Overlord: Crimson Sovereign

The soil behind Sevrin groaned.

A ring of bone erupted from the ground, encircling him like a blooming, rotted flower. Then the pillar rose—slowly, menacingly. Twelve feet of gray-black stone, twisted like a spinal cord, surged upward, cracking through roots and rock. Its surface shimmered with necrotic runes, each one pulsing in sync with Sevrin's heartbeat.

Chains made of jointed femurs and black iron tendons lashed out, writhing like snakes.

"Wha—?!"

They struck like vipers, slamming into his limbs. His legs were wrenched backward and splayed unnaturally; his arms were yanked until his shoulders audibly dislocated.

The final chain looped around his torso and snapped him spine-first against the face of the pillar.

BOOM.

The impact shook the glade.

Sevrin gasped—air driven from his lungs as the chains coiled tighter.

"Let me go—LET ME—"

Ainz walked forward, his skeletal form calm, regal. A shadow trailing beneath him, not cast by the moonlight, but by authority.

"You said Clementine was your idol."

A faint chuckle.

"Then let's give you a death that mirrors hers."

The pillar shuddered.

The runes pulsed red—then black.

And then the magic began.

The stone behind Sevrin shifted—morphing, tightening—until the surface took on the impression of vertebrae. The pillar was now a mausoleum of pain, and it was hungry.

CRACK.

The first pulse bent his ribs inward, slowly, methodically. They didn't break all at once. No. They buckled, one after the other, groaning under his own panicked breaths.

He screamed—but the chains around his throat tightened, turning the scream into a ragged gurgle.

"Clementine's ribs broke first too," Ainz mused, voice detached. "But hers snapped like twigs. Yours… are taking their time. Interesting."

POP. POP. POP.

His spine began to twist, bones sliding against each other in unnatural ways.

"NO—PLEASE—AAAGHHH—"

CRACK.

His pelvis twisted a full 45 degrees. The flesh didn't tear—the nerves held—thanks to the magic's cruel design. Every break, every contortion, was felt. Preserved. Replayed.

Ainz watched dispassionately.

"Clementine clawed at my arms, with her pitiful eyes" he said. "Until her nails cracked. Until her fingers tore open. Until she couldn't scream anymore."

He gestured slightly.

A thin obsidian spike emerged from the pillar—slowly—inserting itself under Sevrin's right fingernail.

"So shall you."

SQUELCH.

The spike drove through his fingertip, nail-first, impaling bone.

"NNNNNGHHHHH!"

The other fingers followed. One by one. Methodical. No haste.

Ainz tilted his head as he watched Sevrin convulse.

"It's the little things, isn't it?"

He raised his hand. The chains shifted, dragging Sevrin upward. His left arm folded backward, elbow snapping inward like a broken hinge.

CRACK. CRUNCH.

Then his jaw shattered. Bone splintered outward, his tongue writhing like a dying eel.

"Still breathing," Ainz noted. "Let's test the lungs."

Two shadowy spikes impaled his chest cavity.

Then: [Regeneration Pulse]—a forced healing effect, just enough to repair the collapsed tissue.

"[Collapse Again]."

The spikes triggered again. His lungs ruptured again. And again.

"No anesthetic," Ainz whispered. "Just ecclesiastical dissection. As they planned for Narberal."

Sevrin sobbed—his vocal cords torn, his eyes bloodshot and bursting, but unable to look away from the glowing rune in front of him.

He was awake.

Still feeling.

Still processing.

"She was not mine," Ainz said, stepping closer. "But she was my friend's creation."

"And you wanted to touch her. Use her. Break her."

He reached out—placed one skeletal finger gently upon Sevrin's brow.

"You will not die fast."

The pillar tightened around him. Runes branded his flesh. His mind began to slip—but the spell forced it back. No unconsciousness. No death yet. Just unrelenting awareness.

Finally—

Ainz stepped back.

Raised one finger.

"[Dust Cleaner]."

Sparkles danced across his robe.

The blood vanished.

He turned away.

Behind him, the pillar pulsed once more—and imploded, grinding Sevrin into ash, bone, and a single sliver of cracked spine. Nothing remained but a circular mark of runes, with one glyph glowing in soft green.

" Imperfection Revered."

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

The battlefield—once a sacred grove consecrated by Slane Theocracy scouts—now lay buried beneath soot, shattered bones, and the warped echoes of ruined spells.

The pillar still stood.

A monument of worship twisted into punishment, its rune faintly flickering above Sevrin's remains. Imperfection Revered. It pulsed once more, then went still.

And around it… silence.

Ainz stood amidst the wreckage, his crimson cloak unmarred by blood, his robe gleaming with the residual shine of [Dust Cleaner]. Not a speck on him. Not a scar. Only the still-burning remains of what dared to harm his kin.

Not just revenge.

Retribution. Precise. Ritualistic. Inevitable.

Behind him, space cracked open—a black corridor forming as Albedo emerged from the [Gate]. Her expression was restrained, but not calm. Her heels clicked on scorched earth as her wings extended, casting her shadow over the bloodied land like that of an avenging archangel.

She knelt immediately, not caring about the ash.

"Ainz-sama…"

Her voice trembled—not from fear, but reverence barely contained.

He nodded once.

"They spoke of torturing Narberal. Of making a show of her pain."

"They looked at a legacy made by one of my friends… and spoke of carving it apart like flesh on an altar."

Albedo's jaw clenched. Her talons pierced the earth.

"And you answered with holy desecration, my Lord. Their bodies will never rest. Their screams will never fade. Even the earth recoils where they died."

She looked up—eyes shimmering with dark admiration.

"You turned sacrilege into sanctity. That pillar… was not just punishment. It was art."

Ainz turned his gaze slightly. "Art?"

Albedo lowered her voice—barely more than a whisper.

"A reminder. To those who believe you can be tested. To those who believe Nazarick can be touched without consequence."

"You broke that man in the image of his goddess… and buried him beneath the mockery of his idol."

"It was poetry. I weep that I did not witness the moment he realized it."

She bowed her head deeper. "Forgive me, Ainz-sama. But… you made their agony sacred."

He gave no reply. Not right away.

The only sound was the distant whisper of cursed wind around broken wards.

Then he finally said:

"…My friend once said this."

Ainz's voice was low, like wind whispering through the ruins of a cathedral.

"If someone does you good—return it with greater good. But if someone does you evil…"

His crimson eyes flickered like coals stirring to life beneath ash.

"Then repay it with greater evil. A punishment so absolute that even the idea of repeating the offense becomes unthinkable."

He stepped toward the shattered husk of the magekiller's tomb, the rune above still glowing faintly.

"They didn't just threaten me, Albedo. They threatened what remains of the ones I loved. The ones who built Nazarick with me. Narberal may not be my creation… but she is my comrade's legacy."

"That alone makes her untouchable."

He turned slightly, crimson cloak fluttering in a breeze that hadn't existed until that moment.

"This wasn't about war or strategy."

"This was about principle. About a debt. And I paid it in full."

A gust of cursed air swept the grove, snuffing out even the smallest trace of sanctity that remained.

Albedo looked up, her cheeks flushed—not with shame or fury, but with reverent ecstasy.

"Then you fulfilled that law perfectly, Ainz-sama. Their evil was shallow. But your vengeance…" She smiled darkly. "It carved itself into history."

He didn't answer right away. His gaze was distant now, remembering faces no longer with him—voices from a game that became a kingdom.

"They thought cruelty made them strong. That fear would make them righteous. That pain could prove they were chosen."

"But we know better."

He turned, cloak trailing bloodless over burned stone.

"Prepare the records. Nazarick must remember tonight."

"Let this be a warning towards our enemies."

Albedo rose with a slow, reverent bow.

"Yes, my Lord."

And behind them, in the grove where gods were mocked and monsters made divine—

The wind screamed.

And then… it was still.

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

The central sanctum of the Slane Theocracy's Divinity Archive was deathly quiet.

High Cardinals sat along an obsidian crescent, their white robes trimmed with divine gold, faces hidden behind sacred veils. Only the soft scratch of quills and the murmurs of low-level priests echoed faintly—until a courier burst through the grand archway, pale and drenched in sweat.

"Speak," ordered Cardinal Raymond Zuell, voice like polished iron.

The courier bowed hastily and held up a sealed scroll—edges still scorched from long-distance transmission magic.

"It's the report from Infiltration Unit 6… the one assigned to intercept the heretic mage known as Rein."

Zuell reached down, broke the wax seal, and unraveled the parchment.

He read.

Then read it again.

The silence grew longer. The other cardinals began to stir.

Cardinal Denato raised a brow. "Well? Has the operation succeeded?"

Zuell did not answer. Instead, he slowly handed the parchment to the next cardinal.

Cardinal Gravan's eyes narrowed as he scanned it. His face paled beneath the veil.

Then he read aloud.

"Unit presumed completely destroyed. No magical transmission was received following deployment. Backup scrying revealed no surviving bodies. Only one anomaly located at the last known coordinates—"

He hesitated.

"—a singular structure of unknown magical origin. A stone pillar approximately twenty feet tall. Covered in runes identified with necromantic and profane constructs. Mana signature lingers at high Tier 5 levels or greater."

Another pause.

"All attempts at divination within one hundred meters of the object fail or return… corrupted scripture. One scrying attempt caused the operator to vomit blood and pass out for three hours. The tomb appears to resist holy cleansing. Its aura… sings."

A collective chill swept the room.

One of the youngest bishops whispered, "It sings?"

Gravan looked up. "That was the word used. 'Sings with mockery. A dirge made of bones and silence.'"

Raymond Zuell stood, his knuckles white around the edge of the table.

"And Sevrin?"

"Missing."

"Explain."

"No body. No armor. No residue of his weapon or the binding relics. The terrain has been warped. Local wildlife avoid it. The scouts only approached because their minds were clouded—they don't remember walking into the area. One broke down screaming after sketching the pillar."

A hush.

Then Cardinal Denato spoke in a low, controlled tone. "What was carved on the stone?"

The courier swallowed. "Only two words, engraved above the runes in the dead tongue of the old empire…"

He handed forward a trembling parchment.

Zuell read it aloud.

"Imperfection Revered."

Someone gasped.

Another priest dropped their staff.

A moment later, the holy wards in the room flickered—disturbed by the ambient dread bleeding off the very phrase.

Raymond Zuell sat down, slow and mechanical.

"Sevrin was a Magekiller trained for anti-caster operations since childhood. We gave him three artifacts blessed by the Six. And yet he did not even leave behind bones."

He stared at the report again.

"That thing—Rein—not only destroyed our agents… he erased them. As if they had never existed."

Cardinal Gravan spoke grimly. "And worse. He left a message. Not just a threat—but mockery. A sculpted, spell-imbued insult carved in agony and sealed in spellcraft none of our scholars can decipher."

One of the scribes—young, pale, and shaking—dared to speak.

"But what should we do?"

A deep silence.

Then Raymond Zuell said what none of them wanted to hear.

"We cannot touch him. Unless godkin interferes"

"Not now. Not without provoking something we are not prepared to survive."

He folded the report and stared into the candlelight.

"Put the grove under silent quarantine. Label the area 'Blasphemous Scar.' Anyone attempting to approach without direct Cardinal authorization will be executed for spiritual treason."

"And notify all Inquisitorial cells: contact with Rein is to be suspended until further notice."

"But the others will ask why," the young scribe said softly.

Zuell's voice cracked like a falling pillar.

"Tell them the same truth I now believe."

"Because he… is not what we thought. " 

if the rumors of us getting defeated by mere adventurer spreads, countless enemies of Slane Theocracy will take advantages of this situation.

" how....humiliating"