[The Frozen Prison on The 5th Floor]
The air in the Frozen Prison did not merely chill the skin; it bit into the bone, a necrotic cold designed to sap the will of any living creature unfortunate enough to be interred within.
Lying upon the ice was the girl known to the New World as "Zesshi Zetsumei"—the Extra Seat of the Black Scripture.
She was broken. Her breathing was ragged, her equipment shattered, her consciousness drifting in the dark waters of defeat.
Mare Bello Fiore stood over her, his mismatched eyes narrowing in a rare display of grave seriousness. He clutched his staff, Shadow of Yggdrasil, his knuckles white.
"Ainz-sama," Mare's voice trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of his report.
"During the combat... she used them. Einherjar. And then... The Goal of All Life is Death."
The crimson flames within Ainz Ooal Gown's empty eye sockets flared.
To a native of this world, these might be mistaken for random powerful abilities. But to a Player, the implication was catastrophic. The timing, the sequence—it was too precise.
It suggested she possessed a Talent capable of copying the trump cards of others. And for her to have copied those specific skills, she must have been present at the most shameful moment in Nazarick's history: the duel between Ainz and the brainwashed Shalltear .
"I see."
Ainz's voice was calm, a deep baritone that betrayed nothing. However, inside his ribcage, the frantic heart of Suzuki Satoru was pounding a phantom rhythm.
(This is bad. This is very, very bad. If she saw that fight, she knows my weaknesses. She knows we can be killed. But more importantly... if she was there...)
"I shall verify it myself."
Ainz extended a skeletal hand toward the unconscious girl. He did not hesitate. This was no time for half-measures or moral debates.
"[Control Amnesia]."
The 10th Tier spell took hold instantly. Ainz's consciousness dove into the murky sludge of the girl's mind. It was a chaotic mess of pain and recent trauma, but Ainz pushed deeper, swimming against the current of her thoughts, searching for a specific memory.
There, the image was hazy, fragmented like a cracked mirror, but the signature was unmistakable.
He saw them. A group of humans in strange gear. The Black Scripture.
And in the hands of an old woman in a cheongsam... he saw it.
A dress. A pattern. An aura that defied the laws of this world.
Downfall of Castle and Country.
The connection snapped. Ainz withdrew his hand, the spell fading.
The silence that descended upon the Frozen Prison was heavier than the ice itself.
Ainz finally knew.
He knew the identity of the insolent fools responsible for the Shalltear incident.
It was them. The Slane Theocracy.
They were the bastards who had violated the sanctity of the Great Tomb. They were the ones who had dared to brainwash a Guardian—a beloved child created by his dear friend, Peroroncino. Furthermore, they were the ones who had forced Ainz to kill his own friend's child with his own hands.
A sudden, violent surge of emotion erupted within him. It was a roaring inferno of hatred, a desire to grind their civilization into dust, to make them scream for eternity—
Vwoom.
A gentle green light enveloped his skeletal body. The passive racial skill of the Overlord activated, forcibly suppressing the emotional spike. The roaring fire vanished, replaced by a cold, crystalline clarity.
But the suppression only removed the agitation. It did not remove the intent. The sediment of hatred remained, hard and immovable as bedrock.
"Albedo."
"Yes, Ainz-sama!" The Guardian Overseer stepped forward, sensing the shift in the air.
"The Slane Theocracy is to be destroyed."
Ainz's voice was soft, yet it carried the absolute weight of a death sentence. "Immediately."
Albedo's eyes went wide. Her breath hitched, and a flush of terrifying ecstasy rose to her cheeks. To receive a direct order for war—total war—from her beloved master was a joy beyond measure.
"Understood, Ainz-sama! I shall mobilize the All Forces of Nazarick at once! We will scour their land until not even ash remains!"
She bowed deeply, trembling with delight, and turned to hurry away to execute his will.
As he watched her retreating back, the
suppression wore off slightly, and the familiar, human panic of Suzuki Satoru bubbled up in his chest.
(Ah. Wait. Hold on. Was that too fast?)
His internal monologue began to race, his imaginary stomach doing somersaults.
(Albedo and Demiurge... they definitely had a plan. A detailed, multi-year plan to subvert the Theocracy, incite civil unrest, and take it over economically, right? By ordering an immediate destruction, I've probably ruined months—maybe years—of their hard work. I just threw their "Sasuga Ainz-sama" schemes right out the window!)
He felt a pang of guilt. As an administrator, he was a failure. He had let his emotions dictate policy. He had just increased the workload of his subordinates exponentially because he couldn't control his temper.
(I really am a terrible boss, aren't I?)
But then, another thought surfaced. A colder, older thought.
Even as the self-doubt of the salaryman lingered, the persona of the Guild Master refused to yield. Even if it was strategically unsound, even if it was inefficient... The destruction of the Theocracy was non-negotiable.
Before he was a Ruler of Death, before he was the Sorcerer King, he was the Guild Master of Ainz Ooal Gown.
(If a guild member is harmed by an outsider, the guild must pay absolute retribution upon the offender.)
This was the ironclad law of YGGDRASIL. It was the pact he had made with Touch Me, with Ulbert, with Peroroncino.
If they allowed outsiders to hunt them without consequence, the cohesion of the group would shatter. They were a guild of heteromorphic monsters, the villains of the game. They protected their own because the world hated them.
This fierce loyalty was the foundation of their strength. Upholding it was not just a choice; it was his greatest responsibility as the keeper of their legacy.
Therefore, Ainz's anger was righteous.
It was an anger that went beyond mere emotion; it was a structural necessity of his existence.
"The Slane Theocracy..."
Ainz spoke again. The temperature in the room seemed to drop to absolute zero. Behind him, even Mare and Aura—powerful Level 100 NPCs—felt a shiver run down their spines. The pressure emanating from their master was not magical; it was the sheer weight of his malice.
"We will show them the folly of their actions,"
Ainz declared to the empty air, his red eyes burning with a cruel light. "They shall learn, in their final agonizing moments, what happens when you steal from a pack of wolves."