Overlord: Crimson Sovereign

The pen glided across parchment with mechanical ease.

Ainz sat at his study desk, the usual stacks of forms and scrolls waiting for his attention. The crackling of the enchanted fireplace offered a soft rhythm. The candlelight flickered gently. His hand moved with practiced grace—signing, stamping, annotating. All routine.

Until it wasn't.

His fingers stopped mid-motion. The quill hovered above the page, the ink bead at the tip unmoving.

Something… shifted.

Not around him.

Within.

A faint pull. Like gravity, but inward.

His vision blurred.

And the world softened into silence.

When he opened his eyes, he wasn't at his desk.

He was standing.

In a dim room of polished wood and still air. Dust floated lazily through thin shafts of light. Everything was silent. Not dead—just… still.

There was no question of where he was.

There was no question of why.

There was only the figure by the window.

A man.

Back turned.

Draped in long, dark hair that shimmered like ink in moonlight. Barefoot. Wearing simple, elegant clothes that didn't seem to belong to this world. No armor, no cloak—just the kind of softness reserved for someone who never needed to raise a hand.

He didn't move.

He didn't turn.

He simply stood there, hands relaxed at his sides, staring out the tall window.

Outside, there was nothing but a vast pale glow—neither sun nor sky, just light.

Ainz watched him in silence. He didn't speak. He couldn't.

The man looked… lonely.

Not abandoned. Not suffering.

But lonely in a way that felt ancient. Deep. As though he had stood there not for minutes, but centuries. Holding something. Guarding something.

Or waiting for someone he no longer remembered.

The silence wasn't oppressive.

It was reverent.

Ainz stepped forward slightly, trying to see his face—but the figure remained turned away, calm, distant. Still.

And somehow—

Familiar.

The shape of his shoulders. The quiet presence. The soft, untouchable grace.

He wasn't just watching this person.

He was remembering him.

Or maybe…

Becoming him.

He blinked.

And the light vanished.

He was back at his desk.

Fire crackling.

Ink drying beneath his motionless hand.

The page slightly smudged.

Everything normal.

Except…

He sat back slowly in his chair, one hand drifting to his face, brushing the edge of his jawline—smooth, pale, perfect. This body… this skin… It felt like his.

But now, for the first time, it felt like someone else's too.

The vision lingered in his mind—not as a dream, but as an impression. The kind that doesn't fade, no matter how hard one tries.

He stared at the candlelight.

Quiet.

Then, softly—almost absentmindedly—he murmured,

"Memory...huh?"

The moment lingered long after Ainz returned to his duties.

He found himself distracted. Not by the usual bureaucracy of ruling Nazarick, but by what he'd seen—or felt—in that strange, fleeting vision.

The man by the window. The light. That silence.

It had not been random.

And it had not been meaningless.

So, he sought answers the only way he knew how—through records.

The Grand Library of Nazarick was a fortress of knowledge. Scrolls, grimoires, tomes from every corner of Yggdrasil—and many more created by the Floor Guardians themselves. Every book here was maintained with obsessive precision, categorized with maddening thoroughness.

He had access to all of it.

And so, seated at a large study table beneath floating crystal lights, Ainz began his search.

Subject: Raizel transformation.

Origin: .

Cosmetic category (skin variant)

Lore Tag: "The Noble Watcher"

User Description: Elegant, aloof. Revered figure of unshakable will and power.

Known Traits:— Grace under pressure— Peerless charisma— Unshaken composure— Iconic blood-red gaze— The "presence of a king who never needed to raise his voice"

Ainz narrowed his eyes.

He flipped to another entry, then another.

All of them said the same thing, in different flavors:

"His silence is strength.""A king by birthright, feared not for cruelty but for serenity.""He stands alone because none are worthy to walk beside him."

Page after page described a romantic ideal. A paragon. A distant hero. Someone the world admired but could never touch.

Ainz slowly lowered the final book.

His fingers drummed once against the ancient table.

"…No," he said quietly.

That wasn't what he saw.

That figure—standing alone in the pale light—wasn't distant by design. He wasn't powerful because of serenity. That silence hadn't been majestic.

It had been empty.

Lonely.

He hadn't stood apart because no one was worthy.

He stood alone because…

Because no one stayed.

Ainz leaned back in his seat, arms folded, eyes half-lidded in thought.

The lore described a polished statue. A fantasy.

But the vision—that had been something else. Something vulnerable. Human.

Too human.

He reached for one last text—an obscure commentary someone had once written on Yggdrasil's unreleased cosmetic lines. It was barely a paragraph.

"The Raizel model was pulled before wide release. Rumors say it felt… unfinished. Or maybe too real. Like it wasn't built as a cosmetic at all, but a tribute. Some players who tried it reported dreams. But none said the same thing. The only consistent word used was: lonely."

Ainz stared at that single word.

Then closed the book slowly.

"…Tribute, huh?"

He rose, carefully shelving the tome.

He wasn't sure who the man in the vision was.

But it was becoming clearer that the answer wouldn't come from reading lore.

It would come from remembering something he didn't know he forgot.

Or maybe—

Becoming someone he was never meant to be.

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

The echo of silence followed Ainz back to his chambers.

He didn't return to the bath, nor summon a maid, nor speak a word to anyone he passed.

Instead, he stepped inside his room, locked the door, and stood in the center—immobile.

The books hadn't helped.

They had painted a myth. A projection. A dignified mask.

But what he had seen in that dream—or vision, or fragment—wasn't noble. It wasn't fearless or composed.

It was longing.

And that made it more real than any paragraph in the archives.

He sat at the edge of his bed again, the scent still faintly clinging to the pillow. His fingers drifted down to his abdomen—over the smooth skin that now bore no mark, no scar, no sign of what had once been the Momonga Orb.

He closed his eyes.

He didn't invoke a spell.

He didn't say a word.

He simply focused.

Not on magic. Not on power. But on that feeling—the stillness in that room, the warmth in the light, the hollow ache of someone waiting too long for someone who never returned.

And then—

It pulsed.

Not a glow.

Not a sound.

Just a deep, inward resonance. Like a slow heartbeat against his soul. One beat. Then gone.

His eyes snapped open.

[Soul Orb – Emotional Synchronization Progress: 7%][Memory Fragment Recorded: "The window with no sky. The one who waits."][Seal Status: Stable. Progression confirmed.]

Ainz stared ahead, breath shallow.

He hadn't even meant to do anything.

He had just… felt it clearly.

And that was what moved it.

The Orb wasn't unlocking through force or intellect. Not through rituals or analysis. It responded to memory, emotion, and something else he couldn't yet name.

Identity?

He stood and approached the tall mirror in the corner—barefoot now, silent on the marble floor.

The face that stared back at him was flawless. Elegant. Regal.

Raizel-like.

The ideal others saw.

But behind the eyes—

Behind the mask—

He now knew what waited there.

Longing, huh?

***********

He stood before the mirror for a long time.

No words. No thoughts. Just watching.

His reflection met his gaze unflinchingly—regal, sculpted, unblemished. A body engineered for elegance. Power shaped into serenity. The face of someone who looked like he had never known fear, or doubt, or weakness.

But Ainz could see it now.

A faint weight beneath the eyes.

That same stillness he saw in the dream—not peace… but pause. Like something inside had stopped moving a long time ago and simply never restarted.

He lifted a hand and pressed his palm to the mirror's surface.

It was cool. Solid.

But for a brief moment, he imagined it was thin. A membrane separating him from that quiet room. That endless light.

That version of himself who stood staring out a window with nothing on the other side.

"…Was that me?" he murmured.

His voice didn't echo.

He wasn't sure if the question was meant for the Orb.

Or for whoever he used to be.

Or for who he was becoming now.

Behind his reflection, the candlelight flickered.

And deep within him—

The Soul Orb pulsed again.

Not powerfully.

Just once.

Steady.

Present.

Like it was listening.

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

He lay in silence, the ceiling above fading into shadow.

But his thoughts remained with the man by the window.

That quiet figure… He hadn't looked defeated. Not broken.

But still… he had looked like someone who had given everything—and received nothing in return.

Ainz turned his head slightly, eyes fixed on the darkness.

Wasn't he a hero?Didn't he protect them?

From what little the lore offered, the man had power. Dignity. Strength. The kind of presence people should have rallied behind.

And yet—

He had stood alone.

Uncelebrated.

Feared.

He protected his people, and in return… they distanced themselves. Revered him from afar. Avoided his gaze. Spoke his name like it was a sacred warning—not a person.

Ainz's hand curled slightly into the bedsheet.

Why?

Why is it that those who stand at the front… always have to stand alone?

Why do the ones who give everything—

end up forgotten?

The Soul Orb responded again.

A quiet hum. No sound. Just knowing.

[Resonance Echo: "Isolation born not of cruelty, but of sacrifice."][Emotional Synchronization: 14%][Memory Alignment Deepening.]

Ainz closed his eyes.

He wasn't angry.

Just…

Tired.

Tired of pretending it didn't matter.

Tired of holding the image everyone needed from him—invincible, unshaken, eternal.

He thought again of the man by the window.

And for a fleeting moment, he whispered—barely audible even to himself:

"…He deserved more than that."

And somewhere deep within him—

A part of himself quietly wondered…

Do I?