Chapter IX: THE COLD WAR BEGINS
"I will never forget the days I spent with them."
The words drifted through the darkness like ash on a funeral wind. Lionel's mutated ears—those beautiful, cursed instruments of surveillance—caught every syllable, every tremor of longing in Momon's voice.
So, Lionel thought, pressing his tongue against his teeth, even Momonga mourns. Even the mighty miss their might.
He kicked a pebble. It skittered away like his former guild members had—small, insignificant, gone. "Tch. Who needs them?" The words tasted bitter. Rotten. Like meat left too long in the sun.
When Lionel returned to the campfire, he found the girls deep in conversation with Dyne, their laughter crackling like kindling. He smiled despite himself. They are actually kind of nice... maybe being locked in that damned castle for decades, for years upon years upon years, warps you. Twists you. Makes you forget what warmth feels like.
"Mr. Momon!" Ninya's voice rang out, bright and earnest as morning bells. "Someday—I am sure—you will find allies like them again!"
The silence that followed was a living thing. A predator. A tomb.
"That day will never come."
Four words. Four nails in a coffin. Momon's voice was flat, final, a door slamming shut on hope itself. Ninya's face crumpled like paper in a fist.
"Excuse me." Momon rose, a mountain of armor moving with the weight of worlds.
"Nabe, I will eat over there."
"Then I shall join you."
They departed like mourners from a grave.
"I said something I shouldn't have," Ninya whispered, her voice small, wounded, breaking.
"Yes," Dyne agreed softly. "Something must have happened."
"They are probably all gone," Peter said, staring into the flames as if seeking answers in the embers. "People who've lost all their comrades in battle—they give off that aura. That emptiness. You can smell it on them like smoke."
"That's a hard thing to deal with," Lukrut murmured. Then, because tact had never been his strongest virtue, "What about you, Damien? Did you have allies like Momon?"
"Lukrut, I don't think—"
"Allies?" Lionel interrupted, the word strange on his tongue. The girls stirred on his lap, three heads of silken hair catching firelight. "No. Partners? Yes."
Peter leaned forward, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"We were partners. Did everything together. Shared a common goal, a singular vision, a unified purpose." Lionel paused, feeling that familiar sting in his mutated heart—that traitorous, human thing that refused to die. "But we weren't friends. None of us were. After our goal was finished, they just left. Scattered like seeds in the wind. Like we'd never bled together. Like it meant nothing. Nothing at all."
"That must've been hard," Lukrut said quietly, his usual bravado dampened.
"It was." Lionel nodded toward Momon's retreating form. "But not as hard as what Momon is experiencing right now. Yes, it saddened me that they left. But no connection means no pain. Unlike him—unlike that poor bastard—who formed bonds, forged friendships, built something real only to watch it crumble. To watch it die."
He looked down. The three girls had succumbed to sleep, their breathing soft and synchronized. Lionel lifted them one by one—Bela, Cassandra, Daniela—laying them down with a gentleness that belied his monstrous nature.
"Kindly look over my sisters for now," he said, voice shaking like leaves before a storm. "I'm just going to take a stroll in the forest."
Then he ran.
Ran until the trees swallowed him whole.
CRACK.
His fist punched through timber like a bullet through flesh, splinters exploding outward in a corona of destruction. The tree groaned, wounded, dying.
"God, why does it hurt so much!?"
The words tore from his throat—raw, ragged, real. He slid down against the tree, his body trembling with something that wasn't quite rage and wasn't quite grief but existed somewhere between the two.
"There weren't any ties that would make me want them back... So why!? Why does it ache? Why does it feel like something's been carved out of me with a rusty knife?"
Creator? Is something the matter?
Moreau's voice filtered through the Hive Mind like water through stone—gentle, concerned, caring.
"It's nothing... Moreau." Lionel sniffled, standing on shaking legs.
"You know, Creator..." Moreau's voice carried a weight of understanding. "I don't have any familial ties with Mother Miranda... but I still consider her my mother. Blood doesn't make family. Choice does."
"What are you trying to say?"
"Even though you weren't that close, you still had at least a bit of friendship with them. A fragment. A shard. And I'm sure the other Creators feel the same way—mourning what was, what could have been, what should have been."
Silence stretched between them like spider silk.
"Really?" Lionel's voice was small, childlike, vulnerable.
"Really."
"Thank you, Moreau." A genuine smile crossed Lionel's face, pulling at his mutated flesh. "You're a really dependable son."
Through the Hive Mind, he could hear Moreau weeping—tears of joy, of belonging, of family.
Lionel emerged from the forest carrying an armful of dry branches, his earlier anguish buried beneath layers of careful composure. The fire crackled as he fed it, flames licking hungrily at fresh fuel.
He lay down beside Daniela, listening to her breathe.
If I had ties and bonded with the other Creators—even for just a breath, just a heartbeat, just a moment—then it would be right to include them in my family.
Sleep claimed him like a gentle hand.
▲▼▲▼▲
Dawn broke with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
They walked in formation toward Carne Village, the tension between Ninya and Momon hanging in the air like humidity before a storm. Lionel observed it all with dark amusement.
I would call him a drama artist, but with how much I cried last night... glass houses, stone throwing, et cetera, et cetera.
"Did you have a good night's sleep, girls?"
Three nods. Three smiles. Three daughters are enjoying a world beyond castle walls.
"This area has such a great view!" Lukrut announced, attempting levity like a drowning man grasping at driftwood. "There was probably no need to walk in formation like this!"
"It's important to be on guard," Peter countered.
"So true! The greatest enemy is carelessness," Dyne intoned.
"A dragon could suddenly launch an attack on us," Ninya added innocently.
Dragons.
The word hit Lionel like a drug, like wine, like ecstasy.
A dragon mutation!? In my ranks!? Oh, the possibilities—the glorious, terrible, magnificent POSSIBILITIES! Scales that regenerate! Wings that sprout from human spines! Breath weapons coded into DNA! Fire in the bloodstream! Ice in the marrow!
His mouth watered. His eyes glazed. Reality became a distant, unimportant thing.
The sisters exchanged glances and began shaking him vigorously.
"Creator?"
"CREATOR."
"CREATOR!"
"Around the area of E-Rantel," Ninya continued, oblivious to Lionel's evolutionary fantasies, "there are legends of a dragon that could freely control nature. And to the north of the Azerlisia mountains, I've heard that there are quite a few living frost dragons."
Dragons dragons dragons dragons dr—
Cassandra slapped him.
"Ow!"
"You were drooling," she said flatly.
"Ah, do you know the name of the dragon that freely controls nature?" Momon asked sheepishly, embarrassment bleeding through his armor like oil through cloth.
"Huh? Oh, no, I don't." Ninya fidgeted, nervousness making her fingers dance. "I will check when we return to town."
"Yes. Can you do that for me, Mr. Ninya?"
The smile that bloomed on Ninya's face could have lit the darkest dungeon.
"O-Of course, Mr. Momon!"
"It's just a bit farther to Carne Village!" Nphirea announced, happiness radiating from him like heat from a furnace.
Cassandra leaned close to Lionel, her breath tickling his ear. "Are we also going to turn this village into J'avo?"
"I'm afraid we can't," Lionel whispered back, regret coloring his tone. "But in the future, maybe. Definitely maybe. Probably. Almost certainly."
They arrived.
Wooden walls. Goblin guards. The scent of civilization mixed with something other.
"Aren't those goblins?" Lukrut muttered, his bow materializing in his hands like magic—quick-draw, quick-think, quick-kill.
"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU GUYS!?"
A goblin sentry drew his own bow, the arrow nocked and ready, quivering with potential violence.
Sssssssssss...
From the tall grass they came—goblins, goblins, goblins—emerging like nightmare flowers, weapons glinting, eyes gleaming with hostile intent.
Bela. Cassandra. Daniela.
The three girls moved as one, forming a protective circle around Lionel with the precision of practiced predators. Their eyes glowed amber in the morning light. Their fingers flexed, nails lengthening into claws sharp enough to carve stone.
"Put down your weapons," a goblin ordered, his voice cracking slightly. "Um, guys. We don't want to fight if we don't have to."
"Especially the full-plated guy!" Another goblin jabbed a crooked finger toward Momon. "You give off a really dangerous feeling... and those three girls too!"
Hey!
Lionel's internal monologue bristled with indignation.
Why only them!? What am I, chopped liver!? I'm terrified! I'm horrifying! I'm a walking biological catastrophe! I deserve recognition for my menace!
"Who are these guys?!" Peter demanded, shield up, sword ready, veteran instincts screaming danger-danger-danger.
"Mr. Goblin, what's going on?"
A young female voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk.
"Oh! Boss!"
The goblin's entire demeanor changed—shoulders relaxed, weapon lowered, relief flooding his features like sunrise after endless night.
Thank God this isn't an NTR scenario, Lionel thought, his imagination mercifully not conjuring certain unwanted images. Wouldn't want that little girl to get... involved. The internet has ruined me. Absolutely ruined me.
"Enri!" Nphirea's voice cracked with joy.
"Nphirea!"
They ran to each other like characters in a romance novel—all longing looks and desperate happiness.
"Ah! That girl!" Ninya breathed.
"Definitely," Dyne agreed, grinning.
Lionel studied the scene with calculating eyes.
A goblin army, controlled and commanded by a human girl? Peculiar. Fascinating. Unprecedented. Do you have something to do with this, Momonga? Did you plant the seeds of chaos and watch them grow?
"These goblins are cute!" Cassandra whispered, eyeing the creatures like menu items. "You think they'd taste better than the ones we killed in the hive? More... exotic?"
SMACK.
Lionel's hand connected with her head—not hard, but firm. Definite. Paternal.
"You don't eat anything other than humans without my permission," he hissed, quiet but intense. "These creatures are different. Unknown. Unpredictable. They could interact with the Cadou or the Uroboros in your system in unexpected ways. Mutation is a science, not a game. We don't experiment on ourselves without proper protocols."
All three girls nodded, chastened.
The two young people departed for the house, hands almost-but-not-quite touching. The Sword of Darkness settled onto the grass. Momonga and Nabe drifted toward the forest.
Lionel's eyes narrowed.
"Let's follow him," he ordered softly. "Find out his plans. His schemes. His agenda."
The sisters dissolved into flies—bzzzzzzzz—a swirling cyclone of black insects that dispersed like smoke.
Lionel's body rippled, light bending around him as the mold worked its quiet magic. Photons curved. Visibility vanished. He became a ghost, a whisper, a nothing.
They followed the pair up the hill overlooking Carne Village—a vantage point offering strategic supremacy and tactical advantage.
"They're pretty good," Momon observed, watching villagers practice archery with admirable dedication. "It's true their skills aren't amazing. But until ten days ago, the people down there had never touched a bow. Never drawn a string. Never felt the weight of wood and purpose in their hands."
He paused.
"Their friends were murdered. Their children were slaughtered. Their parents were butchered like animals in the street."
His voice carried the weight of witnessing, of knowing.
"Now they work hard to never let such a thing happen again. To never be weak. To never be victims. We must admire them for that. We must honor their transformation from prey to predator."
Lionel listened, invisible among the trees.
So this was his foothold. His foundation. His first move on the board.
"Ten days ago? Wait..."
The implications crashed over him like cold water.
So that means he got transported EARLIER than me? How!? How is that possible if the timer was the same for all of us? Unless... unless the timers WEREN'T the same. Unless each guild, each player, each entity was pulled across the dimensional barrier at different intervals, scattered across this new world like seeds in a storm...
"I'm very sorry," Nabe said, bowing low, her voice thick with shame. "I did not think that deeply about it."
"Mr. Momon!"
Nphirea's voice shattered the moment like glass against stone. He ran up the hill, lungs heaving, legs pumping, desperation in every movement.
"Do you have some business with me?" Momon asked.
The kid stopped, doubled over, gasping for air.
Then he straightened.
"Mr. Momon... Mr. Momon, are you Mr. Ainz Ooal Gown?"
CRACK.
The sound was metaphorical but felt physical—like reality itself fracturing, like a secret too big to stay buried, clawing its way into daylight.
Lionel's concentration broke. His invisibility flickered, wavered, failed—just for a heartbeat, just for a breath—before snapping back into place.
This kid. This CHILD. This random, ordinary, unremarkable HUMAN just blew Momonga's cover with the casual ease of someone opening a door!
"Thank you very much for saving this town, Mr. Gown!" Nphirea bowed deeply, gratitude radiating from every pore. "Thank you for saving the woman I love!"
This kid is dead, Lionel thought flatly. Absolutely, completely, irreversibly dead. He just doesn't know it yet.
"You're wrong. I'm..." Momonga stuttered, denial crumbling, facade fracturing.
"Yes, I know you're hiding your true name for some reason," Nphirea interrupted gently. "Even then, this village... No, I wanted to thank you for saving Enri."
"Raise your head."
Nphirea obeyed.
"Yes, Mr. Gown. And actually, I've been hiding something from you, too."
"Nabe, can you leave us alone for a moment?"
"Understood."
Nabe departed, moving with the fluid grace of a trained killer.
Straight toward Lionel's position.
Oh.
Oh no.
She glared directly at him—through the invisibility, through the light-bending, through the illusion—and drew her sword.
SHIIIIING.
The blade sang as it left its sheath, a sound like winter wind through dead trees.
"Clever girl," Lionel murmured.
Nabe moved.
Fast. Faster than a human. Faster than possible.
Lionel shifted sideways—minimal movement, maximum efficiency—dodging the strike by millimeters. Her blade carved through the space where his throat had been, displacing air with a soft whsssh.
His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her wrist like a vice. He pulled her close, intimate, threatening, and his other hand clamped over her mouth.
The mold responded to his will, growing, expanding, forming a perfect seal around her lips and nose, muffling sound, stealing breath.
He smiled at her.
Then he broke her arm.
SNAP.
CRACK.
CRUNCH.
The radius shattered. The ulna was fractured. Bone fragments ground against each other with sounds like gravel in a blender.
Her eyes—those cold, emotionless, doll-like eyes—suddenly blazed with agony. Her face contorted. Her body thrashed, struggling, screaming into his mutated hand as pain receptors fired like a neural symphony.
"You thought I was human, didn't you?" Lionel whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "You relied on your detection skills. Your training. Your arrogance. And they failed you. They betrayed you."
Bzzzzzzzzzz...
The flies returned, coalescing, materializing—Bela, Cassandra, Daniela emerging from insectoid forms like demons from smoke.
They circled Nabe. Sniffed her. Studied her.
She didn't smell human. Didn't smell alive, not in the conventional sense.
Three smiles bloomed—hungry, curious, delighted.
"No, girls," Lionel said firmly. "We won't be eating this one. She's too exotic. Too valuable. Too interesting to just consume."
The sisters sighed in perfect unison—three notes of disappointment harmonizing beautifully.
They dissolved back into flies.
"Would you let her go now, Lionel?"
Momonga's voice was cold. Controlled. Dangerous.
He stood at the forest's edge, twin swords drawn, magical energy crackling around him like barely-restrained lightning.
Lionel walked out of the shadows, still gripping Nabe, light bleeding away from his form until he stood fully visible.
"It seems Lord Momonga finally noticed me," he said lightly, removing his hand from Nabe's mouth—but transforming his other hand into a blade, pressing it against her throat. "How observant."
"I apologize for being so careless, Lord Ainz," Nabe gasped, pain making her voice ragged. Guilt saturated every syllable.
"Oh yeah, you changed your name to Ainz Ooal Gown." Lionel's blade-hand pressed closer, dimpling pale flesh, drawing the thinnest line of blood—red against white, life against death. "I guess I shall address you as such. Lord Ainz. So formal. So proper."
"Let her go, Lionel."
Ainz's glare could have melted steel.
"Damn," Lionel sighed theatrically. "You know, I was actually planning on keeping this guise until the end. The long con. The ultimate deception. But here we are, masks off, knives out."
"You don't have to," Ainz stated, settling into a battle stance—weight distributed, balance perfect, readiness absolute. "I've known since the start. I just didn't know if you knew."
"We were just circling each other, huh?" Lionel laughed—sharp, bitter, real. "I have to thank Mr. Nphirea Balear. If it weren't for him and his earnest, innocent, honest nature... we'd still be beating around the bush. Dancing the dance. Playing the game."
His blade pressed closer with each step Ainz took. Blood welled up, crimson and bright.
"There are only two ways this can go, Ainz!" Lionel's voice rose, theatrical and commanding. "We postpone this petty fight and save both our names from being targeted by humans—preserve the mystery, maintain the masquerade, survive another day..."
"Humans aren't my problem."
Ainz stepped forward.
Bzzzzzzzzzz...
Flies erupted around Lionel like a biblical plague, swirling, screaming, forming into three beautiful nightmares—Bela, Cassandra, Daniela, each capable of reducing Ainz's swordsman form to scattered armor and broken bones.
"But they're mine," Lionel snarled. "If humans found out about our secret—about what we are, about what we can do—I'd just have to infect everyone. Turn them. Transform them. And then this world would be as dull as our old one. A world of shambling masses. Of mindless drones. Of nothing."
He stared at Ainz, really looked at him.
"I know what you fear, Ainz. Players. Other guild members. Other survivors. Other threats. But that's not my concern. You know full well magic doesn't work on us. You've studied our biology. You've seen what we are."
Another step from Ainz.
Lionel's blade drew more blood.
"So, what's it going to be!?" Lionel's voice cracked like thunder. "NUCLEAR FALLOUT OR COLD WAR!?"
Silence stretched between them—taut, terrible, trembling with potential violence.
"C-Cold war," Ainz finally answered.
Lionel's smile could have lit the darkness.
He threw Nabe toward Ainz like a ragdoll. She stumbled, caught herself, and collapsed against him.
"Stand down, girls." Lionel waved a hand. "I think we've come to a mutual agreement."
The three sisters whined in perfect harmony—three voices expressing identical disappointment, identical hunger.
The Cold War, Lionel thought. A battle fought in shadows. In whispers. In quiet moves and quieter countermoves. A conflict where confrontation means mutual destruction. Where both sides maneuver, manipulate, and scheme without ever truly engaging.
"Now," Lionel said cheerfully, his entire demeanor shifting like quicksilver, "let's stop this battle before the others see and find out what we really are."
He winked.
His body rippled, shifted, transformed—returning to his human guise, the adventurer Damien, perfectly normal, perfectly ordinary, perfectly fake.
He departed.
The three girls waved playfully at Ainz and Nabe—three fingers wiggling in mocking farewell—before following their Creator.
Lionel chuckled, dark and low.
Finally. A way to postpone the war. To delay the inevitable. To survive just a little longer.
In reality, he wasn't a big fan of infecting everything.
It just wouldn't be fun if the whole world were full of lifeless creatures. Where's the sport in that? Where's the challenge? Where's the delicious, terrible chaos?
"Splendid work, you three," Lionel praised as they walked. "You managed to hold yourselves back. Restrain your instincts. Control your nature."
"Besides..." He grinned wickedly. "I don't think you can suck out any form of blood from him."
The girls looked puzzled.
Lionel refused to elaborate.
He settled onto the grass, basking in sensations denied to him in his previous existence—clean air untainted by pollution, cool breeze carrying the scent of growing things, bird songs unspoiled by industrial cacophony.
Things I couldn't experience anymore in my old world. Things I thought lost forever. Things I never knew I'd miss until they were gone.
"Sit down, girls. Why don't you chat with your mother through the Hive Mind while we're relaxing? Tell her about your adventures. Your discoveries. Your escapades."
He smiled innocently.
Tell her how you disobeyed the Creator, ate forbidden things, and nearly started an international incident...
The girls paled, suddenly realizing the maternal reckoning awaiting them.
"Speaking of the Hive Mind," Lionel said, connecting. "Deborah? How's the farm going?"
Creator! Her voice bloomed with joy. It is going very well! With the extensive knowledge about agriculture and farming you gave us through the Hive Mind, we have successfully turned the majority of the open space here into a farm. Rows upon rows upon rows of growing things! Life from death! Food from soil!
"How about the Baker Family? Any problems?"
No, Creator. The Baker Family is awfully nice. Surprisingly kind. Unexpectedly gentle.
Lionel smiled.
Jack and his family enjoy the sight of plants growing around the farms. They're always strolling with grandmother Eveline around the fields, enjoying the scenery, breathing fresh air, remembering what it means to be human.
"That's great!" Genuine warmth flooded Lionel's voice. "What about Lucas? How's he been?"
Brother Lucas is fine like the others. He's always talking to Miss Bela through the Hive Mind.
Deborah giggled—a sound like bells, like rain, like happiness.
"Excuse me for a bit, Deborah."
Disconnection.
"So, Bela." Lionel turned to his eldest daughter, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Some little bird told me you've been talking to Lucas. A lot. Frequently. Extensively."
Bela turned crimson, hands flying to cover her face.
"Not this again, Creator!"
"You don't have to hide it, Bela." Lionel gently pulled her hands away, his expression soft. "I told you before—I'm not opposed to it. Love is love. Family is family. If Lucas makes you happy, then I'm happy."
He nodded toward her sisters, who were currently chasing a rabbit through the undergrowth.
"Now go play with your sisters. Or talk to Lucas if you want. You're free, Bela. Free."
"Such innocent girls," Lionel murmured, watching them frolic.
Then Daniela caught the rabbit.
Grabbed it.
Stabbed it through the skull with one sharp finger.
Lifted it.
Bit down.
Blood sprayed. Bones crunched. Fur matted with gore.
"I take it back," Lionel sweatdropped. "Absolutely take it back."
"HEY!" He shot to his feet. "What did I tell you about biting into different creatures!?"
The girls scattered, giggling, fleeing like children caught stealing cookies.
"You're all in BIG TROUBLE once I catch up with you!"
Lionel chased them—Creator and creations, father and daughters, monster and monsters.
Bela watched, laughing, her heart full.
Eventually, Lionel caught them.
Lectured them.
Explained—again—about cross-contamination, about unknown biological factors, about the dangers of consuming unanalyzed organic matter.
They nodded solemnly, faces appropriately chastened.
He returned to his spot, lay down, stared at clouds drifting like thoughts across an azure sky.
"Deborah? Are you still there?"
Yes, Creator.
"Do you think—with how much we're producing in crops and livestock—we can actually export some?"
He closed his eyes, mind calculating possibilities.
"The currency here is different. Foreign. Alien. And as much as I'd like to go on adventures, we need some form of steady income. Revenue streams. Economic foundation."
I'm not that good with business, Creator. But I think we could do it.
Optimism colored her voice like sunrise.
"Then I'll have to ask our business professionals about this. Our brilliant minds. Our economic architects."
He thanked Deborah.
Disconnected.
"We really need a new Virus that can replicate in humans," Lionel mumbled, watching townsfolk practice archery with increasing competence.
A Virus that spreads but maintains consciousness. That enhances but preserves humanity. That transforms but doesn't destroy.
The Progenitor and Megamycete—combined, merged, unified. Those two things haven't been joined yet. But they could be. They SHOULD be.
Imagine it. Humans with regenerative capabilities. Humans with enhanced strength. Humans with hive-mind connectivity but individual thought. Humans who are MORE but still themselves.
He smiled.
The sun set, painting the sky in shades of blood and fire.
And in the growing darkness, Lionel dreamed of beautiful, terrible things.
END OF CHAPTER IX