Chapter X: The Art of Playing God (Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Biomass)
The mission droned on with all the excitement of watching grass grow—or in this case, watching Nphirea fondle various fungi with the tender enthusiasm of a man on a very boring first date with Mother Nature herself.
With adventurers packed tighter than sardines in a tin, there wasn't much actual work to do. Lionel had planted himself on a particularly accommodating patch of grass, adopting the posture of a Renaissance painting titled "Man Pretending to Guard Things While Doing Absolutely Nothing." His eyes tracked the sisters with the intensity of a bored security camera—all surveillance, zero actual security.
'Well, well. Our skeletal friend is skulking off somewhere interesting.' Ainz was making his exit, stage left, with all the subtlety of a cat burglar wearing tap shoes. But house rules were house rules: no backseat driving on someone else's power fantasy.
Lionel extracted himself from his grassy throne and shambled toward a sufficiently secluded copse of trees. If Ainz was off doing... whatever eldritch scheming skeletons did to level up, then Lionel could hardly slack off on his own self-improvement montage.
"Elevators. Bah. Such pedestrian conveyances." He flexed his fingers thoughtfully. "Jack glides through walls like some sort of grotesque, Texas-fried ghost. The Mold must have some fast-travel capacity buried in its horrifying little fungal DNA."
Without ceremony—or anesthesia, though he hardly needed it—Lionel severed his own foot.
The pain registered somewhere between "mild inconvenience" and "spicy food regret." The limb regenerated with the casual efficiency of a video game health bar refilling. The separated appendage, already converted to Mold before the cut, sat there like the world's most disturbing science fair project.
Now he had it—a disconnected piece that was simultaneously him and not-him, existing in that quantum superposition that would make Schrödinger's cat deeply uncomfortable. The potential was there: instant transmission via fungal network. Mycological teleportation. Shroom-porting.
"Magnifi—oh, fuck my entire existence!"
The transformation completed, and Lionel found himself staring at the world from a considerably diminished vantage point. He'd become pocket-sized. Fun-sized. Travel-sized. A concentrated essence of himself that could fit in a teacup, which was decidedly not the aesthetic he was going for.
"Note to self," he muttered in a voice that sounded like it had been sucked through a helium-filled harmonica, "biomass calculations require precision, not eyeballing. Unless the goal is to become a garden gnome."
He reversed the process, flesh flowing back together as some sort of deeply unsettling time-lapse video played in reverse. Foot reattached, dignity only moderately wounded.
By the time he returned to his patch of grass, the sisters were performing an impromptu search party, concern written across their faces. Lionel's grin turned absolutely feral.
The jumpscare he delivered would have made a Five Nights at Freddy's animatronic proud. The resulting shriek-symphony was chef's kiss—pure, distilled chaos. He collapsed into the grass, laughing like a man who'd just pulled off the world's pettiest prank, ready for a well-deserved nap.
"Oi! Who the fu—"
The complaint died on his lips, strangled by the sheer absurdity of what his eyes had just reported to his brain. An oversized hamster. Just... right there. Next to Ainz and Narberal, as if this were a perfectly normal occurrence on a perfectly normal day.
'So that's the legendary Wise King of the Forest. A hamster. On steroids. Possibly several different kinds of steroids.'
He stared. Interest flickered. Interest died. Interest was buried in an unmarked grave.
"Adventurers look like they're about to start a religion around that thing," Lionel muttered, watching grown adults practically genuflect at the sight of Rodent Kong. "Ainz, you absolute showboat. What's next, you gonna put it on a leash and parade it through town?"
Night descended like a theater curtain on the world's most mundane play. E-Rantel's gates beckoned, promising rest, hot meals, and compensation for services rendered.
Lionel and the sisters executed what could only be described as a "tactical withdrawal before payment processing could commence"—vanishing into the crowd faster than money from a politician's campaign fund. Sure, Lionel had spent the entire mission horizontal and unconscious, but technically, he'd been present. Participation trophy rules applied.
"That adventure was transcendent!" Daniela practically vibrated with enthusiasm, her sisters nodding agreement—though Bela's entire adventure had apparently consisted of the Lucas Conversation Marathon, Extended Edition.
"Yeah, about that." Lionel raised a hand, preemptively crushing dreams. "Home time. No negotiations."
The collective whining could have powered a small wind turbine.
"Look, this territory's already been claimed. I can practically see the 'Property of Ainz Ooal Gown' banners flapping in the metaphorical breeze." He gestured vaguely at the invisible geopolitical boundaries. "We need to focus on what's in our backyard. The Slane Theocracy isn't going to conquer itself."
He led them beyond E-Rantel's walls, into the forest's embrace. Wings erupted from his back like some sort of demonic growth spurt, and he took to the sky. The sisters followed with considerably less enthusiasm, dissolving into their fly-swarm forms with all the excitement of teenagers being told to clean their rooms.
Just before departure, Lionel caught Ainz's skeletal gaze fixed on him—burning eye-sockets tracking his every movement like radar dishes locked onto a target.
Lionel flashed his most insouciant grin, snapped off a jaunty two-finger salute that said 'catch you on the flip side, bone daddy,' and vanished into the night sky.
The sisters had returned to castle-sulking, mourning their abbreviated adventure tourism with all the melodrama of Shakespearean tragedy protagonists. Lionel escaped outside, initially intending to just pass the farmland.
But then he actually looked.
"Holy shit."
The farm sprawled before him like something from a fever dream directed by Mother Nature on her best behavior. Crops arranged in geometric precision. Trees and flowers are deployed with strategic artistry. It was gorgeous—the kind of gorgeous that made his laboratory-dwelling heart skip several beats.
"How in the hell did they pull this off?"
He wandered through the fields like a tourist in his own domain, drinking in details he'd been too preoccupied to notice before. For someone who'd spent most of his existence in fluorescent-lit underground facilities, this was practically Eden.
The Baker residence loomed ahead—former chieftain's quarters, now upgraded to something resembling actual civilization. Lionel knocked.
Jack opened the door, a smile blooming like programmed code executing perfectly. "Step inside, Creator."
The family tableau: dinner time, domestic tranquility, the American Dream if the American Dream involved being resurrected as a fungal hive-mind collective.
"Creator." The synchronized greeting came with synchronized bowing—creepy, but respectful. He'd take it.
"Alright, question time." Lionel gestured expansively toward the windows. "How did you people transform this place from 'medieval dirt plot' to 'agricultural magazine cover spread,' and who's the mad genius behind the botanical beautification project?"
Deborah Rose, pride is evident in every movement. "The farms represent a collaboration between the Baker family and me, with substantial J'avo labor support, naturally."
"Naturally," Lionel echoed.
"The decorative flora stems from a joint effort between Lady Alexia Ashford and Lady Donna Beneviento." She indicated the window view, where flowers and trees formed a living artwork.
"Pretty and deadly, I'm assuming?"
"Exceptionally astute, Creator." Deborah's smile sharpened. "Every flower carries Mold infection—hallucinogenic properties courtesy of Lady Beneviento's particular expertise. Meanwhile, beneath the soil, Alexia Pods wait like patient predators, ready to ensnare anyone currently experiencing chemically-induced reality distortion."
She pointed groundward, where tentacle-plant appendages writhed with disturbing sentience.
"Wow." Lionel's laugh carried genuine awe. "I abandon you, people, for forty-eight hours, and you build a defensive garden that could double as a tourist trap and a war crime. If I left for a year, you'd probably establish your own nation-state and apply for UN membership!"
After thanking the Bakers for their hospitality and agricultural wizardry, Lionel retreated to the laboratory. The warm fuzzies were lovely, but they had a troop shortage problem that wasn't solving itself.
"Time to assemble the Dream Team of Nightmares."
The P.A. system crackled to life beneath his hands like an old friend. "Would the following individuals please report to the top-floor meeting room: William Birkin, Alexia Ashford, Queen Leech, Osmund Saddler, Albert Wesker, Jack Norman, Derek C. Simmons, Alex Wesker, Eveline, and Mother Miranda. This is not a drill. This is science."
The meeting room embodied everything Lionel loved about the old world—thirty chairs arranged around a table long enough to host the Last Supper with room for appetizers. This was where the Umbrella Corporation's greatest minds had once gathered to discuss very important matters like "how can we make zombies worse" and "what if we put a virus in the water supply."
Nostalgia hit like a physical force.
"Almost like they're all still here," he whispered as his subjects filed in, taking seats with the confidence of tenure professors at the world's most ethically questionable university.
"Greetings, subjects." Lionel's voice carried the weight of someone about to assign a very complicated group project. "As you're aware, I recently spent quality time observing the local human population. My findings? They're adorably few in number."
He stood, pacing like a general before battle. "Meanwhile, our enemies multiply through magic—a power we lack, unless someone's been holding out on me." He projected Ainz's skeletal visage directly into their collective consciousness via the Hive Mind, because why use PowerPoint when you have psychic networking?
"We need troops. Lots of troops. An army of troops. But human test subjects are in criminally short supply. So..." He slammed both palms on the table with the dramatic flair of a detective revealing the murder suspect. "We're going to build our own humans. From scratch. Using science. Your science. All of your science."
He retook his seat, eyes scanning his assembled geniuses. "You know your viruses' capabilities better than I know my own disturbing biology. I need solutions. I need them now. I need them yesterday. Who's got the magic bullet?"
"William?" Lionel's gaze fixed on Birkin with the intensity of a spotlight interrogation.
Birkin shifted uncomfortably. "Creator, I must inform you that Golgotha's mutation patterns are... excessively uncontrollable. Asking it to sculpt a human would be like asking a tornado to fold origami. Theoretically possible, but you're going to get a very abstract interpretation."
"Dammit. Queen Leech?"
The entity wearing James Marcus like an ill-fitting suit shook its head mournfully. "The T-Virus operates on a 'mutate whatever's available' protocol. Precision isn't in its vocabulary. Each result varies wildly based on host genetics—you'd get humans the way a slot machine gives jackpots. Randomly and never when you want them."
"So the entire T-Virus family tree is out?" Lionel looked around. Nods confirmed his worst fears. "T-Virus, Type α, Type β, Type ε, T-JCCC203, Prototype, T-Abyss, T-Phobos—all useless for this application. Fantastic."
"Alexia?" Hope springs eternal, even in bio-weapons development.
Alexia's expression conveyed aristocratic regret. "T-Veronica functions similarly, despite its technical distinction from standard T-Virus strains. The Ancient Virus integration—derived from queen ant retroviruses—allows for preserved intelligence, yes. But the base mutation mechanics remain unchanged. Precision human replication is beyond its scope."
T-Veronica and T+G Virus joined the rejected pile.
"Albert Wesker, please tell me Uroboros can save us here."
Albert's headshake was slow, almost apologetic. "Uroboros is... temperamental. Exceptionally selective in host compatibility, and its mutation patterns mirror G-Virus amplification but are accelerated. Body parts expand faster than Golgotha, with considerably less restraint. You'd attempt to create a human and end up with something that requires its own zip code."
Lionel felt his options narrowing like a closing vice. Then Derek Simmons leaned forward, the body language of someone holding the winning lottery ticket.
"Creator. C-Virus. We have living proof of its human-replication capabilities." His gaze shifted to Carla Radames, who returned it with the warmth of liquid nitrogen.
"Why didn't you lead with that?!" Lionel's shout echoed off the walls. "You made me play twenty questions with the entire roster before dropping the answer in my lap like—" Deep breath. Composure. "Fine. Explain. In detail. Use small words if necessary."
Simmons straightened, slipping into lecture mode. "C-Virus requires a foundation. To create a human, you need existing human biomass—the virus supplements deficiencies rather than generating matter ex nihilo. It's... reconstructive, not generative."
"Elaborate with examples, Simmons."
"Imagine using a mouse as your base subject. The mouse's physical mass cannot spontaneously become human-equivalent. The C-Virus has biomass limitations—it can only provide so much raw material for transformation."
Lionel's brain snagged on a very specific memory. "Then how in the everliving hell do you transform into a building-sized T. rex when your human form probably weighs, what, a buck-seventy soaking wet? Where does all that mass come from?"
Simmons actually looked sheepish—impressive for someone who'd committed crimes against nature as a hobby. "I... honestly have no idea, Creator. It defies conservation of mass. My best hypothesis involves genetic coding that allows viral-facilitated biomass generation at speeds that make theoretical physics weep. But that's my specific mutation talking. Not standard operating procedure."
"If biomass supplementation is required," Mother Miranda interjected with the timing of someone who'd been waiting for her cue, "then Mold represents the ideal solution. Perfect for structural sculpting and filling gaps."
"Wait." Lionel held up a hand. "Can't we just... build humans entirely from Mold? Cut out the middleman?"
Miranda nodded, but her expression warned of complications ahead. "Mold possesses remarkable versatility—capable of mimicking virtually any biological structure. Its compatibility with other viruses is exceptional, adaptation nearly instantaneous."
"But?"
"But consciousness requires an actual brain. A biological brain, with neurons and electrical impulses and all those messy organic components. Pure Mold constructs would function as remote-controlled puppets—extensions of your will, Creator, but empty vessels otherwise. They'd have all the independent thought of a particularly sophisticated toaster."
Understanding dawned like a light bulb powered by existential horror. "So, Mold-only troops wouldn't have minds. No initiative, no impulse control, no ability to adapt without direct input. Just... meat robots waiting for instructions."
"Precisely."
Lionel leaned back, fingers steepled. "So the solution is... use living subjects as the foundation, apply C-Virus for structural transformation into human form, supplement with Mold to provide necessary biomass. The original organism provides the brain, the consciousness, the spark. C-Virus does the heavy lifting of reshaping. Mold fills in the gaps."
He stood abruptly, energized. "For example, take a rat. C-Virus uses the rat's existing biology as a template, reshaping organs and skeletal structure toward human configuration. Mold provides the additional mass needed to scale everything up to human proportions. The result—a fully functional human with an actual functioning brain that used to belong to a rodent but now thinks it's people."
"Exactly," Miranda confirmed.
"Brilliant!" Lionel's fist hit the table like a gavel. "We're starting trials immediately! Everyone, follow me! Today we play God, and God has a deadline!"
The laboratory hummed with anticipation. Forty-nine rats—courtesy of Lycan hunting parties—awaited their transformation in wire cages. The assembled scientific minds crowded around the workspace like kids at a particularly disturbing magic show.
"Trial number one." Lionel selected a rat with the casual confidence of someone who'd stopped questioning the moral implications of his actions several apocalypses ago. The creature was secured to the examination table with practiced efficiency.
He picked up the C-Virus syringe, filled with the virus and human DNA for template purposes, then set it down again. Simmons and Radames exchanged confused glances.
Where did he get human DNA on such short notice?
Lionel had fed them some line about extracting it from a random human subject. The truth—that he'd used his own blood, exploiting his ability to deactivate his viral cocktail and temporarily return to baseline humanity—remained comfortably classified.
"Alright. Here. We. Go." He measured out Mold matching his own body weight—a convenient benchmark for "one standard human's worth of biomass"—and loaded it into a specialized container.
His left hand underwent an unsettling transformation, restructuring into a living syringe. The Mold passed through his body, filtered and measured, before being injected into the mouse. The creature became encased in fungal matter, now part of its biology rather than an external coating.
"Phase one successful. Time for phase two." The C-Virus syringe came next, plunging into the Mold-infused mouse.
The reaction was immediate and spectacular. Flames erupted—brief, intense, impossible. Smoke billowed. The Chrysalid began forming, a fleshy cocoon that looked like something H.R. Giger might have sketched while having a fever dream.
The room held its collective breath.
Cracks appeared. The chrysalid shattered. And from it emerged—
A human.
A perfectly formed, completely naked, definitely-not-a-mouse-anymore human.
Cheers erupted from the assembled scientists as they'd just won the Super Bowl of Playing God.
"Wait." Lionel squinted. "Is that... oh no."
"Oh YES." He bolted forward, grabbing a spare lab coat to preserve the modesty of someone who looked exactly like him.
"Creator?" Carla Radames's question carried dangerous curiosity. "Why does the subject bear your exact physical appearance?"
"Ahaha, well, you see..." Lionel's laugh could have powered a nervous breakdown. "The Mold passed through my body during injection, so obviously some of my DNA got mixed in there. Total accident. Could happen to anyone. Very standard scientific contamination scenario."
The lie hung in the air like a wet blanket, but nobody called him on it.
"Anyway," Lionel pivoted with the grace of a politician dodging scandal, "time for the proof-of-concept test."
He activated the C-Virus within himself—always lurking, always ready. "If I recall my viral mechanics correctly, the C-Virus has now departed from the subject. It created a virus-free human from virus-free DNA. Which means..."
The C-Virus syringe plunged into the newly created human. Mutations erupted instantly—additional eyes blooming like grotesque flowers, musculature enhancing, intelligence preserved but wrong somehow. A textbook J'avo transformation.
"PERFECT!" Lionel's shout could have shattered glass. "Ladies, gentlemen, and abstract concepts of humanity—we have successfully transmuted a mouse into a human being!"
Applause thundered through the laboratory, the sound of science crossing lines that probably shouldn't be crossed with this much enthusiasm.
"Beautiful. We've achieved the power to manufacture armies from rodents." Lionel's laugh carried the edge of someone who'd stopped asking "should we" and fully committed to "what if we did it bigger."
"Now." He grabbed the cage containing the remaining forty-eight mice. "We're converting a spare room into a breeding facility. These mice will multiply. We'll have a steady production line of raw materials."
His gaze fixed on Simmons and Radames. "You two—the brilliant minds behind C-Virus, the architects of this breakthrough—you'll oversee the entire operation. Breeding program, transformation process, quality control. Consider it your magnum opus."
They bowed in synchronized acceptance.
"Production batches of twenty at a time. Once you've got twenty combat-ready humans, they get assigned to a floor and integrated into our force structure. I want balance—we're building an army, not a freak show. Well, not just a freak show."
He gestured to the newly created J'avo, who stood there looking confused about its sudden existence and species change.
"Everyone except Simmons, Radames, and Mother Miranda—dismissed. Return to your floors. Excellent work today, people."
The scientists filed out, already discussing the implications over their shoulders like students leaving a particularly exciting lecture.
"You three." Lionel's attention focused laser-sharp on the remaining subjects. "This is a collaborative effort. Miranda, you're on Mold supply—you've got direct access to the Megamycete, so you're our pipeline. Simmons and Radames, you handle everything else. Breeding, processing, transformation, deployment."
"For rodent feed, there's an agricultural operation outside. The Baker family, Eveline, or Deborah, can provide supplies. Be polite when you ask—we're evil, not rude."
"Speed is essential. The Slane Theocracy is out there, planning something, and when they bring the hammer down, I want us ready to hit back with a force that makes them regret their life choices." He pointed vaguely toward where he thought the Theocracy was located.
"I'm leaving you to your duties. Don't disappoint me." The door opened at his gesture, beckoning him toward fresh air and questionable farm produce.
"Very well, Creator." The synchronized kneeling was getting less creepy through sheer repetition.
Outside, Lionel wandered back through the farmland, appreciating the aesthetic improvements with renewed vigor. The collision with Lucas happened with the comedic timing of a sitcom pratfall.
"I-I'm sorry, Creator!" Lucas's voice cracked like a teenager hitting puberty, hands raised in defensive panic.
"Easy there, Lucas. I'm not going to bite." Lionel hauled him upright. "What's got you running like your pants are on fire?"
"The Slane Theocracy sent soldiers! Again!" The report tumbled out breathlessly.
Lionel's laugh was genuine and slightly unhinged. "Oh, Lucas. Sweet, panicky Lucas. I thought you were going to tell me something scary. Come on, let's see what kind of welcoming committee they've assembled this time."
They approached the village edge together, where a considerably larger military force had gathered like an angry mob at a monster's castle. Which, to be fair, was exactly what this was.
"They've upgraded from 'token force' to 'we're actually trying now.'" Lionel observed the increased numbers with the detached interest of a film critic reviewing a sequel. Then his eyes caught on someone who radiated main character energy. "Oh, hello. What do we have here?"
"I AM THE 10TH SEAT OF THE BLACK SCRIPTURE!" The man's voice carried across the distance with theatrical projection. "OTHERWISE KNOWN AS THE STRONGEST HUMAN!"
Lionel stared. Processed. Nearly burst into hysterical laughter. "The Strongest Human. That's your title? Not 'The Destroyer' or 'The Annihilator' or literally anything with more pizzazz? Just... the Strongest Human? Did you workshop that, or was it assigned by committee?"
No response from the probably-offended warrior.
"Alright," Lionel's grin was absolutely feral now. "I'll make you a deal, Mister Strongest Human. You beat my servant—just one of my servants—and I'll graciously acknowledge your impressive title and withdraw from this confrontation. Fair?"
He produced a remote control that had definitely seen better days, covered in labeled buttons like some sort of apocalypse-themed soundboard.
"It's been too long since I got to do this." His finger hovered over one particular button, savoring the moment.
"Nemesis."
The button clicked.
The mountainside exploded.
Something launched from the hidden facility like a missile with anger management issues, arcing through the air before cratering into the middle of the Theocracy's formation. The shockwave sent soldiers flying like bowling pins blessed by physics and cursed by biomechanics.
The containment pod—because of course it was a containment pod—sat there steaming, hissing, generally making threatening noises. Parts began falling away. Panels dropped. Gas vented. The thing inside started moving.
And then it emerged.
Eight feet of bioengineered hatred. Muscles on muscles. Tentacles where tentacles had no business being. A face that suggested its creator had taken "intimidating" as a personal challenge and won.
The voice that erupted from that nightmare-made-flesh could have stripped paint:
"STARS!!!!"
Screaming. So much screaming from the soldiers. Screaming and running and the general chaos of people realizing they'd made terrible life choices.
"Joy." Lionel's smile was beatific, tears actually forming in his eyes. "That iconic line. That beautiful, iconic line. It's like coming home to find your favorite show got renewed for another season."
The Black Scripture member—the Strongest Human himself—had gone pale as milk.
The bloodbath was about to be spectacular.
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End Chapter X