CHAPTER VI: THE CHRYSALIS PROTOCOL
Lionel rose from the earth—slow, deliberate, inexorable—like something crawling from its grave. Dirt clung to him, particles of dead world sticking to living flesh. He brushed them away with movements too precise, too measured. Too inhuman.
The night sky stretched overhead, infinite and indifferent. His eyes—those super-enhanced orbs that saw too much, always too much—caught movement. Two shapes, dark against a darker sky, falling like fallen angels toward the earth.
Thump.
They landed before he could focus, before he could see.
"What in the—" His voice died. No. Questions were pointless. Action was everything.
The crow. Yes. Always watching, always waiting. He sent it forth through the invisible threads of Hive Mind, puppet master pulling strings made of thought and virus and hunger.
The crow—oh, the beautiful, terrible crow—was no longer just a bird. The T-Virus had blessed it, transformed it, made it more. Larger. Faster. A winged nightmare wrapped in midnight feathers. It cut through the air like a black knife through black silk.
Minutes crawled by like wounded things.
Then—connection. Vision splitting, doubling, tripling as Lionel's consciousness slithered into the crow's skull.
"Ainz... Ooal... Gown."
The name fell from his lips like stones into still water. Plop. Plop. Plop.
There—a skeleton standing in warrior's garb, all wrong, all different from what he remembered. No flowing robes of a sorcerer-king, but armor fit for close combat. And beside him, that tomb, that structure, sitting in the wilderness like a monument to forgotten gods.
Lionel yanked himself free from the Hive Mind with the violence of a drowning man breaking surface.
His feet pounded against the ground—thud-thud-thud-thud—carrying him toward the Laboratory with desperate urgency. Someone out there could fight them. Someone out there was strong.
The thought tasted like copper and fear.
He spent the night in feverish creation, hands moving, mind racing, plans forming and reforming like mercury in his palms. Faster. He needed to become faster. Stronger. More.
Morning came with all the subtlety of an execution.
Lionel stood in the control room, surrounded by screens and switches and the soft electric hum of power. Perfect. The plan was perfect.
His finger found the intercom button—click—and his voice rolled out through every speaker, every corridor, every chamber of his sprawling domain.
"Derek Simmons. Carla Radames. Deborah Harper." Each name is a summons. Each syllable is a command. "The laboratory. Now."
The Resident Evil 6 map stretched too far, too wide. He'd learned that lesson already. Let them come to him.
He waited.
And waited.
And then—
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Footsteps approaching. Three sets. Synchronized. His children, his creations, come when called like good little monsters.
Lionel connected them to the Hive Mind before they could even speak, flooding their consciousness with the crow's vision: villagers working, sweating, struggling in their pathetic human limitations.
"Tell me." His voice was silk over steel. "What do you see?"
Deborah spoke first, voice small and timid as always. "Mortals."
Boring.
Carla next, sharper, colder: "Weak mortals that need to be dealt with immediately."
Warmer.
Then Simmons—ah, Simmons—with that delicious contempt dripping from every word: "Slow and vulnerable lowlifes that serve no use to us whatsoever."
Lionel's smile split his face like a wound. "Close, Simmons. So close." He conjured a C-Virus sphere in his palm, that beautiful ball of spikes and infection, watching it rotate, spin, dance. "But they still have purpose."
He held it up like a priest holds communion, backlit by fluorescent laboratory lights.
"With your work—yours and Carla's—the C-Virus will transform them. Stronger. Faster. Better." The words came out in a rhythm, a cadence, a dark prayer. "More efficient. Less costly. Less... human."
The doors hissed open—sssssshhhhhhh—revealing the path outside.
"Follow me," Lionel beckoned, turning with theatrical flair. "Let's watch these highly incompetent people become our first foothold in this world. Our first victory."
They followed. Of course, they followed. They always followed.
The village waited, unknowing and unworthy.
The chieftain saw Lionel approaching and smiled—that foolish, trusting, doomed smile. It almost made Lionel laugh. Almost made him feel something approximating pity.
Almost.
He strode to the town square with the confidence of a conqueror, gathering the villagers like sheep to slaughter. They came willingly, eagerly, stupidly.
"Now that you're all here..." Lionel raised his arms like a maestro before an orchestra. "Let us begin the ritual. Your complete devotion to Mother Miranda!"
Ten C-Virus spheres materialized in the air, him—pop-pop-pop-pop-pop—each one a promise, a threat, a transformation.
He hurled them skyward with savage joy.
Time seemed to slow, to stretch, as Lionel morphed his hand into a shield of living Mold—squelch-crack-reform—protecting Simmons, Carla, and Deborah from what came next.
The spheres exploded.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
Not with fire, but with something worse. Something wet. Needles of crystallized virus rained down like God's own vengeance, each one seeking flesh, finding flesh, penetrating flesh.
"Now you'll be productive!" Lionel laughed—high and wild and free. "No more negotiations. No more rest. No more humanity!"
The screaming began.
Oh, the screaming.
It started as human—shock and pain and confusion—but quickly degraded into something else. Something animal. Something wrong.
Bodies writhed on the ground like worms on hooks. Skin bubbled and burst and reformed. Eyes multiplied across faces like tumors of sight—two became four became six became eight—each one rolling independently, seeing everything, understanding nothing.
Blood flowed in rivers through the square—drip-drop-splash-pool—as flesh discolored to shades of purple and grey and diseased green.
The J'avo transformation was beautiful in its horror.
Lionel's hand morphed back to normal with a sound like wet clay being reshaped—schluuuup—as he watched his handiwork. In the far corner, three guards remained untouched, protected by their armor and shields.
Lucky them.
"Wait—" Carla moved to end them, but Lionel's hand shot out, stopping her.
"Deborah." He turned to the timid girl, eyes gleaming with dark purpose. "I need to know you're with your Creator. Prove it."
She hesitated. Trembled. Then nodded.
The transformation was immediate and glorious.
Her skin shifted to pale green like a corpse left too long in water. Her back erupted—CRACK-CRACK-CRACK—as spider legs punched through flesh and fabric, eight additional limbs unfolding like a nightmare origami.
And her personality... oh, her personality... shifted from timid mouse to predatory succubus in the space between heartbeats.
"Yesssss, Creator," she hissed, voice dripping with newfound sadism and sexuality. Her movements became sinuous, serpentine, seductive. "With pleasure."
She launched herself at the guards with inhuman speed—WHOOSH—covering thirty feet in a single leap.
The knights screamed. Tried to run. But Deborah was upon them, spider-legs stabbing down—THUNK-THUNK-THUNK—piercing shoulders, thighs, calves, pinning them like butterflies to a board.
"Splendid work, Deborah. Splendid." Lionel approached slowly, savoring their terror like fine wine. "Since you three survived the first gift, let me bestow upon you something... special."
He produced three syringes, each filled with a different C-Virus strain. The liquids inside swirled with hypnotic colors—amber and crimson and something that looked like liquid mercury.
Stab. Stab. Stab.
Deborah released them.
They ran—stumble-sprint-flee—but made it only three steps before their bodies began to crystallize.
The first guard stopped mid-scream as his flesh hardened, turned translucent, then shattered outward in an explosion of transformation. What emerged was a Strelac—lizard-like, massive, its frill extending like a crown of bone and fury.
The second guard's muscles swelled impossibly, grotesquely, bones restructuring with sounds like breaking branches—snap-crack-crunch. The Napad stood over eight feet tall, back covered in spikes that jutted out like a mountain range made flesh.
The third guard collapsed into himself, body compressing and splitting and reforming into something that defied geometry. The Gnezdo queen emerged—a pulsating mass the size of a man's chest—surrounded by thousands of insects that swirled and condensed into the silhouette of a woman.
Beautiful. Terrible. Perfect.
"Hide yourselves," Lionel commanded with casual authority. "Guard this town from intruders. But remain unseen."
The three chrysalid mutations melted into shadows like nightmares retreating at dawn.
"Carla. Simmons." Lionel didn't even look at them. "Return to your floor. Now."
They bowed and departed without a word.
"Deborah..." He turned to her, watching her revert to human form, timidity creeping back into her features like a mask sliding into place. "You'll stay here. Control these people. Report everything. Welcome guests with open arms... then infect them with this."
He filled a jar with C-Virus, the liquid gloop-glooping as it settled.
"Just... just me? Alone?" Her voice wavered, uncertain.
"No." Lionel smiled—genuinely this time. "Simmons and Radames couldn't blend into medieval society if their lives depended on it. But you... You can."
He reached into the Hive Mind, sending out the call.
Come. Now. The village needs you.
"The Baker Family will join you," Lionel explained. "Together, you'll hide what's happened here. Make it look normal. Make it look safe."
Minutes later—clack-clack-clack-clack—the sound of wheels on stone.
Jack Baker emerged, pushing Eveline's wheelchair with the mechanical precision of a man who'd done it ten thousand times. Behind him: Marguerite with her unsettling smile, Lucas with his manic intelligence burning behind dead eyes.
"These will be your family," Lionel announced with the air of a game show host revealing prizes. "They look ordinary—sweet, even. But inside?" He leaned in conspiratorially. "Ruthless bio-weapons with a penchant for hospitality."
"For now, Deborah, you're a Baker. You'll control the J'avo. Capture visitors. Expand our reach."
He'd already downloaded the full plan into their minds through Hive Mind—instant understanding, instant compliance.
"I don't want any fighting while I'm gone." His voice hardened to steel. "If complications arise, report to me immediately. Don't try to be heroes. Don't try to fix things yourselves. Am I clear?"
"Yes, Creator." Five voices in perfect unison.
"Good. I have to go now." He turned, paused, and looked back. "Remember what I said."
They bowed as he walked away, their reverence absolute.
The walk back to the base felt like victory.
Lionel sat in the control room, spinning idly in an office chair—squeak-squeak-squeak—like a child playing king.
"Steady food supply... check. Resources... check." He tapped his fingers against the armrest in rhythm. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. "But how do I gather more subjects? More... raw material?"
The answer struck him like lightning.
"Blend in. Create a persona. Post a quest about this 'mysterious village' and let the adventurers come to me." He grinned at his own brilliance. "They're healthy. Fit. Strong. Perfect specimens."
He stood, decision made, and activated the P.A. system.
Click.
"To all subjects: I'm heading to town to attract new arrivals to our village. Continue operations as normal. Lionel out."
Click.
He walked to the scientists' quarters, entered his room, and stood before the mirror.
His reflection stared back—too familiar, too known.
"Can't have Momonga recognizing me if he's had the same idea..." Lionel's face began to shift, bones restructuring beneath skin—crack-pop-squelch—until a stranger looked back. Similar, but different. Hair darkened from brown to black. Eyes changed from hazel to steel grey.
"Now... clothes."
His lab coat melted and reformed, flowing like liquid into medieval adventurer's garb. He cycled through options mentally—warrior, mage, knight—before settling on something perfect.
"Assassin. Yes."
The outfit materialized: dark leathers, hidden blades, hood that could conceal his face. Practical. Deadly. Fitting for someone with enhanced senses and superhuman speed.
"Much better."
He turned toward the door—
—and found three figures blocking his path.
The Dimitrescu sisters stood in perfect formation: Bela in the center, Cassandra to the left, Daniela to the right. Their faces were masks of determination.
"Is there a problem?" Lionel asked, already knowing the answer.
"Mother heard your announcement." Bela's voice was firm, unyielding. "She commanded us to accompany you."
"Lord Donna Beneviento also requested it," Cassandra added, amber eyes fixed on him with uncomfortable intensity.
"For what reason?" Lionel transformed his hand into a blade for emphasis—shnk—the weapon gleaming in the fluorescent light. "I can handle myself."
"Lord Beneviento said you're the last Creator who lives." Daniela stepped forward, refusing to move. "If something happens to you, we'll all be leaderless. Purposeless. Lost."
The blade retracted with a wet schlorp.
"I can't bring you three. It'd be suspicious. You can't blend in, and your faces are still covered in—"
"We can fix that, Creator!" Daniela interrupted, practically bouncing with excitement.
As one, the three sisters began to change. The blowflies that composed their bodies activated chromatophores—shifting, adjusting, modulating their coloration until their skin looked warm and alive instead of corpse-pale.
"The blood is still there!" Lionel protested weakly.
The girls laughed—a sound like wind chimes made of bones.
"We can wash!" Bela announced cheerfully.
They dispersed into clouds of flies—bzzzzzzzzz—flowed past him like three small tornadoes, and reformed in his bathroom.
I'm not winning this argument, Lionel thought with resignation.
Water ran. Splash-splash-splash. Giggling echoed.
When they emerged, they looked... normal. Human. Beautiful in that otherworldly way that made mortal men stupid.
"The outfits..." Lionel began, then stopped, actually looking at their medieval dresses. "You know what? Keep them. They suit you. They work."
"YAY!" Three voices in harmony. "We get to go outside with Creator!"
"But—" Lionel held up a finger. "—there will be rules."
The girls groaned in unison.
"One: You don't act independently unless I command it. Two: No fighting unless they attack first. Three: No talking about this location, this base, or what we do here. Understood?"
Sad nods all around.
"Wait..." Lionel sniffed the air. "You don't reek of corpses. How is that possible?"
"Ever since you cured our cold weakness, we've been super resilient!" Cassandra explained proudly. "So Mother made us bathe regularly."
"She made you bathe? Then why were you covered in blood when you arrived?"
"I hadn't eaten my knight yet, Creator," Bela admitted with a sheepish smile. "So we decided to have breakfast before leaving."
Lionel imagined Alcina's fury at seeing her daughters' bloodied again after bathing. He couldn't help it—he laughed. Deep, genuine, human laughter.
"I like your outfit, Creator!" Daniela complimented, circling him like a shark. "Very mysterious. Very deadly. Very you."
"Thank you, but..." Lionel paused, genuinely puzzled. "How did you know it was me? I look completely different. I could be anyone. A rogue adventurer who killed your Creator and looted his room."
"We can smell you," Bela said simply. "Like how wolves know their pack."
"Where'd you learn that?"
"Mother's library," Cassandra answered. "We read a lot when we can't go outside. Biology. Anatomy. How predators identify prey and kin."
"That's... actually impressive." Lionel meant it. "Keep reading. Knowledge is power."
The girls beamed.
"Alright, let's go. But first, the village stops. I need to brief Deborah and the Bakers on our next move."
The four walked through the forest path, footsteps crunching on fallen leaves and broken branches. The village appeared ahead, smoke rising from chimneys in lazy spirals.
They reached the chieftain's house—now Baker headquarters—and Lionel knocked.
Rap-rap-rap.
The door opened. Deborah stood there, human-formed, timid smile in place. Behind her: the Bakers, arranged like a portrait of American Gothic gone wrong.
"Creator!" Deborah bowed immediately. The Bakers followed suit. "Do you need something?"
"Just informing you: I'm heading to town with the Dimitrescu sisters. We'll be establishing a reputation, making connections, creating a legend." He gestured expansively. "Which means adventurers will start coming here looking for shelter, work, or glory."
He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper: "Incapacitate first. Then infect. Always in that order. We need them alive for the transformation."
"Understood, Creator." Five voices in perfect synchronization.
"Excellent. We'll be off then!"
He turned toward the door—
"Bye, Lucas!" Bela called out, waving.
Lucas—shy, brilliant, psychotic—waved back with an awkward little gesture that made Lionel's eyebrows rise.
Interesting.
They left the house, walked twenty paces, and then Lionel struck.
"Soooo..." He drew out the word like taffy. "Bela and Lucas, huh?"
Bela's face went crimson—a remarkable feat for someone composed of flies. "We're just friends!"
Lionel, Cassandra, and Daniela burst into laughter.
"'Just friends,'" Lionel mimicked in a high voice. "That's what they all say, Bela. Every tragic romance starts with 'just friends.'"
"When did you two meet?" he asked, adopting the tone of an overprotective father interrogating his daughter's boyfriend.
"The headcount," Bela mumbled, looking at her feet. "The Bakers' floor is right above ours, so our groups were close. We talked. Found common interests."
"Like?" Daniela prodded, grinning wickedly.
"Reading. Learning. Technology." Bela's voice grew warmer, softer. "He's so smart, Creator. He teaches me about circuits, computers, and engineering. I've never met anyone who makes knowledge feel like... like magic."
Lionel's teasing smile gentled into something genuine. "Don't let me stop you, Bela. The Bakers are good people—or were, before Eveline. They're loyal. Kind. They'd welcome you."
He paused, considering.
"Though your mother might be... difficult. Alcina doesn't exactly approve of common folk courting her daughters."
"WE'RE JUST FRIENDS!" Bela practically shouted.
More laughter.
"Alright, alright!" Lionel raised his hands in surrender. "What about you two?" He looked at Cassandra and Daniela. "Anyone caught your eye?"
"Nope," Daniela said cheerfully.
"Nothing for me either," Cassandra agreed. "Though I did see Mother staring at those huge things in the walls..."
"Huge things?" Lionel's brow furrowed.
"Those sleeping creatures. The really tall ones that looked like they were made of muscle and rage."
"Oh! The Tyrants!" Understanding dawned. "Interesting... Alcina is interested in Tyrants..."
"What are Tyrants?" Bela asked, curiosity overtaking embarrassment.
"Imagine your mother—tall, powerful, nearly indestructible—but with less personality and more murder instinct. They're bio-weapons. Killing machines in humanoid form. Most aren't even sentient, just dormant until activated. They sleep in the Treasury as our final defense."
The sisters' eyes widened with fascination.
"We should tell Mother!" Daniela bounced excitedly.
"Later," Lionel said. "Right now, we fly."
Wings erupted from his back—CRACK-UNFURL-SNAP—membranes spreading like a bat's, veined and leathery and wrong.
"E-Rantel is our destination," he announced, lifting into the air. "Best city for starting adventurers. Perfect hunting ground for us."
The sisters dispersed into three clouds of flies—BZZZZZZZZZZZZZ—and followed their Creator into the sky.
Behind them, the village continued its work, J'avo toiling mindlessly, the Baker Family watching, waiting.
The Chrysalis Protocol had begun.
And the world would never be the same.
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Author's Note:
Sorry for the delay on Chapter VI. Overlord's focus on Nazarick's internal politics made it challenging to diverge from canon while maintaining the story's integrity. I won't be using images—feel free to reference the Resident Evil wiki for character designs.
The crossover elements are about to intensify. E-Rantel awaits.
Thank you for reading.