The Ninth Floor of the Great Tomb of Nazarick.
Within a luxuriously appointed guest chamber, a skeletal magic caster clad in black, gold-trimmed academic robes sat in silence.
He was Momonga—guildmaster of Ainz Ooal Gown.
Before him hovered a half-length mirror, suspended without support. The surface rippled faintly as his bony fingers, heavy with rings, moved through the air. With each deliberate motion, the image within the mirror shifted to another distant scene.
This artifact was a Far-Distance Scrying Mirror, a reconnaissance item from Yggdrasil. In the game, it had been unreliable—easily blocked, easily countered. Rarely used.
Here, however, it was invaluable.
Several days had passed since the world had changed. Momonga had already confirmed that Nazarick remained intact—its structure, its NPCs, its defenses. The loyalty of those NPCs was absolute, unwavering, almost oppressive in its intensity.
That loyalty unsettled him.
He had grown accustomed to anonymity, to insignificance. Now, every word he spoke carried weight beyond intention.
He had not yet dared to leave Nazarick.
The outside world was unknown. Its strength, its hostility, its treatment of outsiders—none of it had been measured. The thought of Nazarick being discovered too early, surrounded, tested, or attacked filled him with quiet dread.
This caution could not last forever.
Momonga knew that.
At his side stood Sebas Tian, impeccably groomed, posture perfect, eyes sharp with disciplined awareness.
"It appears you have mastered the mirror's operation, my lord," Sebas said calmly.
Momonga inclined his skull slightly. "It seems so."
He hesitated, then added, "I have kept you here longer than necessary. That was not my intention."
Sebas bowed faintly. "To remain at your side is my purpose. There is no greater duty."
Momonga fell silent.
The devotion of Nazarick's NPCs was not something he could casually accept. Nor could he reject it. To do so would only create instability.
If he could not be their equal, then he would be their ruler.
The mirror shifted again.
Fields of wheat appeared. Then, crude wooden homes. A village.
"…Are they celebrating?" Momonga asked quietly.
Figures were running between buildings—but not with joy.
Sebas leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "No. This is no celebration."
The image sharpened.
Armored soldiers were cutting down unarmed villagers. Screams were swallowed by steel. Blood-stained dirt roads. Bodies collapsed without ceremony.
A massacre.
Momonga felt… nothing.
No surge of anger. No revulsion.
Only calculation.
This village has no value, he thought calmly. Intervening offers no benefit. It risks exposure.
Turning away would be rational.
Yet—
A dying villager on the screen stretched out a trembling hand.
Save my daughter.
Sebas spoke softly, deliberately. "What is your will, my lord?"
Momonga answered without hesitation. "Leave them to their fate. There is no reason to intervene."
As he said it, another image surfaced in his mind.
Touch Me.
The guildmate who had once stood for justice within the game. The one who would never have ignored this.
"…I must test the world eventually," Momonga said after a pause.
He straightened.
"Prepare troops. I will go personally."
Sebas bowed deeply. "As you command."
Elsewhere.
Kahn Village was already a ruin.
Charred beams, collapsed homes, ash drifting in the air.
The Kingdom's Royal Direct Guard and hired adventurers moved among the wreckage, pulling survivors from beneath debris.
A villager with a crushed spine and a blade through his chest was laid upon open ground.
A knight in silver-white armor knelt beside him.
Holy light flowed from the knight's hand. The wound closed slowly. The man gasped—alive.
Nearby, within a floating carriage drawn by dragon-blooded horses, Lock watched in silence.
His posture was relaxed. One elbow rested against the armrest, fingers lightly touching his chin. Pale red eyes observed everything—without sympathy, without disdain.
Outside the carriage, Gazef Stronoff spoke.
"I will send an escort to bring the survivors back to E-Rantel."
Lock's gaze did not shift. "This is the sixth village."
"Yes."
"At this rate," Lock continued evenly, "your force will be depleted before you ever encounter the enemy. If this is bait—and it is—then you are being drawn forward deliberately."
Gazef met his eyes. "Even so, I will not abandon them."
Lock regarded him for a long moment.
"Then you are a fool."
There was no mockery in his voice. Only assessment.
Gazef smiled faintly. "Perhaps. I have always been one."
"Very well." Lock leaned back. "Then I will withdraw."
Gazef stiffened in surprise—then relaxed.
"That may be for the best."
"If you survive long enough," Lock added casually, "my sister will arrive."
Gazef's eyes widened slightly. "The Starlight Witch?"
"She is already en route."
Gazef exhaled slowly. "Then that truly is good news."
Lock gave no reply.
He had already turned his gaze elsewhere.
The game had begun.
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