Well... it's morning, apparently. I think.
And I'm going to tell you something... I fucking hate being a vampire.
I'm currently lying in my humble—no, scratch that—*luxurious* bed, staring at the ornate canopy above me. The fabric is some kind of black silk embroidered with silver thread that depicts... are those bats? Of course they're bats.
I managed to find my way back to my room after my embarrassing ceiling incident.
And I'll tell you one thing.
I miss sleeping.
Like, it was one thing not to feel tired when you didn't have a body anymore and you were just floating in the void for six months with nothing to do. That was its own special kind of hell, but at least I had the excuse of not having a physical form.
But having a body again gave me hope. Hope that I'd at least be able to get a single miserable night of sleep. That I could close my eyes and drift off into unconsciousness for a few hours. Escape from this fucked-up situation I've found myself in.
How devastatingly wrong I was.
Vampires don't sleep.
They don't get tired. They don't feel drowsy. There's no gradual fade into rest, no relief from consciousness. I've been lying here with my eyes closed for three hours straight, just... thinking. Overthinking. Spiraling through every possible scenario of how badly I'm screwed.
And let me tell you, there are a *lot* of scenarios.
But that's not even the worst thing about being a vampire. You want to know what the absolute worst thing about being a vampire is?
YOU CAN'T GET A BONER.
How did I figure this out so quickly, you ask?
Well...
I'm sixteen years old.
I'm a healthy young man—or was, before the whole "undead" thing.
I'm curious.
And let's be honest, a bit depraved.
Which brings us to our current situation.
"Alukard-sama?..." A feminine voice calls my name, soft and close to my ear.
I open my eyes and turn my head to the side.
Lying beside me is a figure of ethereal beauty—a woman with skin as pale as fresh snow, hair the color of midnight that spreads across the pillow like spilled ink. Her eyes have dark sclera that make her scarlet-red pupils seem to glow in the dim light of the room.
Right.
So... let's say, hypothetically... that I may have summoned a Vampire Bride last night.
But wait, wait, wait—before you judge me, let me explain.
Let's not panic here.
This was all motivated by a completely scientific experiment.
Completely.
---Flashback to Last Night---
Look, when I was... *experimenting* with my body last night—and not in the way you're thinking, get your mind out of the gutter—I decided to properly test what I could actually do. What this vampiric body was capable of.
Turns out? Quite a lot.
I could move faster than I ever thought possible. I could hear a Dullahan's armor clanking from three floors away. I could see perfectly in complete darkness. Hell, I could probably punch through a stone wall if I wanted to.
But there was one very important, very *crucial* detail about my physiology that I hadn't given proper attention to.
I'm dead.
Like, actually dead.
Dead dead.
Undead, to be precise.
Which means my heart doesn't beat.
And if my heart doesn't beat, my blood doesn't circulate properly.
And if my blood doesn't circulate properly...
I HAVE FUCKING ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION.
At sixteen years old.
*Sixteen.*
I panicked. Like, properly panicked. I spent a solid hour pacing back and forth in my room, occasionally banging my head against the wall, contemplating the cosmic injustice of it all.
I survived dying. I survived six months in the void. I survived waking up as a vampire in Nazarick of all places.
And THIS is what breaks me? The fact that I'm going to spend eternity as a corpse who can't get it up?
I refuse.
I *refuse* to die a virgin.
Again.
So after my mini-existential crisis, after I'd exhausted myself with despair—though apparently vampires can't actually get exhausted, which just made me more frustrated—a memory surfaced. Not one of mine, but one belonging to the original Alukard.
I'm a vampire.
Vampires can manipulate their own blood. Control it. Direct it where it needs to go.
If I could figure out how to do that... maybe...
So I made a decision. A teenage boy's decision, granted, but a decision nonetheless.
I spent the next hour experimenting with magic. Turns out, using spells is surprisingly intuitive now. A side effect of inhabiting NPC Alukard's body, I guess. His knowledge, his instincts—they're all there, buried in my subconscious, waiting to be accessed.
I could feel the mana inside me, a cold reservoir of power sitting in my chest where my heart should be beating.
I reached into that power and pulled.
**[Create Undead: Vampire Bride]**
The words came to me naturally.
I felt something drain from me—mana, I realized. A chunk of that cold reservoir flowing out of my body and into the magic circle that suddenly appeared on the floor in front of me, glowing with sickly green light.
The circle pulsed once, twice, and then *she* appeared.
A low-level undead monster. Level 30, according to the information that floated into my mind.
Strong by New World standards.
Pathetically weak by Nazarick standards.
But Jesus Christ, she was beautiful.
She materialized in a flash of pale green light, wearing a white dress.The dress was torn in places, aged and weathered, but somehow that just added to the haunting aesthetic.
Her skin was corpse-pale—even paler than mine—and flawless. Her hair was long and black, cascading down her back in waves. And her eyes...
Red sclera. Black pupils. Like pools of blood and darkness.
If I still had a working heart, it would've skipped a beat.
If I had a mirror—and if I could actually *use* a mirror—I'm pretty sure I'd see the dumbest, most lovestruck expression on my face right now.
She's *gorgeous.*
The moment our eyes meet, she immediately averts her gaze, as though making eye contact with me was some kind of sin. She drops to her knees gracefully, her head bowed, long hair falling forward to hide her face.
"My life is yours, Alukard-sama," she says, her voice soft and melodious, filled with reverence and absolute devotion. "What are your orders?"
And right there, in that moment, I understood.
This is how Ainz must feel right now.
This absolute *power* of having someone look at you with complete worship. Complete obedience. Ready to do anything you command without question.
It's intoxicating.
It's terrifying.
It's *wrong.*
But fuck if it doesn't feel amazing.
I approach her slowly, my footsteps silent on the cold stone floor. She doesn't move. Doesn't even twitch. Just remains there, kneeling, perfectly still like a porcelain doll.
I reach down and run my fingers through her hair.
It's silky smooth, cool to the touch. She trembles slightly at the contact but still doesn't move.
I lean closer, curious about something.
She doesn't smell like anything.
No perfume. No body odor. No scent of decay or death despite being an undead creature. Just... nothing. An absence of smell, like she doesn't exist in that particular sensory spectrum.
It's strange. Unsettling, even.
Though I suppose I have a smell—my vampiric senses are sharp enough that I can detect my own scent. Something woody and dark, with an undertone of old parchment and cold stone. Weirdly specific, but not unpleasant.
I'm getting distracted.
I cup her chin and tilt her face up to look at me. Her skin is cold. Not cool, not chilly—*cold.* Like touching ice.
Because she's a corpse.
A reanimated, beautiful corpse.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"I have no name, Alukard-sama," she responds immediately, her voice barely above a whisper. "I am whatever you wish me to be."
Right.
Of course she doesn't have a name. She's a summoned creature. A monster. She probably didn't even have consciousness until I created her thirty seconds ago.
God, I'm an idiot.
I think for a moment, looking at her face. At those crimson eyes watching me with such absolute trust and devotion.
She deserves a name.
"Carmilla," I say finally. "Your name is Carmilla."
For the first time since she appeared, her expression changes.
She smiles.
Not a forced smile. Not a dutiful smile. A genuine, pure, radiant smile of absolute *joy.*
Like I just gave her the greatest gift in the world.
"Thank you, Master," she breathes, and there are actual tears forming in her eyes. "Thank you so much. I will treasure this name. I will be worthy of it. I swear it."
Who would've thought...
That a monster could show such a human expression.
The New World is Cooked
She's so beautiful. So genuinely happy.
I want to kiss her.
The thought hits me suddenly, and before I can second-guess it, I'm already leaning down. Moving closer to her face.
She notices. Of course she does. And understanding what I'm about to do, she closes her eyes and tilts her head up, lips slightly parted, ready to receive—
I stop.
Pull back.
No.
No.
This is wrong.
Her eyes open, confused, but she doesn't question me. Doesn't ask why I stopped. She just accepts it, lowering her head again, as if questioning my actions would be a grave offense.
And that's exactly the problem, isn't it?
She can't say no to me.
She *wouldn't* say no to me, even if she wanted to.
She sees me as her master. Her creator. Her god.
She views herself as nothing more than a tool for my desires. My whims. Whatever I want, she'll do without hesitation, without complaint.
And I'm not going to lie—I want to. God, do I want to. I'm sixteen years old with six months of sensory deprivation followed by waking up in a body that apparently looks like a goth supermodel. Every teenage hormone I ever had is screaming at me to just *go for it.*
But...
I'm better than this.
I *have* to be better than this.
I want my first time to be meaningful. With someone who actually *wants* to be with me, not someone who's literally programmed to obey my every command.
This would be rape.
Maybe not legally, maybe not technically, but morally? Absolutely.
And I'm not that kind of person.
I refuse to be.
"Carmilla," I say, my voice firmer now.
She straightens immediately, attentive. "Yes, Master?"
"You're going to be my maid," I tell her. "You'll keep my room clean. Help me with my armor when I need it. Keep me company when I'm alone. Laugh at my terrible jokes even when they're not funny."
She nods eagerly, hanging on every word.
I look directly into her eyes, making sure she understands this next part.
"And you will be loyal to me. *Only* to me. Not to anyone else. Just me."
I pause.
"Just as I will be loyal to you."
I smile at her. It feels strange—I can't remember the last time I genuinely smiled at another person.
She stares at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Processing. Taking in what I've said.
Then she smiles back. Small, but real.
"Yes, Master," she says softly. "I understand."
"Perfect," I say, clapping my hands together. "Now get in the bed. You're going to be my body pillow."
Look, I'm still a teenage guy, okay? I haven't had a hug in a long time.
I need cuddles.
---End of Flashback---
And that's how I ended up here, lying in bed with a beautiful vampire maid who I'm using as a glorified teddy bear.
See? I'm a villain, not a monster.
Actually, I *am* a monster.
But I have standards. Limits.
Lines I won't cross.
I notice Carmilla is still watching me, those red eyes studying my face.
"Good morning," I say.
Neither of us slept, obviously. But it feels like the right thing to say.
"Good morning, Master," she replies, and there's a warmth in her voice that wasn't there last night.
I sit up, and immediately Carmilla springs into action. She's out of bed in a blur of movement, already straightening the sheets and fluffing the pillows with supernatural speed and efficiency.
Five seconds.
The entire bed is made in five seconds.
"Show-off," I mutter, but I'm smiling.
Alright, what's on the agenda today? Probably more exploring the cathedral. Maybe I can find a training room or something, figure out what this body can actually do without launching myself into the ceiling like a jackass—
*Knock knock knock.*
I freeze.
Someone's at the door.
"Alukard-sama." The voice is feminine, emotionless. A Frost Virgin. "Cocytus-sama has arrived at the cathedral and requests your presence in the Sacred Chapel immediately. Please do not keep him waiting."
Oh.
Oh *fuck.*
"I'll be right there!" I call out, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
The footsteps retreat.
I look at Carmilla. She's already moving, pulling my armor pieces from where they're stored in the corner of the room.
She understands without me saying a word.
I am *not* meeting a Floor Guardian in pajamas.
I activate my vampiric speed—or try to. I'm faster than a human, but not nearly as fast as I expected. Carmilla moves with practiced efficiency, helping me strap on piece after piece of the heavy black armor.
Chest plate. Pauldrons. Gauntlets. Greaves. Helmet.
Twelve seconds.
The entire process takes twelve seconds.
I step out of the room. The Frost Virgin bows and gestures down the corridor.
We walk in silence, our footsteps echoing through the vast emptiness of the cathedral.
---
The Sacred Chapel is packed when we arrive.
At least a dozen Frost Virgins sit in the obsidian pews, their heads bowed in prayer. The air is thick with frost—I can see my breath, though I'm not actually breathing. Just another weird quirk of being undead.
And there, at the far end of the chapel, kneeling before the massive stained glass window depicting Ainz Ooal Gown in all his skeletal glory, is Cocytus.
I'm tall.
Even without the armor, Alukard's body is easily six-foot-five. With the armor and horns, I'm probably pushing six-foot-eleven.
I feel like a child next to Cocytus.
And he's *kneeling.*
Four arms folded in a gesture of reverence. His blue exoskeleton gleams in the multi-colored light filtering through the stained glass. The elaborate samurai-style armor he wears makes him look like some kind of ancient warrior-god.
When he senses my approach, he rises to his full height—easily eight feet tall, maybe more—but doesn't turn around.
I kneel immediately.
The hierarchy is crystal clear.
He's the Floor Guardian of the Fifth Floor. My direct superior. A level 100 warrior who could bisect me before I even registered the movement.
Plus, you know, he's *Cocytus.* One of the few genuinely honorable beings in this entire tomb of monsters. His code of honor is the stuff of legend—I still remember his duel with Brain Unglaus in the anime, the respect he showed even to a weak human warrior.
If I have to serve under someone in Nazarick, I'm glad it's him.
"Remarkable," Cocytus says, his voice deep and resonant, each word carefully enunciated with brief pauses between them. "Although. I. Am. Guardian. Of. This. Floor. This. Is. My. First. Time. Visiting. The. Sacred. Chapel."
He gestures with one of his four arms at the stained glass windows surrounding us.
"What. A. Magnificent. Sight. The. Supreme. Beings. Truly. Deserve. Such. Tribute."
He finally turns to face me, and I feel the weight of his gaze even through my helmet.
"Alukard," he begins, and his tone shifts slightly. More serious. More grave. "The. Great. Tomb. Of. Nazarick. Has. Been. Transported. To. An. Unknown. Location. We. Are. No. Longer. In. The. Swamps. Of. Helheim."
I remain still, silent. Waiting.
"Lord. Momonga. Has. Ordered. All. Floor. Guardians. To. Prepare. Maximum. Defenses. A. Full. Alert. Has. Been. Declared. Throughout. Nazarick."
He pauses, letting the weight of that sink in.
"I. Am. Personally. Visiting. Each. Area. Guardian. Under. My. Command. To. Ensure. They. Understand. The. Situation. And. Are. Prepared. For. Possible. Invasion."
Invasion. Right. Because Nazarick just appeared in the middle of the New World, and for all Ainz knows, there could be world-class threats preparing to attack at any moment.
Spoiler alert: there aren't.
Yet.
Cocytus takes a step closer. The temperature drops noticeably.
"Alukard. I. Want. You. To. Know. Something."
His voice changes. It's subtle—still that same measured, halting cadence—but there's something else underneath. Something almost... emotional?
"Regardless. Of. What. May. Come. Regardless. Of. What. Enemies. We. May. Face. You. Are. A. Valuable. Comrade."
I... what?
*What?*
That's not just a standard "good job soldier" speech. That's personal.
Why is it personal?
What's the history between Cocytus and Alukard that I don't know about?
And why do I suddenly feel this strange, heavy weight in my chest—like guilt, or grief, or something I can't quite name?
Cocytus turns away and begins walking toward the exit. The Frost Virgins rise from their pews in perfect synchronization and fall into formation behind him like a procession of white-clad ghosts.
He pauses at the doorway.
His gaze drifts upward, scanning the stained glass windows that line the walls. Forty-one Supreme Beings rendered in colored glass and divine light. He looks at each one briefly, respectfully, before his attention settles on one window in particular.
A figure in elaborate samurai armor wielding a massive halberd, surrounded by imagery of honor and warfare.
Warrior Takemikazuchi. His creator.
"I. Would. Like. To. Come. Here. More. Often," Cocytus says quietly, his voice carrying a weight of reverence I haven't heard before. "To. Pay. Proper. Respect. To. Those. Who. Gave. Us. Life."
There's something in his tone. A devotion so deep it borders on worship.
"You're always welcome here, Cocytus-sama," I say, bowing my head. "The Sacred Chapel exists to honor the Supreme Beings. It would be a privilege to have you visit whenever you wish."
He doesn't respond immediately.
The silence stretches for several long moments, broken only by the faint sound of frost crackling in the air around his body.
Then, still not turning back to face me:
"The. Supreme. Beings. Created. Each. Of. Us. With. Purpose. Alukard."
Another pause.
"Do. Not. Forget. Yours."
And with that, he walks through the doorway and is gone.
The Frost Virgins file out behind him in perfect formation, their white kimonos trailing like snow, and then there's nothing but silence.
I'm alone.
Standing in the Sacred Chapel.
Surrounded by forty-one stained glass windows depicting beings I've never met. Gods who walked away. Gods who left their creations behind.
But everyone here would still die for them without hesitation.
Without question.
Without even a moment's doubt.
I look up at the largest window—Momonga's skeletal form clutching that golden staff with seven serpent heads. Those empty eye sockets seem to bore into me, even though I know it's just colored glass.
"Do not forget your purpose," I repeat quietly to myself.
But what *is* my purpose?
I don't know who Alukard really was. I don't know what he meant to Cocytus—why that line about being a "valuable comrade" felt so heavy, so weighted with unspoken history.
I don't know what role Alukard played in Nazarick's past.
Hell, I don't even know which of the Supreme Beings created him.
My eyes drift across the stained glass windows, trying to find some clue. Some hint.
Which one of these forty-one figures looked at a screen one day and decided to make a vampire knight?
Was it one of the dark-aligned creators? Someone like Ulbert Alain Odle who designed Demiurge?
Or maybe one of the more conflicted ones? Someone like Tabula Smaragdina who created Albedo with all her complexity and contradictions?
I have no idea.
And standing here, in this chapel built to worship beings who aren't even here anymore, I'm struck by how fundamentally *alone* I am.
I'm not really Alukard. I'm Robert Hoover, a sixteen-year-old kid from Earth who died jacking off and playing League of Legends.
But I'm not really Robert anymore either. That body is gone. That life is gone. That world is gone.
I'm something in between. Something that doesn't quite fit anywhere.
A human consciousness trapped in a monster's body, surrounded by actual monsters who think I'm one of them, in a world where I know *just enough* to understand how completely fucked I am.
I look back up at Momonga's window.
Somewhere in this tomb, Suzuki Satoru is probably feeling the exact same way.
A human trapped in a monster's form. Surrounded by beings who worship him as a god. Desperately trying to figure out how to survive while everyone around him expects him to be something he's not.
We're the same, him and me.
The only difference is that he has power. Authority. Everyone in Nazarick would burn the world to ash if he asked them to.
And me?
I'm just an Area Guardian that nobody remembers.
A footnote in Nazarick's history.
Whatever purpose I was created for, it clearly wasn't important enough for anyone to tell me about it.
I stand there for a while longer, looking at those windows, feeling the weight of all that colored glass looking back at me.
Forty-one absent gods.
And me, the forgotten creation, trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do now.
Finally, I turn and walk back toward the exit.
I have no answers.
But I know one thing for certain:
If I'm going to survive in this world—if I'm going to stay human while everyone around me loses themselves to monstrosity—I need to reach Ainz.
I need to make him see me as an ally. As something more than just another fanatical NPC.
Because right now, he's the only other person in this entire tomb who might understand what it's like to be completely, utterly alone.
Even when you're surrounded by thousands.