NOVEL NEXT Chapter 3: what Lies beyond
In a grand, dimly lit throne room, the atmosphere is heavy with grief and uncertainty. The walls, adorned with tapestries depicting past victories, seem to close in as the gathered subjects stand in a loose semicircle. The king, a man once regal and full of command, now sits slumped on his throne, his face pale, weary, and lined with the weight of loss. His hands rest on the arms of the throne, fingers trembling, as if the full magnitude of the battle's outcome has yet to sink in.
Around him, his closest advisors—generals, captains, and trusted ministers—stand with bowed heads, their eyes somber, some glistening with barely contained tears. The air is thick with silence, only broken by the occasional clinking of armor or soft shuffling of boots on the stone floor. The only light comes from flickering torches, casting long shadows across the cold marble, as if even the flames mourn the devastation.
The leader of the imperial senate, Casel El Tiberius, steps forward, his voice low and grave. "If I may be so bold... This was a grave error. Six tenths of our army is gone! How can one recoup such losses? Tell us! What does your majesty the emperor intend for this Country?"
"Casel El Tiberius, I share your concerns. I too spend sleepless nights in fear of foreign lords rising against us as one, Yet, In each time of crisis, have we not pulled together and struggled through? Such as the Arctec war 250 years ago. Do not accuse me of failing to be invincible or would you be one that plays at court day after day until the enemy has come all the way to our front door?" The tension in the throne room thickens as the king's voice rises, his weariness momentarily replaced by a flash of sharp defiance. His eyes, once filled with the weight of grief, now spark with a fire that had been long buried beneath the burden of loss. His words hang heavy in the air, laced with both authority and desperation.
Casel El Tiberius stands still, unmoving, but his eyes narrow with an edge of challenge. He had been a loyal servant of the crown for many years, but the loss of so many soldiers was not something easily forgiven. His voice, though soft, carries the unmistakable weight of authority. "Your Majesty, I do not question your resolve nor your leadership. But the truth remains. We have lost six-tenths of our army. You speak of past victories, but those men and women—our warriors—are gone. Our defenses are weakened. The country is vulnerable. What is our plan? How do we rise from this?"
A general steps forward, his face contorted with frustration, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His voice erupts in the tense silence, sharp and commanding. "But it's been seven days! Seven! Two since the enemy counter-attacked with ferocity! Our expeditionary forces are decimated, and we have lost both gates!" His words hang in the air like a storm cloud, thick with dread.
An old minister, his voice quivering with a mix of fear and disbelief, slowly rises to his feet. His frail hands tremble as he raises them in a futile attempt to calm the gathering. "Pah! Pah! Pah!" His voice cracks like the sound of distant thunder, echoing through the cold, stone walls. "It made that kind of noise from far off—an unnatural force! Our soldiers were annihilated before our very eyes. I've never seen such powerful magic before!" He pauses, his eyes wide, as though haunted by the memory. "And the other gate—what happened there? We know nothing. Not a single soul has returned. Even the scouts, the ones who were supposed to watch from the shadows, cannot be contacted. They've vanished!" His voice trembles with a mix of rage and terror, his face pale as if the very thought is too much to bear.
A bald general, his face stoic and lined with the weight of countless battles, rises abruptly from his seat. His gaze is fierce, his posture unwavering, as he shouts, his voice booming like a war drum. "Then we must fight! If our forces are insufficient, we shall raise more! Send word to our vassal states, rally them to our cause! We cannot sit idly by while the enemy grows stronger!"
The room erupts into chaos. Shouts of dissent echo against the stone walls, thick with tension. "They won't listen to us!" one voice calls out, dripping with bitterness. "It will be another disaster—a bloodbath!" A nobleman's voice rings out from the corner, shrill and accusing, "You're a warmonger! You want to drag us all into another senseless war!"
From the back of the room, a woman's voice rises, cold with contempt. "Cowards!" she spits, her words like daggers thrown in the air.
The king rises from his throne, his fingers tightening around the cold, stone armrests as though drawing strength from its weight. His expression hardens, and the room falls into an expectant silence. His voice, when it comes, is deep and resolute, cutting through the tension like a sword through cloth.
"We cannot sit idly by and wait for our doom to approach," he declares, his voice ringing out with unwavering determination. "This invasion is no mere raid, no ordinary threat. These are enemies from another world—otherworldly raiders—and we cannot allow them to take our land. Our only choice is to fight!" He steps forward, his presence commanding the room. "Send envoys immediately—request reinforcements from our vassals. We will not face this threat alone. We will mustard the might of Godu. Rino Gwaban and recapture Alnus Hill, where the gates still stand, and where our warriors—our future—are lost!"
A heavy silence falls over the room, the gravity of his words settling on the shoulders of those present. Yet, from the back of the room, an uneasy voice rises, filled with doubt and dread. The speaker is an old general, his face lined with years of conflict and weariness. "Your Majesty," he says, his voice trembling with the weight of the question, "are we truly prepared to fill the land around Alnus with the bodies of our fallen beasts and men? To watch them fall, one after another, for this impossible task?"
The room grows tense. His question lingers in the air, a sharp counterpoint to the king's bold command. Outside the walls of the throne room, the war drums seem to echo louder, as if the very earth is trembling under the weight of the coming conflict. The thought of sending more soldiers into certain death hangs heavy, like a cloud of doom waiting to descend.
The shimmering gate stood at the edge of an unfamiliar, untamed world, pulsating with the strange energy of the rift between realms. Demiurge stood silently before it, his crimson eyes gleaming with a dark excitement. Ainz Ooal Gown- One of the 41 supreme beings his master, had tasked him with securing this new world—a world that had been breached—and creating a stronghold to protect the gate while preparing for the inevitable invasions that would follow. With a powerful army under his command and his dark intellect at the ready, Demiurge set his grand plan into motion.
Demiurge had always been a master of manipulation, strategy, and destruction. But now, the creation of this fortress would be his magnum opus, a testament to Ainz's supremacy in this foreign land. He wasted no time. The foundation of the stronghold would be laid in blood, stone, and Magic.
The first order of business was to clear the land around the gate. Demiurge raised his hand, and with a command, his army of demons, undead soldiers, summoned fiends and elementals spread across the battlefield like a flood.
Death Knights, massive undead warriors clad in dark armor, moved like iron giants, their swords cleaving through the wilderness, clearing a path for the construction. Greater Demons with wings like blackened sails flew overhead, scouting the terrain, ensuring no one would dare approach the gate without their notice. Meanwhile, Greater Hellhounds and Demon Ogres tore through the landscape, readying the area for the next phase.
He called upon the Earth Elementals, and the ground trembled as they responded to his summons. Four colossal beings emerged, each a High Earth Elemental in the shape of gargantuan turtles. Their massive, rock-like shells were embedded with ores and minerals that gleamed with a cold, obsidian sheen. Each movement they made was a display of raw elemental might, their massive legs striking the ground with thunderous force. As they moved, their sheer presence reshaped the landscape, the land bending to their will.
The turtles' magic flowed outward, and great walls of stone were pulverized in an instant. The earth itself seemed to rise and fall as though it were liquid, flowing effortlessly beneath their control. Their magic surged through the ground, creating massive ravines, and flattening entire stretches of terrain as they shaped the land with the force of their immense power. Their obsidian-like shells glowed with an intense, fiery light as their elemental magic turned the very earth into a malleable substance.
Demiurge stood at the center of it all, overseeing the transformation with a steady, calculating gaze. His mind raced with every detail, every necessary facet for the fortress that would soon rise from the land. He was creating something more than just a stronghold—he was crafting a monument to Ainz Ooal Gown, one that would stand as an undeniable testament to the power of Nazarick. He wanted this fortress to be more than impregnable. It had to be an extension of his master's will, a place where fear and awe would reign in equal measure. The very sight of it should strike terror into the hearts of anyone who dared approach.
The walls would be unlike any other—massive and unyielding, etched with intricate magical wards and sigils that would protect against all threats, both magical and mundane. In his mind, he could already see the hidden traps and cunning defenses that would line the periphery: magical snares designed to trap the most powerful of invaders, firestorms that would scorch the earth with their fury, and shadow-filled pits that would swallow enemies whole. Every aspect had been planned with precision, every detail chosen to ensure that nothing could breach the stronghold. He knew that only the most powerful would even attempt to challenge its might—and even they would fall to the fortress's cunning.
This task was not just about building a stronghold; it was a gift to Ainz, a way to demonstrate his loyalty and pride. He had been chosen for this monumental responsibility, and the weight of that honor filled him with a fierce pride. Ainz had entrusted him with this task, a task that would secure their dominion over this new world, and Demiurge would not fail.
He smiled as he thought back to the moment he had been selected for this responsibility. He could still remember Albedo's face, the envy in her eyes as she watched him accept the task. She had known, as he did, that this was a task that demanded excellence—something that only the most loyal, the most capable could achieve. And he won over her. Demiurge's smile widened, the excitement and pride bubbling inside him as he watched the land bend to his command. The stronghold would be perfect. It had to be. It was his gift to his God.
Just as Demiurge began to fortify the last section of what would be the stronghold, the first wave of invaders arrived—an army of soldiers from the neighboring kingdoms, seeking to take back the territory now claimed by these mysterious otherworldly forces. They had heard rumors of the gate and the powerful forces stationed on , and now they had come to end the threat.
Demiurge's eyes gleamed as he observed the approaching force. How quaint, he mused, knowing these soldiers were far beneath him in both strength and intelligence. As they began to advance toward the gate, the first signs of the trap were already set into motion.
The ground beneath their feet trembled as great stone spikes rose from the earth, impaling the first wave of soldiers with deadly precision. Screams filled the air as the soldiers were torn apart. Yet the soldiers pressed on, their resolve hardened by their desperation. Demiurge smiled at the challenge they presented.
"You should not have come," he whispered to himself, his voice filled with dark amusement. With a snap of his fingers, shadows erupted from the ground, solidifying into the forms of Greater Demons, Shadow Demons, and Nightmare Horrors. These fiends surged forth, tearing into the soldiers with savage precision. The army was soon scattered, their ranks disintegrating under the brutal assault. The soldiers fought valiantly, but their weapons clashed harmlessly against the invulnerable demon armor.
Among the chaos, a large figure, a General from the invading force, emerged, his heavy armor glinting in the moonlight. He swung a massive axe, cleaving through several of Demiurge's summoned demons with surprising skill. His eyes locked onto Demiurge, hatred burning in them.
"You think your demons can defeat us?" the general bellowed, his voice shaking the very air. "We will tear you down and end this madness!"
The words barely left his lips before the clash of steel and the roar of battle filled the air. But in a single, brutal moment, the general's bravado was shattered. Pop! His skull was crushed by the shield of a Death Knight, the impact so sudden that he never even had the chance to comprehend his end. His life extinguished in an instant, leaving only the echo of his final, empty threat.
Demiurge watched with icy detachment as the general's body crumpled, his expression betraying no emotion. "Worm," he muttered, his voice devoid of any warmth, "your courage is commendable, but misplaced." His eyes narrowed as he scanned the chaos unfolding on the battlefield.
"Pathetic," Demiurge spat, his gaze sweeping over the remaining soldiers, their resolve quickly crumbling in the face of overwhelming power. He turned his attention to the shadows, his lips curling into a cruel smile as he saw what emerged from the dark.
Hellhounds, their eyes glowing with hunger, slithered from the darkness, dragging the mangled, lifeless bodies of the scouts they had slaughtered. The invaders, now fully aware of the hell they had walked into, were paralyzed with fear. There was no escape. No retreat. Only death awaited them.
As the first wave of invaders was obliterated, Demiurge gave a cold, imperious order. "Build the stronghold. Fortify it. This place will be our unshakable foundation." His demons worked tirelessly, their relentless labor accompanied by the eerie chants of summoned architects weaving the dark magics that would raise the fortress from the blood-soaked earth.
Days passed, and the stronghold grew, its towering spires rising like a monument to annihilation. Demiurge stood at its heart, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he surveyed the fruits of his dark labor. Massive walls, etched with powerful wards, now stood sentinel against the outside world. The fortress was nearing completion, and with it, the first step in the expansion of Nazarick's influence over this new realm.
As he walked the battlements, the ominous hum of magic filled the air, the very stones seeming to pulse with an unholy light. Demiurge allowed himself a moment of quiet triumph. The preparations were complete. The gate was to be sealed, ensuring no enemy would cross its threshold without his knowledge. His traps were set. His forces stood ready.
But even in this moment of triumph, Demiurge's thoughts were already on the future. He knew, as Ainz had instructed, that the time would come for a far greater test. This fortress was but a stepping stone. And there would be no mercy for those who sought to challenge Nazarick's supremacy, no matter how powerful they believed themselves to be.
As the stronghold came to life, a chilling light filled the sky. Massive undead legions, summoned from the depths of the earth, began to march from the gates, their footsteps like a death march that reverberated through the land. The ground trembled beneath their weight, and the very air seemed to crackle with dark energy.
Demiurge stood at the forefront, his wicked smile still etched on his face, his eyes gleaming with malevolent satisfaction. He raised a hand, giving a single, simple order: "Let them come. And let us show them the true meaning of despair."
The gates of the stronghold creaked open, and the demonic forces surged forward like an unstoppable tide, a force of nature that would sweep across the world and crush all who stood in their way. The battle that awaited would be the first of many, and it would forever seal the fate of this world—and every soldier foolish enough to stand against it.
For the stronghold was not just a fortress. It was the foundation of an eternal campaign. A campaign that would secure Ainz Ooal Gown's dominion over this world, and Demiurge, the architect of their destruction, would see it through to its bloody end.