---
Yes, Orion Vesper knew he currently possessed no physical heart.
Yet he distinctly "felt" it—a rhythmic pulse synchronizing
with this primordial expanse saturated with the breath of nascent life. Their
vibrations achieved perfect resonance, as if he "was" this silent dark void,
and the void "was" him.
"So... where have I ended up? Is this some kind of cosmic
breathing technique?"
Orion mused darkly to himself.
His thoughts never ceased. He feared that if his
consciousness ever paused, his will would erode completely within this
abyss—succumbing either to madness or oblivion. Only relentless cognition
affirmed his existence; he had become pure thought.
But information remained scarce. After an immeasurable span
of contemplation within the darkness, clarity still eluded him.
Just as existential dread threatened to consume him, "they"
appeared—twin orbs the color of blood-red jade, vast enough to eclipse the void
itself. They radiated an ancient, profound sorrow.
Before those magnificent eyes, Orion's consciousness froze.
He felt infinitesimal—an ant gazing upon a primordial deity. Or perhaps... a
grieving mother.
In that instant, fragmented memories flooded Orion's
mind:
Endless warfare. Millennia. Eons. Aeons of unceasing
battle!
Cosmic Mandate. The absolute destiny shackled to the woman
who fought eternally!
For she was 『The Woman Born to Fulfill the
Universe's Least Common Multiple』—the Divine Matriarch thrust onto the world's dawn to bear
all creation's burdens!
Light and Dark. Yin and Yang. Virtue and Sin. Genesis and
Apocalypse. Male and Female. This was the Least Common Multiple—the
Duality!
Tears streamed as she fought. She pierced heroes' hearts,
bloodied hands pressed against a face embodying all creation's beauty, weeping
countless times.
A voice echoed—perhaps Orion's own, or perhaps compelled by
the Mandate itself—questioning her:
"'Do you weep from hatred of war?'"
She shook her head.
"'Do you weep from slaying foes?'" She shook her head, tears falling.
"'Do you weep from irreconcilable enmity?'"
Still, she shook her head.
"'Then… why do you weep?'"
The weeping ceased. Her lips parted, and she answered
softly:
"""『...』"""
The words were inaudible. Unfathomable.
The woman closed her sorrowful jade-red eyes. As Orion's
consciousness faded once more, her name imprinted upon his soul:
""Ahriman—Mother of Evil Gods!""
---
Chapter 2: The
Supreme Being
""Year 2138 C.E.""
Human technology had advanced tremendously, yet one critical
challenge remained unconquered: ""Energy"".
Even in 2138, humanity lacked the power for sustained
interstellar travel. Trapped on Earth, over ten billion humans strained
dwindling resources. Energy scarcity bred violent stratification, skyrocketing
unemployment, and global instability. Opportunists stirred; the specter of
World War III loomed.
The solution was simple in theory: master the energy
technology needed to reach the stars. A mythical "Third-Class Perpetual
Motion Engine" could revolutionize civilization. But it remained
fantasy.
As a stopgap, VR technology—powered by nanomachines and
networks—became ubiquitous. Citizens could purchase nutrient-rich nanite serums
with basic identification. By immersing consciousness in virtual worlds,
metabolic rates plummeted, conserving precious resources.
It was a bandage solution. Society had become what an old
term perfectly described: ""Cyberpunk"".
---
""Yggdrasil""—a VR game crowned with the name of the Norse
World Tree—launched twelve years ago amid this new policy. It was once the most
celebrated title of its era.
But that was twelve years ago.
---
"""How dare you?! This is Nazarick—the Great Tomb of
Nazarick! Forged by our blood and sweat! How could you abandon it so
easily?!"""
A skeletal figure clad in resplendent robes slammed a bony
fist onto the black obsidian Round Table. Forty-one ornate chairs encircled it,
all empty.
""Momonga"" swept his gaze—lit by hellish crimson
embers—across the vacant seats. He pulled up the guild roster. Only five names
remained; four were grayed-out, offline. His fury evaporated, leaving only
hollow desolation.
Thirty-seven had quit permanently. Four were perpetually
absent. The guild ""Ainz Ooal Gown""—founded by forty-two
"Heteromorphic" players—now had only ""Momonga"".
At its zenith, Ainz Ooal Gown ranked 7th globally—a
staggering feat for a guild exclusively recruiting Heteromorphs and capped at
forty-two members. Compared to guilds boasting hundreds, they were a tight-knit
enclave. Persecuted as "symbols of evil," their solidarity burned
brighter. They achieved the impossible through passion alone.
Now the guild languished outside the top twenty. That it
remained ranked at all was due to artifacts left by departed members... and the
fact the dying game's servers were nearly empty. Today was shutdown day.
In Momonga's skeletal grip rested a staff of breathtaking
artistry—the ""Guild Weapon"". Modeled after the Caduceus of Hermes, seven
serpents writhed along its length, each clutching a gem of unique color in its
jaws. Its destruction meant the guild's dissolution. Though powerful,
Momonga—the nominal Guildmaster—had never wielded it. It remained enshrined in
the chamber where the """Supreme Beings""" once convened.
Reality was a cybernetic wasteland of numbness. Only this
virtual world had offered joy. Twelve years had passed here—Momonga's entire
youth invested. Nazarick was his home; its members, his only family. He was
utterly alone beyond the screen.
He'd never risk the guild's symbol, even for its power.
""Just this once... let me be selfish,
everyone...""
Momonga whispered to the hollow chamber. Even a skull could
convey profound grief.
Their departure felt like abandonment. Like losing his home.
In solitude, he often spoke to these empty seats—an orphaned old man
reminiscing about brighter days.
""Charact and Emerald Tablet claimed this staff was
modeled after the 'Caduceus.' But what even is that?""
Momonga turned the staff in his hands, perplexed.
Those two had been kindred spirits—obsessed with archaic
myths in this desolate age, always lost in esoteric debates. Momonga drifted
into memory again:
Laughter echoing around this table. ""Ulbert"" and ""Touch
Me"" bickering endlessly. ""Charact"" and ""Emerald Tablet"" debating obscure
legends. Himself and ""Peroroncino"" snickering over galge games, drawing
disdainful glances.
Forging the Guild Weapon together. Daily adventures
side-by-side. Facing overwhelming foes. Overcoming impossible odds. That time
the guild nearly shattered...
The golden age of Ainz Ooal Gown.
Momonga engraved every detail into his consciousness,
terrified of forgetting. He sat motionless for an immeasurable time before
finally rising, his majestic robes rustling as he left the Round Table.
On this final day, he would walk through Nazarick one last
time—a farewell to his youth.
---
Beyond the Round Table chamber lay a hemispherical hall.
Four-colored crystals shimmered on its vaulted ceiling. Seventy-two niches
lined the walls, each housing a statue wrought from mythic metals—demonic
visages frozen in eternal vigil.
This was the """Key of Solomon."""
The statues represented the 72 Pillars of Hell—golems
crafted by ""Emerald Tablet"", the Grand Alchemist, alongside other demonic
players. They'd abandoned the project after sixty-some statues, weary of the
grind.
""Charact"", ever the perfectionist, had completed the
remainder:
""Bael, Barbatos, Paimon, Morax, Asmodeus, Cain,
Gremory... and what else? Damn, these names are impossible...""
Momonga scratched his polished skull.
Only ""Emerald Tablet"" loved these intricate, lore-heavy
projects.
---
Past the demonic gallery, Momonga pushed open stone doors
engraved with angels and devils. Beyond lay the ""Throne Room"".
Colossal. Easily accommodating hundreds. Romanesque pillars
soared towards a vaulted ceiling. Walls of alabaster blazed with gilded
filigree. A chandelier of crystallized rainbows cast ethereal light.
Forty-two banners—each bearing unique heraldry—hung from
ceiling to floor. Before each banner stood a throne of impossible height.
The heart of Nazarick. The seat of the Supreme Beings.
Though Guildmaster, Momonga knew his place. He wasn't the
strongest. Not the wealthiest. Not the wisest. He led only because his calm
demeanor and steadfast dedication made him the guild's anchor.
That same dedication made Nazarick's decline an open
wound.
Momonga stood transfixed, crimson gaze sweeping the silent
grandeur. His soul wavered. Finally, a sigh of profound loss escaped him as he
began his final inspection.
---