Overlord: Crimson Sovereign

The polished black stone of Nazarick's Grand Bathhouse shimmered with low magical light, steam rolling over the mirror-like surface of the water. Scented vapors—mint, rose, and something faintly metallic—drifted in slow, deliberate coils. Ainz sat waist-deep in the central pool, steam curling gently from the water's surface, beads of magic-rich liquid clinging to his Raizel-like skin.

His long black hair trailed behind him, splayed like silk across the rippling bath. He'd summoned this space the moment he returned—not to luxuriate, but to… quiet the storm.

The battle was over.

The screams had stopped.

The grave now sang in silence.

And yet…

Ainz leaned back, head resting against the warm onyx edge of the tub. He let his fingers trail through the water, then pressed both hands over his face with a long, muffled groan.

Internal Monologue:

Did I go too far?

No… they said they'd dissect Narberal alive. Dissect one of my comrade's creations like an animal, like a thing. I can't just let that go.

But…

I did turn that guy into bone confetti while giving a monologue about Clementine's death. That… that might've been a bit theatrical. Did Albedo say "sacred art"? What the hell—

He exhaled, slumping further.

Maybe I should've used Tier 5 instead of 6. Something less showy. More… economic.

He stared at his reflection on the water—his Raizel-like features perfectly sculpted, unblemished. Regal. Distant.

Is this what a ruler is supposed to be? Not just feared, but cruel when needed? Or did I just throw a divine tantrum?

But still…

His eyes narrowed.

I saw the expression on the priest's face. I heard what he said. About how she would be screaming. How they would keep her alive, limb by limb.

Ainz gritted his teeth, then sank deeper into the water until only his nose and eyes remained above the surface.

No. Even if I'm the villain to the world… I'll never let them touch Nazarick.

He sat in silence for a long while, letting the warm water ease the tension from his muscles—not physical pain, but the weight of responsibility. His thoughts began to drift.

He reached for a nearby cloth—summoned from the treasury, absurdly soft—and began wiping himself down with precise, mechanical motions. Down his chest, his arms, his—

Suddenly he paused.

Right at his abdomen.

His fingers stopped.

"...Wait."

He wiped again.

Then again, slower.

His brow furrowed.

Where's the orb?

The Orb.

That heavy, obsidian gem he wore embedded in his skeletal form—the symbol of his overlordship, once seated in his gut like a jewel of authority. When he wore his skeletal form, it had always been there. Part of him.

It wasn't supposed to just disappear.

But his body now… smooth, flesh-like. Beautiful, yes. But no trace of the orb.

His crimson eyes widened.

Did I drop it?! Is it still stuck in my old body? Or—wait—is it fused?

He sat bolt upright in the water, splashing hot waves over the edge of the bath.

"No way...!"

He looked down at his stomach, poking at it. Nothing. No glow, no gem, no slot.

Panic flickered beneath his surface composure.

What if someone finds it?!

What if one of the Guardians finds it first?! Albedo will cradle it like a sacred relic—Demiurge will invent a divine origin—

He flopped backward into the bath with a splash, arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling.

"...This is what I get for not reading the cosmetic transformation manual."

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

Ainz floated in the steaming bath for a moment longer, staring blankly at the ceiling of polished obsidian and glowing runes. Then, in a rare burst of urgency, he sat up with a splash and reached out with one hand, invoking the command with a flick of his fingers.

"Access status interface. Authorization: Guildmaster."

A translucent window shimmered into view above the surface of the water, lines of arcane script pulsing faintly in Nazarick's signature gold-blue hue. His current form—[Raizel-Type Transformation]—flashed at the top, followed by his usual status details: HP, MP, racial levels, job classes, passives, cooldowns.

He scrolled down quickly. Nothing under Inventory. Nothing in Equipment. His eyes darted to the "Artifacts" tab, and—

There. Something new.

[Soul Orb] — Unique Core Artifact (Sealed)Origin: [Momonga's Orb]Integration Status: Latent / Inert State

His breath caught.

A new window unfolded as he tapped on it. The description text loaded slowly—deliberately, almost like it resisted being read.

Description:The personal artifact of the Guildmaster, once external, has been absorbed into the metaphysical framework of the user's transformed essence. Its nature has evolved—but remains dormant.

Current State: Sealed

Seal Origin: Unknown

Unlock Condition(s): Incomplete — [Access Denied]

Current Effects:

Mana Regeneration: +10% (partial access)

Artifact Signature Concealed (cannot be traced or detected)

Resonance detected: "Dormant Core Sync in Progress…"

Caution: Unsealing without adequate containment may cause structural backlash to the soul vessel.

Ainz's eyes widened.

Resonance? Soul backlash?

He leaned back in the water, gears turning behind his crimson gaze. The orb had fused with him—yes—but not willingly. Not fully. Some part of it had gone deeper than equipment. Past magic. Into essence.

Into who he was.

And now… it was sleeping.

He stared silently at the glowing entry, processing the implications. A sealed artifact. Inside him. Responding to his transformation. Shielded from detection.

Not even the Guardians would see this. Not unless he allowed it.

His fingers curled against the black stone edge of the bath.

A weapon that even Nazarick didn't know existed.

But also—a question waiting to be answered.

What will happen when it wakes up?

Ainz stared at the status window, the words "Seal Origin: Unknown" glowing faintly like a whisper only he could hear.

Unknown?

Even the system doesn't know? Or it's not willing to show me?

He tapped again, fingers trailing through the interface like ripples on water. Another submenu unfurled, slower this time—as if dredged up from somewhere deeper.

[Sub-Core Status] — Observation Mode OnlySoul Orb Resonance: Dormant / Passive ListeningEmotional Sync: 3%Trigger Pathways: BlockedEstimated Unsealing Progress: ??%

His eyes narrowed. Emotional sync? Listening?

Was it learning him? Adjusting to him?

He leaned forward in the bath, the warm water sloshing gently around him as the thoughts began connecting.

It's not just fused to my body… it's attuning to my mind. My decisions. My emotions. It's watching me.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. That was… unsettling. Not because he feared being spied on—he was the Supreme Ruler of Nazarick. But the implications...

What kind of artifact evolves by knowing you first?

Suddenly, without warning, the interface flickered.

A single line of red text blinked at the bottom of the Soul Orb's entry:

Emotion Detected: Conflict — Response LoggedMemory Echo Stored. Fragment: ["Even if I'm the villain to the world… I'll never let them touch Nazarick."]

Ainz froze.

The water felt colder now. Not in temperature—but in presence.

It… heard me?

No system message. No voice. But the sense was there. That something had taken in those words. Filed them away. Not mechanically.

Intimately.

He waved the status window away with a slow motion, his face unreadable. Then he sat back, arms folded behind his head, gazing at the dark ceiling.

So the Orb wasn't just a power core anymore.

It was a reflection. A sleeping mirror of who he was becoming.

And somewhere inside it—deep beneath the layers of magic, titles, and control—was a sealed door waiting to be unlocked.

Not by a spell.

Not by a command.

But by himself.

"…Great," he muttered, lips curling with dry sarcasm. "Now even my artifact thinks I need character development."

The silence of the Grand Bathhouse wrapped around him once more, but the stillness had changed. It felt like something else was listening now.

And it was waiting.

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

By the time Ainz returned to his chambers, the halls of Nazarick were quiet—if such a thing could be said of a place ruled by deathless perfection. Only the faint hum of magical wards and the soft footfalls of patrolling maids echoed beyond the golden doors.

He stepped inside, letting the enchanted doors close behind him with a soundless click. The bedroom was as he left it—dim, immaculate, regal.

He crossed the room slowly, casting a brief glance at the towering bookshelf, the untouched desk, the private mirror Albedo had placed there (for what reason, he still didn't know). But his steps took him straight to the bed.

His fingers brushed the sheets first—deep indigo, impossibly smooth, probably from some Yggdrasil-level silk monster. But that wasn't what made him pause.

Soft.

That was the word that came to him. Not in a tactical sense, not as a feature or buff—but as a feeling.

He sat at the edge of the bed, then slowly leaned back into it, arms spread, staring at the carved canopy above. A faint sigh escaped him—half tension, half instinct.

Ever since he'd gained this Raizel-like form… he'd started doing this more often. Lying down. Not out of fatigue, and not to sleep—he couldn't sleep, not really—but simply… to feel.

The sensation of the mattress beneath his back. The way the pillows cradled his head. The whisper of fabric against his skin. It was pointless, functionally speaking.

But it felt good.

And then, quietly, something else reached him.

A scent.

Not overwhelming, not synthetic. Something light, floral, with just a trace of warmth beneath it—like crushed petals warmed by sunlight, or a skin that held perfume long after the bottle was gone.

Ainz inhaled softly.

There it is again.

It lingered faintly on the sheets. On the pillows. A comforting trace, subtle but consistent. This wasn't a random cleaning product. Someone had chosen it. Carefully.

His brows knit.

I know this scent. I've smelled it before... but where?

He stared at the ceiling, searching his memory—not the spell-powered recall, but the dim human sense of something half-remembered.

Not in-game. Not from Yggdrasil.

Real life?

No, not quite. It was more recent. But distant in another way.

He brought the pillow slightly closer, frowning.

The scent stirred something. Not just memory—emotion. Warmth. Longing, maybe. Familiarity.

His brows furrowed.

He knew this scent. He definitely knew it.

It wasn't the kind of scent a maid would casually pick for laundry. It wasn't random. It had presence. But the harder he tried to place it, the more it slipped away—like a dream half-forgotten upon waking.

Not from Yggdrasil. Not from the real world either. Somewhere in between.

Maybe a meeting? A report? One of the Guardians…?

His hand gripped the pillow lightly as he leaned into it. The scent was strongest there.

The strangest thing wasn't that he couldn't place it—it was how it made him feel. Not alert, not threatened. Just… still.

Like something important had brushed against him once, and left this echo behind.

He closed his eyes, listening to the silence.

The scent lingered.

He didn't question it further.

But part of him, deep in the back of his mind, quietly filed it away—not under evidence, but under meaning.