So, this is what it felt like to be a lamb led to slaughter?

Morrice, Gram, and what remained of the workers walked silently down the road. Lit by lanterns and moonlight, none spoke a word as they marched towards their inevitable demise.

They were to be rewarded for their labors for Jaldaboath.

Hmph.

What a joke.

The demon was just toying with them now. What awaited them was probably some sacrificial pit, or a torture chamber.

One worker tried to run earlier, only for a creature to emerge from the worker’s shadow and kill him.

None tried to run after the display, continuing their silent march to their inevitable ends. Some no doubt silently praying for some divine intervention to save them, or at least their souls, from the demon’s grasp. A few probably even considered walking away to be granted the release of death.

Yet everyone kept marching towards inevitably..

Then something happened.

Without warning, all at once, spears of light rained from the sky impaling into the ground all around the group.

Inhuman screeches wailed from several of their shadows, Morrice’s included. Emerging from them were writhing masses of darkness and teeth, the creatures Jaldaboath had left with them it ‘take care of them’. In other words, their jailors.

The creatures collectively writhed and wailed in pain, flailing their limbs wildly in every direction. Soon enough, they evaporated before his eyes as the light of those spears seemingly purged the creatures from existence itself.

And then it was over. The woods were silent as the grave. No birds, no insects, not a sound between them beyond haggard breathing. Everyone looked to one another, as if to assure themselves that the prior sight did indeed happen.

“W-what was that?” he heard Gram mutter to himself.

“I...I don’t know.” Morrice was as lost as his trusted guard. The divine intervention someone here had been praying for?

Sadly, they were not so fortunate.

“Greetings and salutations,” a voice called out to them.

A lone figure stood at the crossroads of the stone path before them. A man, but Lowton barely made him fully even with the aid of the full moon.

He approached the group, ignoring their gawking expressions. His steps were unnaturally precise, though that was the least odd aspect of the man. While he looked unassuming at first glance, Morrice could tell that something was…off.

Unnatural even.

His skin was an eerie pastel white, as if taken right off an artist’s brush. He was bereft of any hair at all, from his head to his brow. His eyes, when the man got close enough to be properly seen, were seemingly pupil-less and pure white white.

But what disturbed Morrice the most was the man’s expression. While seemingly a placid smile, looking upon it made him feel uncomfortable. Something in his mind was blaring out to him that the expression, as mundane as it was, is utterly inhuman.

“Who the hell are you!” Erya demanded, the samurai drew his blade at the new figure.

“Greetings and salutations,” the man repeated, giving what can only be described as a mocking bow. “I am The Messenger, here to escort you to a safer location.”

“Who sent you?” the worker questioned, it was impossible for Morrice to tell if the samurai was feeling any of the unease he was feeling..

“The Master,” the Messenger's answer gave away nothing.

“I mean who is that?”

“The Master is the Master.”

“Yeah, but what is he the Master of?” the worker grew exasperated at the non-answer.

“The Master is the Master,” the man’s expression finally changed, from placid smile to genuine confusion. It looked more natural, but still sent a shiver down Morrice’s spine to look upon it. “The Master is the Master of all that exists.”

“Oh, great a cult,” the samurai swore to himself in the comment.

“That is incorrect,” the man shook his head. “Cults are groups of people driven by an abstract faith in something, typically as an alternative to mainstream or orthodox forms of belief. The Master requires no such ‘faith’. The Master simply…’is’ by existing.”

“That’s all well and good,” Lowton interrupted, stopping Erya from further antagonizing the unnatural looking man before them, who was almost certainly involved with whatever display of magic slew Jaldaboath’s demons. “But where are you asking us to go?”

“There is a castle not far from here, specially prepared to receive all of you,” he pointed into the wilderness. “I have been asked to inform you that special precautions have been taken to protect you from Demiurge and the denizens of Nazarick of the duration of time you are under the Master's protection."

“Apologies, but what is a ‘Demiurge’ and a ‘Nazarick’?” This figure was throwing many terms that clearly meant something, but Lowton had no idea what.

“All will be explained, please, this way,” the man gestured for the group to follow him.

“And if we refuse?” Erya questioned.

The man blinked at the question, “I am sorry, I believe I must have misspoken. The Master has requested you go to the aforementioned castle and await his arrival.”

“Yeah, I heard. But what happens if I want nothing to do with a freak like you?”

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Morrice, and more than a handful of their number, took several steps away from Erya, the man’s own slaves included.

“…I see,” the Messenger mumbled to himself, then glared at the samurai. “I was mistaken, I did not misspeak, you simply do not understand. When the Master makes a request, you obey.”

“I understand enough to know you're some freakish monster like Jaldaboath-“ The worker never finished his sentence, a bright spear of light, not dissimilar to the ones from before, tore into his flesh.

Morrice fell backwards from the sight as the spear broke apart like motes of light, the worker sliding off the spear as it vanished. He was dead before he even hit the ground.

The Eight Finger manager had little time to gawk, as Gram pointed to the sky. To the ones who threw the spears, both this one and the prior ones.

Angels. Three of them to be exact.

They appeared more humanoid than he had ever heard described, with faces akin to funeral masks. With bodies of smooth marble, where polished brass and white stone mixed into one. Yet the most awe-inspiring thing was not their size, or magic, but their wings.

Black ethereal wings.

So black, so umbral, that he only realized they were there when they blocked out the stars and the moon behind them.

“Those are the Watchers,” the Messenger commented, a slight hint of amusement in his otherwise banal voice. “It was they who slew the shadow demons monitoring you. You are free to see them as both your guardians and your minders.” Holding his hand out, he conjured a magic circle in his palm. “Additionally, In the Master’s infinite foresight, I was granted healing abilities. They include, but are not limited to, resurrection magic.”

“Wait, you can use [Raise Dead]?” Morrice questioned. The man claims to be a simple messenger but can cast such powerful magic?

He didn’t answer the question, his smile never faltering. “The Master has given you His instructions, and you will obey. If any of you seek to disobey the Master’s wishes, the Watchers will be forced to kill you. But rest assured that I shall revive you upon arrival to our destination. Now, if you will please follow me.”

Yet another choice.

Maybe even less than a choice. He’s certain Jaldaboath would have at least contemplated letting him stay dead.

The group followed the strange man, a pair of workers dragged Erya behind them as they marched from one horrific predicament into another.

--

--

Several hours later, as the sun starting to crest over the horizon, the group found themselves at the gates of an isolated castle.

This was the place of the so-called ‘Master’? He'd seen knights with better accommodations.

From the outside alone, it seemed completely deserted and had been for a great deal of time. Dust and grime cover old stone, but there were signs of activity and life.

Morrice noted a handful of guards that walked the walls and halls they were ushered down, their movements as exact and unnatural as the Messenger’s. Each was garbed in a chestplate of a strange pitch black metal, a fine sword at their side, a small buckler on their arm, and a mask of smooth ivory that obscured much of their faces.

Despite that, he noticed an odd similarity between them and their ‘guide’.

No, not similar to the Messenger. They were the same man. As if everyone here were copies upon copies, the same man, but replicated like a stamp.

They watched in silence as the Messenger led them inside the castle proper.

While seemingly dilapidated on the outside, within, the structure was abuzz with activity and life.

Servants of several stripes, again seemingly identical to the guards and the Messenger, wandered the halls seeking the various tasks of castle upkeep. Dusters, cleaners, display polishers, some carried freshly washed clothes while others ensured that all the various candles were lit.

Each moved with the same unnatural movement pattern as their guide.

The whole thing unnerved Morrice.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” the Messenger commented as the group finally reached a large chamber filled with tables. “Food and refreshments shall be provided momentarily.”

Without anything else to do, Morrice and the others took their seats at the variety of tables set up for them. Within seconds, servants flooded the room with unmatched precision. They set the table, plates, fine cutlery, and even glasses soon to be filled with proper drink. Then, their work done, they vacated the chamber as quickly as they entered.

But what really stood out were the other guests.

“Sir, you see that?”

“I do,” Morrice glumly noted to his chief enforcer taking their seats.

Actual people.

They were hooded, clustered around an older man, but they were still people. Several small magic circles illuminated around them as they worked some type of magic.

Magic casters.

“What do you think they’re here for?” Gramm commented.

“I have no idea-”

“If I may have your attention,” The Messenger walked on stage and addressed the crowd. “The Master wishes to express his gratitude that you have arrived. He has stated that a demonstration of His power has be preformed, to dispel any misunderstanding of His true might.”

Above the man an spectral image slowly came into focus: a city besieged, fires burning unending, and surrounded by a horde of monsters.

“What you see now is a city from the Dragon Kingdom,” the Messenger explained, “besieged by elements of the Beastman Country. Without intervention, they will fall and its population consumed as livestock by the marauding beastmen. The Master has deemed this unacceptable and shall exterminate this threat by exercising the smallest fraction of His unlimited power. You are permitted to be humbled by the sights you shall see.”

'Permitted to be humbled'?

What sort of joke was this?

--

--

“We’re being overwhelmed!”

‘No shit,’ Krisha swore to herself as she dodged yet another clumsy swing from a beastman’s weapon. Exposed, she drove her katana into the creature’s throat and cut upwards. Before its body even hit the ground, she leapt back as another took its place.

Wincing as the dawning sun momentarily blinded her, she moved onto her next foe.

Channeling the magic on her blade, Krisha swung, sending a ‘slice’ of enchanted air into the creature. Used against a human, [Air Cut] was enough to slice through the flesh and bone of up to two ranks of moderately armored men.

Against beastmen? It broke the skin, craved deep into its fleshy hide, but is hardly a killing blow. It stumbled back, clutching its bleeding chest, roaring in pain, but it still fought.

It took several more slashes, including one across the throat, for it to finally stay down.

Not that such a mess made it easier. There were so many corpses that the walls were a slick red. Mostly beastmen, pooling with humans, but that hardly made it any easier to maneuver around.

Maybe if she were thirty years younger….

Ugh… just thinking of her age made her joints ache. Those youngsters say it was a testament to her skills that even in her old age, she could move with the speed and grace she had. The kids were just being nice to her. She knew how far she'd fallen. In her current state, she was barely a match for an adamantite adventurer.

High praise for some, but not for a former member of the Black Scripture. In her prime, she could easily cut down a whole team of adamantites. Now she was an old lady with back pains. Oh how the mighty have fallen.

But why was Krisha, a citizen of the Slane Theocracy and retired Black Scripture member, here fighting for the Dragon Kingdom?

Simple: Because she was ordered to.

For years, it was custom for retired members of the Black Scripture who could still fight to be sent to the Dragon Kingdom to help protect it from the Beastman hordes. Documents were forged to give them the necessary credentials to show they were not members of the rank and file, but never where they truly got their experience and skill.

So here she was in Sistra, fighting the ‘good fight’ to protect humanity.

Truthfully, Krishi would rather be at home with her husband, but orders were orders.

Cutting down another pair of the monsters, the samurai tried her best to ignore the whining arrows flying past her. Sadly, she served too many tours in the Elf Kingdom to just not react to unseen arrows going by her. Every time it happened, she reflexively gripped her katana as if she were ready to parry.

Though it wasn't the arrows themselves that made her tense up, but the knife-ear sending them her way.

Perched on a roof some ways away, a one-eyed elf sent volley after volley of arrows into any creature who scaled the wall. Each one finding its mark in the eyes or jugular of its intended target.

Clearly a veteran of the War, had to lose her eye somehow, and the distrust was seemingly mutual from the few curt words exchanged between them as when they got to their positions. Given they were both apparently the best fighters in the city, they were grouped with one another by the main gate.

But the act did key her into how desperate the situation was if they put a knife ear and a Theocracy samurai together.

Not that it mattered.

Krishi eyed the battering rams rolling up to the gate, their crews barking orders to begin hitting the gates.

While the city proper was hardly going to fall the very moment the gate came down, the battle would devolve as the day went on. First into general street battles as the gates were breached, then into messy last stands as the defenders tried to take as many beastmen with them before they fell.

It would take hours, maybe even days, for the keep to fall. But it would eventually.

Their numbers were simply too great, and there was no army in sight to relive them.

So the only choice anyone in the city had, was to fight and die, or simply die-

Then something happened.

Lances of baleful light struck the ground just beyond the walls at several locations.

The beams dragged themselves across the field, burning and searing the land beyond the walls of life. Anything they touched, be it monster or nature, burned away into a cloud of ash from the slightest touch. Hell being as close as she was irritated her skin.

The beasts below squealed and roared in panic, but all was silent a mere seconds later.

And as suddenly as the beam came, they vanished.

But then a voice.

“People of Dragon Kingdom, do not be alarmed.”

It was a calm, soothing voice. It wasn’t spoken as much as it slithered its way into her mind. And going by the expressions of those around here, for them as well.

“What you just witnessed was my magic,” the voice continued, with a tone reminiscent of a parent trying to calm a child. “Magic I intend to use to save this city, and all who dwell within it.”

She heard people call out and saw them point to the sky above.

Several figures descended from above.

All, save one, reminded Krisha of the powerful type of angels the Black Scripture would employ on occasion for difficult undead or demonic foes. But something was off about them. While their weapons radiated holy energy, their wings were black as tar.

At the center of their ‘formation’, was a single figure; their summoner if Krisha had to guess.

He wore an eccentric, and exotic, looking black suit that would not be uncommon on a clerk or teller. Obvious modifications were apparent,

Krisha was more interested in the grimoire-like tome that floated beside him, its pages magically fluttering back and forth without any input from the caster.

He landed before the main gate, in a batch of blackened dirt where a beastman battering ram once sat. His ‘guard’ took positions around him both on the ground and above him as the beastman who survived the initial onslaught, or arrived at the scene after, charged them.

“I would ask you defenders to remain within the walls for the next few minutes,” he turned to face the walls to make his address, though the words still slithered into her mind. “Though my magic shall save you, it is indiscriminate. For your own safety, please remain within the walls.”

The figure raised his hand, conjuring a vast magical circle of such complexity Krisha briefly wondered if it was fourth or even fifth tier magic.

His reply was a roar, monstrous and cruel, the rang out from all the demi-humans who rushed the man to avenge their fallen.

The man sighed, angling the magic circle at the oncoming horde. And with a single spell, he ended them. “[Cry of the Banshee]”.

An ear biting screech rang out from the man, like the wail of a million souls crying out in agony. Glass shattered across the city as men and women everywhere clutched their heads in pain. The sound was enough to make some ears bleed.

The elf even almost fell off her position from the pitch and suddenness of the wail.

Yet as Krishi herself gritted her teeth through the pain she saw the demi-human horde that had charged the mysterious caster as one, now fell to the ground as one. Like puppets with their strings cut, they unceremoniously collapsed mid charge lifeless.

When the wailing finally stopped, the whole of the battlefield was silent as the grave.

As her ears rang with white noise, she saw a shadowy creature materialize before the caster. A wraith of some sort. It leaned forwards and clearly spoke something to the caster, but she couldn’t tell what. Her ears were still ringing too much to make sense of its words, and it had no lips to read.

The man looked to the forest beyond the clearing, towards where the garrison believed the Beastman’s siege camp was located.

As the ringing slowly died down, she could make out some words the man muttered to himself. Not as something whispered into her mind, but the quiet musings of the mundane sort. “Hmmm, is there still some left over there? How about…”

His real voice, if she heard right, was soft for a man, almost feminine.

The tome floated before the magic caster and pages flicked by one after another as the man looked through its contents for something.

“Where was it…Ah! There it is,” the pages snapped still. Holding the book in one hand, he conjured a magic circle in the other. “Maximize Magic. [Meteor].”

The book glowed and dimmed, then a loud boom crackled from above. Looking up, all were speechless as a great ball of fire appeared out of thin air and streaked its way through the sky. It soon struck the woodlands area with such a force that the ground shook as fire plumed into the air.

Smoke billowed up while everything burned as the flames spilled outward. Hot air raced past her head and blew into the city proper.

Such devastation…

The beastmen host that had routed an entire army, and was set to lay waste to the city was destroyed by two measly spells?

‘Three spells’ Krishi reminded herself, assuming those beams of magic from earlier were his as well. And just what tier was that magic? Fourth? Fifth? Sixth?

While she wanted to dismiss the last one as just a knee jerk reaction to see the magic up close, and the fact that a caster of such power existed without the Theocracy knowing about them, there was one thing that made her lean towards sixth tier being a possibility.

She eyed the book the caster held again, its cover neat, but featureless.

Having served in the Black Scripture for decades, Krishi was privy to more knowledge than most. Chief amongst them being the existence of powerful magical artifacts that could shake the very foundations of the World if used.

One she was intimately familiar with was [Downfall of Castle and Country], an divine dress that allowed the wearer to control any one creature regardless of their race or strength.

But there was one item she heard whispered about by members of the Sunlight Scripture, a magic tome they simply referred to as the [Nameless Book of Spells]. It is, supposedly, a grimoire once held by the Eight Greed Kings that held every spell in existence and allowed the owner to cast them at will; from the utterly mundane, to the magic of the Gods themselves.

She never really gave the thought any mind. If such a powerful item ever existed, it surely vanished when the Eight Greed Kings Empire fell. Maybe lost in some remote corner of the world, or stored away in a deep vault within that floating city of theirs.

But after seeing what she just witnessed, an army was put to route by a single caster and a handful of spells…

Well, she didn’t last a Black Scripture member for decades without being able to put aside personal assumptions or commonly held beliefs when faced with extraordinary evidence before her eyes.

Satisfied with his work, the caster ascended back into the sky, his angels moving with him.

“And so you are saved,” the man's voice whispered back into her head, taking an overly exaggerated bow. “While I would normally join you in celebration, there is still much work to be done to save this land from these creatures. Farwell.”

Moments later, the man flickered away in a soft flash of teleportation magic, his angelic guard flickering away shortly thereafter.

Rather than ‘celebrating’ the city was silent as the grave. Men and women looked to each other in shock, trying to parse together exactly what they had all just witnessed. From fear of complete annihilation at the hands of the Beastmen, to bewilderment at their ‘savior’ and the means he used to deliver them.

Yet as the first voices began to chat amongst themselves, almost as quiet as mice, Krishi concerned herself more with what her report to the Cardinals would entail.

--

--

“Remarkable!” Morrice heard the older man away from them shout in amazement. The wizen elder stood up from his seat and gawked at the projection. “That last spell had to be of the ninth- No! The Tenth Tier of magic! It had to be! It just had to be!”

“Tenth Tier magic, what was that guy on about?” Gram whispered to Morrice. “Doesn’t magic only go up to the sixth tier or something?”

“While I understand the desire to praise the Master, I must ask you to please remain quiet.” The Messenger attempted to calm the man down. “You are distracting the other viewers.”

“You can’t just expect me to be silent from such a display!” the old man countered. “Magic of the Gods was just performed before us, and you wish for silence!?”

“As I said, I understand your feelings, but please restrain yourself for the moment. There will be time to be in awe of the Master’s power until the demonstration is finished”

“It's not done?” Morrice found himself musing aloud. The guy killed an army of beastmen, assuming all this stuff was really happening. What else was there to do?

His question was answered as the projection changed to another city, also surrounded by Beastmen. Morrice barely had time to react before the very ground beneath the monstrous army was set alight. Fiendish blue flames engulfed the attacking force and burned them until nothing but bones and ash remained; the flames dying of their own accord as swiftly as they appeared.

Then, as soon as he arrived, the mage vanished and the projection changed again, yet another city and another army.

And so the process began to repeat. Venues flashing one after another.

A village, where the Beastmen were cut down by those angel like creatures, the very same type that led Morrice and the others to this place.

A battlefield, where a vast web of electricity zig-zagged across the Beastmen’s lines until all laid dead.

A fort, where the beasts broke into a ravenous frenzy and slaughtered one another until the last one standing slit its own throat.

And on, and on it went.

These weren't battles or engagements, this was a one sided slaughter by a force of nature.

“What the hell is this!” Erya pointed to the images. The worker had been revived per the Messenger's promise and placed in the back of the room. “You expect us to believe one guy is doing all of that?”

“I did not misspeak earlier, nor did I exaggerate,” the Messenger glanced at the samurai, an almost smug grin on his lips. “I said, the Master shall exterminate this threat, did I not?”

The man did it again.

And again.

And again.

Morrice wondered why the shock hadn't worn off even after the seventh display of awesome power. Armies swept aside. Sieges broken with the snap of his fingers. Encampments and forts burned to the ground with a flick of his wrist.

Hordes of demi-humans would fall to the ground in writing agony, or collapse as black tar like ooze burned through their hides from the inside.

There was no defense that could stop him, no attack that could slow him. Hell, he could scarcely understand what was even going on anymore.

Whatever it was, the various mages with the old man whispered frantically and giddily amongst themselves. For his part, the old man was quiet, but his mouth moved as he clearly was muttering to himself about something.

Then, without warning, the projection vanished. The various lanterns and candles flickered to life, and the sole figure who had performed such fantastical feats appeared before them on the elevated stage.

“I do hope I lived up to your expectations, Fluder Paradyne.” The man’s voice was far higher pitched, softer even, then Morrice assumed it would be.

But wait, that old guy was THE Fluder Paradyne? The Imperial Court Wizard was here? If he was here then was this something the Emperor knew about!?

“You exceeded them my Lord,” the wizard replied. “Truly you are a true God of Magic, a Supreme Being of the Tenth Tier!”

“Oh stop, you're going to make me blush-”

“What the hell are you?” Erya called out from his corner of the room.

Rather than smite the worker for speaking to him in that tone of voice, the caster chuckled.

“Now that is a fun question,” he replied, “I would say that I am ‘out of this world’, though I feel the correct phrase would be I am not ‘of’ this world.

“Not…of this world?” That threw Morrice for a loop.

“Well, it’s better to think of it as a ‘realm within a realm’ rather than another world,” the caster explained, looking down at Morrice. The man shivered from the sudden attention.

“Hmm, think of it like this, imagine a world where one could project themselves into simulacrums of their own design and partake in a number of activities without fear of anything. They could kill, die, war, trade, and so on in this manufactured realm of existence and suffer no consequences. After all, it isn't ‘real’.”

“But.. you…” Lowton didn't really understand. How can someone be real but ‘not’ real?

“Oh yes, I am real.” he patted his chest. “Very real. As real as any of you in this room. You see, some months ago, something happened that dragged me and others from Yggdrasil, that realm within a realm I mentioned, into your world. Well not just ourselves, but our weapons, items, and even fortresses in certain situations. We’re hardly the first to come to your world, and most likely will not be the last.”

‘Not the first, then who was-’

“But that is hardly relevant to the matter at hand,” he continued. “The other who came with me, a lich named Ainz Ooal Gown and his Tomb of Nazarick, is about to embark on a campaign of global conquest with the aid of his little menagerie of nightmares.”

“Jaldaboath,” Morrice realized what he was getting at. “You mean that demon is one of those people from this other realm of yours?” While he was still trying to come to grips with what the caster was saying, he understood enough to know that much.

“His name is actually Demiurge, but yes the very same,” he corrected the executive, “If not for my timely intervention, a fate far worse than death awaited you.”

“But all that stuff with the girl, and magic, and the attacks, and-”

“All fiction and irrelevant,” the man brushed aside Morrice’s concerns. “Demiurge has always had only one objective, to cause as much chaos and panic across the world to make their conquest go more smoothly. The narrative he spun for you was but a means to an end.”

“But why tell us all this?” That was the question he was trying to wrap his head around.

“Since one of his underlings has wronged you as well, I believe the phrase ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ fits this situation,” the mage explained. “You see, I told you, all of you, this to give each of you a simple choice: Serve me, help me counter this vile foe, and I shall empower you with abilities and items the likes of which you have never seen before.”

“Like what?” the samurai quipped again.

“For example…'' The caster held out his arm with an exaggerated flourish and magically ‘pulled’ Erya’s katana into his grasp.

“Hey! What the hell are you-” the worker’s protest quieted down when the caster enveloped the blade in some sort of light. It quickly dimmed, but the blade looked different, taking on a polished dark blue shine.

“Here,” the caster ‘threw’ the blade back to the worker, “consider this a ‘demonstration’ of what I can offer any of you.”

“What did you…” the question died on his lips as he examined the blade. Scrutiny quickly turned to surprise and disbelief. “Adamantite…”

What? Morrice stared at the blade. What was once dented steel was now polished dark blue. He’d seen the shine on enough adventurer plates to know it was indeed adamantite. A supremely valuable metal that was the strongest, and the rarest, in the world. Too rare to waste on simple weapons.

Yet here it was.

“Indeed,” the caster agreed, “I admit it’s hardly my best work, but I think it’s a quick enough example of a small fraction of my power. But I can provide more than simple parlor tricks for those who decide to serve me.”

While the gathered workers mutter to themselves, and the casters across the way with Fluder Paradyne remained strangely quiet on the matter, Morrice couldn't help but frown. Who calls creating adamantite out of thin air a ‘parlor trick’. Nations would go to war for something as powerful as that!

And that ‘trick’ also reminded Morrice of the girl that Jaldaboath, or Demiurge, was after. Was she also from that other realm? Same as this caster and that lich?

“But enough preamble and speeches,” his voice cut through the quiet mummers. “As I was saying. You all have a choice to make. Perhaps not today, but soon I would like you to answer it. From where I’m standing you have two choices before you: Either you join me, I reward you appropriately, and I protect you from the worst of Nazarick’s tender mercies. Or you take your chance in their world. All other paths for you have vanished.”

Before Lowton could even register what the man was offering, the caster spoke again.

“Oh, but where are my manners? Here I am going on and on about what I want, yet I haven’t even given you my name.” the caster chuckled and gave a mock bow. “You may call me Aiwass, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Looking at the caster’s, Aiwass’s, blank mask, Morrice felt a familiar sensation roll down his back.

Another ‘choice’ from another masked figure of inhuman origins.

--

--

“Well I think that all went well,” I took my first deep breath of fresh air in hours without the mask on. Thankfully back In Fluder’s office in Arwintar rather than my new castle filled with my new peons, and of course my precious homunculi.

Turns out, when you have enough philosopher stones, I can just churn out homunculi like some alchemical assembly line. Sure, for the time being they are basically divided between ‘servants’, ‘fighters’, and one ‘healer’, but it was a start. And although they are all basically copy and pasted appearance wise, they look WAY more human than Garry ever did. And they can even talk!

Still some kinks to work out, like giving them hair, and not looking like freakish albinos.

As for the other people, the normal ones who I saved from Demiurge's ‘Happy Farm’. I have faith that enough of them will accept my offer to justify saving them, and the potential (or I suppose inevitable) shitstorm of panic when news finally trickles back to Nazarick.

But eh, progress is made in steps, not sprints. Especially helped along by those books Tabula gave me. From pure Role Play to genuine spell books that could cast powerful magic and tell me how to do stuff.

It even gave me the idea to make a few of my creations ‘tailors’, that is I ‘imagined' them as such upon their ‘birth’, to make me this cool looking outfit. These clothes weren't all that powerful, even when I pumped them full of protection magic and enchantments, but it was a start.

Now if only I could find a way to ‘alter’ the appearance of that damn dress into something akin to a dress shirt without losing the World Item’s power…

“Indeed, My Lord,” Fluder agreed.

Fluder has been a super big help to me. Getting me that awesome castle, filling me into all that juicy information from the Dragon Kingdom to make my ‘appearance’ really stick, and even having his pupils run around doing mundane errands for me.

He let a few of them in on what is ‘really’ going on, like the ones who were at the castle with those Eight Fingers guys, but most were still in the dark about why they were running around doing ‘pointless’ errands.

“So how many do you think are going to try and backstab me?” I joked, trying, and failing, to spin the mask/helmet on my finger like a basketball. At least I managed to grab it before it hit the ground.

I mean, I did just give those guys a very watered down, and admittedly biased, version of events. If Fluder Paradyne could barely understand the concept of ‘astral projections’ being piloted in another realm, which themselves were sent to this current world, then I doubt some gangsters and assorted workers would.

And after they saw how powerful Demiurge was in his whole ‘Jaldaboath’ phase is, what better way to show them just how strong, and benevolent, I was while saving tens of thousands of lives, than by one-shotting entire armies over the course of a single morning?

Oh the irony. To save hundreds of thousands I slew tens of thousands. Thankfully this was hardly one of those morality questions where one chooses the lesser of two evils, I was literally saving people from being eaten by beastmen.

Oh no, how will I ever sleep at night knowing those literal man eating monsters are dead?

Somehow, I will just have to find the strength to carry on.

Yeah, what a joke.

Now, the next question for me is ‘how long do I wait before going to the Dragon Queen herself’? I mean I could just pop by today, but not only am I now feeling a tad lazy it would be counter productive. Since this was all part of a plan.

The Counter Nazarick’s Influence Plan was very simple.

Step 1: kill all the beastman attacking the Dragon kingdom.

Step 2: reveal myself as the person who saved the kingdom, and promise to do more for a favor (to be determined later).

Step 3: defeat the Beastman Kingdom.

Step 4: Gain the allegiance of the Dragon Kingdom to counter the future influence of Ainz, along with some other stuff.

Step 5: ???

Step 6: Profit.

Granted, it’s not a foolproof plan, but it’s a start.

“More than one would think logically possible,” Paradyne mused aloud.

“Fluder, that’s basically anything between one person and all of them,” I rolled my eyes. One of the downsides of ‘opening up’ to him was just how submissive the guy became. I mean I knew why, and after I just wiped out so many beastman I don’t blame him, but damn was it annoying.

“The mind is one of the few things I have never been able to fully comprehend, my Lord. It can work in ways that are objectively mad, but appear seemingly sound.”

Oh yes, it's now always ‘my Lord’ this and ‘Great One’ after I told him to never call me ‘Lady’ in private ever again.I joked that I would kill him and bring him back if he ever did that again. Sadly, I don’t think he took it as a joke.

“Moving on,” I side step to another topic, “how are your students taking to their new equipment?” Well, it’s hardly ‘new’. It’s the same stuff, just with some ‘minor’ enchanting work done in it for those few who were ‘in’ on why they were doing what they were tasked with. Mostly his prized ‘Chosen’.

Pretty sure each and every one of them was now a sixth tier magic caster thanks to all those staves I enchanted. Hardly enough to harm me, but more than enough to ensure their loyalty to Fluder, or me. Or at least their compliance so I can keep drip feeding them stuff.

“They are beyond grateful to you, Great One,” Fluder commented. “They are eager to prove that your trust in them is not misplaced.”

‘Trust…heh.’

The reason I gave them that stuff was because I don’t trust them to help me for no personal gain, but that's a whole different can of worms.

“Well that's good,” I had to hold in a yawn at the end of that sentence. I was tired, not so much from the fighting, but from not getting my beauty sleep for a few days now. And to be honest, it was more of a ‘reflex’ than any biological need to sleep. If I just ignored it I could probably stay awake indefinitely nowadays.

But I did enjoy the act well enough.

“I’m gonna turn in for the day,” I announce, stretching my arms and scooping up my mask. “We’ll talk more in a few days, just remember to have the stuff I asked for ready to go.”

One of the upsides of being able to transmute metal is that I didn’t actually have to ‘make’ any of the stuff I transmuted beforehand. How else was I to arm my new peons and homunculi without some ‘help’ occurring siad weapons and armor that were to be transmuted?

“Of course, my Lord.” the old man bowed.

Before I left, I did have a thought occur to me.

“By the way, Ainz is on his way to Arwintar,” I inform Fluder. I didn’t know for sure, I was just going off a mix of ‘gut feeling’ and ‘canon knowledge’. “There is a high likelihood that he will seek you out, like I did. If he does, humor him and let me know everything.”

“As you will, my Lord.”

WIth that, and a single thought, I teleported myself to my bedroom jumping face first into my bed, sinking into the sheets with a sigh.

Oooh weee, this was a long day. After working myself to the bone for a couple of days, making a literal army out of thin air, I think I was due some ‘couch potato’ time for a while.

But before I could even close my eyes for a minute, there was a knock on the door. A loud knock, that echoed across the house to where I was in the back.

Hmm, maybe Arche to see if I’m alright after all this ‘stuff’ a few days ago? Or maybe one of Jirchniv’s people?

It turned out to be neither.

It was worse.

Way, WAY, worse.

Her skin may no longer be cadaverously pale, her hair a shade of vibrant blonde, and her attire not some gothic lolita thing, but her slit crimson eyes and distinct voice made it impossible to mistake her for anyone else.

“Why hello there, fancy seeing you here,” the short vampire fluttered her eyes and tried to lean herself against a pillar on the patio in a suggestive pose. ”What is a beautiful woman such as yourself doing out here at this hour~”

“Shalltear…it's the middle of the day,” I blink at her, taking note of her unusual attire; that being ‘not fetish fuel’. Sure her skirt showed a bit of her thighs, but it was hardly revealing in the way I know she is capable of. “And my home. Besides, what are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you still be in Nazarick or something?”

Or just plain old not here!

“My, my, I could ask you the same thing, what are you doing here,” she didn’t acknowledge my comment, as if she were just going through something she rehearsed ahead of time.

“...I just told you, I live here,” I deadpan, resisting the urge to face palm.

“....Oh….I see,” my comment caused her to stutter, as if I had gone ‘off script’ from what she assumed I would say. That little hamster wheel in her head seemingly working overtime to process what to say next. “You don’t say….Well that’s…good”.

She stood there, without saying another word, her nervous fidgeting ruining any ‘sex appeal’ her suggestive posture intended. It was actually now just causing the odd passerby to just look at the weird short lady as they walked down the street.

This…was going to complicate things.