Viewed from the freezing reaches of the troposphere, the holy capital of the Slane Theocracy no longer resembled a seat of divine power. The capital had become a scorched, festering wound on the flank of the earth.
The suffocating green fog that choked the grand avenues during the afternoon had receded. Its grim, mechanical work was finished. An unnatural silence settled over the ruins in the wake of the miasma. This quiet proved far more terrifying than the cacophony of slaughter that preceded it.
An avian perspective from the blackened clouds revealed the agonizing anatomy of the disaster. The Outer City stood as little more than a skeleton of shattered stone and collapsed timber. Thick, gray silt, composed of incinerated lives, paved the sprawling residential districts.
Conditions in the Middle City fared no better. Deep orange glows from dying structural fires pockmarked the sector. These flames cast long, rhythmic, dancing shadows against the towering barricade of the Inner Wall.
That imposing structure remained the final boundary between life and total annihilation. Soot stained the masonry deeply. Concussive forces from desperate defensive magic had cracked the stone. Yet, the barrier held.
The Grand Cathedrals stood like pristine white islands at the heart of this unbroken ring, surrounded by an endless, churning sea of ash. Thousands of shivering refugees packed the vaulted halls to the bursting point. Their collective prayers rose in a desperate hum that could be felt even from the sky. But those pleas failed to reach the heavens.
Human details became tiny, pathetic markers of a broken world upon closer inspection of the ruined earth. A charred hymnal fluttered aimlessly across a blood-stained courtyard. Abandoned supply carts sat with broken axles, sinking into the mud. Half-buried beneath the severed arm of a Vanguard Paladin lay a child's silver locket.
The sanctuary of the Inner City had transformed from a fortress into a cage. Unseen predators had not been defeated. The invaders had retreated into the shadows to prepare for the final, inevitable breach. They left the survivors to wait in suffocating silence for a dawn promising only a much deeper darkness.
[Great Underground Tomb of Nazarick — The Throne Room]
This aerial view did not exist as a natural perspective. Ornate, gilded edges of a massive obsidian mirror framed the devastation.
Ainz Ooal Gown rested upon the Throne of Kings. Skeletal fingers drummed a slow, rhythmic beat against the cold gold of the armrest. The [Mirror of Remote Viewing] rippled with magical energy in the center of the vast, echoing hall. It displayed the silent, smoldering ruins of Kami Miyako with crystal clarity.
The Supreme Being watched the image with clinical detachment.
Millions lie dead. A single afternoon had violently transformed the shining capital of human supremacy into a continent-sized ossuary. Yet the emotional suppression inherent in his undead biology served as a reliable blanket. A soft, emerald-green aura pulsed briefly around the bleached bone of his skull. The phenomenon instantly muted any nascent spark of human guilt Satoru Suzuki might have felt. It reduced the slaughter of a nation to a faint, academic curiosity.
The overlord focused his mind on the mechanical efficiency of the tools responsible for the carnage. His thoughts turned specifically to the [Curse of Niflheim].
The rigid logic of YGGDRASIL classified the artifact not as a conventional weapon of destruction but as an engine of persistent, necrotic erosion. It functioned as the magical equivalent of a highly aggressive cancer native to the frost realms. Rather than striking targets with fire or lightning, the spell converted the environment itself. The very atmosphere became a medium of sacrifice.
Preliminary experiments had predicted this exact functionality in the New World. The artifact's aura transmuted the sacrificial flames of the burning city, combining them with the staggering volume of ambient despair and physical death.
This massive pool of negative energy fueled the creation of the [Unending Death] legion. Immensely powerful, scythe-wielding entities serving as the silent sentinels of his victory arose from the slaughter.
An internal eye analyzed the mechanics. Essentially, the [Curse of Niflheim] operated as a mass-conversion engine.
Top-tier guilds back in YGGDRASIL often utilized it for a tactic known as dungeon blockage. Defending players would drop the Curse in a zone filled with low-level, easily slaughterable mobs whenever a rival guild invaded a base. The artifact rapidly harvested the deaths of those weak creatures. It condensed their data into high-tier, temporary undead to stall the invaders or serve as a massive, chaotic diversion.
But here, Citizens of the Slane Theocracy served as the low-level mobs in this reality.
Creating an [Unending Death] legion. required an incredibly steep exchange rate. More importantly, a strict summon duration timer bound their physical existence.
I withdrew the legion just as their duration timer reached its final three percent, Ainz mused.
Crimson pinpricks of light glowed dimly within his empty eye sockets, casting a faint hue in the shadowy throne room.
If I had let them press the breach, the timer would have expired mid-combat. The defenders of the theocracy would have watched my greatest terrors dissolve into harmless ash. It would have given them vital intelligence about my summoning limits. Worse, it would have given them hope.
Ordering a synchronized retreat preserved the illusion of invincibility. Letting the enemy wonder why the unstoppable tide of death had receded proved far better than letting them realize a clock bound the horde. The Sorcerer King had manufactured a hollow victory for the humans, abandoning them to drown in the dread of the unknown.
Deploying the Curse served as an act of disproportionate vengeance. It delivered a direct, unforgiving response to the arrogance the Theocracy demonstrated by brainwashing Shalltear Bloodfallen.
Strategic rationalization justified the genocide. Dead nations cannot scheme. Burned cities cannot produce resources. Terrified populations cannot mount a resistance. The undead ruler felt no need to balance a moral ledger. Nazarick had been provoked. He showed the aggressors the natural, devastating consequence of their hubris.
Yet, a singular, nagging tactical puzzle remained.
Ainz adjusted his posture. The dark robes of the Sorcerer King shifted over his skeletal frame. Leaning forward, he scrutinized the pristine white cathedrals displayed in the mirror.
Intelligence reports strongly suggested the Theocracy possessed a World-Class Item capable of sophisticated mind control. This same tool had turned his loyal Floor Guardian into a hostile entity. Throughout this apocalyptic slaughter, the enemy had not produced the artifact. The Theocracy kept their greatest weapon hidden through the utter collapse of their outer defenses, the loss of two entire city districts, and the systematic extermination of their citizenry.
Why?
Did they fear a lengthy cooldown period? Did the World Item require a massive sacrifice of mana or life force to activate? Was the area of effect too small to be useful in a city-wide siege? Or did a strategic restraint exist that he had not yet accounted for?
The undead monarch did not view this as a moral choice by the leaders of the Theocracy. He viewed it as a highly dangerous, unpredictable variable.
They watched their own people burn, and they held their trump card in reserve, Ainz deduced.
Red orbs flared with calculating intensity inside his skull. If the enemy had hoarded the World-Class Item to use against him directly, he needed to draw it out. Knowing its exact capabilities, range, and limits was imperative. He could not leave this variable unresolved. Risking Albedo, Mare, or any other Guardian walking blindly into the same trap that ensnared Shalltear was unacceptable.
If they will not show their hand to save their own people from physical annihilation, Ainz decided. Bony fingers tightened their grip on the armrests of the throne of kings.
Then I must force the hand that holds the item.
Pressure must be applied. The Sorcerer King would tighten the cage until the stone cracked. He would leave them no other choice.