Chapter 186: Little Di's Gratitude Experiment
The Seventh Floor of the Great Tomb of Nazarick.
The surrounding lava rivers made a low, steady burbling sound. Dark red light seeped through the gaps between scorched stone columns, wrapping the Crimson Temple in a constant, restless play of light and shadow.
Demiurge's gaze settled on the three small figures huddled together.
They were at the study's entrance. The oldest boy had his arms spread wide, doing everything he could to shield the two smaller children behind him. His legs were trembling. The terror in his eyes was close to spilling over.
The smallest girl clutched the hem of his clothes, half her face buried in the worn fabric, one eye peeking out to study the suited demon in front of her.
"Demiurge. The existence of that dragon forced you to abandon your plans for the farm. I have kept that in mind."
Demiurge's body gave a slight shudder. Those jeweled eyes lit up behind his glasses. He stared at Ainz as an overwhelming wave of feeling moved through him.
When he finally spoke, the end of his words carried a faint tremor. "Ainz-sama... I only mentioned it in passing while drawing up plans. I never imagined you would keep it with you."
Ainz's jaw came open slightly.
No, to be completely accurate, I'd forgotten about it entirely.
That was the truth of it. If he hadn't happened to think of it at the last moment, these three children would most likely have been converted into low-level undead and never thought about again.
"You even went out of your way to specifically seek out suitable materials for me." Demiurge looked at him through his glasses, his expression carrying a reverence too deep for words.
Ainz felt his soul being quietly scorched from the inside.
He wanted to say: these are just three children who got picked up as a byproduct of an experiment. That's all.
But he looked at Demiurge's eyes — brighter than usual with gratitude.
If he told the truth right now...
Ainz ran through it quickly. Demiurge would probably put on a disappointed expression.
Even with his personality, he would say things like "Ainz-sama, there is no need for concern" and "I would never dare hope for more." He would cover it properly. But that carefully maintained control over a disappointment he was trying not to show — somehow that would be harder to sit with than open disappointment would have been.
And as Nazarick's ruler, carrying the name Ainz Ooal Gown — if he couldn't even manage something as basic as being mindful of his subordinates' feelings, what right did he have to that name?
Ainz let his jaw close, pressed the awkwardness down, and found himself feeling an unexpected moment of appreciation for this undead face of his. At least it didn't give anything away.
He waved a hand. "None of that is necessary, Demiurge. Everything you do for the Great Tomb — I see all of it. This is only a small thing I happened to bring along." He moved quickly to close the topic and turned toward the door. "The materials are yours. Make good use of them."
"As you command, Ainz-sama."
Ainz was already walking. Then, a few steps out, something felt off.
He looked back.
Demiurge was still holding the German military salute, watching his retreating back with devotion in his eyes.
"...Demiurge. That gesture — didn't I already address this?"
Demiurge blinked. He lowered his right hand again, and the mortification in his expression was impossible to miss. "It was a lapse on my part — it is simply that Ainz-sama has shown me such extraordinary generosity, and I find myself—"
Ainz felt a dull, steady ache beginning somewhere in his skull.
"...Take care of the materials first. I have other matters." He didn't wait for Demiurge to find another gear in his emotional range. He walked out of the Crimson Temple.
Demiurge stood there and watched him go.
Ainz walked along the lava river corridor until he was certain he was outside the range of Demiurge's perception. He stopped.
He let out a long, slow breath.
Undead didn't actually need to breathe. But the habit had stuck — it had become his instinctive way of releasing pressure.
"...Made it through."
He said it quietly, to no one.
He looked out at the hot, glowing space around him, and found his thoughts drifting back to the three children he'd left in the Crimson Temple.
What would Demiurge do with them?
He ran through it internally.
Demiurge was known for methodical precision. He'd probably start with some baseline testing. Resurrection trials, or healing trials — something along those lines.
The children might find the process somewhat painful. But for Nazarick to obtain accurate data, these things were unavoidable.
With that reasoning settled in his mind, Ainz felt his mood ease somewhat.
Back inside the Crimson Temple.
The sound of the door closing moved through the empty study. All three children shuddered at the same moment.
The moved, grateful expression on Demiurge's face — the one that had appeared when Ainz-sama had shown his personal consideration — was fading.
In its place came the focused look of an artist confronting a blank canvas.
He looked at the three children. The boy was biting his lip, doing his best to make no sound. The girl's thin shoulders were trembling.
Demiurge took two steps forward and crouched down in front of them. His movements were unhurried and graceful. A gentle smile settled across that scheming face, and he looked, entirely convincingly, like a warmhearted adult greeting children.
"Don't be afraid." His voice was soft, carrying a quality that made you want to believe it. "Ainz-sama placed you in my care. You should consider that an honor. I will make good use of you."
The boy wanted to plead with him. Demiurge didn't give him the opening.
He extended one hand and let those long fingers brush lightly over the top of the boy's head, the tips moving through hair that was dry and a little brittle from years of poor nutrition.
"Truly perfect materials," Demiurge said, with complete sincerity.
All three children, looking at his expression, felt a fear that went to the bone.
A short time later, a scream came from deep within the Crimson Temple.
Short. Sharp. Then cut off cleanly, as though snipped by scissors. The sound bounced between the scorched stone columns and went quiet.
Demiurge sat at the desk, head bowed over the freshly completed piece in his hands.
A newly stripped piece of skin. The edges were clean and exact, like carefully cut silk. He narrowed his eyes slightly and drew a fingertip across the surface, reading the texture. The particular softness and elasticity of human skin returned a satisfying response.
He gave a thoughtful nod.
"As a base material for lower-grade scrolls, this should do quite well."
He laid the skin flat on the desk and studied every inch of it in careful detail. With appropriate preparation, this would probably yield decent-quality magical scrolls.
While Demiurge considered how to refine the technique —
In the cleared space deeper in the Crimson Temple, a few dark red traces remained on the ground, barely visible in the shifting lava light. Beyond that, nothing gave any sign that anything had happened there.
The three children were huddled in the corner against the wall, pressed close together.
Their young faces bore no visible wounds. As though what had happened to them in that brief stretch of time was only a nightmare.
But they knew it wasn't.
The pain of having something stripped away, and the itching as it grew back in the next moment — that had been carved into their young souls.
The girl finally couldn't hold it. She let out a small, quiet whimper.
Demiurge's hand paused.
He turned his head. His gaze settled on the three of them, calm and composed. The elegant smile was still in place.
"Don't cry."
His voice was gentle. But it carried something that couldn't be refused. The girl's sound stopped immediately.
"Ainz-sama placed you in my care — that is your fortune. As long as you cooperate properly, you will be able to live happily."
He returned his attention to the skin in his hands.
Reusable materials had considerably more value than single-use ones, after all.
Meanwhile, in Demiurge's mind, the full logic of the situation had been assembling itself.
Ainz-sama had noticed the offhand mention of a materials shortage he'd made while drawing up plans. He had held on to that detail.
Then Ainz-sama had personally gone out to find suitable materials — and with Nazarick's long-term needs in mind, had specifically selected a type that could be harvested repeatedly. Yet he had framed it as "a small thing I happened to bring along," precisely so as not to make Demiurge feel as though he owed anything.
The chain of reasoning locked into place in his mind, seamless.
"Ainz-sama is always like this," Demiurge said quietly, to himself. "Giving without asking anything in return."
"But I will not let Ainz-sama's consideration go to waste. High-quality scrolls — that is the proper way to answer this generosity."
"That is the only fitting posture for a Guardian of Nazarick."
In the corner, the three children sat pressed against each other.
No wounds visible on their bodies. As though the terror of a few minutes ago had left no mark.
But they knew.
They knew.
Teleportation light flared in the warehouse and quickly subsided.
Pestonya's form stepped out of the light. She looked around, confirmed her arrival, and oriented herself.
The border city air had a dry, dusty quality — completely unlike the near-constant atmosphere deep in the Great Tomb. Light came down through the vent-window high on the wall, dust drifting slowly in the shaft of it.
In the warehouse, a straight-backed figure stood beside a plank bed, waiting in quiet.
Pestonya crossed the space.
"Sebas-sama."
She greeted him with a respectful bow, those large dog ears shifting slightly under her head covering. Sebas turned, and a warm expression settled across the deep lines of his face.
"Pestonya, thank you for making the trip."
"It was Ainz-sama's order. This is my duty." She straightened and looked at the plank bed set apart from the others. "Did you run into some difficulty, Sebas-sama?"
"Not exactly difficulty." Sebas stepped aside and revealed the small, still figure on the bed. "There is a child who needs your help."
Pestonya stepped forward.
Her eyes settled on Leno's thin, small face — gold hair pressed flat against her forehead, the neck wound dried to dark brown against pale skin. The child looked no more than six or seven years old.
Pestonya's dog ears pressed slightly back. Compassion moved through her eyes.
"Such a young child..." Her voice dropped. "Was she caught in the fighting?"
Sebas couldn't explain it fully. He gave a brief answer. "She chose to sacrifice herself to protect someone else."
Pestonya gave a small nod and asked nothing more.
Then she noticed: over Leno's eyes was a black blindfold, the fabric thick, covering those still-closed eyes completely.
She looked at Sebas with a questioning expression.
"I prepared it in advance," Sebas said, his tone even. "When this child wakes — if she were to see our faces..."
Pestonya understood.
Most of Nazarick's members were non-human. A young human child suddenly seeing those varied forms would likely be frightened all over again. Protecting the secrecy of Nazarick's information was equally necessary.
And Sebas-sama — who was, in his human form, a distinguished-looking older gentleman, and certainly nothing that would frighten a child — had still chosen to say "our faces," including himself, out of consideration for her. Sebas-sama was, as always, unfailingly kind.
Pestonya raised her hands. Light gathered at her fingertips — at first only a faint point, like a firefly glimpsed across dark water, then it expanded quickly, flowed outward, and fell slowly, sinking into Leno's chest.
The Tier 9 faith-based magic [True Resurrection] spread through the warehouse.
It was different from Lakyus's casting, which had moved like mercury flowing across a surface. Pestonya's light was denser — as though sunlight had been concentrated and poured into that small body all at once.
Leno's body gave a slight tremor.
The dark brown wound at her neck began to close at a visible speed. Skin growing back, the severed vessels and muscle repairing themselves piece by piece, exactly as they had been.
Then the girl's lashes moved.
At first only the faintest tremor, like grass touched by wind. Then she slowly opened her eyes.
The blindfold covered her vision. Only darkness. But her breathing had become audible — clear and steady.
Leno's lips moved. A formless, almost soundless breath came out.
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