The Lich King of Nazarick (An Overlord x OC Story)
THE FALL OF KINGS
In the dying days of YGGDRASIL, Ezekiel Douglas ruled as a digital demigod.
His avatar—forged in the image of the Lich King himself, Arthas Menethil of Warcraft—stood as a monument to fallen glory, a testament to power purchased with corruption's cold kiss. Frost and fury. Death and domination. Every pixelated plate of that cursed armor whispered of Lordaeron's lost prince, of Frostmourne's fatal seduction, of a throne built on bones and betrayal.
Alongside his brother-in-arms, Momonga, Ezekiel commanded the legendary guild Ainz Ooal Gown—forty-one souls strong, forty-one voices unified, forty-one players who'd carved their names into YGGDRASIL's eternal halls with blood and brilliance. They were feared. They were famous. They were inevitable.
But empires crumble. Legends fade. Friends drift like smoke through digital fingers.
Now the servers stood on death's doorstep, counting down their final, fatal heartbeats. The world was ending—not with apocalyptic thunder, but with the soft, sorrowful click of a logout button. One by one, the guild fell silent. One by one, the heroes departed. One by one, until only two remained.
On that last night—that quiet, catastrophic night—Ezekiel and Momonga wandered the Tomb of Nazarick like ghosts haunting their own mausoleum. A final farewell. A funeral march through marble halls. They walked where legends once laughed, where strategies were forged, where virtual immortality seemed certain.
They could not have known that midnight would bring metamorphosis.
They could not have imagined that the game's ending would be their new beginning.
The servers would die at midnight. But death, as the Lich King knew well, was only the beginning.
Disclaimer:
I do not own the characters from Overlord or Warcraft; they belong to Kugane Maruyama and Blizzard Entertainment, respectively.
All Rights Reserved
