OVERLORD: Long Live Konrad Curze by Clark_Kent_3575

CHAPTER I: THE NIGHT HAUNTER'S LAST VIGIL

"In midnight's embrace, I meet my maker—or perhaps, become one."

Beep...

The heart monitor—that metronomic reminder of mortality—marks time like an executioner counting steps to the gallows. Each pulse, a prisoner's percussion. Each rhythm, a requiem's refrain. I could silence it, shut off that digital dirge, drown myself in blessed quietude. Usually, I do.

But tonight?

Tonight is no ordinary night.

Tonight, the world ends at midnight.

My world, at least. Yggdrasil—that digital Valhalla, that pixelated paradise, that last bastion against the banality of bone-deep agony—dies in two hours. The clock reads 22:00, and I haven't logged in. Not once. Not today. The hospital demanded its pound of flesh: tests and torture they euphemistically call "physical therapy," probing and prodding this prison of failing physiology.

You wonder why I'm here, in this sterile cell? Let me paint you a portrait of medical misfortune, a biological betrayal most baroque:

First, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder—but not the manageable kind, oh no. The severe kind that tangles thoughts like wire, that makes focus feel like grasping smoke, that transforms simple tasks into Sisyphean struggles. My mind races while my body rebels, hyperactivity confined to a hospital bed, creating a special circle of hell Dante forgot to mention. Imagine wanting to move, needing to move, your brain screaming for stimulation—while simultaneously being trapped in a failing flesh prison that punishes every motion.

Second, Osteonecrosis—diagnosed when I was twelve, that delightful age of discovery. While other boys discovered girls, I discovered decay. My bones don't just break—they rot, necrotizing from within because my veins, those vital vessels, simply can't be bothered to reach them. Imagine rust eating iron from the inside out. Now imagine that's happening to your femurs. Your tibia. Your spine.

Third, and this is where God—if he exists—reveals his sense of sick, sadistic humor: Antiphospholipid Syndrome. APS, they abbreviate it, as if shortening the name makes it less lethal. My blood—that essential elixir—betrays me at the cellular level, forming clots where none should form, creating strokes and embolisms from mere existence. My immune system produces antibodies that attack my own phospholipids, turning my circulatory system into a minefield. One wrong move, one clot in the wrong place, and I'm done. Game over. No continues.

So all around? All in all? I'm fucked. Comprehensively. Cosmically. Catastrophically fucked.

The ADHD has always been there—genetic lottery from birth, brain chemistry gone brilliantly, brutally wrong. But the others? Osteonecrosis and APS? My family tree has no such fruit. No risk factors. No hereditary harbingers. They just... happened. Random as a dice roll. Cruel as a cosmic joke. And I grew more bitter with each diagnosis, each treatment that merely delayed the inevitable, each dream that died in this bed before I could even attempt to chase it.

Any day now, they'll tell me I have cancer, too.

...Best not to tempt fate. Though fate and I? We're intimately acquainted.

Here in Luxembourg—land of literal and metaphorical tax shelters—we have a mercy the Americans don't: Medical Assistance in Dying. MAID, they call it. How quaint. How clean. How civilized. I'm twenty-six years old, my life expectancy evaporating like morning mist, and my reason for remaining has just been scheduled for server shutdown. My online friends—those beautiful bastards scattered across continents—have lives. Real lives. Families. Jobs. Futures. Meeting them face-to-face is a fantasy more fictional than the game itself. I can't even evacuate my bowels without Cynthia's help, can't cross the room without risking another stroke, another clot, another cascade of cellular betrayal.

Yggdrasil was my escape. My exodus from this rotting reality, this polluted prison of flesh and pharmaceuticals. It was freedom—the only kind I'd ever known.

And tonight, at midnight, the servers go silent. Shutdown. Game over.

Earlier today, I requested the MAID treatment. Midnight sharp—poetically synchronized with Yggdrasil's demise. Two endings, elegantly entwined. I signed the papers with shaking hands—ADHD restlessness making the pen dance across dotted lines—while Cynthia Hansen witnessed my elegant execution order, clipboard clutched to her chest.

She looked sad.

Sweet Cynthia, with her gentle German-Luxembourgish accent and those eyes like northern seas. We talk sometimes—small talk, surface pleasantries, the social lubrication that makes medical humiliation bearable. But she's compassionate, genuinely so. Never complains when cleaning my bedpans or catching me when my legs give out from bone death. She doesn't want me to do this, I can tell. But she's seen the pain. Witnessed the winces I can't suppress when necrosis gnaws, when phantom clots threaten, when my own blood plots murder.

Damn it. Now guilt gnaws at me, sharp-toothed and insistent.

I hope your date goes well, Cynthia. I hope Hervé Groben proves himself a gentleman, that he treats you with the tenderness you've shown this broken body. You deserve happiness—heaven knows you've earned it, attending to hell on earth.

My hands—trembling, treacherous things—reach for the VR headset on the bedside stand. I press the power button with the care of a bomb defusal expert, strap it slowly, so slowly, to my skull. One wrong move and this celebration becomes a catastrophe. The boot sequence begins.

The clock reads 23:45.

Hurry, damn you. Hurry.

[———————————————————————]

>> INITIATING NEURAL INTERFACE

>> SYNCHRONIZING SYNAPTIC PATHWAYS

>> BOOT SEQUENCE: SUCCESSFUL

>> LOADING LAST SAVED LOCATION:

>> NAZARICK—9TH FLOOR: ROYAL SUITE

>> WELCOME BACK, KONRAD CURZE

>> START

[———————————————————————]

Third Person Perspective

"Been too long, hasn't it, Momonga?" HeroHero's voice drips with exhaustion, each syllable saturated with weariness. His avatar—a purple slime melting into furniture like wax near flame—matches his tone perfectly: defeated, deflated, done.

Momonga, skeletal and seven-feet-tall in obsidian robes adorned with arcane ornamentation, turns toward his friend with visible surprise.

"I didn't think you'd come, HeroHero. It's been... what, two years?"

"Two years?" HeroHero's laugh is hollow. "Christ. My sense of time is so warped from overtime that I've lost track entirely. That's... that's not good."

"That's terrible," Momonga corrects gently. "You should—"

"My body's wearing out," HeroHero interrupts, slumping deeper into digital furniture. "Just... wearing away. Grinding down to nothing."

Silence settles between them, heavy as a shroud. Then HeroHero straightens slightly, attempting levity.

"Sorry. I didn't log in just to complain."

"Don't apologize." Momonga's avatar flashes a closed-eye smile emote. "Never apologize for honesty between friends."

"I need to go soon anyway. So tired I can barely think straight." HeroHero opens his menu interface, fingers hovering over LOGOUT. "But... I'm genuinely surprised Nazarick still stands. You must have maintained it all this time as guild leader."

"We built it together—all of us. Of course, I'd maintain it. Though I wasn't alone. Konrad helped."

"Konrad..." HeroHero murmurs, nostalgic. "Haven't seen him in forever. How is he?"

"Well enough. He logs in late—very late—, but he's consistent. Always comes."

"Thank him for me when you see him, yeah?"

"Absolutely."

"See you IRL, Momonga."

HERO HERO HAS LOGGED OFF

"...Stay until the end," Momonga whispers to the empty air where his friend once stood. "It's the last day... why leave early?" He sighs, skull sagging forward. "'See you IRL,' he says... as if any of us ever will."

BANG!

"GODDAMN IT ALL!" The words explode from Momonga's avatar, his fist crashing against the conference table—which, being indestructible dungeon furniture, absorbs the blow without a scratch.

"Such theatrics," a new voice cuts through the melodrama like a scalpel through skin. "Tell me, skeleton—do you practice these performances, or does it come naturally?"

KONRAD CURZE HAS LOGGED ON

Momonga's skull snaps up, eye sockets blazing with surprise.

There, framed in the doorway like death itself, stands Konrad Curze.

His avatar is magnificent in its monstrosity: a Primarch-class chassis of midnight-black ceramite and crimson circuitry, eight feet of baroque brutality. His face—if you could call it that—is a death mask of eternal anguish, features frozen in simultaneous fury and despair, lightning-scars etched across synthetic skin in patterns that seem to move in peripheral vision. His eyes—Emperor's mercy, those eyes—glow corpse-light blue, twin flames of madness barely contained.

Bat-wing protrusions arch from his back, crackling with purple-black energy.

He spreads his arms wide in mock-messianic greeting, voice rich with dark amusement:

"In midnight clad, the monster comes at last!"

The words echo, theatrical, and terrible.

"And you dare call me dramatic?" Momonga retorts, but there's warmth beneath the sarcasm.

"Because you are, you calcium-deficient cadaver!" Konrad strides forward with predatory grace, each step a silent threat. "That whole performance—slamming your skeletal hand upon the desk whilst bellowing at the uncaring cosmos—it's positively Shakespearean in its cliché! Though..." He pauses, assuming an exaggerated thinking pose, one clawed finger tapping his chin-guard. "I must confess, the emotional authenticity was exquisite. You should have been an actor, my friend. Truly. That anguish? That existential despair? Chef's kiss."

Despite himself, Momonga smiles—truly smiles, even if his avatar can't show it. It's been barely a day since they last spoke, but he's missed this: Konrad's baroque brutality, his melodramatic madness, that edge of genius wrapped in gothic grotesquerie.

Standing, Momonga approaches the golden staff standing sentinel at the room's heart.

"I was nearly moved to tears, I tell you! (╥︣﹏᷅╥) Weeping openly! Sobbing like a—wait, what are you doing?"

"Remember this, Konrad?" Momonga gestures to the jewel-encrusted artifact, light dancing across its ornate surface.

"The Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown?" Konrad's laugh is low and rich, dark chocolate laced with arsenic. "How could I forget? Though the name lacks... poetry. Pragmatic, certainly. Memorable? Debatable." He steps closer, ceramic fingers nearly touching the staff's surface. "Snort—remember when Wish III and his wife had that spectacular screaming match over gathering materials for it? Ah, marital bliss and guild dedication—beautifully, brutally intertwined."

"Those were good days," Momonga agrees softly.

"Were," Konrad echoes, the word heavy with finality. Then, brightening artificially: "Come! Let us visit the throne room one last time, yes?"

"Your Luxembourgish is showing," Momonga teases as they exit into the corridor.

"I have no idea what you're implying, you katana-wielding, karaoke-loving, anime-addicted Japanese stereotype! At least I can pronounce 'L' sounds without them morphing into 'R's mid-syllable! Ha!"

"I'm getting better at that!"

"I know you are, I'm merely engaging in affectionate mockery! Now stop rattling your bones in indignation!"

Their laughter echoes through Nazarick's halls—genuine, warm, alive despite their undead and inhuman avatars.

They share a strange friendship, these two. Konrad is younger by a decade in reality, yet they've achieved equal mastery: both Level 100, both legendary in power, both possessing builds that make other players weep with envy. Momonga is a pure mage—a glass cannon of devastating magical might. Konrad, meanwhile, is a Primarch-class character: warrior-mage hybrid capable of equipping divine artifacts and forbidden weaponry, his body a canvas for accumulated power. Every modification, every augmentation, every soul-forged enhancement has been installed, integrated, consumed.

He might actually be more powerful than Momonga at this point.

Walking through corridors adorned with gothic grandeur, they encounter six battle maids and one impeccable butler—the Pleiades and Sebas, standing at attention. The NPCs immediately bow, ceramic and code performing programmed obeisance.

"Sebas and the Pleiades," Konrad muses, voice touched with theatrical contemplation. "Shall we grant them one final walk, my skeletal companion? One last parade before the apocalypse?"

"It is the last day... Why not? Though what was the command again?"

"'Follow,' you forgetful fossil."

"Right, yes. Follow."

The NPCs rise in perfect synchronization and fall into formation behind them. Silence descends—Momonga lost in thought, Konrad entertaining himself by making devil-horn gestures above the skeleton's skull, grinning like a gargoyle.

"Didn't we originally station them as throne room guards?" Konrad asks, stopping mid-gesture.

"Yes, but no player ever penetrated this deep," Momonga answers, surfacing from contemplation. "Not one. We made Nazarick too well."

They approach the throne room—that cathedral of conquest, that monument to their guild's glory. Forty-two banners hang from vaulted ceilings, each representing a member long gone, faded to memory.

"Isn't today your birthday, Konrad?"

The Night Haunter pauses mid-step, surprised. "...Yes. Yes, it is. Why do you ask, Mr. Rattle-Me-Bones?"

"Just thinking... Happy birthday, my friend."

For a moment—just a moment—Konrad's voice loses its theatrical edge, becoming simply... human. "Thank you, Momonga. Truly. That means more than you know."

They enter the throne room together.

The battle maids and Sebas take positions along the walls like statues of servitude. Momonga approaches the throne where Albedo stands—the Overseer of the Floor Guardians, a succubus of such impossible beauty that she seems carved from divine light and demonic desire.

But Momonga doesn't sit.

Instead, he watches as Konrad approaches Albedo with uncharacteristic gentleness, his clawed hand caressing her cheek with the delicacy of a man handling porcelain.

She doesn't react—just maintains that small, serene smile.

"You've always favored her," Momonga observes. It's not a question.

"Favored?" Konrad laughs, but there's pain beneath it. "She's perfection preserved, beauty frozen in eternal digital stasis. A flower that will never wilt, never weather, never die..." His voice drops to a whisper. "At least until the clock strikes midnight. I simply wish to appreciate Nazarick's splendor one final time—our Guardian Overseer very much included." He glances back at Momonga. "Is that so wrong?"

"Not at all." Momonga pauses, then smiles behind his skeletal visage. "How about I give you a birthday present?"

"A present?" Konrad turns, intrigued. "How thoughtful! Though you needn't have—"

"What if," Momonga interrupts, "I made you guild leader?"

The silence that follows is profound.

Konrad's avatar doesn't move—not a muscle, not a servo. But his body language screams shock: spine straight, shoulders rigid, hands frozen mid-gesture.

"...Really," he finally whispers, breathless. "You would... that's..." He laughs—a sound caught between joy and disbelief. "That's one hell of a birthday present, Momonga. One hell of a gift." His voice steadies. "I accept. If you truly wish it, I accept with honor."

Momonga opens his menu interface and transfers guild leadership with a few keystrokes. Then he lifts the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown and presents it formally to Konrad, stepping aside with ceremony.

"It's done. You are now Guild Leader of the Great Tomb of Nazarick. May you lead well—even if only for five minutes."

Konrad stands motionless, overcome. Behind his death mask, were he flesh and blood, tears would fall.

This is the finest gift he's ever received.

Even though the world ends at midnight, he'll meet God—or whatever waits beyond—sitting on a throne.

"Thank you," he says quietly, all theatricality stripped away. "This means... everything."

"I'm glad. Now I should log off—let you enjoy your throne without audience."

"What's a throne without subjects?" Konrad challenges, gesturing to the kneeling NPCs.

"I don't know, Guild Leader, but I'm retiring early! My bones ache!"

"Farewell, Momonga," Konrad says, voice heavy with unspoken meaning.

"See you, my friend."

MOMONGA HAS LOGGED OFF

Konrad stands alone now—truly, finally, alone—holding the staff that represents everything they built together.

He approaches the throne slowly, reverently, studying its ornate construction: obsidian and gold, power and prestige, memory made manifest.

Comfortable, I hope. Let's find out.

He allows the staff to float beside the throne—magic making it hover like a sentinel—and sits.

The view from here is magnificent: the vast throne room stretching before him, battle maids standing at attention, Sebas maintaining perfect butler posture, Albedo awaiting orders with that eternal, serene smile.

Speaking of which...

"My first command as Guild Leader. Seems fitting to make it count." He pauses dramatically. "Kneel."

As one, they drop: battle maids, head butler, even Albedo—all falling to one knee, heads bowed in perfect submission.

The sight pleases him. Power, even artificial, even temporary, tastes sweet.

But curiosity overtakes satisfaction. Konrad waves his hand, opening Albedo's settings menu—her behavioral parameters, the code that dictates her digital existence.

He reads her personality description, and laughter bursts from him—dark, delighted, disbelieving.

"'A bitch'? Seriously, Tabula? You absolute degenerate..." He grins. "Always did prefer them cruel and cold... Well, let's change that, shall we? Forgive me, friend, but I'm making alterations."

He deletes the original coding.

Then pauses.

"What to replace it with... what to write in this space meant for personality programming..." His grin widens. "Ah, fuck it. Why not?"

His claws dance across the holographic interface:

"She is madly, passionately, utterly in love with [KONRAD CURZE]. Her devotion borders on obsession, her affection absolute."

He laughs again—darker now, edged with sadness.

"Not that it matters. She won't move. Won't speak. Won't love, despite what her code claims. Just... stand there. Silent. Still. A statue wearing a smile. And in minutes, even that illusion ends. The injection begins, and I die alongside the game..."

As if summoned by thought, he feels it: the pinprick in his arm, reality intruding on fantasy.

The MAID treatment has started.

The clock appears before him, counting down: