The day had started well enough.
Ainz, still under the guise of Rein, had begun integrating himself into the Adventurer's Guild. After submitting their first quest, he and Narberal were approached by a small group of Silver-ranked adventurers: the Sword of Darkness.
It wasn't their first meeting—they had previously crossed paths during a minor mission. Ainz had kept their interaction brief but courteous, enough to leave a neutral impression. Now, however, the adventurers seemed more curious.
"You two again," said Peter, the group's leader, offering a small smile. "Still don't look like you're from around here."
"You're way too elegant to be adventurers," added Lukrut with a teasing grin. "What's the deal? Nobles doing charity work?"
Narberal's face twitched. Ainz gave her a subtle glance—his silent command to remain composed.
"We're simply passing through," Ainz replied smoothly. "Call it... interest in the local customs."
Ninya, the group's magic caster, studied them closely. "You're strong. I can sense it. But you're holding back. Why?"
Ainz chuckled lightly. "Not hiding. Just cautious."
As the group continued chatting, something clicked in Ainz's mind. The name Bareare—he'd heard it recently. When Ninya mentioned the boy they were escorting, a young potion-maker named Nfirea Bareare, recognition struck.
Bareare... the name of the alchemist I helped. The grandmother—Lizzie.
His gaze lingered on Nfirea as he approached, now realizing why the boy's face seemed familiar.
So this is her grandson. Interesting.
Their conversation concluded with an agreement—they would take on a simple escort quest together. Nfirea needed to be delivered safely to Carne Village. The Sword of Darkness had accepted the mission, and Ainz saw it as an opportunity to gather more information and experience firsthand how local adventurers operated.
They set off the next morning.
The journey started peacefully. When monsters appeared, they were swiftly dealt with.
It was during one such encounter that Ainz had the opportunity to demonstrate his new battlemage capabilities.
A pack of ogres, emboldened by hunger, charged from the underbrush. Sword of Darkness leapt into action, but before they could strike, Ainz stepped forward.
"Allow me."
He lifted his hand, casting quickly and decisively.
"[Stone Shot]. [Fireball]. [Wind Cutter]."
His spellcasting was rapid—fluid, seamless, with almost no delay between incantations. Where most would struggle to chain even two spells quickly, Ainz flowed from one to the next like a seasoned warrior weaving sword strikes.
The ogres staggered under the barrage. One burst into flame, another was cleaved by air, a third was pummeled backward by stone.
"[Lightning Bolt]."
A crackling arc shot through the air, felling the last two.
In seconds, the battlefield fell silent.
The Sword of Darkness stared, awestruck.
"That was... tier four magic? But so fast..." Ninya whispered.
"Rein, that was amazing," Peter added. "I've never seen someone cast like that."
Ainz offered only a faint smile. "Battlefield efficiency. I was trained for it."
Narberal said nothing, but her eyes gleamed with quiet pride.
Despite the brief acquaintance, camaraderie began to form. Ninya seemed especially curious about Rein, often sneaking glances. She sensed something strange but didn't press.
Then they reached the fork in the road.
A storm was gathering.
They were ambushed just before dusk.
One moment, Nfirea had gone ahead to collect rare herbs. The next, a sharp cry split the quiet.
"Well, well. Adventurers. How quaint."
Clementine appeared like a shadow, her expression manic. Khajiit followed in silence, skeletal staff clutched in hand. Clementine had her dagger to Nfirea's neck.
"Move, and I twist," she said with a grin.
"Let him go!" Peter shouted, stepping forward.
She answered by stabbing Nfirea—not lethally, but enough to make him scream—then tossed him into Khajiit's grip.
Lukrut reached for an arrow—too slow.
His throat was cut cleanly. Blood sprayed.
"LUKRUT!" Dyne shouted, glowing staff raised.
A dagger plunged into his chest. A sickening crunch.
He collapsed without a word.
Peter, shaking with fury, charged.
Steel rang against steel.
But Clementine was laughing.
"This sword? Pretty dull. Like you."
She twisted inside his guard and drove a blade into his gut.
"Thanks for playing."
Peter dropped to his knees. "Nabe... Rein... run..."
He fell.
Khajiit grunted. "We have the boy. Let's go."
They vanished into the forest.
Ainz and Narberal arrived seconds too late.
Three corpses. One missing apprentice. Blood soaking into the road.
There was no rage. No heartbreak.
Just a weight.
Ainz stared at Peter's broken form. His undead heart couldn't ache—but something inside recoiled. It wasn't grief. Just... an awareness that something decent had ended.
Is this what loss feels like? A distant echo?
He remembered guildmates from Yggdrasil—campfires, laughter, bickering. Peter's bravery. Lukrut's ridiculousness. Dyne's sincerity. Ninya's thoughtful curiosity.
"Ainz... thanks for carrying us, even when we screwed up."
He clenched his gauntleted fist.
"Unpleasant," he murmured.
Narberal turned, awaiting orders.
"We'll retrieve Nfirea," he said. "And ensure those two never harm another soul."
She bowed. Her eyes burned with fury. The disrespect to her master's will, the insult of touching what belonged to Lord Ainz—it boiled inside her like a rising storm.
How dare they defile the grace of Nazarick with their filthy hands... Narberal thought, jaw clenched. They will suffer.
And though she said nothing, her silence was louder than screams.
Ainz wondered...
If I were still human... would I have cried?
He didn't know.
And that troubled him more than anything.
The forest around them was quiet—but not peaceful.
Ainz moved with a deliberate calm.
Clementine and Khajiit had a head start, but they were not particularly stealthy. After narrowing their location with tracking spells and Narberal's detection support, Ainz located a ruined mausoleum at the edge of the forest—perfect for a necromancer's lair.
As they entered, undead thralls swarmed toward them.
"Stay back," Ainz commanded.
He stepped forward and lifted a hand. Flames ignited at his fingertips.
"[Fireball]," he said quietly.
The explosion incinerated a dozen skeletons.
Another group of ghouls lunged.
"[Lightning]," he cast.
Electric arcs danced between corpses, leaving smoldering husks.
More enemies poured in—numbers increasing.
"[Ice Lance]."
Shards of frost pierced the next wave. Bones shattered.
His movements were measured. Each incantation tiered only between 1 and 5. He avoided high-tier magic on purpose—this was a field test.
He felt it—the rapid casting speed, the sheer force behind even low-tier spells.
So this is what a Battlemage feels like, he thought.
He walked calmly through the carnage, weaving spells like a martial artist would punches.
"[Wind Blade], [Flame Lance], [Chain Lightning], [Stone Shot]."
Khajiit's guardians broke against him like waves on steel.
The ruined stone trembled.
Deep within, Clementine waited, grinning.
"You're late," she cooed.
Ainz stepped into the chamber.
"And you're overconfident."
Her smile widened. "I like a man who talks big."
He didn't answer.
Because talking time was over.
***********
Clementine's wild grin stretched across her face as Ainz stepped into the chamber. The air was thick with blood and decay. Khajiit was nowhere to be seen—gone deeper, leaving her to play gatekeeper.
"About time," she said, licking her lips. "Thought you ran."
Ainz didn't respond.
His crimson eyes, gleaming behind the illusion of "Rein," locked on to her. Unblinking. Utterly calm.
"Tch. No snark? No begging for your life? Boring."
She charged.
Like lightning, she crossed the distance, twin daggers flashing in precise arcs—aimed at throat, chest, kidney. Kill spots.
But they didn't land.
Clang.
Her eyes widened. The blades didn't pierce. They didn't even scratch.
She staggered back. "Wh... what the hell is your armor made of?!"
Still, he said nothing.
Ainz took a step forward.
She lunged again—this time dancing around him, striking from the side, flipping midair, trying every technique in her assassin's book.
None of it worked.
She was fast.
He was unmoving.
And somehow, that was worse.
Wham.
A backhand caught her mid-spin.
She flew sideways, hitting a pillar with a crunch. Blood burst from her mouth. She coughed and wiped it, grinning through red teeth.
"Not bad... for a stiff."
She rolled to her feet and lunged again—this time feinting low and slicing at the back of his neck.
Ainz turned slowly.
And grabbed her by the throat mid-swing.
She froze. Not because she couldn't escape—but because she realized…
There was no strength in her limbs.
No control.
His grip wasn't tight. Just absolute.
Her feet kicked. She screamed. She stabbed wildly, but the blades bounced off his armor, falling to the ground with dull clinks.
"LET ME GO!" she shrieked.
Ainz raised her off the ground—just high enough that her eyes met his.
"I watched you murder people who trusted you," he said softly. "Mocked them as they died."
He tightened his grip slightly.
"You enjoyed their fear."
Her eyes bulged. She tried to scream again—but no air escaped.
Ainz's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Now feel it yourself."
He slammed her into the stone wall. Once. Then again. Then again.
Crack.
Her shoulder shattered. She whimpered.
Ainz didn't stop.
He dragged her across the stone, slamming her spine against the pillars—again and again, with methodical cruelty. Her body broke—bones crushed, joints twisted. She stopped struggling.
Only then did he let her fall.
She hit the ground in a crumpled heap, twitching. Barely conscious. Bloodied. Unrecognizable.
Coughing blood, she reached out, a single finger scraping against his boot.
"Y-you… bastard…"
Ainz looked down at her.
Cold. Detached.
He raised a hand—and she flinched, expecting a spell.
Instead, he whispered:
"…You're not even worth using magic on."
And then, as a final mockery—
He flicked his fingers.
"[Dust Cleanse]."
A weak, utility spell—used to clean dirty clothing.
It washed the blood off his gauntlet.
Not her.
Her filth wasn't worth leaving behind.
She was beneath even his wrath.
*****************
The deeper Narberal descended into the mausoleum, the thicker the air became—choked with death magic and rotting mana. Shadows clung to the crumbling walls like mold. The scent of decay seeped into her robes.
She didn't flinch.
She didn't wrinkle her nose.
Disgust, yes. But not fear.
She was not here to breathe.
She was here to execute.
A wave of ghouls lunged from the darkness.
"[Lightning Field]."
A pulse of electric magic detonated from her form. The first rank of undead ignited like tinder, bones popping, flesh blackening into ash. The second wave hesitated.
That was all the time she needed.
Narberal raised her hand, her voice cold and sharp:
"[Blitz Lance]."
A concentrated beam of lightning tore through the tunnel, piercing four ghouls and blasting a smoking crater into the far wall. Her footsteps didn't slow.
Then she saw him.
Khajiit stood atop a ritual dais—pale, gaunt, skeletal. His black robes shimmered with cursed runes. Behind him, Nfirea lay unconscious, tied to a sacrificial slab surrounded by slowly coalescing miasma.
"You're too late!" Khajiit shrieked, arms raised. "With his blood, I'll complete the ritual! I'll transcend this mortal flesh and become—"
"—vermin."
Khajiit froze.
Narberal's voice cut through the air like frost.
"You dare defile magic… with this pathetic imitation of immortality?"
He snarled. "You don't understand the power I'm about to—"
"[Silent Lightning Spear]."
No incantation. No delay.
The spell surged from her fingertips like divine judgment, a spear of white-hot voltage that shattered his barrier with a single strike and plunged into his shoulder.
Khajiit howled, stumbling back. His flesh smoked.
"I am a servant of death!" he bellowed. "You can't kill what's already halfway gone!"
Narberal stepped forward, her heels clicking across the stone.
"I am Narberal Gamma," she said, electricity dancing around her. "Battle maid of Nazarick. A Supreme Being has given you a place…"
Khajiit's eyes widened.
"…At the bottom of a grave."
He roared and summoned a wave of zombies from the surrounding alcoves—dozens of them, shrieking, clawing, howling.
Narberal raised one hand.
"[Chain Dragon Lightning]."
The storm answered her call.
A massive serpent made of lightning roared from her palm, leaping from target to target. The undead screamed as they were electrocuted mid-lunge, their bodies exploding one after another.
She walked through the lightning storm as if it were a spring breeze.
Khajiit tried one last trick.
He drew in the miasma, his body bulging with unnatural strength. "Then DIE WITH ME!"
He rushed at her, claws raised, eyes wild.
Narberal didn't blink.
She tilted her head.
Then raised her hand—and snapped her fingers.
"[Anti-Life Cocoon]."
Black tendrils erupted from the ground, wrapping around Khajiit's form like living wires. They drained not just his mana, but his life, his undeath, and even the ambient necromantic field he clung to.
He screamed.
But it wasn't fear.
It was the realization that nothing he was—nothing—could compare to her.
"I pity you," Narberal whispered.
"No... I... I was going to be a king—!"
His body withered.
His voice broke.
Then silence.
Khajiit Dale Badantel, necromancer of E-Rantel, crumbled into ash.
Narberal approached the altar.
With a flick of her fingers, the bindings on Nfirea dissolved. She placed two fingers on his neck—he was alive. Unharmed.
She looked at the boy, unconscious and oblivious.
Then she looked back at the pile of ashes.
"Touch what is Lord Ainz's again," she muttered, "and I'll erase your soul from history."
Even though he was gone, she meant it.
*****************
Narberal arrived moments later, dragging Khajiit's corpse behind her like trash. She said nothing upon seeing the remains of Clementine. She only bowed.
"My lord."
Ainz nodded once. "Dispose of them."
Outside, as the forest grew still once more, Ainz looked toward the distant stars.
He felt nothing. Not joy. Not justice.
Only silence.
The kind that came after a storm had passed—and buried the guilty in its wake.