The silence that followed the vanishing herd was heavier than any moan. It was the quiet of a fundamental truth being rewritten. Ainz observed the data—the accelerated heart rates, the dilated pupils, the micro-tremors in Rick's hands as he lit a cigarette. Fear, profound and rational. Good. It is the foundation of efficient management.
He retired to the barn they had reluctantly offered him, a space he did not need but which served as a designated interface zone. Here, he began his true work. The laptop Glenn provided, now perpetually charged by a minor [Continuous Lightning] enchantment, was a portal to the dead world's ghost. Government websites, news archives, public health bulletins—all frozen in time just before the collapse. He consumed them at a superhuman rate, his mind cross-referencing data points.
[Analysis: The "Wildfire" pathogen exhibits characteristics of a prionic-necrological hybrid. No mana signature detected in dissemination patterns. Containment failure appears to have been social and systemic, not mystical. Conclusion: This was a biological, not a magical, apocalypse. The reanimation is a crude side-effect, not a designed outcome.]
It was… disappointing. And fascinating. A world that had fallen not to a rival Overlord or a Grand Catastrophe, but to its own frail biology and frailer institutions. The strategic implications shifted. There would be no hidden magical ley lines to tap, no rival spellcasters to subjugate. The only resources were material, geographical, and human.
A day after the herd's dispersal, he summoned Rick and Daryl to the barn. The Death Knight at the door did not move as they passed, but Daryl gave it a wide berth, his crossbow held tight.
"I have analyzed the available data," Ainz began, not turning from the laptop's glow, which reflected eerily off his bony face. "This location is unsustainable. Your survival probability decreases 2.1% per day you remain stationary, accounting for resource depletion and predictable walker convergence patterns."
Rick crossed his arms, the defensive posture of a leader feeling his control slip. "We're safe here for now. Thanks to you."
"Safety is an illusion based on current data. I require access to a primary center of knowledge. The city of Atlanta is indicated." He gestured to a map on the screen. "A Center for Disease Control facility operated here. Its data cores, if intact, may contain pathogen research that exceeds public archives."
"The CDC?" Daryl scoffed. "That's deader than everything else. We heard broadcasts from there, months ago. Then nothing. It's a tomb."
"All tombs hold value," Ainz replied, the red lights in his sockets flaring slightly. "You will guide me there."
It wasn't a question. The air grew colder. Rick's jaw worked. "You're asking me to lead my people into a city crawling with thousands of those things. For a maybe on some computer files?"
"I am stating the next phase of our transaction. My protection for your logistical support. The journey's risk is negated by my presence. Your group' survivability increases by approximately 400% under my direct escort compared to your independent operation." He finally turned. "Additionally, I will provide an… incentive."
He raised a hand. [Create Mid-Tier Item]. With a flash of pale light, two objects appeared on the dusty barn worktable: a sleek, black rifle of unfamiliar design, and a quiver of arrows that seemed to be made of solidified shadow.
"The firearm requires no conventional ammunition. It generates mana-based projectiles. One charge per hour. Effective range: 800 meters. The arrows are enchanted with [Minor Paralysis]. A successful strike will immobilize a biological target for thirty seconds, regardless of where it strikes."
Daryl's eyes locked on the arrows, a hunter's lust battling deep suspicion. Rick stared at the gun, an instrument of salvation that felt like a collar.
"You're arming us," Rick said slowly.
"I am increasing the tactical efficiency of my assets," Ainz corrected. "A tool is only as useful as its durability. Your continued functionality is paramount to my data acquisition."
The cold logic of it was somehow more chilling than a threat. He saw them not as people, but as instruments to be maintained and upgraded. Rick looked from the supernatural weapons to the implacable skull of his benefactor. The choice was no choice at all. Refusal meant losing this terrifying protection and likely facing the herd that would inevitably return. Acceptance meant walking deeper into the shadow of a power they could not comprehend.
"We'll need to scavenge for fuel. Plan a route," Rick said, his voice hollow with concession.
"Provide a list of requirements. The process will commence in 48 hours."
The news fractured the group. In the farmhouse, the divide crystallized around Shane.
"He's marching us into a deathtrap for a field trip?" Shane's voice was a low, furious growl in the living room. "Rick, open your eyes! He's not a person. He's a thing. And things use up resources and then they discard 'em. We're gasoline to him, and Atlanta is where he's driving us to burn out!"
"He cleared a herd of hundreds without moving, Shane," Glenn argued, though he fiddled with the hem of his shirt. "And these weapons… they change everything."
"At what cost?" Carol's quiet voice surprised them. She was mending a shirt in the corner. "He doesn't eat. He doesn't sleep. He looks at Carl… and there's nothing there. No recognition. Like we're paintings on a wall." She didn't look up from her mending. "But the blanket I left him… it was covered in dust this morning. He never touched it. He doesn't want our kindness. What does he want?"
Lori put a hand on Rick's arm. "Is there any other way?"
Rick looked at his wife, at his son, at the desperate, fearful faces of his people. The weight of the sheriff's star felt like a lead weight from a drowned world. "The other way is going it alone. And after what we saw… I don't think we can anymore. The world's got new rules. He's one of them."
The journey began at dawn. The convoy was two trucks and an RV. Ainz did not ride. He walked, a spectral figure in regal robes keeping pace effortlessly alongside the struggling vehicles, the Death Knight a silent ten paces behind. It was an unnerving spectacle. Walkers drawn to the engine noise would shamble from the trees, only to falter and scatter as they entered the radius of his passive aura, a moving circle of dread that cleared their path.
During a fuel stop at a derelict gas station, the first operational test occurred. A pack of walkers, trapped inside a convenience store, burst through the glass as Daryl pried open the pump panel. They surged towards Dale, who was manning the RV door.
Before Rick could even shout, Ainz pointed a single finger.
[Grasp Heart].
The leading walker, a former man in a frayed suit, simply crumpled. Not a bullet impact, not a decapitation. Its body just collapsed, like a marionette with its strings cut, a dark, viscous fluid leaking from its eyes and mouth. The spell, designed to instantly kill a living creature by crushing its heart, had a curious effect on the already dead—it severed the animating curse at its core.
The other walkers stumbled over the fallen one. Ainz turned his gaze upon them.
[Fear].
It was a lesser spell, but potent. The walkers didn't just retreat; they scrambled over each other in a mindless, screeching panic, fleeing back into the dark of the store. The silence returned, broken only by the ragged breathing of the survivors.
Shane stood by the truck, his knuckles white on the roof. He hadn't even drawn his gun. He had been rendered a spectator. The look he shot Rick was pure, unadulterated betrayal. You see? it screamed. This is what we follow. This is what we're not supposed to fear?
Ainz approached the crumpled walker. He knelt, ignoring the gore, and cast [Analymalyze Curse], a high-tier divination spell. Tendrils of purple light coiled from his fingers into the corpse.
[Data Acquired: The animating principle is a self-replicating neurological curse anchored to the brainstem. No soul-fragment present. Crude, but persistent. Susceptibility to psychic-tier fear effects is near total. Interesting.]
He stood. "The delay is unacceptable. Continue refueling."
As they moved closer to the city, the skyline a jagged scar against the horizon, Ainz's sensors detected something else. Not magic. But a concentration of… absence. A silence in the ambient noise of decay. A place where even the walkers seemed sparse.
He stopped, halting the entire convoy.
"Change in plan," his voice echoed in the sudden quiet. "We will investigate a secondary location first. There is an anomaly 1.2 kilometers northeast of our plotted course."
"What kind of anomaly?" Rick asked, weary dread in his voice.
"The kind that repels the indigenous undead." The red pinpricks in Ainz's skull fixed on the distant tree line. "Either a superior predator… or something that tastes wrong to them. Both are valuable data."
He began walking off the road, not waiting for consensus. The Death Knight crunched after him through the underbrush. Rick, after a moment of agonized hesitation, signaled the convoy to turn, to follow the skeletal king into the unknown green, away from the hell of the city and toward a different kind of mystery. The bargain held, but the path had just grown darker, and the weight of the tools he'd been given—the magic rifle, the paralyzing arrows—felt heavier than any weapon they had ever carried. They were not being led to salvation, but from one experiment to the next.