Helping Momonga build his character was a bit like watching a goth theater kid try to design a raid tank.
Entertaining. Weirdly poetic. Occasionally worrying.
"I want to be a walking symbol of inevitable death," Momonga had said earnestly. "Like, you know, someone who's already lost their humanity, and now walks the land with cold dignity and a tragic aura."
Sin nodded slowly. "Okay… but what are you going to do when someone throws a spear at you?"
"…I hadn't thought that far."
It became a group project.
Momonga's aesthetic goals were clear: undead, mysterious, dignified, and intimidating—but not in a tryhard edge-lord way. More like a polite skeleton with deep internal sadness and the capacity for catastrophic violence.
Touch Me called it "classy crypt keeper vibes."
Sin, being Sin, immediately opened four spreadsheets and built him a hybrid caster-tank setup. "We're going full utility deathlord," he declared. "You'll have enough AoE control to deter PKs, enough boss damage to get raid slots, and you can still monologue in cutscenes like a cursed philosopher."
Momonga almost cried.
Together, they guided him through the racial path:
Elder Lich → Death Priest → Eclipse Necromancer, with optional branches toward Ruler of the Dead or Soulbinder depending on whether he wanted more PvP or PvE utility later.
He ended up with a build that could:
Summon skeletal knights and fog beasts
Drain mana from enemies
Use plague-based debuffs that scaled with his RP karma score
And—his personal favorite—cast [Death's Quiet Parade], a spell that dealt damage based on how many words he said in the last 30 seconds.
"Finally," Momonga said, misty-eyed. "My monologuing has meaning."
It wasn't just helping a newbie. It was creating something together.
And Sin, despite his god-tier skill, felt strangely proud. There was something satisfying about turning someone's weird little death RP dream into a viable PvP build.
"You're strong now," Sin said. "You've got defenses, nukes, utility, and more lore than the actual game."
"Thanks," Momonga replied. "I can't believe I almost quit."
Sin gave a soft chuckle. "We don't let skeletons die around here."
A few days later, their ranks expanded again.
Amanomahitotsu, a heteromorphic smithing fanatic with six arms and a voice like a sleepy blacksmith deity, joined the party. He was quiet, blunt, and had somehow already maxed his crafting skills before reaching combat level 50.
He forged Sin a pair of radiant vambraces that passively auto-cleansed debuffs and looked like angelic wings when activated.
"I love you," Sin said flatly.
"I accept payment in ore and silence," Amanomahitotsu replied.
Now, with nine members total, the system finally sent them the alert:
You have met the requirements to form a clan.
Would you like to register a name?
They paused.
Then panicked.
"Okay, real talk," Nishikienrai said. "What do we call our clan of misfits, recluses, and hideous avatars?"
"The Church of Single Pringles," Wish III suggested via text-to-speech.
"Rejected," Ancient One said. "That's too accurate and I hate it."
"Justice Reborn?" Touch Me offered.
"Cringe," Takemikazuchi muttered.
They threw out name after name. Some were cool, some were cursed, some were jokes so inside even they forgot the origin.
Momonga shyly suggested "The Unseen Hand of Death's Gentle Touch."
Everyone stared.
"We're not naming our clan like a fanfic from 2004," Sin deadpanned.
Eventually, they landed on something simple.
It was Touch Me who said it.
"…What about Nine's Own Goal?"
There was a pause.
Then Wish III typed: "Like a self-own, but make it existential."
"It sounds like we messed up on purpose," Ancient One said thoughtfully.
"We kind of did," Nishikienrai added. "We're a bunch of rejects who got hunted down and accidentally formed a support group."
Sin looked up. "It's poetic."
"Really?" Momonga asked.
"No," Sin said. "But it sounds metal, and we're out of ideas."
And so it was.
They became Nine's Own Goal.
With the clan system unlocked, the game now asked them for a clan leader.
Everyone slowly turned to Sin.
He glared at them. Or at least, they felt like he was glaring.
Technically, Sin had no face. His avatar was a floating, angelic entity made of light and judgment. But somehow, without eyes or expression, he radiated a crystal-clear message:
Absolutely not.
So they turned to Touch Me.
"Wait—me?" he asked.
"You brought us all together," Ancient One said.
"You save people even when they call you cringe," Nishikienrai added.
"You're the only one of us who knows how taxes work," Takemikazuchi pointed out.
"And," Sin said, voice dry, "you're the only one here who isn't rotting alone in bachelor hell."
Touch Me groaned. "I swear to god, you guys…"
"You will suffer with us," Wish III typed. "We demand it."
"Yeah," Nishikienrai said. "If we have to live in the eternal void of loneliness, we are dragging your happy-ass relationship down with us."
Momonga coughed politely. "I've never had a girlfriend."
Touch Me sighed. "Fine. But if my girlfriend breaks up with me over this, you all owe me a cake."
"You'll be one of us," Sin said ominously. "A cake won't save you."
And so, with far too much irony and far too little planning, Nine's Own Goal was born.
Nine players. All strange, all brilliant, all lonely in their own way.
A clan made up of outcasts, monsters, roleplayers, pros, and nerds.
One actual hero.
One secret legend.
And a skeleton who just wanted to be taken seriously.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was home.