The distortion faded.
When Lock completed the spell, space folded neatly back into place, and he found himself standing within a familiar chamber.
The room was furnished with deliberate restraint. A crimson carpet embroidered with dark roses absorbed sound beneath his feet. A desk of rare hardwood stood against the wall, illuminated by a softly glowing lamp bound with a permanent light enchantment. Beyond the window, the night sky stretched cold and distant.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound was light, disciplined—precisely measured.
"Enter," Lock said.
The door opened without haste.
A young woman stepped inside, nineteen at most, dressed in a maid's uniform tailored with care. Her brown hair was gathered beneath a headscarf, her complexion unblemished, her blue eyes calm and observant. There was nothing servile in her bearing.
Vier Antley.
The head maid of the border castle, responsible for Lock's daily affairs.
She had once been the fourth daughter of a wealthy merchant—unwanted, unprotected, and therefore expendable. Her father had offered her to Lock as tribute, believing the gesture would secure favor with the nobility.
He had miscalculated.
Not only had Vier failed to benefit her family through her position, but she had also instead methodically extracted value from it. Contracts, loans, quiet leverage—nothing illegal, nothing overt. The merchant still lived comfortably, but only so long as he obeyed.
Fatal mistakes were unnecessary. Control was enough.
Lock had noticed early on: her smile was serene, elegant—and never empty.
"What is it?" he asked.
Vier inclined her head. "Master. Regarding the unrest along the E-Rantel border you previously inquired about, there has been movement. According to our sources in Yepesber, the Kingdom's Warrior Captain has departed with his personal unit. Their route will bring them past this castle tomorrow."
Lock's gaze sharpened.
"I see. Inform the knight to observe their movements. When the captain arrives, detain him politely. Say I possess information regarding Imperial troop movements and wish to speak."
"It has already been arranged," Vier replied.
Silence followed.
Lock turned his eyes toward her. "I do not recall authorizing such preparations in advance. Acting independently can be… misinterpreted."
Vier raised her head slowly.
Her smile bloomed—measured, confident, edged with quiet danger.
"A maid who anticipates her master's intent lightens his burden," she said softly. "You have been attentive to the border situation for some time. You would never ignore an opportunity to observe the Kingdom's response directly. And Gazef Stronoff—the Warrior Captain tasked with suppressing the unrest—would naturally become your point of interest."
She paused, eyes unwavering.
"Given your position, this may be the only chance to approach him without arousing suspicion. Am I mistaken, Master?"
Lock studied her.
Carefully.
So this was how far her perception extended now.
He had long since dismissed the notion that the people of this world were simple-minded. The peasants might be constrained by circumstance, but those who survived near power learned quickly—or were erased.
Vier Antley had learned.
She met his gaze without flinching. Any other noble might have taken offense. This one did not rule by tantrum or cruelty.
She had understood that from the beginning.
Lock was powerful—his command of magic unquestionable, his martial ability refined beyond local standards. And yet, there was a faint restraint in him. Not mercy. Calculation.
To Vier, that restraint signified potential.
She had once believed her arrival at this castle marked her descent into ruin. Instead, she had discovered something far more valuable: a man standing atop buried strength, surrounded by secrets he neither flaunted nor squandered.
That made him dangerous.
And interesting.
Far from the border castle, upon the plains separating the Kingdom from its neighbors, the land itself began to change.
Moonlight slid across empty grassland.
Then space trembled.
A phantom outline emerged, faint and unreal, before solidifying with crushing inevitability. Circular walls rose from the earth, enclosing a vast perimeter. The wild grass vanished, replaced by packed soil as though the land had always been shaped this way.
At the center stood a structure resembling a temple—solemn, ancient, and oppressive.
It was neither illusion nor fortress.
It was an entrance.
The guild headquarters of the heteromorphic guild Ainz Ooal Gown.
The Great Tomb of Nazarick.
Deep within the tomb, beneath layers of death and devotion, lay a grand hall draped in silence. Banners bearing unfamiliar sigils hung motionless. Chandeliers of arcane make a dim, somber light.
Upon a massive throne of crystal sat a skeletal figure clad in a black robe trimmed with gold. An aura of despair radiated from him, dense enough to suffocate the air itself. Within his ribcage rested a crimson orb—perfect, radiant, and ominous.
Before him knelt a woman of impossible beauty, dressed in white.
Closer inspection revealed the truth.
Curved horns rose from her head. Black feathered wings extended from her waist.
She was not human.
And she never had been.
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