By some miracle, the Sorcerer King was vanquished in one decisive confrontation, and the evil that once threatened to engulf this world disappeared into legend.

In the aftermath of the battle, his greatest, most terrifying servants were captured and sealed away, bound to the edges of the world and never to be seen again…

"Tsk. Why are these all so vague?" muttered Ainz quietly to himself.

Behind the crystal clear lenses of the Magic Glasses, Ainz's spectral gaze flickered with frustration as he closed the book in his hands. Irritation pricked at him from the inside as he slotted the book dejectedly back into the nearby shelf.

He sighed as he took off the glasses, looking around at the myriad of bookshelves that surrounded him in the darkness of the closed Library of Oaknys. Despite having spent hours rummaging through pages in search of answers, Ainz had learnt precious little about the exact fate of his subjects and his kingdom.

It was not that there were a lack of sources pertaining to the topic of the Sorcerer King. On the contrary, quite a lot of material could be found on the subject of "The Great Vanquishing." However, hardly any of it provided any concrete names and details, and all Ainz could find were blurred and fantastical tales that bore little resemblance to a true historical account.

The situations of the Tomb and of E-Rantel were hardly ever mentioned, with only brief excerpts referring to a clash between the Slane Theocracy and the Goblin Army. The fate of the Floor Guardians were never expressly detailed, either. Their epithets were brought up occasionally; passing utterances of names like "Blood Valkyrie" and "Frozen Authority'' flitting into the occasional page, but specific descriptions of their fate never went beyond some vague form of imprisonment.

At times, Ainz could see snippets of history that had been utterly distorted, which led him to question the actual validity of the text. Time and time again he saw the factual events of his reign and his conquests blatantly altered to weave a story of heroic triumph. The depiction of the "final battle" between him and the Black Scripture had also been ridiculously re-imagined to the point of fantasy.

The more he read, the more Ainz realised that the answers he sought would not come by as easily as he thought. The truth had long been stripped away and replaced with the convenient imitation that was history, and only by finding those directly involved would he be able to attain the information he needed.

That was not to say that his night time reading spree had been a complete waste of time. While most of the available historical texts were centered on Oaknys and the City State Alliance, there were some that contained information regarding the circumstances of the surrounding nations.

At the very least, he had managed to develop a sense of the overall geopolitical situation around him. From what he gathered, the nations he had been familiar with before his fall remained more or less in place, with the exception of a "New" Re-Estize Kingdom that had sprung up in his absence.

Once again, however, there were few exact details available that could clue him in on the situation of the people and places he cared about. It felt like everything was wrapped in a layer of fog, as if one or more invisible hands were purposefully guiding and distorting the flow of information.

Ainz strode away from the cluster of bookshelves and walked over to the nearby window, staring out towards the horizon. The gloom of night still shrouded the land for the most part, but he could see the faint inkling of the imminent dawn manifest as a faint sliver of golden light emerging in the distance.

[Greater Teleportation]

In the blink of an eye, Ainz rematerialised inside a dark, medium-sized room. The simple bed to his side was in a crinkled mess, as if something heavy had rolled itself back and forth atop the sheets and pillows. A plain wooden desk and wardrobe sat on the wall opposite to the bed, and a dressing mirror was attached next to the only door in the room.

He walked over to the door, upon which he had placed a magical marker. Ainz nodded in satisfaction as he confirmed that it remained undisturbed; nobody had tried to knock or enter during his time at the library. The Anti-Information Magic Wall he had placed upon the room also showed no signs of interference.

Ainz conjured his usual human illusion. He equipped the armor and weapons generated by [Create Greater Item] before dispelling both the magical marker on the door and the Anti-Information Magic Wall.

Now clad in the attire of the Dark Hero, Ainz strode over to the bed and sat down, clasping his armored fingers together as he reflected upon the first day of his return to the New World.

He recalled the meeting with the Oracle, which ultimately proved to be an uneventful encounter. Ainz had been relieved when the old demihuman woman sent them on their way without issue, but he could not help but feel that it had all gone a little too smoothly.

If the Oracle could divine his presence and nature once before, there was no guarantee that she could not do it again. For now, Ainz considered her as a potential liability. He still had yet to figure out how best to deal with her without drawing attention to himself, but in the meantime, he would stay vigilant against all possibilities.

Following the meeting, he had been guided back to the Martial District to meet with the Quartermaster, Randell Forris. Upon hearing about Momon's victory over the Death Knight, Randell had immediately extended an invitation for the former to participate in the Connelier as a representative of the city.

Ainz had decisively declined.

It would be foolish for him to mire himself in the trappings of any particular faction. More importantly, it was too risky a gamble to present himself upon a public stage for so many to see. While the name of the Dark Hero did not seem to be recognised by the locals, he could not discount the possibility of foreign spies, especially with the Theocracy still at large.

The Quartermaster had been disappointed, but was amiable enough to offer one of the spare rooms in the Martial District for him to stay as compensation for eliminating the Death Knight. Ainz had spent the next several hours of dusk exploring the city for information. Most of the conversations he overheard revolved around the Connelier, but there was also talk of a mysterious red light sighted in the sky not so long ago.

Ultimately, it would be the elven mage, Hothris, that provided the most insightful information on the things Ainz wished to know. It was from the elf that Ainz finally heard the first mention of the NPCs.

He had come dangerously close to losing his composure upon hearing that his friends' creations had been captured. It was a strange feeling of equal parts rage and relief, an amalgamation of his fiery indignation at their lost freedom, and the wondrous exaltation that was the knowledge of their survival.

His emotional limiter staved off the brewing storm in his core, but the sensation continued to tingle inside him. Too many questions remained unanswered, and the fact that they still supposedly lived aroused an even greater preponderance of suspicions.

So as the city slept in the dead of night, Ainz cast [Perfect Unknowable] and snuck into the library to find the answers to his questions.

Now, however, as he sat in contemplation upon that wrinkled bed, he knew that the knowledge he sought would not come by as easily as he had hoped.

Ainz wondered what next step he should take. There was little left for him to do here in this city; it seemed unlikely that any more useful intel could be safely gathered from this place.

I remember hearing Hothris mention the Library of Veneria. Maybe I should see what I can find there? Or perhaps….

The image of the Great Tomb of Nazarick surfaced in his mind. He was still not sure exactly what awaited him near the proximity of the guild base, but based on what he'd learnt throughout the past day, the New World hadn't seemed to change too much in terms of its overall standard of power.

It might be time for me to take the next step….

A sudden loud knock roused the Overlord from his thoughts.

Ainz gazed in suspicion at the wooden door. It was awfully early for anyone to be visiting, especially when he knew hardly anyone in the area.

He stood up hesitantly, not quite sure how to respond.

Should I pretend to be asleep, or-

A second knock came,even louder this time.

"It is Vamir." echoed a deep, muffled voice from behind the door.

Ainz raised a gauntleted hand to his head in confusion. What did the tiger beastman want with him at this hour?

He strode over and opened the door to see none other than the furred, muscular figure of Vamir Shazua standing alone in the hallway outside.

"How did you know I was awake..?" Ainz unintentionally blurted out before stopping to realise his mistake. He would have preferred to start with something a bit more cordial, but the unexpected presence of the peculiar beastman had thrown him cleanly off his guard.

"Momon is a warrior like Vamir. All great warriors rise when the golden light touches the land." the beastman replied with a shrug.

Eh, aren't you a monk?

"I-Is that so? Did you need me for something?"

"The Chosen of the other Coalitions have arrived, along with their leadership."

"..."

A silence fell between them as Ainz waited for the elaboration that would not come.

"...and?" Ainz finally asked, trying not to let his exasperation show.

"Momon and Vamir should go forth and observe their training." Vamir explained matter-of- factly. "To walk further on the path of the strong."

"Ah, but I have no intention of participating in the tournament, Vamir." he replied in a firm but respectful tone. "I am not sure why you would like me of all people to accompany you?"

Vamir tilted his head in confusion at the reply. "The two of us have clasped hands, and Vamir has recognised Momon's grip. The two of us are fellow warriors, no?"

No! Ainz yelled in his head.

He considered simply rejecting the beastman's strange invitation, but a part of him still felt the need to further confirm just how strong the most exceptional of the locals could get. He needed every extra bit of information to form as accurate as possible an idea regarding the potential dangers that lay ahead.

"Umu. Very well, lead the way."

Ainz followed Vamir out of the building, striding along quietly behind the tiger beastman as the latter made his way towards the outskirts of the Martial District.

It would still be some time before the sun fully rose, but the light that was only a sliver in the distance not so long ago now coated the land in a faint golden glow. As the two of them walked in silence, Ainz felt the nagging tensions in his mind fade momentarily as he bathed in the soothing convergence of light and shadow.

Soon, they arrived before a small stadium. Ainz had sighted this edifice during his earlier exploration of the city, but had been unsure what to make of it at the time. It was tiny compared to the Empire's Coliseum, but was quite similar in layout and design.

"Is this where the Connelier will be held?" he asked.

Vamir looked at Ainz with an incredulous glint in his eyes. "No, no, no. Too small, too dull." he puffed with some indignation. "There is a special site near the forest. The Connelier will be held there. The title of Organiser of Oaknys cannot be allowed again."

"The Organizer of Oaknys..?"

"It is a title of failure. Almost one hundred and fifty years ago, the Connelier was ruined under the hosting of Oaknys. Vamir heard that Vanquished Spectres came to haunt the tournament. All went wrong that day.*"

Ainz raised his illusory eyebrows-he had not expected to hear such a peculiar slice of history.

Vanquished Spectres….

"This is the training arena." Vamir continued. "The Elothris Coalition should be-."

A loud crackling sound resonated through the crisp morning air, followed by the harsh clang of metal and a subsequent groan of agony.

Ainz could see the tiger beastman's eyes glinting with a hungry fascination upon hearing the sudden chaos. Vamir quickly headed through the stone archway that marked the entrance of the arena without another word, and Ainz followed suit.

The two of them went up a flight of stairs to reach the spectator stands. Several others seemed to have shared Vamir's interest: around a dozen or so humanoids and demihumans dotted the stands, watching whatever was happening inside the central pit with great attentiveness.

Ainz recognised some of them as Aspirants that he had encountered during his exploration of the Military District. From what he'd heard, the selection process for the remaining Chosen vacancies would be held today. He imagined that most of the Aspirants here were observing the training in hopes of finding anything that would help them refine their own abilities.

The scene before him-of New Worlders struggling on their personal paths towards greater power-stirred memories of the research he had been conducting before his fall.

During his last few years as the Sorcerer King, Ainz discovered several interesting aspects regarding the power development of the natives. Multiple projects including the powerleveling of exceptional individuals and the revamping of the adventurer's guild contributed to a more extensive look into the potential of this world's inhabitants.

Although there was no way for him to inspect their exact stats, the growth of the natives-humanoids and demihumans alike-appeared to more or less mirror that of leveling up in Yggdrasil. However, there were still major differences that made approximating their power and growth much trickier compared to that of true Yggdrasil entities.

For starters, they did not gain skills and abilities in the same standardized and intuitive process that Players did in-game. Instead, the warrior-types developed martial arts that crystalised their training and experience into varied physical augmentations usable in combat. The mage-types were more or less confined to the tier magic system, but they could create new spells-a unique potential seemingly exclusive to the native inhabitants of this world.

In the end, the growth of the New Worlders felt like a strange amalgamation between the Yggdrasil system and something more akin to a traditional, intangible form of self-cultivation. Their acquisition of strength felt inefficient and cumbersome, not to mention the inherent limitations that restricted any further growth beyond a certain level.

Racial transformations meant to optimise New Worlder "builds" were used experimentally as an attempt to bypass some of these limitations. Ainz recalled that the former princess, Renner, would be the first prototype, unlocking her Fallen Seeds and transforming into an Imp. However, as her build was not combat-related, no conclusions could be immediately drawn about the implications of race change on raw power.

It was the second experiment with Climb that shed initial light onto the multidimensional nature of the New Worlders' inherent capacity for growth. As Ainz had discovered, race-change boxes only served as one piece of a larger puzzle. They served to reconfigure the Yggdrasil-esque template through which New Worlders derived their strength, but more than that would be required in order for them to truly exceed their limit.

The crucial factor would turn out to be Climb's existing grasp of martial arts.

From the very beginning, Ainz had been fascinated with the idea of "talents" and "martial arts" in this world, as they did not exist in Yggdrasil. But after a while, Ainz's interest in martial arts began to dwindle, unimpressed at the weakness of the individuals who wielded them.

However, through Climb's experiment, he learnt that the importance of martial arts to Nazarick lay not in their actual strength or usefulness in battle. Their significance may have seemed paltry from a practical perspective, but the fundamental nature from which they were born had far reaching implications that went beyond their users' physical capabilities.

The martial arts employed by New World warriors were a manifestation of the individual's will to exceed one's mortal limits. It was the threshold through which a humanoid or demihuman ascended past the confines of mundane expertise and crossed into the realm of the preternatural.

This personal evolution was something that had a fascinating compatibility with the race change process. And it was through this union of Yggdrasil and the New World that the [Aspect of the Myrmidon] manifested itself.

But were martial arts the only way for New Worlders to redefine their limits? With their racial templates reconfigured through the black boxes, could promising individuals manifest new abilities by following their own unique paths?

Climb's precedent became the inspiration for the initiation of other experimental projects, and Ainz had looked forward to seeing the answers to those questions gradually surface as the chosen New Worlders proved themselves over the decades.

In the end, however, everything was torn from him before he could see any of it unfold.

The crimson lights in his eyes dimmed, and Ainz's gaze went out of focus as he found himself in a lost and despondent daze. Just how many things could he have accomplished and built; how much suffering and sadness could have been avoided if things were just a little bit different that day?

Suddenly, a bright blue flash of light entered Ainz's vision, jolting him from his depressing trance. His illusory eyes blinked beneath his black helm as he shifted his gaze towards the pit below...

...and froze.

"Stop! I concede!"

Hyumilla retracted her outstretched hand as she heard the words of surrender. She flexed her wrist, willing the crackling tendrils of electricity around her fingers to dissipate as she directed her icy gaze towards the charred figure on the ground several meters away.

A war troll clad in studded leather lay in a sizzling heap on the ground, his flesh and armor blackened from the countless scorch marks over his body. The troll crawled pitifully to a group of seven armed humanoids and demihumans standing at the edge of the pit.

One of them, a snakewoman covered in ritualistic tattoos and adornments, stepped forward and cast a healing spell:

[Middle Cure Wounds]

The war troll sighed in relief as his burns began to slowly fade away.

"Can you not show some restraint?" exclaimed the snakewoman mystic upon completing her healing. "This is a public training exhibition, and your antics may cause lasting injuries that will hamper us in the Connelier. Do you not care?"

The snakewoman glared at her with anger and disbelief, but Hyumilla could see the raw fear hidden deep within those bulbous eyes. She could also hear the slight tremor of the demihuman's voice as she uttered those words of protest.

Hyumilla said nothing in return. The matter was uncomplicated; the loud-mouthed troll had requested to spar, and she had obliged. As for the question….

A simple yes.

The group of eight "Chosen" huddled to the side were no more significant to her than the insects and reptiles that crawled about in the Karnassian undergrowth. Hyumilla did not recall their names, and she could barely distinguish between their misshapen figures.

They were weak and unruly; unfit to carry out the will of the Elothris Coalition. Hyumilla knew that she alone would suffice to prove the Coalition's supremacy in the Connelier, for that was her calling-to serve a greater purpose beyond herself.

If anything, their presence was an insult to the very ideal of power the Coalition sought to project in the upcoming tournament. Hyumilla's eyes narrowed in contempt as she considered this, and the smell of ozone filled the air as an invisible pressure rippled out from around her.

Suddenly, a slender but firm hand clasped onto Hyumilla's shoulder, and a soothing voice spoke softly into her ear:

"Take it easy, sister, there are outsiders watching us. I'm sure Sszithyia did not mean any disrespect."

The snakewoman bobbed her head up and down in agreement, recoiling in horror at Hyumilla's sudden release of killing intent.

A nonchalant look on her pale face, Hyumilla reigned in her vexation before turning to look at the individual beside her.

Sfeiza's striking features shone with a calm confidence, her leaf green hair glistening under the soft rays cast by the rising sun. Unlike the rest of the Elothris Coalition's representatives for the Connelier, Sfeiza, like Hyumilla, was a member of the Silent Sisters-the Coalition's deadly covert task force.

While Hyumilla had been reassigned to a public role as a Chosen for the Connelier, Sfeiza had also been brought on board to support the deadly sorceress in her endeavor. Before their reassignment, the two of them had only been referred to as their numbers: Three and Four. Now, they were Hyumilla and Sfeiza-reborn into the light.

Hyumilla's icy demeanor softened as she turned towards her comrade. The members of the Silent Sisters were some of the only people to whom she felt any kinship. For some reason, Hyumilla found a reassuring warmth in the sisterhood between them. It filled some distant void within her, and that small bond gave Hyumilla a faint sense of familial belonging that she could not seem to gather from anywhere else.

'This "training" we are conducting is a pointless exercise.' said Hyumilla, waving a dismissive hand towards the rest of the Chosen. "Just you and I should be enough to sweep the tournament."

"We must continue to follow the observed traditions even as we claim victory in the Connelier" Sfeiza patiently replied. "The Elothris Coalition provides a demonstration in the morning, the Kabelia Coalition provides a demonstration in the afternoon, and then the Brave Coalition holds the final selection for the tenth Chosen in the evening before the tournament. Ten representatives each will attend the Connelier-no more and no less."

"That is the custom observed when the tournament is held in a city of the Brave Coalition." she continued. "To stray from these procedures would be to provoke the ire of the spirits and the divine, especially when the city in question is the infamous Oaknys."

Hyumilla made a skeptical face. "Baseless superstition. Besides, Lord Elothris has already decided to break with tradition following the end of the tournament. I do not see why it is necessary to observe these nonsensical beliefs to the end." she muttered in a low voice.

Sfeiza merely smiled, long accustomed to her companion's unorthodox demeanor. "Why are you so entrenched in your disbelief against our faith and customs, Sfeiza? It is quite a surprise considering your utter devotion to Lord Elothris's cause."

Hyumilla kept silent. In truth, she was not quite sure. There was something simply absurd and blasphemous to her about worshipping such things. Her disdain was rooted in something beyond simple logic; it was like a feeling of instinctual disgust similar to how one felt upon seeing some revolting lower life form.

"Perhaps in my previous life, I worshipped some form of deity." she finally replied. "And the residue of that faith lingers in me even now."

Sfeiza raised her eyebrows in surprise at the unexpected response.

"Knowing you, you must have been quite the zealot indeed." she teased with a smile, but her expression turned serious as she continued, lowering her voice to a whisper: "Although...I seldom hear you bring up that forgotten past of yours. Do you still wonder what life you once led all those years ago? Do you still wonder what you...are? Because you certainly aren't human."

"No." Hyumilla lied in spite of herself. "That time is past. I must…"

Her eyes widened as a strange, otherworldly feeling shot through her body. It was like an overwhelming sensation of loss, followed by a cold melancholy that resonated throughout her being. She clutched at her chest, doubling over from the rapid infusion of emotion.

Hyumilla heard Sfeiza by her side, frantically asking her if she was alright, but she ignored it as she urgently turned around to sweep her gaze across the breadth of the spectator stands. Her eyes darted back and forth, driven by the inexplicable thought that something there could quench that gnawing void that had suddenly split open her heart and soul.

Several seconds passed, but she saw nothing besides the same unremarkable vermin littering the stands. Soon, that mysterious feeling rapidly faded away, leaving Hyumilla standing there wondering if it had all been some strange working of her imagination.

"I'm fine." She turned to reassure Sfeiza, only to find the green-haired elf staring back at her with wide eyes of shock; a hand over her mouth.

"Hyumilla, you're…."

Hyumilla blinked in surprise, finally realising the cold, wet sensation on her eyes and face. She reached up with her hand to touch her cheek, feeling the tears flowing for the first time in one hundred years.

The Necroplasmic Mantle fluttered behind him as Ainz's greaves clanged against the stairs on his way out of the training arena.

There could be no mistaking it: the woman he saw in the pit moments ago was none other than Narberal Gamma of the Pleiades Six Stars.

Ainz's mind raced with an overwhelming number of possibilities. He had been very close to calling out to her, to latch onto the one tangible thread to Nazarick that had suddenly appeared before his eyes. But an icy panic took over before he could complete the act, stifling the sound of Narberal's name before it could leave his nonexistent lips.

He had excused himself from the stands, leaving Vamir behind. Fortunately, the tiger beastman seemed oblivious to Ainz's sudden distress as the latter scurried out of sight.

Ainz exited through the stone archway from whence he had entered and slumped against the sandstone wall of the stadium. He scanned the surrounding area, making absolutely sure there were no observers before dispelling his magical armor to reveal his illusory human self draped in an unassuming robe.

[Greater Teleportation]

Ainz reappeared a moment later at the mouth of the cave he had used the previous day. He went inside, setting up another [Anti-Information Magic Wall] and summoning an [Eyeball Corpse] to monitor the surrounding area.

Finally, he sat down, the human illusion melting away to reveal the Overlord beneath.

Up until this point, Ainz had emboldened himself through his own ignorance; he had embraced the unknown as some great adventure for himself to conquer. He knew hardly anything of what had happened over the past century, and the fates of the NPCs were a mystery that he had resolved himself to slowly unravel.

In a way, Ainz had allowed that absence of tangible evidence to delude himself into a state of hopeful denial. It allowed him to stave away the dire thoughts that lurked beneath, so that he could keep moving in spite of the dreadful reality that loomed before him.

But the shock of Narberal's appearance shattered that fanciful self-delusion. The presence of a custom-made NPC moving and conversing in stark contradiction to her setting was the fateful wake up call that would finally force Ainz to confront the cold, hard truth.

From the very moment he realised that he'd returned to the New World, Ainz already knew deep down that everything was wrong-

-the world did not burn.

If the Floor Guardians had indeed survived the fall of Ainz Ooal Gown, the only possible outcome would be Armageddon. Ainz was certain that the powers of the Slane Theocracy and the rest of the New World would not be sufficient to combat the might of Nazarick. Logically speaking, the NPCs would continue fighting with renewed ferocity after his own "death," and consume the world in their rage.

But the more Ainz learned about the current state of the New World, the more he understood that this was not the case. The nations still stood as they did before, and the tales of the Sorcerer King and his followers faded slowly into distant memory.

Under these circumstances, only two other possibilities remained:

Either the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown had been destroyed, and all of Nazarick was no more, or the Theocracy or some other entity had found some way to control the NPCs using the guild weapon.

The appearance of Narberal all but cemented the latter of those possibilities.

He gazed at the ring of Ainz Ooal Gown on his finger in dread as the terrifying revelation seeped into his bones like liquid frost. As his emotions reached a tipping point, his emotional limiter kicked in and the turbulence in his mind cleared momentarily.

The Ovelord calmed down, but his doubts and fears continued circulating in his head as he stood up and walked back to the entrance of the cave.

He'd stood at that very spot only yesterday, staring out into the lush wilderness with the naive and selfish hope that everything could go back to how it once was. It reminded him of that first night below the star-filled sky, when he had uttered the careless words of aspiration that would set in motion his own ultimate demise.

But what if the lost could never be reclaimed? Was the "spirit of adventure" truly enough? Ainz had long grown accustomed to having the mind and might of Nazarick behind him; what good could he do all by himself?

The burning conviction that he had rekindled only yesterday faltered as the sheer weight of reality pressed upon his bare scapula. An internal tidal wave of questions threatened to engulf him.

What if the NPCs really were lost to him forever? What if they had been warped into something else entirely, and turned against him the moment they crossed paths?

Was he truly prepared to take that next step forward? To reach for the knowledge that could destroy him; to reclaim the legacy that might never be whole again?

What was Ainz Ooal Gown without Nazarick? The Overlord finally asked himself as he brought his fleshless hands up to his face, beholding the inhuman grasp that was once again his own. What was the Sorcerer King without his Kingdom?

With the very essence of his subordinates' loyalties now called into question, Ainz felt more vulnerable and alone than ever before. It was almost as if he was back inside that frail human shell, huddled in a mire of his own helplessness as countless insurmountable odds loomed around him.

But in that very moment, as he remembered the pain and loss he had endured throughout all those years of banishment, he felt a new emotion course through him.

Rage

He could feel it like liquid fire in his bones-rage towards himself, towards the Old World and the New. To everything that caused his suffering and the suffering of those he cherished. It burned just intensely enough to send a slight tremor through his skeletal frame, and he could feel it edging closer and closer towards yet another activation of his suppressor.

The very premise that Ainz Ooal Gown's children had been subverted to serve some unspeakable end lit an ugly flame in the Overlord's heart. It was not the same as the self-directed fury he had felt when Shooting Star failed to remove Shalltear's mind control, nor could it be compared to the temper that had gripped him when the Workers had tried to use his friends' name to save their own skin.

It was a deep, tunneling disgust that crawled within his osseous structure, licking at his insides in perpetual torment. It writhed within him like a metamorphosis of his greatest fears.

The emotional suppression eventually came once more, but the mind that remained after that cleansing of the psyche had changed. Gone were the thoughts of running away, of freeing himself from the potential traps and betrayals that loomed all around him.

The crimson lights in his eyes smoldered with an unprecedented intensity, and the image of Narberal Gamma surfaced again in his mind-the first sight that planted the seeds of wrath not so long ago. As the shadow of a plan emerged in the recesses of his troubled thoughts, Ainz Ooal Gown understood then that the Sorcerer King's first reckoning was finally at hand.