pressing question: "Did they succeed in reviving the God of Death?"
"They completed the resurrection ritual in full, but disappointingly, it failed. The Slane Theocracy poured their entire nation's resources into building a massive underground altar. Look over there." Cocytus pointed to a spot nearby.
Where he indicated, the ground had collapsed into a vast crater, with surrounding houses toppled like scattered toys. Wisps of black smoke curled up from the pit.
Cocytus continued, "Our analysis shows their ritual lacked a critical 'key,' but the foolish Slane Theocracy didn't know that. They rushed the resurrection spell, and it flopped."
Ainz fell silent for a moment, then sighed softly. "What a pity. If Surshana had actually been revived, this world would've gotten a lot more interesting."
"I agree, my lord," Cocytus said. "Surshana, the God of Death, was also an undead. Perhaps he and you, Lord Ainz, would've had plenty to talk about."
He shifted gears. "But we found something odd. According to the Slane Theocracy's historical records, Surshana fought the Eight Greed Kings alone. After the battle, his soul ascended to the divine realm. The Eight Greed Kings, awed by his noble spirit, chose not to destroy the Slane Theocracy.
"Of course, this talk of returning to the divine realm is just a fancy way of saying he died in battle. The real kicker is, after the Slane Theocracy lost the last of the Six Great Gods who could protect them, the Eight Greed Kings didn't wipe them out completely.
"You'd think, with the Eight Greed Kings' obsession for control and their ambition to conquer the world—way bigger than ours—they'd rename every city and nation they took, slapping their own brand on it. But after killing Surshana, they just let the Slane Theocracy off the hook."
Ainz mulled it over for a moment, then asked, "That's odd, no doubt. What's your take?"
Cocytus replied, "Surshana must've left some kind of ace up his sleeve, something that saved the entire Slane Theocracy. But it doesn't matter now. If we want, the whole Theocracy is ours to command. Shall we go see their leader? We kept him alive, awaiting your judgment."
Ainz and Cocytus stepped over broken limbs and debris, entering the heart of the Slane Theocracy's power—the Central Temple.
Inside the hall, bodies littered the floor, blood splattered across the steps, and the stench of gore hung heavy, lingering in the air. At the center of the hall stood the Slane Theocracy's throne, and seated upon it was an old man—the Pope of the Slane Theocracy.
The Pope was already an old man teetering on the edge of death, his hair gray and white, his gold and red interwoven robes stained with blood. Despite this, he still straightened his back, gripped his scepter tightly in his left hand, wore his crown properly, and stared straight at Ainz as he walked into the hall.
In the blood-soaked chamber, several level-100 guardians stood. Albedo and Shalltear gazed at Ainz with adoration, Sebas in his crisp suit bowed amidst the gore, and even Demiurge had rushed over from the Roble Holy Kingdom.
Ainz acknowledged them one by one before turning his gaze to the Pope on the throne.
The Pope spoke first, his voice raspy. "The Slane Theocracy is willing to become a vassal of the Sorcerer Kingdom, swearing eternal loyalty through all generations, if only you spare our people."
Ainz shook his head slightly. "You don't get it, do you? We're here not because you defied the Sorcerer Kingdom, but because you tried to resurrect the God of Death Surshana. That's the kind of world-shaking stunt you should've reported to us."
The Pope bowed his head, almost pleading. "It was my plan, and that of the Six Scriptures. The people of the Slane Theocracy had no part in it. Please, spare the innocent."
Ainz chuckled. "If I were in a good mood, I might've considered it. But right now, I'm not feeling generous."
The Pope struggled to raise his head, his trembling hand fumbling in the folds of his robe. At last, he drew a sharp dagger, its blade glinting coldly. He stood, pointing the weapon at Ainz from afar.
Ainz smirked mockingly. "What, are you the Slane Theocracy's last stand?"
The Pope descended the throne's steps, eyes locked on Ainz. Then, in a sudden twist, he turned the blade on himself, slashing it across his own throat.
The cold steel flashed, and crimson blood sprayed into the air. The aged Pope collapsed, his body crumpling as a pool of blood spread beneath him.