Watching Overlord from the perspective of Nazarick was thrilling—an endless display of dominance and overwhelming might.
But from the viewpoint of someone actually living in this world?
It was nothing short of despair.
The beings of Nazarick were not characters—they were monsters. World-destroying entities beyond comprehension.
Sakeer didn't feel allegiance to either side. He had one priority: survival.
If he aligned with the Sorcerer Kingdom and his identity as a transmigrator was exposed... then what?
The Sorcerer Kingdom existed solely as a vessel for Ainz Ooal Gown's ambitions. Neither Ainz nor his Floor Guardians cared about the world outside Nazarick.
Ainz, in particular, was ruthlessly pragmatic—he would eliminate any potential threat to the Tomb, no matter how small.
Even if Sakeer posed no real danger, his very existence would be suspicious. Once identified as a transmigrator, he would likely be subjected to interrogation—brutal, torturous interrogation. The kind only a Torture Lord could provide.
Before transmigrating, Sakeer had been just an ordinary office worker. He doubted he could handle even a fraction of that pain.
Worse still, Ainz might use memory-probing magic, tearing through his mind like pages in a book—leaving behind nothing but a lifeless husk.
Sakeer rubbed his face hard, as if trying to wake from a nightmare.
But nothing changed.
"You're really trying your best, huh?" he thought grimly.
He followed the bustling crowd into a small shop and quietly settled into a corner near the wall.
He wasn't tired. Not really.
His stamina and energy now far surpassed the lethargic state he'd grown used to in his former life. His arms were defined, his muscles taut. This was his body—but a younger version of it. Maybe sixteen or seventeen. Back in his world, he had been twenty-five.
This physical regression was likely linked to his cheat ability—something he internally called Force of Nature.
Sakeer narrowed his eyes, and a translucent interface appeared before him—a status screen, visible only to him. It was cleanly divided into two sections.
[Status Panel]
Player: Sakeer
Justice Point: Neutral (0)
HP: 13 (1%)
MP: 13 (1%)
Physical Attack: 13 (1%)
Physical Defense: 13 (1%)
Agility: 13 (1%)
Magic Attack: 13 (1%)
Magic Defense: 13 (1%)
Overall Resistance: 0 (0%)
Uniqueness: 0 (0%)
Total: 7%
[Abilities]
Natural Force:[Player]
Total Level: 0 (No Class)
EXP: 0 / 100
Class: None
Skill Points: 0
Passive Skill:Item Box
Active Skills: None
Sakeer's gaze landed on the strange ability listed among his traits.
[Innate Ability: Player]
Grants Player-specific characteristics (Unobservable, Unobtainable)
There wasn't much to go on.
The interface seemed to be a byproduct of this Player trait. No long explanation was needed—just the functionality was enough.
As any seasoned gamer would say: "Actions speak louder than stats."
And Sakeer, having played countless games, had a solid theory about what this ability truly meant.
Unlike in the Overlord game, where no such skill existed, the Force of Nature seemed to be an innate power unique to this world's inhabitants. It was said that roughly one in two hundred people were born with such abilities. Most were weak and of little use in combat, but they served as this world's equivalent of "unique skills."
What mattered now was that the Player ability granted him the potential to level up and grow stronger—unbound by the limitations of race or natural talent.
However... that knowledge brought little comfort.
This wasn't just a game.
Even if he somehow managed to grind his way to Level 100 before Nazarick's arrival, what could he do? He had no equipment. No divine items. No World-Class tools. How could he hope to stand against Ainz, who was armed to the teeth with pay-to-win gear and backed by monsters of incalculable strength?
And Ainz was only one of many.
Sakeer understood better than most just how deep the power gap ran. He had studied YGGDRASIL's mechanics, its lore, its terrifying scaling system.
"Base stats all at 13 points, huh?" he muttered, flexing his fingers. "Even without a class, I'm already stronger than most people here."
He could feel it—the strength pulsing beneath his skin. It wasn't just a number on a screen. It was real.
This wasn't a dream.
This was his reality now.
Sakeer could even sense a unique energy within himself—likely mana. By the standards of this world, he had the potential to become a Magic Caster.
Each stat's percentage also carried significance, a detail unique to the Overlord game. If memory served, Ainz's overall stat percentage was "683.6% + ?%," with the "?" representing his bottomless mana pool.
According to the game's lore, the average mana for a Level 100 player was around 1,300. Ainz, however, exceeded that cap by 1.5 times.
Such was the overwhelming power of a "whale" who spared no expense.
Sakeer had studied YGGDRASIL's systems in depth. The game ensured balance by giving all player races similar stat averages. In theory, each level granted 13 points to every stat, so a Level 100 player would boast base stats of 1,300. But in practice, these figures varied depending on class and race combinations.
Human players lacked racial classes—both a blessing and a curse. It meant that upon reaching Level 100, they had full freedom in class customization.
In Ainz's case, his build heavily prioritized MP and Uniqueness, maxing both.
As Sakeer glanced around the bustling street to ensure no prying eyes were on him, he discreetly pulled a small piece of black rye bread from his pocket.
Despite its name, the "black bread" was more of a deep brown and looked surprisingly appetizing. It was rough, hard, but not unpleasant to eat.
Two loaves cost a single copper coin—an indicator of how cheap basic foodstuffs were in this world.
With limited funds, frugality was key.
The bread hadn't come from his actual pocket but rather from his Item Box, where he kept his original clothes and gold coins. The Item Box functioned just like an inventory in a game. Though its storage was vast, it wasn't infinite—otherwise, special items like the "Infinite Backpack" wouldn't exist in YGGDRASIL.
He bit into the bread and chewed slowly. Last night's dinner had been more of the same, and now his hunger was returning.
This discomfort proved something essential: the "Player" trait was just that—a trait. This world was real.
Here, he could get hungry, feel fatigue... and die.
(End of Chapter)