The Village of Carne
3rd POV
A storm of dread loomed over Carne Village.
They gathered in silence—dozens of villagers herded like sheep, hearts pounding as the stench of blood and ash tainted the air. Men and women clutched one another, shielding their children beneath the old wooden watchtower, as if timber and faith alone could protect them from death.
Metal boots struck the earth.
A lone man broke into a desperate sprint, eyes wild with terror, lungs burning. Behind him, an armored knight bellowed, sword raised high, ready to cleave down the peasant like wheat in the wind—
Until the ground trembled.
A roar—deep, guttural, inhuman—ripped through the air.
CLANG!!
The knight's blade met something harder than steel.
Then came the scream.
"AAAAAAARRGGHH!!"
From behind him, it emerged.
A towering, armored juggernaut of death, encased in ancient blackened plate, its presence thick with decay. A crimson haze bled from beneath its visor like smoke, and its ragged cape dragged through the bloodied soil. Each step sent vibrations through the earth.
It raised a jagged shield.
BOOM!
The knight went flying like a rag doll, crashing into a wooden home. The wall exploded inward. Silence followed.
And then—panic.
Screams.
The villagers backed away, trembling. Even the remaining soldiers, clad in their polished Re-Estize armor, hesitated.
One knight made the mistake of running.
Too late.
The Death Knight shimmered—no, vanished, like smoke—and reappeared ahead of him.
A blur. A hiss.
SHHHHNK!
A single, sweeping arc of its sword, and the knight's body fell into halves.
Armor. Bone. Flesh. Cleaved as though made of parchment.
A cry erupted behind—the second knight lunged, attempting a sneak attack.
"RAAAGH!!"
CRACK!
His sword snapped like a twig against the Death Knight's shield.
His eyes went wide.
"Wh... what?"
WHAM!
The Death Knight's gauntleted fist collided with his chest. Ribs shattered. His body crumpled like cloth.
A knight to the far rear dropped his sword and turned to flee, boots slipping in mud—
He never made it more than five steps.
The Death Knight blinked across the field, reappearing silently like a phantom. Its glowing eyes locked onto the fleeing man.
"It's not just killing us..." a whisper from the sidelines. "It's hunting us. And it's enjoying it."
"Gods... gods help us."
"We're already in hell," another breathed.
Then, a pompous screech tore through the chaos.
"DO SOMETHING, YOU FOOLS!!"
The voice belonged to a portly knight in polished silver armor, festooned with jewelry.
Sir Bellious.
"Kill it! KILL IT! You! You there—be my shield!"
"Sir Bellious, we must fall back—"
"Shut your mouth! I didn't come to this dungheap to die!"
His eyes darted, sweat streaming. He saw what the Death Knight had done—limbs, blood, scattered weapons.
And then, he saw it looking at him.
Bellious turned pale.
"I... I have gold!" he shrieked, backing away. "Two hundred coins! Five hundred! A thousand!"
The Death Knight didn't speak.
Didn't even pause.
Only advanced.
A bony hand reached from the dirt—one of the knight's own comrades, now undead, clutched his ankle.
Bellious shrieked, flailing.
SLASH!
The Death Knight stabbed—not once. Not twice.
Six times.
Each thrust more brutal than the last. The nobleman's screams were drowned by the wet sound of metal tearing through flesh.
His hand reached out, trembling.
"For...give...me..."
One final stab. Then silence.
The battlefield grew still.
The remaining knights trembled, some sobbing, others praying.
And then—
A shadow fell across the carnage.
A presence.
Every head turned upward.
He descended from the sky—not with wings, nor magic flames—but with serene, soundless grace. The very air seemed to still around him.
He wore robes of flowing white and silver, embroidered in a motif of crescent moons and falling stars. His hair—long, silver, ethereal—cascaded behind him like a celestial veil. Upon his brow, a moonlit crest shimmered with divine calm.
And his eyes—golden, slitted, ageless—swept across the corpses, the blood, the terror.
Sesshōmaru Bartlett had arrived.
He landed lightly upon the soil.
Unhurried.
Unshaken.
A black-armored woman hovered silently behind him—her gaze unreadable, yet reverent.
He spoke.
Low. Calm. Absolute.
"I am Sesshōmaru of the Western Kingdom. I came seeking dialogue—an invitation to trade. What I found was barbarism. You came to conquer. You will leave broken."
His golden gaze turned to the knights.
"This village now belongs to me."
A pulse of pressure.
A spectral presence loomed behind him—an enormous white dog spirit, larger than any beast of man, materializing in divine fury.
Its ghostly form crackled with power. Its fangs bared. Its howl pierced through soul and sky alike.
"Should you return," Sesshōmaru whispered, "I will end your kingdom."
The knights didn't flee.
They scrambled—dropping swords, trampling each other to escape the village like rats from a sinking ship.
Later, in the chief's home…
Sesshōmaru stood tall, silent as the village elder wept before him.
"You... you saved us," the old man choked. "We are nothing... and you... you are—"
"A guardian," Sesshōmaru said simply. "Nothing more."
He turned and stepped outside, raising his fingers to his temple.
{Mission complete.}
A voice crackled back—deep and composed.
{You work quickly, as always,} said Ainz Ooal Gown, amused. {Did they resist?}
{Briefly. They no longer do.}
{And the paperwork you sent—}
{Finish reading before you act. The politics here are delicate.}
Silence.
Then: {Understood. You always see ten moves ahead...}
Sesshōmaru cut the connection.
He looked up.
The sky was darkening—but the village, even amid its scars, had begun to shine with life again.
He turned his gaze to a young girl sobbing beside a bloodied body—her mother.
Without a word, Sesshōmaru raised his hand.
A soft light gathered around him. White. Gold. Sacred.
The villagers stared as wings of pure light blossomed from his back—each feather glowing like starlight. He rose slightly into the air, casting radiance across the village square.
A rain of light fell.
It bathed the bodies of the fallen. Bones knit. Wounds sealed. Breath returned to lifeless chests.
One by one, the dead stirred. Families screamed—not in terror, but joy.
The child cried louder now—because her mother was breathing.
Alive.
She ran to Sesshōmaru and clung to his leg, sobbing.
"You saved her... y-you saved us all..."
Sesshōmaru knelt, gently placing a hand on the child's head.
"Be still. This village is yours once more."
The villagers surrounded him—some weeping, others whispering prayers.
He said nothing more.
He simply stood, turned his back, and began to walk toward the forest.
In the days to come, tales would spread.
Not of a knight. Not of a king.
But of a silver-haired demon lord wrapped in moonlight, who appeared when hope was lost—and left nothing but salvation in his wake.