POV: Marcus Augustus Victor
The world hadn't ended.
It had shifted.
Marcus stood in the throne room of Nazarick, arms folded behind his back. His wings were still. The obsidian armor clung to him like death's promise. Around him, silence reigned—but it was no longer the sterile silence of a game lobby.
The torches crackled with actual fire. The scent of incense and ozone filled the air. Every gold-trimmed pillar, every polished stone slab, felt alive with magic and weight.
YGGDRASIL was now real.
His soul, bound to the indescribable, pulsed with awareness.
> "So. We're in the New World. Full immersion. Permanent. No logout. Good."
He flexed his hand, gauntlet groaning as real metal scraped against magic-forged plates. The power humming through his body wasn't a system stat—it was his. The throne behind him was no longer digital—it was divine.
A slow smile crept up.
> "Time to begin the meme empire."
---
POV: Albedo
The great doors of the throne room groaned open.
Albedo stood at their threshold, breath caught in her throat. Her vision blurred with reverent disbelief.
He was there.
He stood—tall, regal, wings folded, posture poised like a divine emperor returned from prophecy.
Her heart thundered.
Her knees collapsed beneath her as she threw herself into a bow so low her horns touched the floor.
> "My King… My love… You have returned to us…"
She couldn't stop shaking.
He hadn't abandoned them.
Not like the others.
Not like the traitors.
He was real. He had come for them.
> "Everything I am… is Yours."
---
POV: Marcus (Internal)
> "Jesus. I really did re-code her to love me, didn't I?"
Outwardly, his face remained stoic.
> "Albedo. Rise."
She stood, trembling with holy joy. The rest began to arrive, one by one.
---
POV: Demiurge
Demiurge entered next, followed by Cocytus and Shalltear. Behind them, the maids, the twin guardians, the aura of Nazarick itself.
Demiurge bowed deeply, but his keen mind spun in wonder.
> "He returned… He stayed… Not even Lord Momonga… This one never left. This one remained loyal, always."
A perfect ruler. A flawless planner.
> "Our kingdom shall rise through His genius. His will shall shape destiny itself."
Demiurge suppressed a rare smile.
> "The others may have forgotten. But I never did."
---
POV: Marcus
He let them kneel. Let the silence fill their bones.
Then he raised a hand—and the banners dropped behind him with a magical boom.
Black and red. Gold trim. The double-headed eagle of the Holy Roman Empire.
In one claw: a scroll marked "Democracy."
In the other: a sawed-off golden shotgun.
His voice thundered.
> "You are not abandoned."
The floor shook.
> "From this moment forth, all we are and all we shall become will serve a single purpose. We will build a nation. We will forge a realm. And the world will remember our name."
He turned, slowly, arms wide like a god on judgment day.
> "We are the Fourth Reich."
---
POV: Shalltear
She gasped.
A chill ran down her spine—ecstasy and terror intertwined.
> "He… He is glorious. More than even Lord Momonga. This one… this one is worthy of devotion."
Her lips curled into a predator's smile.
> "My blood is Yours. My spear is Yours. Let the world burn, my King."
---
POV: Marcus
They knelt again.
And he let them.
> "Raphael."
> [All systems synced. Soul anchor: complete. Magic systems: bound.]
> "Good. Begin mapping external leyline fluctuations. Prepare city recon."
> [Understood, Lord Marcus.]
He turned and walked from the throne room.
Behind him, the legend of the King Who Stayed took root.
---
POV: Marcus – War Room, Later
Within his private sanctum—a minimalist obsidian chamber lined with arcane screens—Marcus stood before a pulsing map of the New World.
Raphael fed real-time topographic data into his mind, syncing it to ancient YGGDRASIL maps.
> "Give me a soft target. Mid-tier magic. Rich in gold. Symbolic."
> [Scanning…]
[Match: City-state of Renteia. Population: 12,000. Defenses: moderate. Magical barrier: B-class.]
> "Rename it New Dresden once we take it."
He tapped a shimmering command crystal.
> "Deploy the Jackson's Brothers."
---
POV: The Jackson's Brothers
The four materialized in their summoning chamber.
Tactical trench coats.
Visors glowing blood-red.
Shotguns strapped like holy relics.
Unblinking. Perfect.
Jackson Alpha tilted his head slightly, scanning the mission parameters with a sound like clicking brass.
> "Confirmed target: Renteia. Standing medieval army. Estimated opposition: 4,000."
"Estimated survival rate of enemy forces: 0%."
"Estimated fun: High."
They turned in unison, weapons clicking into ready mode.
> "Time to spread some democracy."
---
POV: Lord Venshiro of Renteia
The High Lord of Renteia stood atop his battlements, arms behind his back.
He was a proud man—a noble sorcerer, fifth-circle mage, commander of knights.
And he was terrified.
Smoke. Black clouds. A sound that wasn't thunder, but judgment.
From the eastern ridge came four shapes. Just four.
> "Why only four?"
One lifted a strange weapon to its shoulder.
The sky screamed.
The gate exploded inwards in a bloom of anti-magic fire.
Then the four entered.
Each step echoed with finality.
> "Archers! Arch—!"
A single blast tore through three towers. Snipers crumbled.
His wards activated.
The lead figure raised a hand.
The ward broke.
Renteia burned.
---
POV: Jackson Bravo (5 seconds into breach)
> "Target formation: peasant militia. Classification: Lootboxes."
He turned.
One man tried to run.
Boom.
Headshot. 120 meters.
> "Shotgun slander initiated."
He reloaded slowly. Mockingly.
---
POV: Marcus (Watching via scrying mirror)
He sipped tea in silence.
> "Look at them go."
The flames rose higher.
He tapped a control rune.
> "Record footage. I'll use this for the propaganda reels later."
The flag of the Fourth Reich rose over the smoking ruins.
---
POV: Albedo (Watching quietly behind him)
She shivered as the city died.
> "His justice… is beautiful."
---