The Smiling face of Nazarick (Remake)

///

....

...

..

.

"This is outrageous!" "You're mad..." "It's called insanity." "This is a joke, right? Tell me you're trolling, Winding."

Disbelief, shock, and irritation rippled through the hall. From the corners of their rented guild base, shadows of frustration danced as players shook their heads or threw their hands up in exasperation. Just as the chaos reached a boiling point, a towering figure stepped forward.

The clank of silver-white full-plate armor echoed against the stone floor. It was the Paladin, a World Champion whose very presence acted as an anchor for the clan's volatile spirits. He raised a hand, and the room fell into a tense, expectant silence.

"Everyone, let's just hear him out for now," he said, his voice calm but carrying a sharp edge of skepticism. He turned his visor toward the skeleton draped in a black, high-tier cloak. The mage sat there, a permanent grinning smirk etched into his skull, his red irises glowing with a cold, calculating light.

"Winding," the Paladin continued, "can you explain thoroughly what you said? And I quote: 'We are going to conquer the entire Yggdrasil.' Do you even hear yourself? Even for us, that's not just a tall order—it's a mechanical impossibility."

Satisfied nods and sighs of relief broke out among the members. If even their strongest warrior thought the idea was a pipe dream, surely Winding would back down.

The air in the room didn't just feel heavy; it felt brittle, like glass about to shatter under the weight of Winding's ambition. The members of Nine's Own Goal—some of the most powerful players in the DMMO-RPG Yggdrasil—stared at the skeleton mage with a mixture of awe and genuine concern for his sanity.

The Rewrite: The Weight of Ambition

"This is outrageous!" "You're mad..." "It's called insanity." "This is a joke, right? Tell me you're trolling, Winding."

Disbelief, shock, and irritation rippled through the hall. From the corners of their rented guild base, shadows of frustration danced as players shook their heads or threw their hands up in exasperation. Just as the chaos reached a boiling point, a towering figure stepped forward.

The clank of silver-white full-plate armor echoed against the stone floor. It was the Paladin, a World Champion whose very presence acted as an anchor for the clan's volatile spirits. He raised a hand, and the room fell into a tense, expectant silence.

"Everyone, let's just hear him out for now," he said, his voice calm but carrying a sharp edge of skepticism. He turned his visor toward the skeleton draped in a black, high-tier cloak. The mage sat there, a permanent grinning smirk etched into his skull, his red irises glowing with a cold, calculating light.

"Winding," the Paladin continued, "can you explain thoroughly what you said? And I quote: 'We are going to conquer the entire Yggdrasil.' Do you even hear yourself? Even for us, that's not just a tall order—it's a mechanical impossibility."

Satisfied nods and sighs of relief broke out among the members. If even their strongest warrior thought the idea was a pipe dream, surely Winding would back down.

Winding didn't back down. Instead, he let out a low, rattling chuckle that vibrated in the chests of everyone present. He stood up.

"Impossible?" Winding asked, his voice smooth and devoid of the panic one would expect. "In a game governed by code, 'impossible' is simply a problem that hasn't been broken down into enough if-else statements yet."

He stepped toward the center of the room, conjuring a massive holographic map of the nine worlds—Midgard, Alfheim, Asgard, and the rest—spanning the air between them.

"Touch Me, you think of conquest as a frontline war. You think of thousands of players clashing in an open field. If that is our path, then yes, we fail. But Yggdrasil isn't a world of land; it is a world of Resources and Access Points."

Winding pointed a bony finger at the roots of the world tree on the map.

"There are only so many World-Class Items. There are only so many mines that produce Primal Ore. If we stop playing like a 'guild' and start acting like a 'system,' we don't need to defeat every player. We simply need to make it so they cannot breathe without our permission."

"And the developers?" a voice shouted from the crowd. "They'll patch us out of existence if we try to grief the whole server!"

"The developers love 'Player Emergence,'" Winding countered, his red eyes flashing. "If we follow the rules of the game to dominate the game, we aren't griefers. We are the 'Final Boss.' I've already calculated the tiers of engagement. If we seize the Great Tomb of Nazarick as a permanent base—a feat no one has yet managed—we gain the administrative leverage we need."

He turned back to the Paladin. "You want justice, Touch Me? You want to protect the weak? Then let's take the throne. Because from the top, we can decide who gets to play, and who gets deleted."

The room went cold. The "madness" was starting to sound like a very, very dangerous plan.

"The tomb Nishikienrai recently discovered?"

The question wasn't asked with curiosity; it was asked with a heavy, sinking dread. The room grew deathly quiet as all eyes shifted toward the shadowed corner where the guild's premier scout leaned against a stone pillar.

Nishikienrai, a Half-Golem known for his insane physical damage and stealth, didn't move for a moment. He slowly uncrossed his arms, the metallic sheen of his gear glinting in the dim light.

"Yeah," Nishikienrai's voice was gravelly, lacking its usual confident edge. "That's the one. I found it yesterday while exploring the deepest reaches of the Helheim marshes. It's a six-floor subterranean structure. The entrance is tucked away in a place where the environmental debuffs are so thick, most players would melt before they even saw the front gate."

He stepped into the center of the circle, his movements stiff.

"I only poked my head in," he admitted, looking around at his guild mates. "I made it through the first two floors—The Catacombs. The mob density is unlike anything I've seen in any other dungeon. These aren't just trash mobs; they are high-level undead with optimized AI. They don't just aggro; they hunt in packs."

He looked directly at Touch Me.

"I had to burn three high-tier escape scrolls just to get out of the third floor. I didn't even see the boss. I just felt the mana pressure from the lower levels. It felt… wrong. Like the developers didn't intend for players to actually clear it in one go."

"Exactly!" Winding exclaimed, his skeletal hands spread wide as if embracing the danger. "Don't you see? The difficulty is the point! The more 'impossible' the developers make it, the greater the reward for the one who breaks it."

Winding turned back to the map, the Great Tomb of Nazarick glowing a sinister red at the center.

"Nishikienrai found it a day ago. That means we have a window. Right now, other top-tier guilds are likely getting wind of a new high-difficulty dungeon in Helheim. If we sit here and debate the ethics of 'conquering the world,' someone else—Trinity, 2ch Alliance, or Seraphim—will find it. They will throw bodies at it until it breaks, and then they will be the ones sitting on the most defensible throne in the game."

The atmosphere shifted instantly. If Winding was the cold, calculating brain of the guild, Momonga was its heart—and its most dedicated grinder. When the obsidian-robed skeleton raised his hand, the weight of his support acted like a physical force, pressing down on the remaining dissent.

"I agree with Winding here," Momonga said, his voice steady, echoing with a quiet authority that resonated through the hall. He stood beside his fellow undead, two skeletal figures framed against the holographic glow of the nine realms.

He looked around the room, meeting the gazes of his friends. "It's not like Winding has ever failed us as the guild leader, right? Every raid, every resource war, every 'impossible' gamble he's put before us... we've come out on top because his logic holds. If he says Nazarick is the key, then I believe him."

The mention of Winding's track record silenced the last of the grumbling. It was true—Winding's leadership had transformed a ragtag group of "non-human" players into a powerhouse that even the most prestigious human-centric guilds feared.

Momonga turned his gaze toward the map of the Helheim marshes. "Nishikienrai, you said the mana pressure was immense. That suggests the dungeon isn't just a gauntlet; it's a 'Living Fortress' type. If we apply Winding's strategy, we don't just 'clear' it. We exploit the mechanics."

Winding nodded toward Momonga, a silent acknowledgment of their shared vision. He tapped the holographic display, and a simplified decision-tree appeared, glowing in neon blue.

"Momonga is right," Winding said. "Our success depends on a strict logical sequence. We treat the dungeon like a program:

If the environmental debuffs are Holy or Fire-based (standard for Helheim), then we rotate our front-line tanks to mitigate 'burn' stacking.

If we encounter a floor-boss that uses 'Mass Death' spells, we trigger Momonga's specialized anti-undead wards.

If we reach the heart of the tomb within the time limit, then we secure the 'Throne of Kings' and finalize the guild base registration."

Touch Me looked from Winding to Momonga. The two skeletons stood as a united front of logic and loyalty. The Paladin let out a long, metallic sigh, his hand finally dropping away from his sword hilt. He wasn't fully convinced of the "conquering the world" part, but he couldn't deny the logic of the target.

"If the two of you are this certain," Touch Me said, his voice regaining its heroic resonance, "then I suppose 'Nine's Own Goal' has a new destination. But I'm holding you to your word, Winding. We do this as a team, or we don't do it at all."

A roar of approval finally erupted from the clan. The fear was still there, but it had been replaced by the adrenaline of a world-first attempt.

Winding raised his skeletal hand, the red orbs in his sockets glowing with an intense, finality.

"Listen well," Winding's voice boomed, echoing off the walls of their rented base. "Our raid on the Great Tomb of Nazarick will start thirty minutes from now. But we will not march under the name of a clan that simply 'goals' for its own survival."

He opened the guild management console, the blue light illuminating his grinning skull.

"Before we step foot in Helheim, we are changing our name. From this second forward, 'Nine's Own Goal' is no more. We are Ainz Ooal Gown. This name will carry weight. It will carry the scent of death and the cold shadow of fear to our enemies. When players hear it, they will not think of a clan of friends—they will think of the masters of Yggdrasil."

With a sudden motion, he struck the 'Confirm' button.

The gold-and-silver banner hanging in the hall dissolved into pixels and reformed into a new, more sinister emblem. The system message pulsed in the vision of every member:

[SYSTEM]: Guild Name changed to 'Ainz Ooal Gown'.

"Now," Winding said, turning back to the shocked faces of his guildmates. "Prepare yourselves. In thirty minutes, we show the world why this name deserves to be feared."

The room, which had been filled with outcry only minutes ago, was now silent for a different reason. The weight of the new name felt like a physical burden on their shoulders.

"Ainz Ooal Gown..." Momonga whispered, looking at the notification. He felt a surge of pride, but also the sharp sting of pressure. He stepped up beside Winding. "It's a powerful name, Winding. But a name like that needs a foundation. It needs a victory that can't be questioned."

"Which is why the next thirty minutes are the most important in our history," Winding replied.

He turned to Punitto Moe, the guild's premier strategist. "Punitto, I want the logic for the first three floors finalized. If the mobs are undead, we use the Momonga-lead Holy-attribute suppression. If they are Golems or Constructs, we switch to the 'Crush' formation. I want no room for error."

Punitto Moe nodded, his vine-like fingers already pulling up tactical charts. "Understood. If we hit a floor boss with more than three health bars, we'll execute the 'Grand Cross' rotation immediately. We won't give the dungeon's AI a chance to adapt."

Outside the base, the dark skies of Helheim seemed to grow even darker, as if the game world itself was reacting to the birth of the guild that intended to conquer it.

Winding stood at the head of the formation, his red eyes scanning the line. "Final check," he commanded. "Armor durability?" "Maxed," the frontline warriors responded in unison. "Mana Potions and Yggdrasil Leaves?" "Overflowing," the backline casters confirmed.

Winding turned to Momonga. "If we encounter a World Enemy or a boss that exceeds our level cap, we trigger the 'Ainz Ooal Gown' collective defense. No one dies today. That is the only condition."

Momonga nodded, his grip tightening on his staff. "The logic is set. if the gate opens, then we become the legends we've claimed to be."

Momonga raised his hand, and a massive, blue rune cirlce is form below them. "[Mass Greater Teleportation]!"

In a flash of blinding light, the forty-one members disappeared from their humble rented base and reappeared in the middle of a toxic, bone-chilling swamp. Rising out of the mist like a jagged tooth was the entrance to the Great Tomb of Nazarick.

"This is it," Nishikienrai whispered, his stealth-optimized gear blending into the fog. "The gate to the throne."

The mist of Helheim did not merely drift; it clung to the armor of the forty-one warriors like a funeral shroud. At the center of the swamp stood the Great Tomb of Nazarick, a jagged monolith of stone and malice.

Winding, his skeletal frame draped in obsidian robes that seemed to swallow the ambient light, raised his staff. Behind him, the legendary members of Nine's Own Goal—now reborn as Ainz Ooal Gown—stood in a silence so profound it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

"The timer is spent," Winding's voice was a low, resonant rasp. "The variables are set. We go in once. We win once. Anything else is failure."

The Breach: Floors 1-3

The heavy stone doors groaned open, revealing a descent into a nightmare of bone and shadow. The Catacombs were a labyrinth designed to disorient, but Winding's eyes saw through the code.

"Nishikienrai, lead!" Winding commanded.

The Half-Golem scout vanished into the gloom. Whenever a pressure plate clicked or a tripwire shivered, his blades intervened first. When the "Grave Warden" legions rose from the dust, the formation shifted with mathematical grace.

"IF the frontline is swamped," Punitto Moe's voice cut through the clash of steel, "THEN Step-Back Formation B!"

The warriors moved as a single organism. As the undead knights lunged, the tanks stepped aside, letting a torrent of holy fire from the rear casters incinerate the horde. They didn't just fight; they solved the floor like an equation.

The Frozen Desolation: Floors 4-5

As they descended deeper, the air turned into a physical weight. The subterranean lake stretched out before them, a mirror of black ice guarded by a colossal, multi-headed serpent.

"The temperature is dropping to critical," Momonga warned, his skeletal fingers glowing with protective mana.

"ELSE we bring the sun to the deep," Winding countered.

Peroroncino stepped forward, drawing a bow of shimmering gold. He loosed an arrow that didn't just strike; it ignited. The cavern was filled with the roar of steam as the ice shattered. Bukubukuchagama, in her towering slime form, surged into the water, her body absorbing the serpent's toxic breath while the rest of the guild crossed the thawing bridge. They were ahead of schedule.

The Meat Grinder: Floors 7-8

The lower levels were a descent into the infernal. The mobs here were Level 80+ Devils, their AI programmed to exploit player fear. But these players were no longer human.

Touch Me was a whirlwind of silver, his World Champion skills carving through the demonic ranks. "Is this all the Tomb has to offer?" he challenged, his blade trailing arcs of pure light.

"Don't get complacent," Winding warned, his eyes fixed on the mana-readings of the floor. "IF the boss triggers a 'World Wipe' mechanic, THEN Momonga and I will sacrifice our MP pools to anchor the party."

They met the "Asura of the End" at the threshold of the 10th Floor. The battle was a cacophony of Tier 10 spells and localized explosions of data. Ulbert Alain Odle unleashed his Grand Catastrophe, turning the demonic vanguard into pillars of salt, while Winding orchestrated the cooldowns of forty players with the precision of a master conductor.

The Throne Room: A New World

The final doors, reinforced with adamantine and warded with ancient runes, finally buckled.

The Throne Room was a cavernous hall of gold and violet, at the end of which sat a silent, empty chair of obsidian: The Throne of Kings. The Final Guardian, a being of pure shadow, stood between them and their destiny.

The struggle lasted forty minutes of grueling, high-stakes combat. Gear broke, mana ran dry, and the guild's collective health bars flickered in the red. But the "if-else" logic held. When the Guardian lunged for the healers, the tanks were already there. When it cast its ultimate death spell, Winding's counter-logic was already in place.

With a final, earth-shaking strike from the entire guild, the Guardian dissolved into a shimmering rain of gold pixels.

Silence returned to the tomb.

Winding walked slowly up the stairs, his boots echoing on the marble. He turned and sat upon the throne. A pulse of violet light rippled outward, traveling through the stone, through the swamp, and across the nine realms of Yggdrasil.

[WORLD ANNOUNCEMENT]: The Great Tomb of Nazarick has been conquered.

Winding looked down at his friends, his red eyes burning with a terrifying new ambition. "The logic of the old world is dead," he declared. "From this day forth, the only truth is Ainz Ooal Gown."

The Great Tomb of Nazarick felt alive, a sprawling subterranean titan that had finally stopped breathing the stale air of a dungeon and started exhaling the cold, oppressive mana of a fortress. In the heart of the tenth floor, the Throne Room was bathed in the violet luminescence of the Throne of Kings.

At the massive obsidian table, the forty-one members of Ainz Ooal Gown sat in high-backed chairs, their monstrous avatars casting long, distorted shadows. The atmosphere was a strange cocktail of triumph and artistic fever. They weren't just players anymore; they were the architects of a new world.

"The logic is simple," Winding said, his skeletal fingers drumming a rhythmic, clicking beat against the table. "We have 6,000 levels of NPC data to distribute. If we spread them too thin, we have a weak house. If we concentrate them too heavily, we leave gaps in our armor."

"I've already begun the blueprints for the Great Library," Punitto Moe remarked, his vine-like appendages flickering over a holographic interface. "But we need more than just buildings. We need souls. We need the Guardians."

One by one, the members began to claim their territory.

Shalltear Bloodfallen was birthed from Peroroncino's obsession with high-tier combat and aesthetic perfection for the first three floors. Cocytus was forged by Warrior Takemikazuchi to hold the frozen glacier of the fifth. Even the twins, Aura and Mare, were being conceptualized by Bukubukuchagama for the sixth.

"What about the Eighth Floor?" Momonga asked, his red eye-sockets turning toward the silent expanse of the map. "The 'Wilderness' is the largest floor by volume, and arguably the most dangerous. It needs a designer who understands the 'if-else' of absolute defense."

The table went quiet. The Eighth Floor was the tomb's ultimate trump card—the place where physics started to fray and the difficulty curve became a vertical wall.

Winding stood up, his obsidian robes billowing. He tapped the holographic map, and the Eighth Floor glowed a deep, ominous crimson.

"I'll take the Eighth," Winding declared.

A few members shifted in their seats. They knew Winding's mind; he didn't just build characters, he built systems. He didn't just create monsters; he created paradoxes.

"It needs to be a place of total calculation," Winding continued, his gaze fixed on the empty space of the map. "I'm not going to just put a boss there. I'm going to build a sequence. A logic gate that the rest of the server isn't prepared to solve. If they reach the Eighth Floor, they shouldn't just be fighting—they should be questioning if their characters are even allowed to exist."

"You're going to make it a nightmare, aren't you?" Ulbert Alain Odle chuckled, a hint of envy in his voice.

"I'm going to make it a conclusion," Winding replied.

He closed the menu, his decision final. As the other members descended to their respective floors to begin their creative work, Winding teleported alone to the Eighth Floor. He stood in the center of the vast, barren wasteland, the silence stretching out like an infinite void.

"Now," Winding whispered to the empty air, "let's see what happens when the logic of this world meets a mind that knows how to break it."

He turned his gaze upward, as if looking through the stone ceilings and the digital sky, straight into the eyes of the "Gods"—the developers watching from their server rooms.

"I need materials that are not from this game," Winding stated, his voice dropping into a cold, jagged tone. "And I will force the Gods to give them to me."

The silence that followed Winding's declaration was brittle. The members of Ainz Ooal Gown looked at one another, the initial shock of the name change and the raid's success still fresh, but this was different. This was a direct challenge to the creators of their world.

"And how exactly do you plan on doing that?"

The question came from the shadows of the table. "Even with our rank, we're just players to the devs. You can't exactly send a support ticket demanding forbidden code."

Winding's skeletal grin seemed to stretch. Without a word, he waved his hand across the air, opening his private inventory. The interface glowed with a light so intense it made the surrounding members shield their eyes.

With a final, slow motion, he produced a ring that radiated an aura of such overwhelming power that the very air in the throne room began to distort.

It was a ring that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. At its center sat a massive, brilliant-cut emerald, a stone of such deep, swirling green that it looked like a captured fragment of a dying forest. Entwined around this core were two serpents: one of shimmering yellow gold with eyes of burning ruby, and another of cold, diamond-encrusted silver with eyes of piercing sapphire. They were locked in an eternal, suffocating embrace—an Ouroboros that represented a logic without end.

Holding the serpents and the stone in place was a jagged, blackened silver frame shaped like a crown of thorns. The metal was dark and oxidized, its sharp briars looking as though they would draw blood from anyone unworthy enough to wear it.

The Ouroboros. One of the 'Twenty'—the most powerful World-Class Items in existence, capable of requesting a literal change to the game's system from the developers themselves.

"The logic is foolproof," Winding whispered, the red embers in his eyes flaring. "They will amplify my voice so the 'Gods' cannot ignore the signal. But the Ouroboros... that is my lever. I am not going to ask for a new spell or a pile of gold."

He leaned over the table, the Ouroboros ring hovering between his skeletal palms.

Winding's hand hovered over the ring scroll, The members of Ainz Ooal Gown watched, transfixed, as he revealed the true nature of his gambit.

"I will not use the Ouroboros for mere terrain or stone," Winding's voice resonated with a scholar's passion and a tyrant's resolve. "As you all know, I am a collector of histories—even those from the 'Old World' before Yggdrasil. Among my most treasured finds is the data of a primitive but profound system known as Undertale."

He looked around the table, his red eyes locking onto each of his friends.

"In that world, power was not dictated by Tier Magic or MP pools alone. It was driven by the essence of the being—Soul Magic. Seven distinct colors, seven fundamental traits: Patience, Bravery, Integrity, Perseverance, Kindness, Justice, and Determination. Each possesses powers that defy the logical constraints of our current combat system."

Winding unrolled the Ouroboros ring slightly further, the reality around the table beginning to ripple like water.

"I plan to use this World-Class Item to force a system-wide patch. I will bring Soul Magic into Nazarick. Imagine it: a weapon that does not target a player's HP bar or their equipment, but the very 'Soul' of their avatar. It is a logic that the Tier Magic of this world cannot counter. If they bring a 10th-tier shield, THEN we use the Blue Soul to manipulate their gravity. If they bring immunity to death spells, THEN we use the Yellow Soul to pierce their very core."

A murmur of realization spread through the hall. He wasn't just building a floor; he was evolving their entire arsenal. He was introducing a "foreign code" that would make the current meta-game obsolete.

"This is my gift to Ainz Ooal Gown," Winding declared, his voice rising. "A power that the 'Gods' never intended for us to have. We will be the only ones who understand the rules of this new magic. To the rest of Yggdrasil, we will not just be monsters. We will be an anomaly they cannot calculate."

winding pull out something from his inventory and place it down on the stone round table, 

"Ouroboros!" Winding commanded, his voice tearing through the digital wind. "Accept the sacrifice! Rewrite the laws! Grant us the Seven Souls!"

The ring ignited in a brilliant, flickering white flame. For a moment, the entire Great Tomb of Nazarick groaned as the server struggled to process a request that changed the fundamental physics of the game.

In the sterile, high-tech command center of the Yggdrasil development team, the atmosphere was anything but calm. Dozens of monitors began flashing a rhythmic, deep crimson.

"Chief! We have a problem on the Helheim server!" a junior developer shouted, his hands flying across his keyboard. "Someone just activated Ouroboros. But the request... it's not in the standard parameter list. It's forcing an external data injection!"

The Lead Designer leaned over the shoulder of the tech. "New magic? What do you mean 'new magic'? The system is designed for Tier-based structures. Who is the user?"

"It's a player named Winding, from the guild that just one-shotted Nazarick. He's requesting something called... Soul Magic."

The Lead Designer blinked. "What is 'Undertale' anyway? Is that some indie game from the 21st-century archives?"

One of the senior coders, a man who specialized in historical gaming data, turned pale. "It was an old RPG. The 'Soul Magic' system functioned on moral traits. But the mechanics... they don't use MP. They use bullet-pattern evasion and heart-shaped cores. If this gets integrated into the Yggdrasil engine, it will bypass every defensive stat we've ever coded."

The developers pulled up a data-briefing on the seven souls.

"We can bridge the code for the first six," the Lead Designer muttered, pointing at the screen. "Patience, Bravery, Integrity... we can map those to specific status effects and gravity modifiers. But the Red Soul? 'Determination'?" He slammed his fist on the desk. "That's broken! In the original source, it allows the user to refuse death. If we grant that, this player becomes literally unkillable. It would destroy the competitive balance of the entire game!"

"We have to intervene," the CEO of the development firm stated coldly. "Log in. Now."

Back on the Eighth Floor of Nazarick, the sky suddenly turned a stark, blinding white. The digital wind stopped. Three avatars, glowing with a golden light that signified "Administrator Status," descended from the clouds and landed before Winding.

"Player Winding," the central Administrator spoke, his voice booming with the weight of the system. "Your request via Ouroboros is being processed, but the Red Soul—Determination—is a violation of the game's core balance. We will grant the other six, but we will not grant the Red Soul."

Winding didn't flinch. He leaned on his staff, his skeletal grin widening. "You speak of violations? The Ouroboros wish is absolute in the laws of this world. And those are the laws by which you are held, are they not? To deny a World Item's power is to admit your game is broken."

The Administrators remained silent, the data around them flickering with the stress of the logic loop Winding had trapped them in.

"However," Winding continued, his voice dropping into a smooth, predatory tone. "I am a reasonable collector. Let us compensate for the power of the Red Soul."

He stepped forward, the Seven Stars circling his head. "Change the power of the Red Soul. Instead of 'Refusal,' let it merely grant the holder a massive enhancement to any weapon held and a transcendental boost to agility. AND," he raised a bony finger, "give me the data for all the NPCs of that world. From the Royal Guard to the one they call Flowey. Every minor monster, every boss. All of them, deposited into the Eighth floor starting with mt Ebot to hole and underground."

Winding's red eyes flared. "Agree to this, or we end the negotiation. I will take the original Red Soul, and I will walk across your Nine Realms as an unkillable God. The choice is yours."

The Administrators stood still for a long, agonizing minute. They were communicating through private channels, their "gritted teeth" almost audible through the digital avatars.

"Fine," the Lead Administrator spat, the word dripping with reluctance. "The trade is accepted. The Red Soul is modified. The NPC data injection will begin... now."

With a sudden thunderclap, the Administrators vanished, leaving Winding alone in a wasteland that was no longer empty.

///////////

Peroroncino stood with his chest puffed out, his golden wings half-spread in a gesture of grand presentation. Beside him, Momonga watched, his red eye-sockets flickering as he took in the sight of the NPC standing before them.

Shalltear Bloodfallen was a masterpiece of gothic design. Her silver hair was tied back with a large ribbon, and her crimson dress was so detailed that every stitch of lace seemed to have its own physical property. She was the perfect image of a refined, blood-drinking aristocrat.

Without a word, the animation script triggered. With a sharp, mechanical clack, Shalltear snapped her lace fan shut. Her movements were fluid yet possessed that slight, eerie precision of a high-end digital puppet. She dropped into a flawless, graceful curtsy, her voluminous skirts blooming outward like a dark rose on the marble floor.

"So, what do you think?" Peroroncino asked, his voice brimming with the excitement of a creator showing off his best work. "I call her Shalltear Bloodfallen. She's the Floor Guardian for the first through third floors."

Momonga leaned in, inspecting the pale curve of her neck and the cold, vacant stare in her crimson eyes. "The detail is incredible, Peroroncino. You've really outdone yourself on the aesthetic."

"Aesthetic? Momonga, look at her build!" Peroroncino pointed a feathered finger at her. "She's a True Vampire with the 'Valkyrie' class. She's built to be a melee-magic hybrid. While most players will try to use holy magic against her because she's undead, I've tuned her to be a holy-elemental caster herself. It's a total subversion of the meta!"

Shalltear remained in her curtsy, a silent, beautiful statue of absolute programmed loyalty. She didn't breathe; she didn't blink. She was simply a vessel for the thousands of lines of flavor text and combat logic that Peroroncino had painstakingly written.

"She's the perfect first gate," Momonga admitted, impressed. "Anyone who underestimates a girl in a dress is going to get slaughtered."

The atmosphere of the Tenth Floor shifted from one of professional pride to something far more awkward as Peroroncino's excitement took a turn into the hyper-specific.

Momonga was still admiring the technical stats of Shalltear's "Valkyrie" class when Peroroncino leaned in, his golden feathers fluffing up and a strange, frantic energy entering his voice.

"But Momonga, you're missing the most important part!" Peroroncino hissed, his hands moving rapidly as he pulled up a hidden sub-menu of Shalltear's character sheet. "Look at this section here. I call it the 'Deep Lore' settings."

Momonga leaned in, but as the scrolling text revealed the depths of Peroroncino's "culture," his jaw fell open and his glowing eyes dilated in shock. He was rooted to the spot, completely blindsided by the overwhelming wave of secondhand embarrassment.

"Peroroncino..." Momonga's voice was flat. "Why is there an entire paragraph dedicated to her... 'necrophilia' settings? And... 'blood-play'? Is that a 'breathing' preference for—"

"It's called culture, Momonga!" Peroroncino interrupted, his eyes gleaming with a manic intensity. "I've given her a list of fetishes that would make a succubus blush! Look, if she's around a 'Bone-Type' heteromorph, I've programmed her to develop a specific... thirst. I've even detailed the exact way she should blush when she's being 'disciplined'!"

Shalltear, still frozen in her graceful curtsy, remained a silent, unblinking doll. 

"I spent three sleepless nights perfecting her 'gap moe'!" Peroroncino continued, his voice rising in pitch as he gestured wildly at the NPC's silver hair and delicate lace. "She looks like a refined lady of the night, but in her flavor text, she's actually a total monster for—"

"I think that's enough, Peroroncino," Momonga said, stepping back and holding up a bony hand. "I really don't need to know the 'texture' requirements for her underwear."

"You just don't get the vision yet!" Peroroncino cried out, his wings flapping in a frantic, horny rhythm. "When they see her, she's going to be the most 'complex' NPC in history! A masterpiece of desire!"

(Insert sans.mp3 — a jaunty, low-fidelity synth tune that bounces playfully through the stone corridor.)

"What… what is that music?" Momonga asked no one in particular. His jaw finally clicked shut, his mind fully recovering from the initial shock of Peroroncino's "cultural" writing.

Peroroncino, his fingers still flying across a holographic keyboard as he added even more "lore" to Shalltear, didn't even look up. "Maybe just someone playing a background track? You know how the sound-engine bugs out sometimes."

The music was soon joined by two distinct sets of footsteps echoing from the darkness of the tunnel. One set was slow and deliberate—the well-placed, heavy steps of a powerful player. The other was a lazy, rhythmic dragging sound, like someone who couldn't be bothered to lift their feet off the marble.

As they emerged from the shadows, the name indicators flickered into view. Winding walked with his usual cold poise, but beside him stood a short, stout skeleton that looked completely out of place in the grand tomb. He wore a simple blue hoodie, black basketball shorts with a white stripe, and—most bafflingly—bright pink slippers.

Desperate to change the subject away from necrophilia and fetishes, Momonga gestured toward the newcomer. "Ah… Winding! Is this the Floor Guardian for the Tenth Floor?"

"Yes," Winding replied, his voice echoing. He came to a halt and gestured with an open palm toward the short skeleton. "Let me introduce one of my newest creations. This is Sans. He is a monster of the Blue Soul type."

Peroroncino finally snapped his menus shut, his zealous energy from earlier cooling into genuine curiosity. He tilted his head, eyeing the slippers. "Say, Winding, what does 'Blue Soul' power actually do? Most of us don't really get the reference—except maybe Momonga, since you basically indoctrinated him into playing that indie history game. So, what's his deal? What does he actually do?"

Peroroncino and Momonga watched as Winding tapped his HUD, manifesting a massive, semi-transparent scroll of Flavor Text. It cascaded down like a waterfall of data, thousands of lines long.

"To understand this NPC," Winding began, his voice echoing with the authority of a Guildmaster explaining a complex game mechanic to a novice, "you have to understand that he isn't built on Yggdrasil's standard combat engine. He is a Meta-Variable."

Winding gestured toward the short skeleton. Sans remained in his idle animation cycle—a slight, rhythmic bobbing of his shoulders, his permanent grin fixed and unchanging. Occasionally, a scripted "Easter Egg" would trigger: Sans would reach into his hoodie, pull out a bottle of ketchup, take a long, unblinking swig, and then meticulously run a plastic comb over his perfectly bald, white cranium.

"He has two fundamental states," Winding explained, pointing to the scrolling text. "The first is The Sentry. He is programmed as a lazy, low-tier monster. He naps, he makes puns, and he is statistically the weakest enemy in the game—having only 1 HP and 1 Defense. In a standard RPG, he is a joke."

Peroroncino tilted his head. "1 HP? Winding, a stray breeze from a Floor Guardian would delete him. Why put him on the Tenth Floor?"

"Because of his second state," Winding's eye sockets glowed with a sharp, intellectual fire. "The Judge. If a player reaches this floor with a high 'Karma' or 'PK' count, Sans breaks the game's logic. He is the only NPC coded with Fourth Wall Awareness. He knows he is in a simulation. He knows about every game functions in the server. And because he knows the world is just code, he treats the combat interface like a toy."

Winding waved his hand, and a holographic projection of a Blue Heart appeared.

"His primary ability is Soul Manipulation. He turns your 'Soul' blue. In Yggdrasil terms, it's a massive Gravity Debuff. He can grab a player's avatar and physically slam them against the geometry of the room. Flight magic? Pointless. Teleportation? Overridden. You are pinned to the floor, forced to play his 'platforming' game."

"Then come the Bones," Winding continued, warming up to the explanation. "White bones are dodgeable. But the Blue Bones are 'Logic Gates.' If you are moving, you take damage. If you stand perfectly still, they pass through you without a scratch. In the chaos of a raid, players instinctively move to dodge. Sans punishes that instinct."

Momonga leaned in, his mind racing through the tactical possibilities. "But Peroroncino's right. With 1 HP, one lucky hit ends it."

"That's the beauty of his 'Shortcut' Logic," Winding countered. "Sans doesn't use the 'Dodge' stat. He uses Frame-Perfect Displacement. He teleports between the frames of the game's animation. He will literally step out of the way of an AoE (Area of Effect) spell. He is the only NPC that actively dodges every single attack directed at him."

Winding pointed to the massive, dragon-like skulls now appearing as static models behind the skeleton. "Gaster Blasters. They fire beams of pure Karmic Retribution (KR). KR doesn't do flat damage; it's a 'poison' effect that scales with the target's sins. The more players, monster, animals, or npcs you've killed, the faster your HP bar drains. It ignores all magical resistances and invulnerability frames."

"Finally," Winding concluded, looking at the idling, grinning skeleton, "he is the king of the Stalemate. If he can't beat you, he simply refuses to end his turn. He will stand there, napping in the middle of combat, locking the game's turn-based logic so the player can never move again. He is a 'Soft-Lock' in physical form."

Peroroncino whistled, impressed by the sheer "broken" nature of the design. "So he's a tiny, lazy, ketchup-drinking wall that you can't hit and can't pass?"

"Precisely," Winding said. "He is the logic of the Underground, brought to the surface of Nazarick."

"Turn-based logic?" Momonga asked, his voice echoing with genuine confusion. "Winding, this is a real-time DMMO-RPG. How can you force a player into a turn-based encounter?"

Winding's smirk grew darker, and he gestured toward the elevator that led to the depths of the tomb. "Because the Eighth Floor is no longer a typical floor. I have rewritten its fundamental reality. When a group of intruders enters that floor, the game's engine is hijacked by the Logic of the Underground."

He began to pace, his boots clicking rhythmically on the marble. "I have restricted the entry. Only ten players are allowed to enter at a time. The moment they cross the threshold, the real-time combat system is suspended. They are bound by the Turn-Based Script."

"It is a 'Hard-Coded' state," Winding continued, his voice dropping into a low, resonant tone. "They cannot move freely. They cannot spam skills. They must wait for their turn to act, while my Guardians—led by Sans—execute their patterns. Every movement they make is confined to a 'Bullet Box'—a limited space where they must dodge Sans's attacks manually."

Momonga's eye-sockets flared. "But... surely a high-level Dispel or a specialized anti-magic field could break that? It sounds like a massive debuff."

"That's the beauty of it," Winding countered, stopping in front of Momonga. "It isn't a debuff. It is a Floor-Wide Reality Shift. It is baked into the very geometry of the Eighth Floor. Because it is a fundamental change to the game's physics within that zone, it is indispeallable. Standard magic cannot touch it. High-tier spells cannot reach it."

He paused for effect, his gaze locking onto Momonga's. "There is only one way to override the logic of the Eighth Floor: a World Tier Wish. Only an item of World-Class power or a literal 'Wish Upon a Star' with a high-level cost could force the server to ignore my rules and restore real-time combat."

Peroroncino whistled, looking down at the idling Sans. "So, you've basically trapped them in a mini-game where the rules are stacked against them, and they can't use their level-100 speed to escape?"

"Exactly," Winding said. "In the 8th Floor, level doesn't matter as much as reflexes and patience. If they don't know the pattern, they die. If they get frustrated and try to rush, the 'Turn' simply never ends. I've turned our home into a place where the players have to play by my logic, or they don't play at all."

Sans, still in his idle cycle, took another swig of ketchup, his empty sockets seemingly staring right through the game's interface and into the souls of anyone who would dare enter.

"Peroroncino," Winding said, his voice carrying a note of genuine professional respect. "You've built a monster that breaks the standard 'Undead' template. I've seen her stat distribution, but tell me—how does her Combat Logic execute? What is the Main Function of her defense?"

Peroroncino, flattered by the Guildmaster's interest, cleared his throat and stood tall. "As a friend and my GM, I'll give you the full breakdown. Shalltear isn't just a tank; she's an Action-Economy Vampire."

"Her combat script is a Recursive Healing Loop," Peroroncino explained, tapping his screen to show a complex logic tree. "She uses the Spruit Lance. Every time she connects a hit, she executes a Life Steal command that restores her HP based on the damage dealt. But here's the catch: even if the enemy blocks, the 'Impact' triggers a small portion of the heal."

"And her Trump Card," Peroroncino lowered his voice, his expression becoming serious. "Einherjar. It's a literal Duplicate Process. She spawns a construct of herself that possesses all her physical stats but none of her magic. It forces the enemy into a 2-on-1 scenario where they have to split their DPS, while the real Shalltear stays back and cycles through high-tier holy magic. It's a Parallel Processing nightmare for any raid team."

Winding nodded slowly, his mind analyzing the data. "A physical clone to soak up aggro while the primary unit casts. Highly efficient. It's a solid If-Then defense: If they focus the clone, the real one heals; if they focus the real one, the clone shreds them."

"Exactly!" Peroroncino chirped. "But then... there's her Blood Frenzy. It's an automated state that triggers when she's soaked in blood. She loses her 'Aristocrat' persona and becomes a raw engine of destruction."

Winding looked back at the small, lazy skeleton in the pink slippers. Sans was perfect for a stalemate, but he lacked the "Raw Power" visual that Shalltear commanded.

"Your design philosophy is inspiring, Peroroncino," Winding admitted. "It makes me realize Sans needs a Secondary Execution Mode. A form that triggers when the 'Mercy' condition is permanently deleted from the script."

Winding swiped his hand through the air, manifesting a high-resolution holographic projection. "I want to create a 'Battle Form' for him. I'm calling it the No Mercy state."

Winding adjusted the holographic parameters, and the air hummed as the simple, lazy silhouette of the sentry skeleton began to fracture and reform. This was no longer a mere NPC; it was a cosmic executioner designed to be the ultimate "Game Over" for any who dared to stain the Eighth Floor with blood.

The transformation was a symphony of divine terror. From his shoulder blades, six colossal, multi-colored wings erupted with a sound like tearing reality. These were not composed of mundane feathers, but of a fluid, bioluminescent energy that shifted restlessly from deep crimsons to toxic greens. Within the primary webbing of these ethereal appendages, massive, sentient eyes blinked in unison, their unblinking pupils tracking every movement in the hall with cold, predatory precision.

The familiar blue hoodie was gone, replaced by a jagged, black chitinous armor that clung to his skeletal frame, leaving his glowing ribs exposed to the air. Pulsating within the center of his chest was a Prismatic Soul Core—a heart-shaped gem that burned with a fierce, red intensity. It looked like a star caught in a cage, representing the compressed determination of a thousand fallen foes. Just below it, a secondary white soul flickered like an unstable candle in a gale, a reminder of the monster's fragile origin now bolstered by god-like power.

Even his face had been rewritten. His skull had elongated into a draconic shape, looking more like a predatory beast than a grinning comedian. A regal collar of rainbow-hued "mana-flames" erupted from his neck, casting shifting shadows across the purple stones of the Ruins. His eye-sockets no longer held simple, lazy lights; they were twin pits of golden fire, glowing with the "Justice" and "Bravery" of the souls he had absorbed.

Winding turned to Peroroncino, his own sockets reflecting the prismatic light of his creation. "I've optimized the [Render_Priority] for this form. When he appears, the game engine will lag for the players—a literal stutter in reality to show that the 'Judge' has arrived."

"Look at the [VFX_Overlay] on those wings, Peroroncino," Winding pointed out, his voice filled with pride. "They aren't just for show. Each wing functions as an independent Gaster Blaster node. He doesn't have to aim; the wings calculate the player's [Hit_Box] automatically and fire on a [Fixed_Interval]."

Peroroncino circled the hologram, his fingers itching to tweak the textures. "The contrast between the skeletal frame and those rainbow-colored wings is delicious. It's vibrant but terrifying. If a player sees this, they won't even think about fighting. They'll just look for the 'Log Out' button—except you've already disabled that, haven't you?"

"Naturally," Winding replied, his smirk reflected in the golden light of the hologram. "In the No Mercy state, the only way out is through dying."

Momonga stared at the prismatic, winged terror of Seraphim!Sans, the flickering light of the Soul Core reflecting off his own polished ribs. "And what happens then, Winding? After the 'Turn-Based' logic reaches its limit and he transforms into this 'No-Mercy' state? Does the stalemate simply continue in a more violent form?"

Winding's dark smirk widened, his skeletal fingers twitching as if he were closing a terminal window. "No. At that point, the script reaches a Runtime Exception. The 'Turn-Based' mode deactivates entirely. The combat box shatters, the menus vanish, and the world returns to real-time—but not the real-time the players are used to."

He stepped toward the holographic Seraphim, his voice dropping into a cold, predatory whisper. "I call this final phase 'Predator and Prey.'"

"In this mode," Winding explained, "the [Combat_Rules] are rewritten. Sans no longer waits for a 'Turn.' He becomes an Unstoppable Logic Virus. He moves with [Infinite_Velocity], utilizing his 'Shortcuts' to exist in multiple places at once. The players are no longer 'Combatants'; they are downgraded in the system to 'Prey' entities."

Peroroncino tilted his head, his feathers ruffling. "Prey? You mean they can't fight back at all?"

"Oh, they can try," Winding chuckled, "but I've implemented a 'Fear Factor' algorithm. As the 'Prey,' their stats are actively drained the longer Sans looks at them with those sentient wing-eyes. Their mana leaks, their stamina bottoms out, and their screen begins to glitch and tear. It's no longer a battle of HP bars; it's a Survival Horror Script."

Winding gestured to the massive golden revolver in the hologram's hand. "The 'Prey' must run through the shifting geometry of the 8th Floor while Sans hunts them. If he catches them, he doesn't just reduce their HP to zero. He executes a 'Karmic Execution'."

"In the game era," Winding continued, his eye sockets glowing with an intense light, "this would trigger a unique GameOver animation that would freeze their console for a solid minute, forcing them to watch their character turn to dust before they could even attempt to respawn. It was the ultimate psychological tilt. In this world... it means their data is shredded so thoroughly by the Karmic Burn that their remains don't just sit there. They dissolve into the very code of the 8th Floor, feeding the cycle."

Momonga looked at the dark, silent ruins around them, then back at Winding. "You've turned the 8th Floor from a game of strategy into a nightmare of pure inevitability."

"That is the essence of 'No Mercy'," Winding replied. "When the Judge stops being fair, the only thing left is the hunt."

////

Deep within the jagged roots of Mt. Ebott, the five Supreme Beings stood at the edge of a massive, jagged hole that plunged straight into the earth. The cave around them was silent, save for the occasional drip of water hitting the stone.

"Ah, I see," Ulbert murmured, his voice echoing off the cavern walls as he peered into the yawning pit. "An unassuming cave at the base... a classic 'hidden dungeon' trope. It keeps the casual players away while luring the 'explorers' into a trap they can't climb out of."

Winding stood at the very lip of the abyss, his dark robes unmoving in the stagnant cave air. "Exactly. The surface is the Brute Force Filter. But once they enter this cave and fall down that hole, the game state shifts. They move from the [Surface_World] environment to the [Underground_Instance]."

He stepped forward, gravity taking hold as he descended into the black. One by one, Momonga, Peroroncino, Ulbert, and Touch Me followed, their avatars falling through the dark until the light of the cave entrance was nothing but a distant speck.

Area 01: The Ruins

They landed softly. The impact was absorbed by a thick, velvety bed of Golden Flowers that seemed to glow with a faint, internal light. The air here was different—stale, ancient, and smelling of dust and old stone.

"Welcome to The Ruins," Winding announced, his voice now carrying that distinct, rhythmic echo of the 8th Floor's turn-based domain.

The purple stone walls were etched with strange, bird-like symbols. Unlike the rest of Nazarick, which felt like a fortress, this place felt like a memory.

"I've hard-coded the 'Exit' logic here," Winding explained to the group. "Once a player falls, the [Vertical_Movement] variable is locked. They cannot fly out. They cannot climb out. The only way is forward, through the Tutorial of Pain."

Momonga looked at the purple archways. "And the monsters here? Are they the same 'cannon fodder' as the surface?"

"No," Winding said, a sharp glint in his eye. "The monsters here are the Moral Filter. I've given them high Sentience stats. They will beg for mercy. They will act afraid. This is where we track the player's Global Karma. If they slaughter these 'weak' NPCs, the system flags them for the [Genocide_Route]."

Ulbert chuckled, his demonic tail twitching. "A social experiment disguised as a dungeon. How delicious. You're testing if they have a 'heart' before you rip it out."

The air within the vaulted passage hung heavy and cool, carrying the scent of damp earth mingled with a ghostly, nostalgic sweetness—the faint memory of baking spices. As boots met the floor, the dry crackle of autumnal leaves rang out, amplified by the high, purple-brick arches. These were no ordinary drifts; the foliage lay in deep, golden mounds against the stone, making the vast hall feel less like a tomb and more like a forgotten nursery, preserved in a state of eternal decay.

This was a sanctuary of Silent Sentinels. The architecture leaned heavily on a contradiction of grandeur and ruin. Massive arches, cracked by time, were threaded together by thick, pulsating vines that bled a faint, magical luminescence into the dark. In sections where the sky had reclaimed the ceiling, shafts of pale, ethereal light pierced the gloom, turning drifting dust motes into dancing sparks. Yet, beneath this somber beauty lay a hidden heartbeat: the rhythmic shink-shink of ancient machinery. The puzzles of the past had sharpened into something far more lethal.

Deep within the Gauntlet of Trials, the shadows grew teeth.

The corridor of the Whispering Walls hissed with malice; vertical slits in the masonry watched for any footstep too heavy, ready to unleash silver-tipped arrows that whistled through the dark like ghost-fire. Beyond, the Shattered Bridge offered the illusion of a mosaic floor, yet the stones were mere ghosts of matter. One misplaced step turned solid rock into a vacuum, dropping the unwary into a yawning pit of bottomless shadow unless they followed the rhythmic, pulsing code of the glowing tiles.

In the circular chamber of the Blade of Mercy, a gargantuan slab of obsidian suspended by a groaning chain carved a murderous arc through the air. The steel pulsed with a steady, sapphire light; to move was to invite bisection, forcing the traveler to stand frozen as the freezing wind of the blade's passage tugged at their hair. Near the exit, the Floor of Thorns breathed with the slow, rhythmic heave of a sleeping giant, iron spikes rising and falling in a pattern that demanded absolute patience.

But the Ruins had more horrors to yield.

In the Gilded Guillotine, a thick, unnatural fog obscured the ceiling, hiding massive circular saws that tracked the very heat of a human soul. A low hum would vibrate in one's teeth just before a disc of shimmering gold dropped from the mist, skipping across the floor with a spray of sparks. In the Hall of Piety, the floor plates were so sensitive that a frantic heartbeat could trigger the walls to groan inward, contracting the room into a crushing vice of stone.

Silence became a weapon at the Echoing Chasm, where gargoyle statues stood watch over a glass-thin bridge. To make a sound louder than a breath was to invite a piercing, magical shriek that shattered the walkway into a thousand shards. Finally, one had to endure the Mercury Mirrors, where silver frames held reflections that moved with a sinister delay. If the glass-self caught its physical counterpart, the mirror would erupt in a searing beam of moonlight, scorching the violet bricks.

At the end of this harrowing trek, the chaos of the machinery falls silent. The oppressive stone opens into a singular, sun-drenched chamber. There, nestled in a patch of vibrant green grass, sits a single golden flower. It does not sway with any breeze; it merely bobs in a hypnotic, rhythmic dance—a slow, repetitive pulse. Its black, bead-like eyes remain fixed on the threshold, a permanent, frozen grin stretching across its waxy yellow face as it waits in the stillness.

(insert your best friend.mp3)

Winding came to a halt before the golden flower, turning his head slightly to address the demonic caster behind him.

"This is exactly why I requested your assistance, given your... particular tendencies," Winding said, his gaze shifting from the greenery to Ulbert. "I want you to craft the flavor text and calibrate the AI to be exceptionally sadistic toward intruders. Flowey here is a specialist in AoE damage. His primary arsenal is entirely plant-based: vines, razor-sharp seeds, flower petals, lashing roots, and earth manipulation."

As the description finished, a heavy shadow loomed over Ulbert's avatar. The World Disaster strode through the dusty ruins, his presence darkening the air as he came to a stop directly in front of Winding.

"You called me all the way to these dusty ruins, knowing full well I'm still in the middle of perfecting Demiurge, just to help you design a sadistic weed?" Ulbert asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Then, without warning, the demon-king laughed and pulled Winding into a sudden, bone-rattling hug.

"YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW HAPPY I AM TO HELP YOU! AHAHAAHAHAHA!" Ulbert shouted from the bottom of his heart, the sheer joy of the opportunity radiating from him. "To create a literal floral reflection of my own malice... ah, I'm getting chills just imagining it! Don't you worry, Winding. I'll handle the calibration personally. This plant will be a masterpiece of suffering."

Winding nodded as they left the Ruins, the massive stone doors thudding shut behind them. Ulbert remained inside, already deep in the [AI_Personality] menus, cackling as he began to weave his specific brand of malice into Flowey's botanical code.

The transition was immediate. As Momonga, Touch Me, Peroroncino, and Winding stepped out, the air turned sharp and freezing. The dusty purple stone was replaced by a vast, silent forest of skeletal trees, their branches sagging under the weight of thick, unnatural snow.

"The atmosphere has shifted," Momonga observed, his skeletal hands tightening slightly on his staff. "The Ruins felt like a memory; this feels like a trap."

"That's because it is," Winding replied, his voice barely a whisper against the howling artificial wind. "We've entered the [Snowdin_Logic_Zone]. While Ulbert handles the 'Sadistic Filter' back in the Ruins, this forest serves as the Psychological Erosion Phase."

Winding gestured toward the dense treeline. "In this area, I've implemented the 'Stalker Script'. Sans won't initiate combat here. Instead, he uses his 'Shortcut' logic to flicker in and out of the player's peripheral vision. Every time they turn around, he's gone—leaving only a single set of footprints that lead nowhere. It's a [Paranoia_Debuff] that stacks; the higher it gets, the more their Accuracy and Evasion stats fluctuate."

Peroroncino shivered, adjusting his gear. "The isolation is the real killer here. It's so quiet you can hear your own mana heart beating. It's a complete departure from the 'Grand Scale' of the other floors."

"Indeed," Touch Me added, his silver armor reflecting the dull blue light of the snowy sky. "In a standard raid, you expect a wall of monsters. Here, the 'Monster' is the environment itself."

They reached a wide, deep chasm spanned by a rickety wooden bridge. The planks looked old and unstable, and the gap between them was just wide enough to be unnerving.

"This is the Judgment Gate," Winding explained, stopping at the edge. "It's a hard-coded bottleneck. I've set the [Physics_Engine] here to nullify flight magic for any entity flagged as an 'Intruder.' They have to walk across. And right there—"

Winding pointed to the other side of the bridge, where a short, hooded figure stood perfectly still in the mist.

"That is where the first 'Scripted Encounter' triggers. Sans doesn't fight them. He just... talks. Or rather, the system executes a [Dialogue_Freeze]. He tells them a joke, shakes their hand with a 'Whoopee Cushion' trap, and then disappears. It's designed to break their focus, making them wonder if the 'Lethal Guardian' they were warned about is actually just a bug in the code."

Winding's eye sockets flared with a cold light. "By the time they realize he's the most dangerous entity in the tomb, it's already too late to turn back."

The crunch of snow beneath their boots was the only sound as the four Supreme Beings ventured deeper into the white expanse. Along the path, the fearsome "dogbeasts" of the eighth floor appeared not as guardians of a tomb, but as curious fixtures of a winter landscape. They passed the Greater Dog, a towering suit of enchanted white armor that sat perfectly still, its metallic helm occasionally tilting as a small, fluffy head poked out to watch them pass with wide, innocent eyes. Nearby, the blind sentinels huddled around a flickering campfire, and the Lesser Dog worked tirelessly at a snow-sculpture, its neck extending several feet into the air in a bizarre, scripted loop of joy.

"Their aggro-parameters are set to zero," Touch Me noted, his silver armor catching the pale blue light of the artificial sky. "They aren't even acknowledging us as threats."

"In this zone, they aren't threats," Winding replied, his voice a cool contrast to the biting wind. "They are neighbors."

The forest eventually gave way to a sight that made even Momonga pause. Nestled in a valley of glowing frost lay Snowdin Town. It was a picture of domestic warmth amidst the cold; golden light spilled from the windows of timber-framed houses, and the smell of woodsmoke and evergreen filled the air.

As they walked down the main street, the "monsters" of the town went about their lives with a peaceful, scripted rhythm. A group of townfolk stood on a street corner, their breath hitching in the cold as they laughed and gestured, clutching mugs of steaming hot-choco. Others were busy cleaning the frost from their windowpanes or playing in the drifts of white powder, their movements fluid and full of life. It was a living, breathing community tucked away in the heart of Nazarick's most dangerous floor.

"It's a literal village," Momonga murmured, watching a monster in a thick scarf wave a clawed hand at them in a friendly greeting. "Winding, why build a civilization inside a defensive layer?"

Winding stopped in the center of the town square, his dark robes dusted with snow. "Because of the 'Mercy' Trap. If an intruder spends time here—if they see these NPCs cleaning their windows or drinking cocoa—they begin to see them as 'people' instead of 'data.' They hesitate. And in my if-else logic, Hesitation is a Death Sentence."

Winding stood in the center of the town square, the soft glow of the lanterns reflecting off his skeletal frame. He watched a monster family laughing together near the general store, then turned his gaze back to Momonga and the others.

"Actually, I should clarify the true nature of this bait," Winding said, his voice dropping into a colder, more calculated tone. "The 'Mercy' trap is only for the weak-willed. The real purpose of this village is to act as a Karma Accelerator."

He gestured broadly to the townfolk, who were busy living their peaceful, scripted lives. "Most players in YGGDRASIL have a 'Conqueror' mindset. When they see monsters living like humans—cleaning windows, raising families, drinking cocoa—it irritates their sense of 'Right.' They don't see people; they see targets that are making a mockery of human life. They will naturally want to 'cleanse' this place."

"And that," Winding continued, a dark light flickering in his sockets, "is where the trap snaps shut. Because these NPCs are flagged as 'Innocent Neighbors,' the system treats their death as a high-level moral violation. Each kill doesn't just grant XP; it forces a massive, rapid increase in the player's Global Karma."

Peroroncino whistled, looking at a small monster child playing with a snow-sculpture. "So, by the time they finish 'purging' this little town, their Karma is so skewed that the Eighth Floor's defense systems recognize them as the ultimate villains."

"Precisely," Winding nodded. "They walk into Snowdin as 'Heroes' and walk out as 'Genocides' in the eyes of the server. By the time they reach the end of the forest, the Karmic Retribution variables are already maxed out. They have effectively signed their own death warrants before they even see a real boss."

Momonga looked down the long, snowy road leading out of town. "You are making them build the platform for their own execution. If they leave the monsters alone, they face a difficult path. If they kill them, they face a god."

"In my world," Winding said, walking toward the exit of the town, "there is no such thing as a free kill. Every 'Else' branch has a price."

Winding's explanation of the "Karma Accelerator" hung in the freezing air like a sharpened blade. To him, the family of monsters laughing by the general store was a collection of variables; to Touch Me, they were a reminder of why he wore the armor of a World Champion.

The knight stood frozen in the center of the town square, his silver gauntlets creaking as he clenched his fists. The sight of monsters living with such human-like warmth—only to be used as fodder to bait an intruder's malice—irritated him to his very core. He looked at a father monster lifting a child to see the frost on a window, and for a moment, the game felt far too real. He gritted his teeth, the sound of his grinding jaw audible even through his helmet.

As Momonga, Peroroncino, and Winding continued to walk, their forms blurring into the falling snow, Touch Me remained behind for a heavy, silent second. His gaze lingered on the loving family, his sense of justice warring with his loyalty to the guild. With a sharp exhale that fogged his visor, he finally turned and walked after them, his pace heavy. He would talk to Winding about this later; in his eyes, using the innocent as a sacrificial script was a crime, even in a world of code.

They reached the very edge of the village, stopping before the last house—a tall, eccentric building that stood as a lonely sentry against the encroaching woods.

The festive lights of the town faded behind them, replaced by the howling wind of the open tundra. Winding came to a halt, his dark robes whipping around his skeletal legs as he turned to face the others.

"This is the final checkpoint of the Social Layer," Winding said, seemingly oblivious to the tension radiating from Touch Me. He gestured toward the horizon, where a thick, white fog obscured the path forward.

"Beyond this house, the 'Game' changes again," Winding explained. "If the intruders have slaughtered the families in the town, the fog will be red, and the [No_Mercy] script will begin its final countdown. But first, they have to pass the most difficult if-else gate I've ever written."

He looked at the door of the tall house. "A guardian who is so genuinely kind that killing him is mechanically designed to be the hardest thing a player will ever do. If they can kill him, they have truly abandoned their humanity, and the system will show them no further mercy."

The heavy door of the tall, eccentric house creaked open, and out stepped a figure that stood in stark contrast to the grim atmosphere of the Eighth Floor. He was a tall, lanky skeleton with a wide, permanent grin and sockets full of boundless energy. To the group's surprise, he was wearing a tall, white chef's hat and carrying a steaming plate of spaghetti, his red boots crunching loudly in the snow.

Winding watched the skeleton for a moment, recalling the specific cooking idle animations he had programmed into the NPC's sub-routines. With a quick flick of his wrist, Winding manifested his command console, the holographic keys glowing blue in the dim light. He typed a rapid string of code, ordering the skeleton back inside to swap his cosmetic gear for his primary armor.

As the tall skeleton turned back toward the house with an enthusiastic "Nye-heh-heh!" text above him, Winding slowed his pace, letting Momonga and Peroroncino get ahead. He turned his head slightly to address the silver knight following him.

"Touch Me," Winding began, his voice low and private. "I know your ideals. Don't stand in the way of my plan to use this town as a karmic boost. However... I won't abandon them. As you once said after we met and created the guild: the weak need a shining knight to protect them from evil. I have never forgotten that."

Winding paused, the blue light of the forest reflecting in his eyes. "That is why I am entrusting Papyrus to you. He is the lore-brother of Sans and is canonically the friendliest monster in the game. His ambition is to befriend everyone and protect them; in that manner, he reminds me of you. Calibrate his AI. Write his flavor text. Make him the shining knight that will protect this cozy town from invaders. All his stats, abilities, and lore are accessible to you—just don't change his appearance too much. He doesn't need full plate to be a hero."

Without waiting for a response, Winding turned and led Momonga and Peroroncino into the thick, white fog that lay beyond the town's edge.

Touch Me stood alone in the biting cold, his silver gauntlets resting on his belt. He didn't even notice at first that the door had opened again. Papyrus had returned, his chef's hat gone, his tattered red scarf now flowing heroically in the wind. The skeleton stood beside the World Champion, hands on his hips and chest thrust out with a sense of pure, unyielding confidence.

Touch Me looked at the tall, grinning skeleton, then toward the fading shadows of his friends in the fog. He let out a long, heavy sigh that clouded his visor.

"You really did think of everything from the start, didn't you, Winding?" he whispered, before turning his attention to the "Great Papyrus."

The transition was as jarring as it was beautiful. Leaving the biting frost of the forest behind, the trio entered a sprawling cavern system where the air turned humid and cool. To their surprise, a gentle, shimmering rain began to fall from the stalactites above, pattering against the stone with a rhythmic pulse.

As they ventured deeper, the silence of the cave was broken by a sweet, crystal bell-like ringing. Before them lay a vast gathering of Echo Flowers—vibrant, bioluminescent blue blossoms that glowed with an ethereal light. Some mimicked the sound of falling water, while others whispered in fragmented, ghostly voices.

"Fi... sp... ye..." a flower murmured as they passed.

"What are these?" Momonga asked, leaning down to inspect a glowing petal. "They seem to be... recording devices?"

"They're Echo Flowers," Winding explained, gesturing to the field of blue. "They repeat the last sound they heard on a continuous loop. It's the primary method of lore delivery in this zone. Let's see what this one caught."

He tapped a particularly large blossom, and the voice of Warrior Takemikazuchi echoed clearly through the cavern:

"Hmm... Winding should know I use a katana, not a spear! However, as a warrior, I will teach her everything—how to be the best spear-wielder in the game! Muhahahaha!"

Peroroncino let out a sharp bark of laughter. "It seems Takemikazuchi has already taken his 'student' under his wing. 

As they continued through the damp, glowing tunnels, the sound of the rain grew heavier. Momonga looked around at the winding paths and hidden crevices. "Winding, what is the strategic purpose of this stage? The Ruins was a test of mercy, and the Forest was psychological erosion. What is this?"

"This," Winding answered, his voice echoing off the wet stone, "is a Hunting Ground. This area belongs to the fisherman of the Underground: Undyne."

He manifested a holographic window showing a tall, blue-skinned warrior in gleaming silver armor, her eye-patch glinting.

"Unlike Sans, who relies on evasion and shortcuts, Undyne is a specialist in Green Soul Logic," Winding explained. "When a player encounters her, their soul is turned green, locking them in place. They cannot run; they can only Shield. It transforms the game into a high-speed, 1-on-1 rhythmic combat encounter."

"Her spears are dual-type—both physical and magical—and she utilizes a form of high-level telekinesis to control them. She can summon them from the floor, the walls, or even the air itself. While the intruders are busy defending against her barrage, she 'hunts' them like fish in a barrel. It is a stage designed to test a player's reaction speed and endurance."

Winding looked up as a flash of blue light shimmered in the distance. "And with Takemikazuchi's 'optimizations,' she won't just be a guardian. She'll be a relentless pursuit-machine."

The transition was as harsh as a furnace door swinging open. As they crossed a final wooden bridge past an empty, dust-covered sentry station, the cool moisture of the caverns evaporated instantly. The rock beneath their boots turned a scorched, volcanic orange, and the air began to shimmer with intense, dry heat.

Winding came to a sudden halt. He looked at the vast, interlocking pipes and steam-vents of the Hotlands and let out a long, weary sigh.

"Change of plans," Winding said, turning to Momonga and Peroroncino. "Use your Rings of Ainz Ooal Gown. We're bypassing the trek and teleporting directly to the Core Laboratory."

Momonga tilted his head, his hand hovering over his ring. "Why the sudden shortcut, Winding? Is there something ahead we aren't prepared for?"

"It's not a matter of preparation, but of efficiency," Winding replied, his skeletal frame silhouetted against the rising heat-shimmer. "This entire area is a Puzzle-Logic Maze. It is a non-linear labyrinth where a single wrong turn leads to a dead end or, more likely, death."

"Death? How?" Peroroncino asked, wiping phantom sweat from his brow. "Surely a few puzzles can't take down a high-level player."

"It's not just the puzzles," Winding explained. "The 'Hotland' zone has a global Environmental Decay script. The heat here isn't just cosmetic; it's a constant, fixed-rate HP drain. It chips away at your health every second you remain in the zone. If an intruder gets lost in the maze or fumbles a puzzle, they won't die to a monster—they'll simply 'boil' in their own armor before they ever find the exit."

With a collective flash of light, the three Supreme Beings teleported, reappearing in the heart of a high-tech, sterile factory. The walls were lined with monitors, blinking servers, and humming generators.

In the center of the lab, they found Tabula Smaragdina. The great alchemist was in a state of frantic inspiration, his multiple fingers flying across a holographic console with terrifying speed.

Beside him stood a sleek, metallic entity that seemed to radiate "star power." It was Mettaton Neo X, a high-spec combat robot with wings of neon light and a chassis designed for both maximum defense and theatrical flair.

"Tabula," Winding called out, "I see you've already begun the 'Performance' calibration."

Tabula didn't even look up from his screen, his voice filled with a manic, perfectionist energy. "Winding! You're just in time! I'm rewriting the Aesthetic Logic for his transformation sequence! A boss shouldn't just fight; he should dazzle! I'm adding a 'Gimmick' where his armor plates shift to reflect the player's own attack types back at them! It's the ultimate fusion of horror and showmanship!"

Mettaton Neo X struck a pose, his sensors pulsing in a rhythmic, neon heartbeat.

Momonga and Peroroncino stood in stunned silence, their eye-lights flickering as they processed the scene. They were well-acquainted with Tabula Smaragdina's usual obsessions—the man was a perfectionist who lived for gap-moe, lore-dumping, and designing horrifyingly beautiful women with long, dark hair like Albedo.

Seeing him hunched over a console, vibrating with excitement over a sleek, neon-lit robot was... unexpected.

"Tabula," Momonga finally managed, his voice echoing in the metallic lab. "This is... certainly a departure from your usual aesthetic. I half-expected to find another succubus or a tragic maiden."

Peroroncino nodded, looking at Mettaton's chrome plating. "Yeah, man. Where's the long hair? The gothic lace? You're working on a literal disco-ball with legs."

Tabula's fingers didn't stop their frantic dance across the holographic keyboard, but a wide, manic grin split his face. "You don't understand! When Winding explained the concept of Mettaton—a soul trapped in a metal chassis, fueled by the desperate need for an audience—I felt a spark I haven't felt since I finished the floor guardians! The tragedy of a star who can only truly 'shine' in a battle to the death? It's peak flavor text!"

He slammed a final key, and Mettaton Neo X's thrusters hissed, lifting him an inch off the ground.

"I've discarded my usual preferences for this project," Tabula declared, his voice rising in dramatic flair. "I've become obsessed! I've decided that Mettaton must be the Shining Star of Nazarick. I've calibrated his [Charisma_Stat] to be so high it causes a 'Stun' effect on players just from his presence! He isn't just a boss; he's an idol that demands your total attention—until he vaporizes you."

Winding leaned against a humming server rack, watching the two. "Tabula has even integrated a 'Ratings' system into the fight logic. If the players don't perform 'stylish' moves or take damage in a 'dramatic' way, Mettaton's attacks become faster. He literally feeds on the drama of the slaughter."

Mettaton struck another flamboyant pose, his metallic heels clicking on the floor. 

"Well," Peroroncino muttered, "if Tabula is happy, I guess the 8th Floor just got ten times more fabulous. And terrifying."

Winding checked a timer on his HUD. The environmental damage of the Hotlands was ticking, and the "Judgment" was drawing near. "The stage is set. The NPCs are calibrated. There is only one stop left."

He turned toward the exit of the lab, where a long, ashen-colored hallway stretched out into the distance.

The transition was startling in its lack of color. They stepped into a vast, sprawling castle that felt drained of life. Everything was a monochromatic ashen gray—the walls, the floor, even the tattered banners hanging from the ceiling. It was the architectural equivalent of a sigh, a place where the "story" of the monsters seemed to have reached a weary, silent conclusion.

"The Gray Castle," Winding remarked, his dark robes the only deep color in the room. "This area serves as the [Lore_Dump] buffer. In a 'No Mercy' run, the music cuts out here. The silence is designed to make the player feel the emptiness of the world they've just 'cleansed.' Every empty room they pass is a reminder of an NPC that is no longer there to greet them."

Momonga looked at the gray, dust-covered throne. "It's haunting, Winding. It feels less like a dungeon and more like a graveyard."

"Because it is," Winding replied flatly. "But now, we leave the grief behind and enter the Judgment."

They pushed through a final set of heavy doors, and the world exploded into color.

The Final Corridor—or The Last Corridor—stretched out before them, a cathedral-like hall bathed in a blinding, supernatural gold. Massive, arched windows allowed a strange, eternal sunlight to pour across the checkered floor in long, slanted beams. The dust motes danced in the light, but the air was unnaturally still. There was no wind, no birdsong, just a heavy, oppressive silence that seemed to swallow the sound of their footsteps.

"The logic here is 'Null'," Winding whispered, his voice sounding sharp in the vacuum of the hall. "No environmental damage. No puzzles. I've stripped away every distraction so that there is only one thing for the intruder to focus on: The Weight of Their Sins."

They walked down the long hall, the golden light feeling less like warmth and more like an interrogation lamp. As they neared the center, the light began to fail, giving way to a deep, looming shadow between two massive pillars.

Standing there, hands in his pockets and head tilted down, was the short skeleton.

Winding stepped back, his skeletal hand gesturing toward the hooded figure as the golden light of the corridor began to ripple like distorted code.

"Here stands Sans, the Judge," Winding said, his voice resonant with a dark pride. "In his first phase, he is a wall—an immovable object of pure logic and evasion. But once the players push him too far, the 'No-Mercy' script evolves. The laws of gravity become... suggestions."

Winding turned his head to look at the winged archer of the Supreme Beings. "Peroroncino, this is where you come in. I want you to work on his Second Form—the Seraphim State. Specifically, I need you to teach the AI some high-level Aerial Maneuvers."

Peroroncino's feathers ruffled with excitement as he stepped closer to the shimmering hologram of the winged skeleton. "Aerial acrobatics? Now you're speaking my language, Winding! You want him to do more than just hover; you want him to hunt from the sky."

"Exactly," Winding nodded. "I've given him the wings, but his flight patterns are currently too linear. Since you are our best Aerial Acrobat, I want you to calibrate his [Flight_Path_Logic]. Teach him how to utilize 'Shortcuts' mid-air—teleporting behind an enemy during a dive-bomb, or using centrifugal force to sling-shot his Gaster Blasters into a 360-degree orbital strike."

Peroroncino summoned his own HUD, his fingers flying through the air as he accessed the Seraphim's movement scripts. "I see what you mean. We can implement a 'Sky-Terror' algorithm. While the players are stuck on the ground dealing with the bone-forest, Sans will be executing high-G turns and barrel rolls, raining down Karmic beams from angles they can't even see. I'll give him the same 'Evasion-on-the-Wing' stats I use for my own raids."

Momonga watched as the two worked together, the golden corridor now flickering with the blue-and-purple light of Sans's shifting form. "With Peroroncino's flight logic and Winding's if-else punishment... this isn't a boss fight anymore. It's an execution from the heavens."

"That's the goal, Momonga," Winding replied, watching Peroroncino simulate a complex 'Spiral-Dive' maneuver for the AI. "When the Judge takes to the sky, the trial is officially over. Only the sentence remains."

The shift in atmosphere was instantaneous. The golden light of the Final Corridor seemed to dim, losing its luster as Winding turned away from the shimmering code of the Seraphim.

"Then why am I here?" Momonga asked, his voice echoing through the hollow cathedral of the hall. "Winding, you have the others calibrating the guards, but you've led me away from the front lines."

Winding didn't answer immediately. He simply gestured for Momonga to follow, his dark robes trailing silently over the checkered floor. They bypassed the final gate, entering a hidden, sanctified chamber deep behind the throne of the Underground.

There, bathed in a crimson, pulsing light, sat the ultimate trump card of Nazarick: Rubedo. The youngest and most powerful of the Albedo sisters sat motionless on a throne of jagged obsidian, her eyes closed, her presence so overwhelming that the very air felt heavy with the scent of ozone and iron.

Winding approached the girl, his skeletal fingers manifesting a final, golden command console. He began a deep-level inspection of her [Soul_Core] variables and her [Physical_Output] limiters. For several minutes, the only sound was the soft ping of data being verified.

Finally, Winding closed the windows. He turned to look at Momonga—not as a guildmate, not as a Supreme Being, but as a friend.

"Momonga..." Winding started, his voice flickering like a dying candle. He paused, the digital avatar's eyes softening. "No... Satoru. I'm dying irl."