The Sorcerous Kingdom, ruled by the Sorcerer King, had existed for only a few years since its founding, and yet it had already become one of the most discussed topics across the continent. Humans, demi-humans, and other races spoke of it with an uneasy mixture of fascination and fear, fueling rumors so contradictory that it was impossible to separate truth from exaggeration.
Was it truly a utopian realm, as some bards claimed? A place where hunger did not exist and where races that had slaughtered one another for centuries now lived under a single banner? For many, the mere possibility that such a thing could be real was enough to dismiss it as a dangerous fantasy, an appealing story precisely because it could not exist.
And yet, the rumors persisted.
Adventurers and merchants who claimed to have crossed its borders spoke of safe roads, clear laws, and a strange sense of normalcy. They did not describe a paradise, but neither did they describe the hell many had expected to find under the rule of an undead sovereign. Those accounts, repeated with minor variations in taverns and marketplaces, inevitably drew the attention of neighboring kingdoms and influential figures who could not afford to ignore something so anomalous.
Despite this, few dared to send agents directly into the Sorcerous Kingdom. Distance served as a convenient excuse, but the true obstacle was fear. Even without knowing for certain how the Sorcerer King treated his subjects, his military power was unquestionable. One only had to recall the fate of those who had openly opposed him. Thus, many nations chose a safer path: observing the nearby realms, those that had already fallen under his influence.
That was when the astonishment deepened.
The Baharuth Empire, once proud of its independence and strength, had become a vassal state of the Sorcerous Kingdom. That same empire was known for harboring one of the most powerful human mages on the continent and for being ruled by a mind both feared and respected in equal measure: Emperor Jircniv Rune Farlord El-Nix. A man whose violent rise to the throne and subsequent consolidation of power had led him to rival the former Kingdom of Re-Estize, long considered the greatest of the human nations.
Now, beneath the shadow of the Sorcerer King, the Empire had not collapsed.
On the contrary, reports indicated that its internal structure continued to function. Citizens entered and left cities as usual. The undead and monsters that now walked its lands did so not as invaders, but as part of the established order. Some even claimed to have seen the emperor himself interacting with non-human beings without a trace of hostility, something that would have been unthinkable just a few years prior.
The comparison with Re-Estize was inevitable.
The kingdom that for generations had been synonymous with stability and security had been reduced to ruins. This was not a mere change of power or a humiliating defeat; it was the total annihilation of a nation. That contrast, as brutal as it was impossible to ignore, only fueled further confusion regarding the true nature of the Sorcerous Kingdom.
As more information surfaced, the picture grew even more complex.
There were stories of demi-human tribes in the Tob Forest that had been pacified. Of dwarves saved from extinction in the mountains. Of elves taken in after the death of their king. Of the Draconic Kingdom, protected from invasions that would have doomed it to disappear. And, of course, of the famous campaign in the Holy Kingdom, where the Sorcerer King had guided and protected defenseless civilians during a demonic invasion.
All of those events appeared to be real. Too real.
And yet, they were impossible to reconcile with other acts just as verifiable: the destruction of Re-Estize, the war against the Argland Council State, the absolute disappearance of the Slane Theocracy, a nation from which not even ruins or documents remained to attest to its existence.
For some, the revelation that the Sorcerer King was undead offered a simple explanation. Such a being could not be bound by human morality. But rather than easing doubts, that answer only deepened them. If his nature explained his cruelty, then what explained his acts of protection? Why would an undead being, devoid of human needs, invest resources and effort into stabilizing entire regions?
As time passed, and in the absence of direct aggression toward other kingdoms, the Sorcerous Kingdom began to be viewed as a neutral power. An immovable presence in the northwest of the continent, too powerful to challenge and too stable to ignore.
However, what truly unsettled kings and nobles was not its army, nor its destructive capability.
It was its mind.
The unspoken consensus among rulers was that no one could have achieved so much in so little time without possessing an extraordinary intellect. Managing such a vast territory, governing populations so diverse, establishing laws that allowed coexistence, promoting events that eased racial tensions, coordinating technological and magical advances, and maintaining multiple projects simultaneously without the system collapsing… all of it pointed toward an almost inhuman intelligence.
That idea, more than fear, sparked a dangerous curiosity.
Humans, demi-humans, and heteromorphs began to ask themselves the same question, phrased in different ways but sharing the same core: what was the Sorcerer King truly like? What did he think when no one was watching? What were his real objectives? What lay behind that impeccable figure that seemed to anticipate every movement of the world?
And above all, a question few dared to voice aloud: what was he doing at that very moment?
+++++
Inside the Sorcerous Kingdom, in the city of E-Rantel, the ruler of the nation lay reclined on a full-sized bed, staring at the finely decorated ceiling of his chamber. The silence was absolute. There were no reports to review, no audiences to attend, no strategies to refine. And yet, his mind found no rest.
A single thought repeated itself with uncomfortable clarity.
Should I run?
The Sorcerer King, Ainz Ooal Gown, let the idea slip out as a barely audible murmur, fully aware of how absurd it was to even give it form. Fortunately, the maid assigned to that shift was outside the room by his explicit order, and a magical barrier prevented any sound from escaping beyond the walls. Those precautions, taken almost by reflex, were the only reason he could allow himself to think out loud without consequences.
His mind, always prone to hypothetical scenarios, began to chart escape routes with near-automatic precision.
If he used his highest-tier summons together with the golems of the Legemeton, he could buy enough time to put distance between himself and the Guardians. However, brute force was not the real obstacle. It was Nigredo. Hiding from her perception would require a complex combination of high-grade magical items and cash-shop objects, as well as flawless planning to exit her detection range before she could react.
Even then, the odds were far from ideal.
Perhaps he should ask Pandora's Actor to accompany him. With his ability to imitate the skills and spells of his former companions, the number of options would increase dramatically. Together, they could execute maneuvers that even the Guardians would fail to anticipate.
The thought stopped there.
Ainz knew he was not being serious.
Since the destruction of the Slane Theocracy and the subsequent clash with the Platinum Dragon Lord, Tsaindorcus Vaision—who had introduced himself as Riku Aganeia during their first encounter—he had developed that strange habit: imagining how he might disappear from Nazarick without a trace. Not as a real plan, but as a mental exercise, a release valve for the pressure that accumulated day after day.
The trigger was shame.
He did not regret his decisions. That much was clear to him. Every action had been taken for concrete reasons, some strategic, others emotional, all within what he considered necessary to protect Nazarick. And yet, he could not ignore the fact that he had acted impulsively. His inability to restrain his anger had caused delays in carefully crafted plans devised by Demiurge, Albedo, and Pandora's Actor himself—plans that had been in motion for some time and had been forcibly adjusted as a result.
That realization drew a heavy sigh from him, the kind that belonged not to an undead being, but to a middle-aged man exhausted to the core of his soul.
The war against the Kingdom of Re-Estize had, in theory, been a necessary demonstration. A clear message to the world about the consequences of defying the Sorcerous Kingdom. However, even within that framework, the sheer scale of the destruction had left a deep scar. It was impossible for such an event not to rekindle fear among citizens who had only just begun to accept him as their ruler.
To mitigate that impact, tacit approval had been sought from neighboring nations, and the reasons for the conflict had been made public, portraying the destroyed kingdom as deserving of its punishment. From an objective standpoint, it had worked. His public image had remained surprisingly stable.
But not everything could be justified in the same way.
The annihilation of the Slane Theocracy had been carried out without prior warning. The war against the Argland Council State had been a direct consequence of that. Although both events had yielded undeniable benefits—such as uncovering the existence of the True Dragon Lords and confirming the potential of wild magic—they were still strategic mistakes by the very standards he had instilled in his subordinates.
Ainz had always emphasized the importance of acting cautiously, of assuming that enemies with unknown abilities might exist—enemies capable of endangering them. The confrontation with the Platinum Dragon Lord had proven that fear to be well-founded. There were forces in that world capable of matching, and under certain conditions even surpassing, the Guardians.
And yet, he had pressed forward without adequate preparation.
The power of wild magic, comparable to that of World Items, had forced Nazarick to reconsider its preparations. Time had been spent calming the populace, rewriting narratives, using the secrets of the Theocracy as posthumous justification for its destruction, and managing the subsequent annexation of the elves. All of that additional work had ultimately fallen upon his subordinates.
That was what weighed on him the most.
The Guardians had pushed themselves to their limits. Even human figures within his sphere of influence had cooperated to varying degrees to restore his image and stabilize the situation. And in the end, every NPC had reached the same familiar conclusion: that everything had been part of his supposed master plan to unravel the secrets of that world.
Ainz lightly clenched his fingers.
That blind faith now felt like an unbearable burden. He knew that this "luck" was not something he could rely on to save him the next time he made a mistake.
Nazarick had already mobilized to locate the remaining Dragon Lords. They could not be ignored. Their racial levels, combined with rare job classes and access to wild magic, placed them on the same level as the Guardians, if not above. Without additional World Items, numerical superiority lost much of its value. Their very existence was the primary reason the plan for world conquest had been put on hold.
Ainz finally rose from the bed and approached the window. Outside, the night enveloped E-Rantel in an almost reverent silence. The streets were empty, the lights extinguished. It was not a particularly appealing sight, and not even his supernatural vision could turn it into something comforting.
In that moment, Suzuki Satoru felt only exhaustion.
Not everything had been negative. Ainz knew that, and it would be unfair to himself to pretend otherwise.
The destruction of the Slane Theocracy had left behind treasures and knowledge of incalculable value. The conquest of an additional guild base, along with the resources obtained after the confrontation with the True Dragon Lords who had supported the Platinum Dragon Lord, had allowed Nazarick to recover almost completely from the losses suffered since their arrival in the New World. From a strictly strategic perspective, the balance was still favorable.
Moreover, experiments aimed at harnessing wild magic had begun to bear fruit.
One such result was now resting in his hand—more precisely, on one of his fingers. Ainz lowered his gaze to the ring, observing it in silent focus. It did not emit a particularly striking aura, nor did it impose its presence by itself, but he knew better than anyone what it represented.
During the battle, wild magic had demonstrated a disturbing adaptability. In essence, it allowed the materialization of nearly any conceivable effect, provided the appropriate price was paid. Souls. The more that were sacrificed, the greater the resulting power—enough to rival World Items, the most precious artifacts that had ever existed in Yggdrasil.
The ring operated on a principle similar to the super-tier spell [Wish Upon a Star], executing an effect based on the souls stored within it. Acquiring that resource had not been difficult. The demi-human tribes that had harassed both the Draconic Kingdom and the now-extinct Theocracy had provided more than enough, driven by their constant desire to invade the lands of the northwest.
Ainz was well aware that the creation of such an item involved countless technical explanations that lay far beyond his understanding. No matter how hard he tried, that kind of knowledge was simply beyond him. However, there was one thing he understood with absolute clarity, something he had known for a long time.
The NPCs of Nazarick were extraordinary.
He could not help but feel proud of everything they had accomplished—their efficiency, their loyalty, the way they had upheld the kingdom even when he himself had made mistakes. And precisely because of that, the disappointment he felt toward himself ran so deep.
A leader was supposed to take responsibility when his subordinates failed. This time, it had been the opposite. His Guardians had borne the consequences of his decisions. In his mind, the destruction of the Theocracy had been an opportunity for redemption after the Shalltear incident. Instead of closing that wound, it had left Nazarick exposed and vulnerable.
And then, barely a year later, that other incident had occurred.
Ainz turned his gaze away from the window and looked around his room. In the past, he was certain that nothing would have appealed to him more than traveling freely across the world, uncovering its mysteries and exploring without restraint. Now, by contrast, his greatest desire was far simpler—and at the same time, far heavier.
He wanted to be the ruler the NPCs believed him to be.
A supreme being worthy of their loyalty. Worthy of standing at their side. Worthy, even, of the absolute affection they bestowed upon him.
Standing before the mirror, Ainz raised a hand and adopted a posture that no longer required conscious effort.
"I am Ainz Ooal Gown, Supreme Ruler of the Great Tomb of Nazarick."
His cloak swayed with a precise motion. His voice—deep and authoritative—resonated with the confidence expected of him. Every gesture, every inflection, had been refined through years of practice. By now, that majestic image was so deeply ingrained in his being that it was difficult to tell where the act ended and habit began.
Everyone seemed to like that version of him. The Guardians praised him constantly, expressing their pride in serving him. Seeing them happy had always given him genuine satisfaction, and he wished he could repay that affection in some way.
But his position did not allow it.
Ainz understood better than ever how important he was to them, and the true weight carried by each of his decisions. And yet, he was growing weary. Not physically—his undead body would never allow that kind of fatigue—but mentally. His mind was beginning to fray.
When he had still been human, Suzuki Satoru used to distract himself by playing games with his friends. On rare occasions, he even drank alcohol to quiet his thoughts for a while. In this world, none of that was possible. His body denied him even the most basic pleasures of humanity.
The last time he had tried to take a genuine break had been during that journey to find friends for Aura and Mare, in the dark elf village. A well-intentioned attempt that had not gone as planned. Back then, he had been forced to pretend to be the twins' uncle, hiding his true nature behind illusion magic. He could not allow anyone to touch him. He could not eat or drink. Every interaction had been a constant source of tension.
That had not been the only occasion.
During his early days as an adventurer, he had faced similar problems. In hindsight, all of those attempts to "live like a human" had failed for the same reason: he was not one.
Ainz looked once more at the ring on his left hand. The idea that had been forming in his mind for some time now began to take on a clearer shape.
Would it be possible?
Perhaps he was being selfish. Demiurge had asked him to test that prototype to verify its results. Using it for such a personal purpose was not what had been expected of him. However, it was also true that testing it in a limited context might be preferable to using it recklessly on a larger scale and causing a disaster.
The more he thought about it, the harder it became to dismiss the idea. His mind was tired, and perhaps that was why he could no longer evaluate the situation with his usual cold rationality.
Maybe, if he managed to truly rest, he could think more clearly. Maybe then he would find a proper way to reward them.
In Yggdrasil, there had been rituals and items capable of changing a character's race. Ainz knew the risks well. Altering his race would mean destroying the carefully designed structure of his avatar. He had assigned forty levels to his current race; losing them would be disastrous. Moreover, being an Overlord granted him advantages he was not willing to sacrifice.
He did not need to change what he was.
He only needed to change how he looked.
High-tier illusion spells were capable of deceiving all five senses. The most powerful among them could even deceive the world itself.
Ainz closed his fingers around the ring, feeling its cold, silent presence.
The temptation could no longer be ignored.
Resolute, Ainz activated the ring.
There were no chants, no complex magic circles, no dramatic buildup of power. Only a brief, enveloping light that covered his body entirely, as intense as it was silent. For an instant, his perception was suspended in a strange void, devoid of familiar sensations.
When the light faded, the first thing that entered his field of vision was not a face.
It was a hand.
"…Oooh."
The sound escaped his throat before he could stop it, laden with genuine surprise he made no attempt to conceal. Ainz slowly raised the hand before his eyes, turning it cautiously, observing the skin, the joints, the way his fingers responded to his will with a long-forgotten naturalness.
In the mirror, the image reflected back was not that of an Overlord.
It was Suzuki Satoru… or something very close to what he remembered.
The color of his eyes and hair matched his memories, and his face corresponded to that of an ordinary middle-aged man, without particularly striking features. However, it was not a perfect replica. There were subtle but unmistakable differences—details that did not quite align with the image he held of himself.
"Interesting…" he murmured. "In the end, it didn't turn out exactly as I had imagined. I wonder what else will be different."
He felt no panic. Nor euphoria.
Only cautious curiosity, mixed with a faint sense of disbelief.
From the outside, his body had not changed in height. He was still as tall as his original avatar, and he still wore the same excessively luxurious garments, designed for an imposing skeletal figure. In his current form, those clothes looked strange, almost out of place—especially where the outfit was open and human skin was exposed.
Ainz lowered his gaze to his own body with analytical attention.
Unlike the body he had possessed in his former world, this one showed no signs of neglect. His skin was clean and well cared for, his hair short and soft to the touch. His build was solid, in good shape, like that of someone who had lived a healthy life. Even his face looked more "alive" than he remembered himself ever being.
He was not attractive in the way Sebas or Demiurge were. He would not inspire immediate admiration or aversion. He was simply… appropriate.
Perhaps this was how he was meant to look if he had truly been able to take care of himself. If he had not spent his life surrounded by pollution, radiation, and synthetic food. If the world he had been born into had been just a little kinder.
Ainz flexed his fingers, then closed his hand into a fist.
The sensation was immediate.
Touch. Pressure. The temperature of the air against his skin.
It was all too vivid.
Simply placing his palm against his own arm returned information he had forgotten how to interpret: texture, warmth, resistance. Even the scent of the room seemed different—sharper, more defined—as if his perception had gained a new depth.
"The sensations are… complete, different" he thought. "Touch, even smell…"
For a moment, a reckless idea crossed his mind.
What would happen if I…?
The thought remained unfinished.
Ainz took a step, then another, testing the balance of his new body. There was no clumsiness, no loss of control. Everything responded as it should, with an unsettling naturalness. Far too perfect to be a simple, ordinary illusion.
That was when something else became apparent.
He had lost track of time.
The light filtering through the window was no longer that of deep night. The first hues of dawn seeped into the room, casting soft shadows across the floor.
+++++
Outside Ainz's chamber, the homunculus maid Fifth let out an almost imperceptible sigh.
For several years now, she and her sisters of the Great Tomb of Nazarick had noticed that their master was no longer in his usual state. It was nothing obvious or alarming, but it was constant. Ainz isolated himself more frequently, spent longer periods alone in his room, and carried a workload that did not seem to diminish—only to grow.
No one knew for certain why.
The conclusion they always reached was the same: their master was devising a plan that only he could execute.
If Ainz were to isolate himself simply to enjoy his free time, it would make them happy. It would mean that Nazarick functioned well enough for him to entrust everything to them without reservation. However, since the events involving the Theocracy and the Dragon Lords, the situation had been different. Ainz had not reduced his burden; he had increased it, striving even harder to perfect his role as a leader.
From the NPCs' perspective, this was only natural. None of them could fully shoulder that weight in his place.
"And yet…," Fifth thought.
Now he had not even allowed her to remain inside the room as before. That meant she would be unable to respond immediately to his needs if something were to happen.
She lifted her head and glanced at the hallway clock. After confirming the time, she pushed those thoughts aside and turned to face the door.
"Lord Ainz, the time for the shift change is approaching, so I will be taking my leave now."
She waited.
One minute passed. Then two.
There was no response.
"Lord Ainz?"
The possibility that he was completely absorbed in his work crossed her mind. Over the years, she had learned that even when her master was deeply focused, he always responded with some brief acknowledgment. A simple "Umu," a short word—anything at all.
The silence persisted.
"Lord Ainz? …Is everything all right?"
This time, she raised her voice slightly and leaned toward the door, bringing her ear closer. She heard nothing.
Unease began to take hold with alarming speed.
"What should I do? If Lord Ainz is truly concentrating and I interrupt him, that would be rude… but what if there is another reason he is not responding?"
Fifth firmly grasped the doorknob and cast a quick glance toward the rooftop, where the Eight-Edge Assassins lay hidden. If something serious had happened, at least one of them would have already raised the alarm.
But the silence continued.
"If I am mistaken, I will accept whatever punishment he decides," she thought. "Right now, confirming his safety takes priority."
With that resolve, she turned the knob.
+++++
Click.
The door began to open.
Ainz turned on reflex.
In that instant, the world froze.
Ainz froze.
Fifth froze.
Even the Eight-Edge Assassins hidden on the rooftop froze one after another, as if reality itself had decided to collectively pause.
Time, of course, did not truly stop. But for that brief moment, none of those present knew how to react.
Fifth's expression shifted rapidly—confusion, doubt, surprise. Her eyes traced the human figure standing before her, struggling to process what she was seeing. Yet even as her mind searched for a logical explanation, something deeper asserted itself.
She could feel it.
The being before her was still the same.
"Lord… Ainz?"
Ainz opened his mouth to respond.
"Fifth, wait! This is—"
"Lord Ainz, I apologize for interrupting you! I will accept any punishment you deem appropriate."
The words tumbled out in a rush, heavy with automatic, almost conditioned guilt. Ainz fell silent.
"…Eh?"
It was only then that he managed to calm himself.
"All right, Ainz. You've dealt with more absurd situations than this. First, let's return things to normal. Then we'll find a reasonable excuse to ease her guilt."
"…Eh?"
This time, the confusion had a different origin.
A familiar sensation passed through his mind, similar to the one he felt when checking his mana reserves. The ring. Its charge.
Ainz directed his attention to it.
Imitating a tenth-tier spell should not have consumed a significant number of souls, especially compared to what that item was supposedly capable of doing.
And yet…
The ring was empty.
"…Eh?"