The days that followed the obliteration of the horde settled into a fragile, surreal routine. The Takagi group moved through the opulent mansion like ghosts, their worldviews still reeling. Ainz, however, found the silence between crises… novel.
He stood at the second-floor library window, a room Saya had declared had "acceptable, if populist, literary selections." The Red Orb in his ribcage pulsed with a slow, steady rhythm. Outside, his four Death Knights stood sentinel in the garden, unmoving as the gray dawn illuminated the abandoned city. 'Security is optimal. Resource consumption is zero. The intelligence provided by Saya Takagi on local infrastructure is logically presented.'
Yet, a strange static seemed to hang in his mind. It wasn't a flaw in his cognitive processes. It was… an absence. For years, his unlife had been filled with the constant, silent psychic hum of his connection to Nazarick—the distant, comforting awareness of Albedo's devotion, Demiurge's scheming, Sebas's dignity. Here, there was only silence and the low-frequency moan of the dead.
The thought was instantly quarantined, flagged as non-productive sentimentality. Yet, it left a trace.
His reverie was broken by the smell of food—scorched rice and canned fish. Shizuka, with Hirano's nervous assistance, was attempting to cook. The result was dismal, but the attempt was… persistent. He watched from the doorway, unseen.
"It's no good, Marikawa-sensei," Kohta mumbled, poking at the blackened mass. "The calculated BTU output of this stove is too high for—"
"We must persevere, Hirano-kun!" Shizuka said, her smile strained but genuine. "Everyone needs warm food to keep their spirits up! Even… our guest."
Ainz's ocular lights flickered. Guest. Not 'monster.' Not 'it.' A social designation implying voluntary hospitality. It was illogical. He was the power here. He was the patron. Yet, the term, applied by the least strategically valuable member of the group, bypassed his analytical filters and pinged something deeper.
Later, he found Takashi and Rei in the dojo, a lavish tatami room. They were sparring, not with weapons, but with bare hands—a fluid exchange of locks, throws, and breaks. It was a dance of perfect trust and controlled force. Rei moved with fierce grace, Takashi with solid, reliable defense. There was a tension between them, a history of pain and affection that translated into every block and counter.
Ainz watched, hidden. 'Their combat efficiency increases by approximately 12% when paired. A bond of trust enhances tactical coordination. This is a quantifiable advantage.'
But as Rei executed a perfect osoto-gari, throwing Takashi who rolled with the impact and came up smiling—a real, weary, human smile—another memory fragmented through Ainz's suppression.
Satoru Suzuki, in a cramped apartment, laughing as his guildmate Peroroncino bragged about a rare loot drop over a crackly voice chat. Touch Me, in his knightly avatar, offering sincere praise for a well-executed raid strategy. The warmth of shared purpose, of being part of something.
The memory was a sniper round to his psyche. It carried no data, only feeling. For a full three seconds, the Emotional Suppression lagged. A profound, hollow ache echoed in the void where his heart should be. The Red Orb flared, a brief crimson glow illuminating the dark hallway.
He retreated to the library, the static in his mind now a discernible hum of dissonance. 'This is inefficient. Sentimental recall serves no purpose. My goal is to gather information and find a way back to Nazarick. These humans are assets. Their interpersonal dynamics are relevant only insofar as they affect their utility.'
But the argument felt rehearsed, even to him.
He decided to engage more directly. It was, after all, the most efficient way to gather data on human behavior under extreme stress. He found Saya in the study, surrounded by maps and her open laptop, its battery perilously low.
"Saya Takagi."
She jumped, a pencil snapping in her hand. "Gah! Don't do that! Announce yourself with sound, not telepathy or whatever that was!"
"My apologies." He inclined his head slightly. The gesture was automatic, a holdover from courtly manners in Nazarick. "You are cataloging evacuation routes."
"Trying to," she sighed, pushing her glasses up. Her usual sharpness was tempered by exhaustion. "The data is all guesswork now. It's… frustrating. Like solving an equation where all the variables are actively trying to eat you."
Ainz processed the metaphor. 'A humorous analogy born of stress. It indicates a coping mechanism that prioritizes intellectual framing.' He pointed a bony finger at a major highway on the map. "This route is logically optimal for vehicle-based egress. However, my aerial reconnaissance—" he had used a [Create High-Tier Undead: Soul Eater] to scout "—indicates a 93% probability of a catastrophic traffic jam here, creating a kill zone."
Saya stared at him, then at the map, then back at him. "You… did aerial reconnaissance. Of course you did." She made a note, her hand shaking slightly. "Thank you. That's… actually helpful."
"Efficiency is paramount," Ainz stated. But then he added, almost as an afterthought, "Your mind is not inefficient, Saya Takagi. Do not let frustration degrade its output."
It was the kind of blunt, backhanded encouragement Touch Me might have given a junior guild member. Saya's eyes widened behind her lenses, a flush of something other than fear on her cheeks. She gave a sharp, nod. "Right. Won't happen again."
The interaction left him unsettled. He had offered… mentorship. Not just data exchange.
The true shift came with Saeko. She approached him at dusk on the rooftop, her sheathed katana in hand. Her serene mask was gone, replaced by a raw, searching intensity.
"Ainz-sama. My training with the Death Knight… it revealed my limits. But it did not reveal the path past them. You spoke of embracing the predator. I… do not know how."
Ainz looked at her. In her, he didn't see just an asset. He saw the reflection of a warrior's spirit, untempered. He saw Cocytus, seeking perfection in the blade. He saw Sebas, upholding a personal code. The memory of Touch Me, the pinnacle of warrior virtue, was almost overpowering.
"Your conflict is not with your skill, but with your humanity," Ainz said, his voice softer. "You believe the killer and the protector must be separate. They are not. The will to protect is what gives the killer its purpose. Without it, you are merely a weapon. And weapons are… lonely things."
He wasn't just talking to her. The words, unbidden, echoed in the hollow of his own being. Lonely things.
"Show me your iaijutsu," he commanded.
Saeko blinked, then complied. She moved through the drawing forms with breathtaking precision, each cut a haiku of potential violence. Ainz watched, not with the eye of a overlord assessing stats, but with the eye of a former player who had seen a thousand warrior builds.
"Your fourth form," he said. "You lean back 2.3 centimeters too far. It creates a dramatic line but opens your solar plexus for 0.5 seconds. Against a true master, it is a fatal interval."
Saeko froze, then slowly repeated the form. The correction was minute, but the resulting flow was visibly smoother, deadlier. She looked at him, awe and confusion warring in her eyes. "How…?"
"I have… had comrades," Ainz said, the words feeling strange in his non-existent mouth. "Warriors of peerless skill. They believed in the beauty of the form, but also in its brutal economy." He paused, the Red Orb pulsing. "Your desire to understand the blade is honorable. Do not let it consume the woman who wields it. That was… something a friend of mine once believed."
He turned to leave, the conversation having strayed dangerously far from pure utility.
"Ainz-sama," Saeko called out. She bowed, deeper than ever before. "Thank you. Not just for the lesson. For understanding."
He gave a slight nod and descended, the static in his mind now a roaring chorus of conflicted data. He had not just trained an asset. He had honored Touch Me's memory. It felt… correct. It felt right, in a way cold logic did not fully encompass.
That night, as the group ate their meager dinner in tense silence, Ainz appeared at the doorway of the dining room. They all stiffened.
"I have completed an analysis of the immediate region," he announced, his tone back to its usual business-like rumble. "A fortified facility, a prepper's shelter, is located 8.2 kilometers to the north-west. Its supplies and security are superior to this location. We will relocate tomorrow."
Takashi stood. "We? You're… coming with us?"
Ainz's gaze swept over them: Takashi's weary resolve, Rei's protective glare, Saya's calculating eyes, Kohta's nervous grip on his spoon, Shizuka's hopeful smile, Saeko's respectful attention.
'They are not NPCs. They are not the Guardians. Their loyalty is not programmed; it is earned, or broken. Their value is not just in their skills, but in their… cohesion. In their ability to remind me of what it is to have comrades.'
The realization was a system shock. His Emotional Suppression fought a desperate, losing battle.
"Yes," Ainz stated, the single word carrying finality. "The transaction continues. Your knowledge for my protection. Furthermore…" He raised a hand. A complex, dark amulet shimmered into existence above his palm—a communication item, low-tier by Yggdrasil standards, but a miracle here. "This will allow for single-point, long-range communication. If you are separated, use it."
He floated it over to Takashi, who took it with numb fingers. It was warm to the touch.
"Why?" Rei asked, her voice hard with suspicion. "Why give us this? You could just command us."
Ainz was silent for a long moment. The library memory flashed again—Peroroncino's laugh, Touch Me's praise, the warmth of the guild.
"Because a leader who cannot protect his subordinates is worthless," Ainz said, echoing the words of a paladin from a forgotten world. "And because… you have shown hospitality to a guest. This is… reciprocation."
He turned and left, his black robe sweeping behind him. In the darkness of the hall, he placed a skeletal hand against the wall. The Red Orb of Momonga glowed like a dying star in his chest, beating in time with a phantom heart.
He was Ainz Ooal Gown, Sorcerer King, Overlord of the Great Tomb of Nazarick. And he was Satoru Suzuki, a lonely man who missed his friends. In this dead world, for the first time since his transmigration, the two were not at war. They were, hesitantly, achingly, beginning to speak with the same voice. The mission remained: find a way home. But the parameters had changed. He would not leave these fragile, defiant humans to die. Not just because they were useful.
Because they had called him 'guest.' And because, in their struggle, he saw a reflection of the guild he vowed to protect—a guild called Ainz Ooal Gown.