Overlord: Crimson Sovereign

Ainz sat alone in the scrying chamber beneath his rented manor. The walls, lined with obsidian runes and null-seals, echoed nothing. No sound escaped. No magic entered without permission.

He hovered one hand above a silver basin, where [Scrying Sensor – Conceal Mode] shimmered like rippling water. The spell was meant for quiet surveillance—its presence invisible even to most Tier 5 anti-divination spells.

Earlier, Narberal had reported increased divine traffic in the Cathedral District. He had cast this spell to confirm the growing suspicion:

The Slane Theocracy had sent agents.

What he found instead... changed everything.

[Scrying Focus: Cathedral Courtyard]

The scene appeared, filtered through shadow-sight: a courtyard lit by false moonlight, guarded by silent warriors in white and gold. At the center stood a High Priest of the Theocracy, flanked by inquisitors and cloaked casters.

"…Rein must be taken alive," the priest was saying. "He is more valuable conscious. Alive, we can extract memories. Bound, we can unmask his godless soul."

Ainz narrowed his eyes.

So far, predictable.

"And the woman?"

"The maid. His pet. His whore. The lightning witch. She is expendable."

A pause.

A smaller figure—the younger inquisitor—spoke with caution.

"Do we execute her immediately?"

The priest's lips curled into something unspeakable.

"No. We cleanse. She is either homunculus or devilspawn. If caught, she will undergo Ecclesiastical Ritual Dissection. Limb by limb. No anesthetics. Her nervous system will be tested for reactive mimicry. Her brain will be kept conscious until we are certain she cannot regenerate."

The inquisitor looked sick. A paladin said nothing.

The priest added with chilling certainty:

"She wears the skin of a woman. But if her soul is false, the screams will be proof of sin. The cries of abominations are not prayers—they are confession."

Ainz did not move.

He did not speak.

The reflection shimmered with moonlight.

But the chamber around him grew silent, and cold.

The scrying mirror dimmed as he closed the spell.

He stood there, alone, unmoving, for what felt like minutes.

Then, a whisper. So low that even the chamber's enchanted walls didn't catch it at first.

"…They want to torture her."

His hand clenched around nothing.

"…Nabe."

He saw her clearly now. Quietly at his side. Always respectful. Loyal. Ready to kill on command. A creation of Nazarick, yes. But more than that—

She was his.

And they spoke of her like she was a thing to carve open.

His lips parted again. But there was no long speech. No threats. Just one word:

"Unforgivable."

Moments later – War Room, Lower Quarters

Albedo stood before a table of illusory projections. She turned as Ainz entered—his aura colder than she'd felt since Shalltear's betrayal.

"My love," she said with worry. "What happened?"

He didn't respond right away. Instead, he activated an emergency ward.

Then he said:

"They plan to vivisect Narberal if captured."

Albedo went still.

Then shook.

Her hands curled into claws so tight her palms bled ichor.

"They what?"

Her voice rose—no longer the sultry, restrained devotion, but a feral snarl chained by duty.

"They said she was an abomination in the skin of a woman," Ainz continued, voice like cracked obsidian. "That they would carve her until she couldn't scream anymore. That her pain would be divine proof."

Albedo's wings snapped wide, feathers bristling with raw demonic fury. "Ainz-sama, I beg you—let me go. I will burn their scripture with their priests inside it. Let me—"

Ainz raised a hand.

She stopped.

He did not speak in anger. But his voice carried death.

"No."

His fingers curled.

"This is no longer about subtlety. This is no longer about politics."

He looked at her now, red eyes glowing steadily.

"This is war, which will be the most painful to them."

**************

The Slane Theocracy's covert cell had regrouped. Hidden by [Conceal Presence] and protective barriers, seven operatives whispered under cover of starlight. They wore vestments bearing no insignia—only the faint shimmer of anti-divination charms.

Their goal: tail Rein. Discredit him. And if needed… erase him.

"Did you see her eyes?" one chuckled, spitting into the dirt. "Like she thought she was nobility. Just a servant playing bodyguard."

Another—the youngest—smirked, crouched near the fire.

"I don't care who she is. When we break that fool Rein… I want his 'maid' alive."

The others went quiet.

He grinned wider.

"Give me half an hour, a null collar, and that face of hers won't stay smug long. I'll make her beg—"

Something snapped.

Not a twig.

Not a spell.

The air.

Reality buckled—subtle and suffocating. Mana surged without incantation, warning, or sigil.

Then… a voice:

"Say that again."

The young operative turned.

And saw him.

Standing at the treeline.

Crimson cloak. Moonlight pooling around him like it obeyed. Black hair unmoving. No footsteps. No breath.

Just Ainz.

And nothing else mattered.

The other agents drew weapons.

The youngest—too stunned to run—choked on his words. "Wh-What are you—?"

"I heard what you said."

"You spoke of defiling one of the creations left behind by my comrades."

"You spoke of violating a legacy."

Ainz raised a hand, fingers twitching like a puppetmaster's.

"[Tier 6 Magic: Grave of Screams]"

A black seal formed under the young man.

His limbs locked. His jaw contorted.

Then—music.

Whispers. Choirs. Screams layered over screams echoed from the abyss beneath him.

He tried to run, but his legs broke backwards.

He dropped, convulsing, skin rotting in patches and then regenerating—again and again.

The other operatives could only watch.

Blood poured from his ears. From his eyes.

Then—he started laughing.

And crying.

And screaming.

And then… only his spine remained. Still twitching.

The others ran.

But Ainz raised his staff.

"[Tier 6 Magic: Wall of Dissonant Chains]"

Black iron chains burst from the soil, dragging two down—wrapping around mouths, eyes, and throats. One suffocated on his own tongue. The other shattered into pieces—soul first, body second.

One agent tried teleporting.

"[Counter Silence]."

His spell fizzled.

"[Dispel Movement]."

He collapsed, paralyzed mid-incantation, and was buried alive by a directed quake of soil under his back.

Two remained—one begging in prayer, the other running in terror.

Ainz walked.

Unrushed.

"You dared to touch what was never yours."

"You looked at a creation my friend entrusted to this world—and you thought yourself her better?"

He raised a final hand.

"[Tier 6 Magic: Internal Cremation]"

The runner burst into black flame—from the inside. He collapsed in a heap, sobbing until only charred bone remained.

The last man crawled, whispering a forgotten hymn.

Ainz knelt beside him.

"She was not my creation."

"But I guard what they left behind."

"You tried to break a part of them."

Ainz placed his fingers to the man's forehead.

"[Mental Lance]."

The noble's brain ruptured—silently.

He slumped forward like a puppet with its strings cut.

Suddenly, another figure appeared from the darkness. 

Sevrin Kalar—Wraithbane—had faced archmages and lich-kings in his campaigns across the borderlands. His body bore scars from cursed blades, his mind had resisted psionic dominators, and his soul had once returned from death through divine contract.He was a nightmare to sorcerers. A blade forged in the wrath of gods. A legend whispered in mage towers.

And now, that legend stood before the Crimson Sovereign.

"I have studied your kind, abomination," Sevrin hissed, leveling the Soulthirst Shard toward Ainz. "I was bred to dismantle you. Your power bends the world, but I break the world first."

Ainz did not speak.His silence mocked Sevrin more than insult ever could.

The air grew cold.

Sevrin raised his left hand, invoking [Breach Halo], a defensive veil that severed all active magic within its radius. With his right hand, he uncapped the vial—the Core of Reversal, a god-tier artifact capable of inverting spell patterns mid-cast.

"Begone."

He unleashed it all.

Magic unravelled around him. A cyclone of negation. A spiraling storm of null-force, cascading around Ainz like a collapsing star.

But Ainz stood still.

"Rein," he said coldly. "You're the reason the plan failed." you should have stay silent and surrendered like a dog, and maybe i will be a bit merciful

Ainz stood a few paces away—unmoving, robes flowing like the edge of a dying eclipse.

"You flatter yourself, it's funny when dog bark" Ainz replied.

Sevrin rolled his shoulders, activating all his relics. Seals glowed along his arms, veins turning molten.

"You're powerful. Fine. But you still bleed. You still die. Just like all arrogant mages."

He drew a curved relic-blade—anti-magic alloy, blessed by Slane's Black Scriptures.

"I was trained by lady Clementine herself," he said, eyes burning with zealous pride. "Her lessons are carved into my spine."

"She taught me to hate weakness. To expose fake gods. To crush mages who hide behind spells and ego."

Ainz tilted his head. And then…

He chuckled.

A dry, hollow sound.

"Ah. Clementine."

"Do you know how she died?"

Sevrin's expression hardened.

"A glorious battle, I imagine."

Ainz's voice dropped—icy and disdainful.

"She died crushed against a stone pillar."

"Sobbing."

"Begging."

"I didn't even cast a spell. I smashed her against the pillars liek a ragdoll, while she was struggling. truly a dance of death."

He held up one gauntleted hand as if reminiscing.

"She broke like overripe fruit. Her ribs pierced her own lungs. Her eyes popped. She clawed at my arms with bloody nails."

Sevrin flinched, fury rising.

Ainz continued—voice like a scalpel.

"And when her corpse slid down that pillar, I didn't even look twice."

"Instead, I cast [Dust Cleaner] on my cloak."

A pause.

"Her blood… offended my uniform."

"That was her legacy."

Sevrin roared and lunged.

"[Spell Disjoin]!"

"[Mana Sever]!"

"[Godrend Fang]!"

Each technique designed to murder casters outright.

But they did nothing.

The sword struck Ainz's chest—and bounced.

Ainz didn't even blink.

"I see. You wanted to be like her."

He raised one hand slowly.

"Then let me honor your idol…"

"With your own personalized death."