The next two days passed with relative routine and calm. No, of course there were problems with the fairy and her new physiology, but those were expected problems for which I was mentally prepared. Thus, the discomfort of falling asleep in such a cozy and pleasant cocoon, or the necessity for the Fairy to use the restroom in a manner somewhat different from her previous habit, were stoically Endured by me. What? Who said that as soon as I made sure all skills had transferred or converted without losses—avoiding the "I have no idea how to use what I should know" pitfall—I dumped everything on Yuri Alpha and Lupusregina Beta, with Albedo providing supreme oversight? Well, yes, I dumped it—I had more interesting things to attend to.
First, magic, which was revealing more and more curious nuances. On one hand, the graphical notation of spells and the method of casting them differed in no way from Yggdrasil; everything matched down to the gestures and the charging method, except that here the charging was conscious and controlled. On the other hand, the terminology and training methodologies were entirely revelatory to me. Especially the latter, although practice showed that both Nabe and I could master the local exercises without much trouble, to the point where we could even partially apply them to the spells we already knew. Nevertheless, the way the locals gained power still deserved attention. In the game world, one could shovel experience by the bucketload through quests, dailies, events, or brain-dead grinding, then get a level-up and take/buy new spells/skills from teachers or upgrade passives by investing in racial levels. Here... there was also a class system and multiclassing, but experience was a much worse affair; or rather, things here were closer to Common Sense than to game conventions. Meaning, you could slaughter a swarm of level 1 rats, or a whole legion of them, and there would be no level-up; your parameters wouldn't miraculously grow. The most you would achieve is honing the techniques used to exterminate the poor creatures to the point of automation, and perhaps slightly improving your physical conditioning or mana pool and control simply through frequent use of the corresponding skills and running after (or away from, depending) mobs. Essentially, that was the leveling process here: want strength? Train the muscle. Want to cast a spell? Study it, memorize it, practice it, and train what you've achieved many, many times until it's perfect. And so on and so forth.
However, the natural limitations of the Human level 1 race hadn't been abolished. Consequently, few people manage to jump higher than nature intended. Among humans, only a certain Imperial mage, nearly three hundred years old, managed to crawl his way to the 6th tier, and even then only thanks to an innate talent that allowed him to literally see magic, which clearly eased the process of mastering spells. The human ceiling without doping is the 4th tier of magic, and even then not for everyone; normally, the 3rd tier is already considered an outstanding result, marking a mage as stern, brutal, and powerful. Physical skills follow a similar logic. The locals have learned to use various Martial Arts, allowing them to temporarily overcome mortal limitations, but even a basic warrior from Yggdrasil, around level thirty, would crush the vast majority of local champions through passives and stats alone.
Is it possible to learn local techniques for one's own benefit? An interesting question. Theoretically, yes, as there isn't a rigid system or "cap" here. But whether this applies to me is the question. As is whether it would clog up the metaphysical slots that could otherwise be used for magic. And you won't know until you try.
The second important direction for me was "light reading." A lovely girl standing modestly behind a desk, reading aloud the profound texts of ancient thinkers with great expression—it's not only charming but quite useful. Lanposa I wrote quite fascinatingly about the layouts in the local feudal viper pit, and more importantly, the principles and customs on which the noble society of military democracy operates here. You listen, and the feeling is as if they are talking about fifteenth-century France, with all those dense homages, bannerets, bachelors, and other "my vassal's vassal is not my vassal" complexities. It gladdens the heart to hear how vibrantly people lived, yet the ears wither from the abundance of unfamiliar titles, concepts, and court positions. But it was necessary to memorize it all, if only to avoid looking like a fool by thinking a major is higher than a captain; by local standards, the former is just a senior sergeant—the head of a small military unit of non-noble warriors—while the latter is effectively a general's rank. Thus, Gazef Stronoff is the commander of all royal troops in the capital and its surroundings—practically the Minister of Defense, translating to my modern standards.
But that was all during the day. At night... oh, at night I tended to my Precious! Over these week and a half, this lich body has... strained me, let's say. And the longer I stay in it... the less desire I will have to change it at all. Thoughts about the advantages of the undead state have begun to visit me all too frequently, especially against the backdrop of the former Entoma's "suffering." Yet another "bad sign." In short, I spent all my free time digging through manuals and calculating my possible builds. Why in the plural? Because I didn't know if I could create a "half-breed," which would be the best solution. I had to work through the variants. The original Momonyan had fifteen levels in Skeleton Mage, ten in Lich, another ten in Elder Lich, and five in Overlord—the pinnacle of magical undead development. The classes were also tailored to enhance undead features: ten in Mage, ten in High Mage, ten in Necromancer, ten in Master of Death, ten in Prince of Death, and five levels each in Archmage and Eclipse. The result was a universal sorcerer who hit especially hard with Death magic and was limited in the use of Life and Holy magic for quite logical reasons.
After a total of sixteen hours of calculation, scouring manuals, swearing, re-scouring manuals that looked less suspicious of being faked, and estimations, an interesting build began to take shape. For the race, we take Angel of Death at level ten. As it turns out, a "fallen" one can, with some tinkering, be "reconnected" to another element, provided it's "adjacent" on the metaphysical scale... yeah. In short, Angel of Death, Death Demon—also ten levels—Greater Death Demon another ten, and Archdemon—the final stage of racial development—housed only five levels. It might make sense to throw five more into High Angel of Death, but I doubted it. Light was opened to me by a simple Angel; Darkness and Death were provided much better by "demon-ness." Honestly, looking at pure damage, the numbers were even higher than the Lich's. I didn't touch the classes, except that after some hesitation, I decided to put the five "saved" levels into Dark Overlord—a bonus for dark mythic races. The necessary experience points for lower stages were provided by racial bonuses. Not fully, of course; for maximum efficiency, "following the line" was still recommended, but within the framework of the current build, it was perhaps the best possible choice. Although "Prince of Light" and "Mentalist" also nagged at me, but only until I found the "Combat Form Calculation" tab. Many Yggdrasil races had one; there were even special classes for developing this exact trait, like the Shapeshifter. But that's not the point. What is a combat form? Essentially, it's a physico-magical change that grants certain bonuses to specific stats and passives, and sometimes specific skills, in exchange for cutting away all the "excess." And here, the editor pleasantly surprised me; among all sorts of clawed, tentacled, and scaled beasts, there were more interesting options. For a creature whose every race has the additional word "death," an unusual option appeared. "Grim Reaper"—a combat form that turns the user into the supreme form of Undead with all the bonuses and drawbacks of that race. A Death Aura, which harms all living enemies and bolsters my undead, comes as a free bonus. The Elder Lich has rerolled; long live the Elder Lich! I caught myself laughing sinisterly and maniacally while looking at the editing calculation results. Oh, stabilizer... right, where was my notebook? Aha... "Regardless of the proven therapeutic effect, I will not break into mad laughter. In such a state, it is too easy to miss events to which a more attentive sentient would surely react appropriately." Hmph. Basically, for such a form, Holy magic is closed, and spending five levels to enhance it would be a wa-a-aste. I only needed Mentalism for better control of my own internal demons, but with such an alternative—if I start to lose it, I'll just shift, and that's it—I am once again stone-calm and rational. All in all, a very tasty build. A pure demon turned out to be even meaner, with a similar alternative form but without access to Light, and the level forty-five "Demonic Rage," to which some "Death Ecstasy" was added, bothered me too much. But with a mix of Angel, it was only level ten, and I could live with that; Shalltear lives with level twenty-five "Blood Frenzy" and feels just fine. A pure Angel was the most "fragile," without a "combat form," but could provide magnificent buffs to everyone around, regardless of their race or alignment. Tasty perhaps, but too specific, so unlikely. If I can't manage a half-breed, I'll have to think about a pure demon. In principle, I could cut back on the racial level a bit and put extra points into Mentalist... or even do a bait-and-switch and take a Monk with Discipline and Self-Control. I need to think more...
And I also need to do something about the orb in my gut. This "trump card" of Momonga's was a literal ambush, and it was completely unclear what to do with it. On one hand, an equipped World Class Item is very good and wonderful, as it should protect me from its own kind by its very existence. But on the other hand, while I am a skeleton, it doesn't get in the way of anything. In a living creature, below the ribs, all the offal begins: intestines, stomach—in short, useful things without which living isn't very fun. So what happens if I suddenly start growing meat with a billiard ball in my belly? Where will everything shift, what will it compress, what won't grow, and will anything grow or shift at all? What if the race change simply fails? According to game mechanics, it shouldn't, as the orb is just a piece of equipment, and equipment shouldn't interfere with the process. But who the hell knows how it will go in this world. What if it actually grows in and wrecks everything, starting to deal continuous damage like a lodged projectile? But there could be another variant! Entoma's example is living proof. When she was the Insect Queen, even her face wasn't actually part of her body—it was literally a bug with a shell specially painted to look like a woman's face, clinging to her head with its legs. And there wasn't just one—several different insects sat on Entoma, helping her mimic a human appearance. However, after the race change, they all became part of her body, turning into a real face, vocal cords, and so on. It follows that there is some chance the World Class Item in my gut will also somehow fuse, becoming a harmonious part of the new form. With its functionality, it would actually be logical, as it belonged to the type of cumulative items that grow stronger the longer they are equipped on a player. And that too, honestly, was a problem. Momonga had been building the artifact's charge for several years, currently bringing it to the state of a literal Ultima capable, in theory, of leveling a thousand level-hundred players. It wouldn't be free, and its use would immediately cut five of my levels, but in a situation where your existence is at stake, it's not too high a price. Meanwhile, such a situation could easily arise for me—don't forget an entire dungeon filled with lunatics with the combat potential of a natural disaster. What if the binding breaks during the reroll? Or if something else triggers a mass psychosis in them? What if some soul-seeing oracle shows up and reveals to them that I am not their beloved Momonga at all, but a random human (read: lesser being) who crawled into his body? They would have a complete breakdown at such news and just start killing me. And, damn it, in such a situation, I would spend five or twenty-five levels without question, firstly to survive myself, and secondly to prevent the total Armageddon these creatures would unleash on the world after they finish me off. And the worst part is that I can't even take this orb out, set it aside, change race, and take it back, because the entire charge would reset the moment I set it aside, and my weapon of last resort would instantly turn into a practically useless trinket, inferior in combat power to half the current magical arsenal of a level-hundred caster. Cumulative items are cumulative because you cannot lose contact with them; you can't even put it in the inventory—it must always be equipped, or else it resets. It makes you wonder: was Satoru really such a slow-thinker that he didn't even consider a race change? What if he also weighed all this and simply didn't dare, preferring not to risk it?
I was pulled from my reflections, combined with calculations, by Albedo, almost right before the start of the next lessons with Ninya, for which I needed to return to E-Rantel. But the news she brought was worth it—Demiurge had captured the desired saboteurs.
"That is wonderful," I closed the notebook filled with sketched diagrams. "Where is he?"
"He..." the demoness hesitated, her wings twitching uncertainly, "has left all matters to Aura and Mare and went to the bar on the ninth floor himself."
"To the bar? Why?" Is he celebrating the success? I can't imagine this even excessively rational demon at a party.
"According to the Sous-chef, Demiurge claims that he is a nonentity who will never even come close to understanding the Supreme Being's plans. According to him, the captured saboteurs are representatives of that very Black Scripture, detailed information about whom he received by interrogating the assassin woman you captured in E-Rantel. It turns out that you, Lord Momonga, knew who, where, when, and in what manner they would react, barely after having the first encounter with the Theocracy's troops. And you presented everything to him, Demiurge, on a golden platter, and he couldn't even capture them properly, losing five whole Death Knights," Albedo replied, maintaining a somewhat uncomfortable posture, seemingly taking responsibility for her subordinate's unworthy behavior.
"Oh..." I felt like banging my head against the table. Stabilizer, I need you! Please! Oh, thank you, dear one! Perhaps I will even miss you... Nevertheless, the question remains: how do I perform psychotherapy on an Archdevil? This isn't like chasing Theocracy saboteurs through the woods; this requires thinking. Just what I needed.
"Master?" the Overseer leaned toward me with concern.
"Please call Sebas..."
"Of course, Momonga-sama," the demoness scurried toward the door.
"Message," I touched a finger to my temple. "Nabe, do you hear me?"
"Yes, Momo... Master Zellos!" the maid answered immediately.
"I will remain in Nazarick today—urgent matters have arisen. Relay this information to the adventurers we hired; let them spend the day resting or whatever else they choose. You stay at the inn and wait for me; if anything happens, contact me immediately. Understood?"
"It shall be done, Master!"
"Good..." I disconnected.
"You called for me, Lord Momonga?" a minute later, the butler stood before me, bowing his head politely. Albedo quietly circled the table and stood at my left hand.
"Yes, Sebas, I have a request for you."
"Anything within my power that pleases the Supreme Being," the man bowed.
"I know that you and Demiurge do not get along very well due to different outlooks on life, but could you go to the bar on the ninth floor now and provide him with moral support?" I folded my hands in a steeple before my face. "I fear my ill-considered decisions have led to him overthinking things too much, and now he is suffering from nervous exhaustion. In other circumstances, I would have tried to comfort him myself, but likely any words of mine would only worsen his condition right now. He needs help from an equal, not from the master of the Great Tomb of Nazarick."
"May I know the reason for what happened?" The dragonoid's posture seemed to remain the same, but I noticed all at once how he tensed and how his gaze grew heavy.
"Yes." Now let's try to implant another trial informational vaccine against excesses. "Demiurge, like all of you, holds too high an opinion of me. Often undeservedly. In particular, you all for some reason believe that I cannot be wrong, but that is not so. Everyone can be wrong. And everyone, including myself, can evolve, as a result of which what seemed right in the past may no longer be seen as such now." I paused, tracking the reactions of the listeners. But no, they were frozen, silent, catching every word. Well, let's stir them up. "For example, my name—Momonga. You do not know this, but that is not my real name; it is a pseudonym I took when I decided to descend into Yggdrasil. I, like the others of those you call Supreme Beings, originate from a special space, somewhat similar but in many ways different from the one you know. And our names... for a number of reasons related to our native space and the nature of those such as myself, their use would be inconvenient in Yggdrasil and other worlds similar to it, which is why I used a pseudonym. At the time it seemed clever; now, after all these years, I would choose a different one. But we digress." I slapped my palm on the tabletop, noticing that Albedo's and Sebas's eyes were beginning to take on the shape of polished saucers with the same profound intellectual weight inherent to empty dishes. "The typical biased attitude of a Nazarick denizen toward the creators is, in Demiurge's case, exacerbated by his brilliant mind. Where any other Guardian would make do with a brief emotional burst, he tries to analyze and comprehend everything, as a result of which he falls into the trap of his own mind, which makes him feel inadequate. But he is not inadequate. And I want you to help him realize this fact. What he perceives as a pre-planned plan is not always so in reality—the world is not limited solely to rational calculation; there is room in it for chance and a confluence of circumstances. I hope you understand what I mean and can convey this to Demiurge. I do not want to see any of you suffer through my fault."
"I will do everything in my power," the butler bowed. "However, I am certain you have nothing to worry about, Lord Momonga. Demiurge will undoubtedly be able to overcome his momentary weakness and will yet bring much benefit to Nazarick."
"Touch Me would be proud of you right now, Sebas," I said, trying to sound imposing to this Lawful Good man. "Now go. Albedo and I still need to visit the prisoners."
"My respects." Another bow, and the dragonoid headed for the door.
Thus, having sent Sebas to poke at Demiurge's brain, I turned to what all true RPG enthusiasts and Dark Lords, regardless of origin, love so much—seeing what loot dropped from the defeated. A short teleportation to the prison block, impatience and excitement in my chest... The stabilizer didn't help much, dulling the peaks of emotion but in no way preventing the wave from rising again. Could it be them? That same mystical squad whose origin in the manga was only hinted at, at least in the chapters that had come out by the time I arrived here? Yes, I suspected they were linked to the Theocracy—it was logical after the third-party observation of Nigun—but just like that? They lost the Sunlight Scripture and sent the Black Scripture to handle it, handing them an ultimate wunderwaffe from Surshana's legacy? It's so cliché and yet so likely that I want to cry... But no, nothing is clear yet and I must make sure, which means gritting my teeth and walking... And still, could it really be them?
I recognized the old hag with huge ears, whose lobes had been further enlarged by piercing and inserting some ornament in the manner of African savages, almost instantly. Not a single doubt or uncertainty, despite the fact her face flashed in the manga maybe once and a half, not to mention the difference between a drawing and a real person. I just recognized her, that's all. Immediately.
She wasn't wearing a dress now, just a rag thrown by the jailers. The ornaments had been removed from her ears, leaving large holes in the lobes. Her long gray hair lay in disarray, as all the pins and other feminine trinkets had also been taken from it. But I recognized her.
It really was THAT squad.
"Where are her things?" Closing the observation window of the cell, where four Nazarick Master Guards—elite skeletons in artifact armor—stood duty, I turned to Mare.
"Am... er... We put them there, Momonga-sama!" Blushing and fiddling with his staff, the elf boy pointed to the end of the corridor.
"Lead the way."
A little later, I would inquire in detail whether this squad really came for my soul or if they had another goal; after all, it's not exactly close from the capital of the Theocracy to the environs of E-Rantel. There are means of rapid transport, of course, but they are expensive for locals and quite limited. Which means the enemy side might have something else interesting, or "something interesting" is nearby... or far away, if E-Rantel was just an intermediate stage. In any case, I will have to ask the uninvited guests themselves about the purpose of their visit. Но right now, that can wait. Let them marinate in the cells for a bit, enjoy the views; a completely different question calls to me.
The approaches to the evidence room were guarded by another dozen sentries and two Death Knights, and inside... It caught my eye almost instantly—a lovely silver cheongsam dress, adorned with an embroidered golden Chinese dragon. The item identification took only a heartbeat, and as soon as the flood of new information settled in my mind, I laughed out loud.
Downfall of Castle and Country—a World-Level Item from Yggdrasil. It grants absolute control over a victim, literally carving maximum loyalty to the owner into their soul, casually bypassing all defenses and immunities unless the target possesses a World Item of their own. It was one of the first ultimate artifacts in the game. By the way, many players had searched for it, including Momonyan and his team, because in the right hands, this little thing could provide perks that made Philosopher's Stones look like cheap party favors. This item could even take control of player avatars. The merry prospect of losing all your lovingly collected gear, gold, and levels in a single moment made many guild leaders nervous; even the idea of a group of thugs paying you a courtesy visit with a controlled Great Dragon, for instance, didn't seem quite as ominous. Though it brought no joy either. But after appearing a few times in the game, the artifact vanished without a trace. Many thought some shrewd player had stashed it in their private vault, but look at how things turned out in reality... Though, in a way, the community's guesses were correct; Surshana (most likely) had indeed tucked it away. Talk about a twist of fate—the dream of every Yggdrasil ganker ended up in the hands of a guy who couldn't care less about ganking. He lived peacefully with the locals for a hundred years as an undead; he was probably the same way in the game, never using this beauty once. A regular model of a law-abiding citizen, honestly...
But enough history, back to the artifact itself. The only silver linings—for the owner's opponents, naturally—were a few limitations on the device's use: one target at a time, a certain cooldown, and the fact that the mind-control cast was not instantaneous. Furthermore, the greater the level gap between the victim and the owner, the higher the victim's own level, and the owner's level, the longer the cooldown and preparation time for the skill. In short, it was an arch-nuisance, but the admins had still tacked a small fig leaf onto this piece of console-command-tier gear, just as they did with other items of this class.
Against the backdrop of this dress, the rest of the Black Scripture's arsenal simply didn't make the cut. Typical Legendary items and a couple of Mythical ones looked like something beyond the pale to the local folk, but by Nazarick standards, they were only slightly superior to the gear of primitive fodder... Hmmm, well, all right, specific pieces were actually good enough that one wouldn't be ashamed to arm a mini-boss from my Guardians' retinues with them. In short, something around the Pleiades' level, if you will. But that was it. And while I already knew most of this, and what I didn't know was easily calculated, I still felt a strange itch inside my skull as I looked from the dress to the mundane Legendary Beast Tamer Rings. It was as if, while stumbling upon a Tumba-Yumba tribe in the deep African jungle, I had suddenly encountered a respectable white gentleman among the palm-skirted savages, carrying a nuclear briefcase and the nuclear bomb itself to boot. And he was just chatting with these savages, considering himself part of the tribe. An indescribable sensation.
"Albedo, Mare, would you mind stepping out for a couple of minutes?"
"Y... Yes, Momonga-sama!" The elf squeaked as his voice cracked, jumping before heading for the door. Surprise flickered across Albedo's face, but she chose neither to argue nor to ask for reasons and, bowing her head respectfully, also exited.
Excellent. Putting on a woman's dress is awkward enough as it is, but doing it in front of witnesses... no, thank you. And yet...
I weighed the fabric of the World-level artifact in my hand once more... Emotion or not, something biased was insistently whispering from within about the shamefulness and impermissibility of my plans.
I pulled my notebook out of my inventory.
Not that, not that... Ah, here: "If I acquire a superweapon, I will use it as often as possible rather than saving it until the last moment when it can no longer help. And I will not succumb to provocations intended to dissuade me from using this weapon by appealing to my vanity or the need to prove I can manage without it. I repeat: I will not succumb to these provocations, regardless of who is pushing me!!!" Hmm... The last sentence was underlined twice. A problem... Right now, I'm the one pushing myself... No, underlined twice means that's that! If I don't believe in the wisdom of these rules, what is there left to believe in?! So, we shall create the "Kneel or Die!" equipment set, because if anyone doesn't become my slave upon seeing me in a dress... I'll kill them. If only for the sake of preserving my reputation and self-respect.
"Create equipment set." If I'm going to do something, I'll do it thoroughly—since the control takes time to apply, I need to buy that time. Thus, the rest of the gear followed the principle of "maximum armor," both physical and magical. Momonyan happened to have a PvP debuffer set in his stores designed to make others miserable with its long life; perfect. It might not be as potent without the cloak slot, but it's good enough. Right... Changing the jewelry too, since stealth and invisibility detection aren't needed, but the Great Shroud of Death attached to a ring will be quite fitting. Now, I'll register the dress, and... it hit me that I was essentially tinkering with interface settings, even if I'd replaced system commands with subconscious magical manipulations. A wave of surprise came and went just as quickly—if sending a letter in the game chat had been replaced by the Message spell, why shouldn't there be a Re-equipment Magic in place of the quick-change button? And the spatial pocket instead of an inventory didn't really bother me either. Yeah, the version of my accidental arrival is becoming more and more strained—the replacement of functionality is too complex for a mere accident. But I'll deal with that later. For now... hmmm, this is where one is supposed to squeeze their eyes shut and take a deep breath, but alas. "Change Gear!"
A short flash, and... already anticipating an aesthetic collapse, I looked down. Silver fabric on my chest with an embroidered golden dragon met me like an old friend, sending a request to the heavens for a draft in my skull. But... Looking closer, I realized something was wrong. Very wrong. I was wearing a perfectly decent kimono-cheongsam, in the best traditions of Eastern monks. No dress with a thigh-high slit... and that raised questions... many questions... Though, to hell with questions, my sense of pride can breathe a sigh of relief!
The sudden bang of the door swinging open against the wall made the faithfully waiting Guardians jump in place.
"Mare, which cell is the leader of the Black Scripture in?" I addressed the elf.
"O-over t-there..." the druid pointed toward the end of the hall. He's a bit nervous today. "I'll sh-show you, Lord Momonga!"
"Good, lead the way..."
After Lord Momonga's order. The Bar on the Ninth Floor.
"Come to gloat?" The demon in the orange suit gestured for another round of a drink that would be a lethal poison to the vast majority of other races. But the Archdevil's mighty constitution processed it without effort.
A light buzz for a very brief period—that was all Demiurge could achieve. Another defeat. But he would keep trying; sooner or later, quantity would turn into quality. It might be foolish, irresponsible, and irrational, but he simply wanted to get drunk. Well, at least he wasn't undead like Shalltear or the Lord; he didn't have total immunity to every poison, so sooner or later, this endeavor would meet with success. At least this much.
Meanwhile, his guest walked silently through the room and sat down beside him, casting a disapproving glance at Nazarick's chief strategist.
"Then again, no..." After another gulp, the glasses hiding his diamond eyes slipped shamefully down his nose, but the Guardian of the seventh floor didn't care. "That is not in your nature. And you wouldn't have come to me on your own, which means Lord Momonga sent you..." Even though the massive doses of potent alcohol were starting to do their work, Demiurge's mind was still sharp enough to construct simple logical chains.
"Exactly. The Master is concerned about your condition." After a moment's thought, the Battle Butler pointed out one of the drink containers to the Sous-chef, who nodded and soon handed Sebas a glass filled with his chosen liquid.
"Yes... the Master is kind and generous, even to such a useless nonentity as myself." The demon's shoulders slumped despondently, and his iron tail hung behind him like a lifeless lash.
"He does not consider you a 'nonentity'." The silver-haired man wasn't sure exactly what to say or how, so he decided to tell the truth. "None of us, otherwise he would not have stayed with us, but would have left like the other Supreme Beings." The butler took a sip of his drink, maintaining a stone-calm expression.
"The Lord, in his mercy—yes," Demiurge replied, propping his elbow on the bar and running his fingers through his hair. "But that does not change the fact! Shalltear has already played her role in Lord Momonga's plans! Mare and Aura work tirelessly for the good of Nazarick, Lady Albedo leads us all and replaces the Lord during his absence from the Tomb! Even you and your maids have a purpose! And only I demonstrate my complete uselessness time and time again." The demon drained a large glass in one gulp and gestured to the bartender for another bottle.
"There is still Cocytus, Gargantua, Victim, and the Area Guardians..." The butler of Nazarick didn't even think of arguing with his companion's points or taking offense at the derogatory description of himself or his subordinates. He knew Demiurge and his character perfectly well; besides, only the Master's opinion mattered in evaluating his actions, successes, and failures.
"Gargantua is a brainless golem," the tailed demon grimaced. "And Cocytus, Victim, and the Area Guardians are warriors and defenders of Nazarick; the lack of tasks for them at this stage of the Lord's plans is perfectly understandable and obvious even to the dimmest zombie..." Another gulp of swill traveled down his esophagus. "Though I wouldn't be surprised if they suddenly appeared, once again showing my inability to properly assess and calculate the situation!"
"But you completed Lord Momonga's assignment," the butler tried to reach his colleague. "The mission entrusted to you..."
"I failed, Sebas!" The demon slammed his fist. "Once, the Lord pointed out my incompetence, showing me factors I failed to account for when preparing the forecast for his departure from Nazarick... and I have still only found two of the circumstances he mentioned, while the third is simply beyond my comprehension! A second time, he calculated the enemy's actions and laid them out for me in a brief and clear manner, and again I failed to account for and utilize all the facts! Then he personally—do you understand, Sebas?—personally brought me that assassin from the Black Scripture!" Demiurge buried both hands in his hair, completely destroying his hairstyle. "I held all the trump cards! Reconnaissance, thorough knowledge not just of enemy tactics, but even the properties of their equipment! The ability to prepare the battlefield! There simply shouldn't have been any losses! None! But instead, five of the Death Knights provided by the Master himself were irrevocably lost! I failed to anticipate that the enemy would have an artifact capable of subduing the minds of even the undead! Even those who have practically no mind to speak of! And Lord Momonga had accounted for that too! Only now do I realize the 'interesting problem' I was given." The demon closed his eyes. "'With limited forces, without the personal involvement of the Guardians or the most valuable representatives of Nazarick.' Do you understand?! What is the point of a 'strategist' if the Master has to develop the entire strategy himself, and I cannot even properly execute a simple assignment! While holding all the trump cards!" The noble Archdevil set aside his glass and began drinking directly from the bottle, guzzling the liquor from the neck.
"Perhaps you are right in some ways, Demiurge, but you are also wrong in many others," the Battle Butler tried again.
"I know! I am constantly wrong!" the demon snapped, nearly dropping his glasses. "And I am perfectly aware of it!"
"You are intelligent. Far more intelligent than myself or any inhabitant of Nazarick except Lord Momonga, but right now, your mind is your greatest weakness," Sebas Tian continued unperturbed.
"What do you mean by that?" The strategist frowned.
"It is impossible to calculate everything; there is always room for chance and a confluence of circumstances. One must be able to perceive them. Even the Master is not omniscient and can be wrong."
"That is treason!" the demon roared.
"Those are the words of the Master himself!" the dragonoid pressed. "And to doubt them—THAT is treason."
"But it is impossible," Demiurge clutched his head. "Do you understand, Sebas? Im-pos-si-ble! Either the Lord calculated all these possibilities and prepared for them, or... or he knew everything in advance! There are simply no other options! Truly, he is the Greatest of the Supreme Beings! And so, why does he need those like us? Someone like me?!"
"You are right again," the butler nodded.
"Are you mocking me?!" The Guardian of the seventh floor bared his teeth.
"No," came the calm response, "but you are overcomplicating everything, inventing things that aren't there. Sometimes even on the Master's behalf. I too made this mistake, taking his lack of time for Rebirth as a lack of trust in us. But..." and he went quiet.
"But what?" the demon prodded.
"But he stayed with us nonetheless, even if we are unworthy of his trust. He gave us a chance. To become better. To become worthy of serving him. We are at the beginning of the path, and mistakes are inevitable. And our duty is to learn from them, to become better, so as to justify the trust already shown. Otherwise... you truly will become the ultimate disappointment of Nazarick and Lord Momonga. Trash. And then I shall fulfill my duty as the Butler of the Great Tomb and sweep that trash away."
"Become... worthy?" The Archdevil didn't mention the second part of Sebas's speech, knowing full well that if he caused final disappointment to his master, the Lord would destroy him himself... no... he, Demiurge, would personally end his own existence. However... Sebas's words and those of the Master about learning from mistakes and becoming someone truly worthy of serving Him... The Guardian's entire being yearned for this. "But what if I fail again?"
"Then the Master will judge your mistake himself and render his decision on the punishment for it. But that will allow you to go further and continue serving Him. To sit here and torment yourself... your suffering distresses the Master. So much so that he sent me to you rather than appearing personally only..."
"Because I would have been able to understand his words, but not accept them, taking them for pity rather than instruction. He needed someone else... someone... equal," the Archdevil finished for the butler with a sigh.
"Yes. You quoted his speech almost verbatim, though you did not know its contents," the dragonoid smiled with the corners of his lips.
"Then I am still good for something," the demon nodded to his thoughts.
"What do you plan to do next?"
"I will sober up. I will approach the Master and ask him to punish me for my mistakes. I will develop plans on how Lord Momonga's order could have been executed in the best possible way. I will account for these options for the future." Demiurge adjusted his glasses and, pointedly straightening his back, smoothed his hair.
"Excellent. That is how the Chief Strategist of the Great Tomb of Nazarick should behave!"
"One more thing." The demon looked at the dragonoid with completely sober eyes. "I never thought I would say this, but... thank you, Sebas. I will remember this."
"I only did what the Master wished."
"But you did it. That is enough for me."
"Very well," the butler nodded, "since we are finished, I shall return to my immediate duties."
"Yes... it is time for me as well." At that, the conversation exhausted itself. Some of the most powerful beings in the New World had a mountain of work to do, and none of them considered it necessary to waste time on idle chatter.