Chapter 1: A Hollow Awakening
The last sensation Momonga registered was the forced logout, the YGGDRASIL servers shutting down around his skeletal form, the throne room of Nazarick fading into an error message. He had braced for oblivion, for the end of his nine-year obsession, the end of Ainz Ooal Gown.
Instead, he felt…cold. And pain. A dull ache throbbed in his head, his limbs felt heavy, weak, and unpleasantly…fleshy.
He forced his eyes open. Not the grand, vaulted ceiling of the Throne Room, illuminated by eternally burning chandeliers. This was rough-hewn stone, damp and grey, with a single, sputtering tallow candle casting long, dancing shadows. He was lying on a straw-filled mattress, covered by a thin, scratchy wool blanket. The air smelled of mildew, old smoke, and something vaguely like unwashed bodies.
Panic, a sensation he hadn't truly felt since becoming an undead Overlord, threatened to claw its way up his throat. He tried to sit up, his movements clumsy. He looked down at his hands. Pink. Small. Definitely not bone.
Where am I? What is this body?
His internal monologue, usually a calm, collected assessment of YGGDRASIL mechanics or NPC management, was now a frantic screech. He tried to access his console. Nothing. He tried to call upon his magic. A faint stirring, like a distant echo, but no overwhelming surge of negative energy.
A wave of dizziness washed over him. He wasn't Ainz Ooal Gown, the skeletal Overlord. He was…someone else. A boy, by the looks of his hands and the general feel of his frame. A human boy.
He took a ragged breath, trying to push down the rising terror. Calm down, Suzuki Satoru. Assess the situation. Panicking won't help. He'd faced guild wars, impossible bosses, the loneliness of being guildmaster. He could handle this. Hopefully.
The door, a creaking wooden affair, opened, and an old man shuffled in. He was clad in a drab, grey robe, a simple leather cord cinching it at the waist. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, his eyes watery but kind. He carried a small wooden bowl emitting a thin, unappetizing steam.
"Ah, m'lord. You're awake. That's a relief. Took a nasty tumble from the ramparts, you did. Gave us all a fright." The old man's voice was raspy, his accent strange, the words familiar yet oddly accented.
M'lord? Tumble from the ramparts?
The old man placed the bowl on a rickety table beside the bed. "Maester Hannis brought some broth. Best you get it down. Need your strength."
Momonga, or whoever he was now, stared at the man. "Who…who are you?" His voice was higher pitched than he expected, cracking slightly. Definitely a teenager.
The old man frowned, concern deepening the lines on his face. "M'lord Elian? It's just me, Tom. Your steward. Don't you recognize old Tom?"
Elian. So that was his name now. Elian Hollow, apparently. And this was his castle, if the term 'lord' was anything to go by. A very, very poor castle.
"My head…it's fuzzy," Elian managed, buying time. He needed information. Desperately.
Tom nodded sympathetically. "Aye, a good knock to the noggin will do that. Maester Hannis said you might be a bit muddled. Just rest, m'lord. It'll come back to you."
Elian focused, trying to access the memories of this "Elian." Flashes came: a stern-faced woman he assumed was his mother, a gruff man who must have been his father, both now absent. The taste of watery stew. The constant chill. The name of this place… Greywater Keep. Yes, that sounded right. It was a small, almost insignificant holdfast somewhere in…the Riverlands. His father, Lord Martyn Hollow, had died a few months ago fighting for… Lord Tully? Against the Targaryens. Robert's Rebellion.
Robert's Rebellion? That was a new term. He knew nothing of it. This was clearly not YGGDRASIL. Not Japan. Not Earth.
A different world.
The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. He was stranded. Alone. In a human body, weak and vulnerable.
But then, a flicker. Deep within him, a core of something familiar. He focused on it, that tiny spark he'd felt earlier. It was his magic. Not the overwhelming torrent he was used to, but a definite, undeniable presence. It felt…constrained. Like a vast reservoir being fed by a tiny trickle. His mana was regenerating, yes, but the total pool available felt minuscule compared to his original power as Ainz Ooal Gown.
"Tom," Elian said, his voice a little stronger. "How long was I unconscious?"
"Three days, m'lord. Maester Hannis was worried. Said if you didn't wake today, he'd have to try… leeches." Tom shuddered.
Three days. Elian prodded at the memories of this body. The fall from the ramparts… it felt vague, almost like a dream. Had he really fallen? Or was that just a convenient explanation for his sudden appearance?
"The war…" Elian prompted. "It's over, isn't it?"
Tom nodded, relief evident on his face. "Aye, m'lord. King Robert sits the Iron Throne now. Lord Stark and Lord Arryn helped him win it. The Targaryen dragons are gone for good, they say. Has been for a month now, maybe a bit more."
King Robert. Iron Throne. Lord Stark. Targaryen dragons. The names were alien, fantastical. This world had its own history, its own conflicts.
"And Greywater Keep? Our situation?" Elian asked, trying to sound like a concerned young lord.
Tom sighed, the weariness of years settling back onto his shoulders. "As it's always been, m'lord. Poor. The war took what little we had. Your father, bless his soul, took most of our fighting men with him. Few returned. The lands are fallow, the stores are low. We'll be lucky to see winter through without… tightening our belts considerably."
Poverty. Weakness. Isolation. A perfect starting point for a former Overlord. Sarcasm dripped internally.
"Thank you, Tom. You can leave me. I need to rest."
Tom bowed. "As you wish, m'lord. Call if you need anything." He shuffled out, closing the door with a soft click.
Alone again, Elian swung his legs over the side of the bed. His body was thin, wiry, but not sickly. A teenager's frame, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. He stood, a little unsteady, and walked to the small, arrow-slit window. Outside, a grey, overcast sky loomed over a pathetic excuse for a courtyard. A few chickens pecked listlessly at the mud. The walls were crumbling stone, patched here and there with newer, but equally shoddy, work. This wasn't even a castle; it was a glorified ruin.
He closed his eyes and focused on his internal mana. It was there. He could feel it, a thrumming core. He tried a simple spell, one that required minimal energy in YGGDRASIL.
[Detect Magic]
The world shimmered slightly. Faint auras clung to a few objects in the room – the old iron hinges on the door, a tarnished silver locket on the dresser that must have belonged to this body's mother. Nothing powerful. And the spell drained a noticeable, if small, portion of his current reserve.
His mana was regenerating, he could feel it slowly seeping back, but the total capacity was pitiful. If he tried to cast even a mid-tier YGGDRASIL spell, he'd likely deplete himself instantly.
This is problematic.
He needed power. He needed resources. And most importantly, he needed to find his NPCs. Albedo, Demiurge, Shalltear, Aura, Mare, Cocytus, Sebas, the Pleiades… Were they here too? Scattered? The thought of them lost in this strange, primitive world filled him with a protective urgency. They were his children, his creations, the legacy of Ainz Ooal Gown. He had to find them.
But how? He was a no-name lord of a destitute keep. He had no influence, no spies, no army.
He spent the next few hours exploring his meager "domain." Greywater Keep consisted of a small, crumbling curtain wall, a dilapidated gatehouse, a modest tower (where his chambers were), a small hall that served as a dining room and audience chamber, and a few outbuildings in even worse states of repair. There were perhaps twenty people in total: old Tom the steward, Maester Hannis (who seemed more an apothecary and general healer than a learned man of letters), a cook, a few ancient men-at-arms who looked like they'd break if they sneezed too hard, and a handful of servants.
The poverty was crushing. The "armory" held a few rusty swords and dented shields. The "treasury," as Tom sheepishly showed him, contained a handful of copper coins and a single, tarnished silver piece.
That evening, in the privacy of his chamber, lit by the same sputtering candle, Elian sat on his rough bed, contemplating his predicament. His YGGDRASIL items were gone. His skeletal form was gone. His overwhelming power was… drastically reduced.
But he wasn't entirely helpless. He still had his knowledge. And he still had access to magic, albeit limited. He needed to understand the rules of this new world's magic, and how his own interacted with it.
Suddenly, a scratching sound from outside his window. He tensed. It wasn't a bird. He peered through the arrow slit. In the dim moonlight, he saw a figure attempting to scale the rough stonework of the tower. A bandit? A desperate thief? In a place this poor?
Opportunity. And a test.
Elian focused. He needed something silent, something efficient. He didn't have the mana for flashy spells. He considered his options. A low-tier illusion to scare them? A simple magic arrow?
The figure reached the slit, a grimy hand appearing, trying to find purchase. Elian acted. He didn't have his Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown, but he didn't need it for this.
[Touch of Undeath]
It was a 0-tier spell, barely a cantrip in YGGDRASIL, designed to inflict minor negative energy damage, often used by low-level necromancers to animate tiny creatures or simply to cause discomfort. In his Overlord form, it was negligible. In this human body, with his limited mana, he channeled it directly through his hand.
He reached out and touched the fingers gripping the stone.
The reaction was immediate. A choked gasp, a scrabbling sound, and then a dull thud from below.
Elian waited, his heart – this new, annoyingly fleshy heart – pounding. After a minute, he cautiously looked down. A man lay sprawled on the muddy ground, unmoving.
He'd killed him. Just like that.
A strange sensation flowed into Elian. Not guilt, not remorse – he was far beyond such human sentiments after centuries as an undead. It was… a warmth. A subtle expansion within his chest, where his mana core resided. He focused inward. His total mana capacity… it had increased. Not by much, perhaps a fraction of a percent, but it was undeniably larger than before.
Killing.
The prompt had stated: "every time he kills he uses the souls collated to increase/expand his mana reserve the magic restores itself automatic only the reserve/capacity needs to be increased/expanded using souls."
So, this world operated on a system where taking a life – harvesting a soul, perhaps – directly fueled magical potential. A grim, brutal mechanic, but one perfectly suited to an Overlord.
A slow, cold smile spread across Elian Hollow's young face. It was a smile that did not belong on a boy of fifteen. It was the smile of Ainz Ooal Gown, realizing that the path to regaining his power, while stained with blood, was clear.
He needed more. More souls.
The next few days were a blur of activity for Elian. He feigned a continued recovery from his "fall," using the time to discreetly test his abilities and learn more about his surroundings. Maester Hannis, a kindly but somewhat inept old man, was a font of local knowledge, easily coaxed into sharing details about the Riverlands, the ruling House Tully, and the general state of the realm post-Rebellion.
The picture Hannis painted was bleak. The Riverlands had been a primary battleground. Many holdfasts were damaged, lords were dead, and bandits, deserters from various armies, roamed the Kingsroad and lesser paths, preying on the weak.
"They call themselves 'Broken Men'," Hannis had explained, his voice hushed. "Men who followed lords they loved, or lords they hated. Men who lost everything. They are a plague upon the land."
A plague that Elian might just be able to turn to his advantage.
He began taking short walks around the perimeter of Greywater Keep, initially with one of the ancient guards, then alone, claiming he needed to "reacquaint himself with his lands." His true purpose was reconnaissance and, if opportunity arose, acquiring more "mana fuel."
His first deliberate target was a small group of three men he spotted making camp in a copse of woods not far from the Keep. They were ragged, armed with mismatched weapons, and had the hungry, desperate look he was coming to recognize. Bandits, undoubtedly.
He approached cautiously, using the terrain for cover. His teenage body was surprisingly agile, though he missed the effortless silence of his skeletal form. He had so few spells available due to his limited pool. He needed something decisive.
[Silent Magic: Magic Arrow]
He channeled the spell, a pinprick of emerald light forming in his palm. He sent it lancing through the undergrowth. It struck one of the bandits in the throat. The man gurgled, clawed at his neck, and fell.
The other two jumped up, shouting in alarm, drawing their rusty blades.
Elian stepped out from the trees, his youthful face deliberately set in an expression of cold anger. "You trespass on the lands of House Hollow."
One of the bandits, a burly man with a matted beard, laughed. "House Hollow? This rat-trap? We'll take what we want, boy. And then we'll pay a visit to your little castle."
Elian felt the familiar surge as the first bandit's life force was absorbed, a small but distinct expansion of his mana. He needed more.
[Fly]
It was a significant drain, almost half his current reserve, but the effect was worth it. He rose a few feet off the ground, his simple tunic fluttering. The bandits stared, their bravado faltering. Magic was rare and feared in this land, especially a month after a war where dragons were a living memory for some and a terrifying legend for most.
"You will pay for your insolence," Elian said, his voice unnaturally calm. He extended a hand. He didn't have the mana for a high-tier offensive spell, but he could bluff. Or use something efficient.
[Grasp Heart]
He focused all his will, picturing the YGGDRASIL spell, one of his signature abilities. He knew, with his current capacity, he couldn't replicate its instant-death, heart-crushing effect on a strong opponent. But these were weak, malnourished bandits. Perhaps a lesser, physical manifestation?
He poured a significant portion of his remaining mana into it. The bearded bandit clutched his chest, his eyes wide with terror and pain. He gasped, then crumpled, a dark stain spreading on his tunic. Not the magical crushing he was used to, but it seemed the intent, combined with a surge of raw magical force, had caused a catastrophic cardiac event. Or perhaps it was a weaker version of the spell, just enough to physically rupture the organ.
The third bandit, witnessing his companion die so bizarrely after the boy-lord floated, screamed and turned to flee.
Elian wouldn't let him. [Magic Arrow] again, this time to the back of the fleeing man's knee. He howled and went down.
Elian landed, the [Fly] spell dissipating. He walked calmly towards the downed man, who was now scrabbling backward, gibbering in terror.
"Please, m'lord! Mercy!"
Elian looked down at him, his young face impassive. "Mercy is a luxury Greywater Keep cannot afford. And I require payment for your trespass and threats."
He placed a hand on the man's forehead. He didn't even need a spell this time. He just willed the man's life to end, channeling his innate negative energy. The man convulsed once, then lay still.
The influx of three souls was palpable. His mana reserve had expanded noticeably. It was still a pittance compared to his original power, but it was progress. Swift, brutal progress.
He left the bodies where they lay. Let the crows have them. Or let other bandits find them and learn that the lands of House Hollow, however poor, were not undefended.
Returning to Greywater Keep, he felt a grim satisfaction. This new world, this new body, they were limitations, yes. But the fundamental truth remained: power respected power. And he would accumulate it, soul by soul if necessary.
That night, as he lay in his cold bed, he extended his senses, not magically, but mentally. He pictured his loyal NPCs. Albedo, her dark hair and pale wings, her fierce devotion. Demiurge, his cunning mind ever at work. Shalltear, powerful and terrifying. Aura and Mare, loyal and capable. Cocytus, the warrior. Sebas, the stoic butler, and the Pleiades, his deadly maids. Pandora's Actor, his own creation, guarding the treasury of Nazarick.
Where are you? he projected with all the mental force he could muster, a silent call into the vast unknown of this new world. I am here. I am Ainz Ooal Gown. Find me.
He didn't know if they could hear him. If they were even in this world. But he had to try. They were his family, his sole connection to the life he had lost.
And as he drifted into an uneasy sleep, the image of the Great Tomb of Nazarick superimposed itself over the crumbling walls of Greywater Keep. He would rebuild. He would find his guardians. And this world, Westeros, would learn to fear the name of Ainz Ooal Gown, even if it was currently hidden within the guise of a boy named Elian Hollow. The game had changed, but the ultimate player remained. And he was learning the new rules very, very quickly.
The only question was, how long before his activities attracted unwanted attention? And were his servants already making their own moves, searching for their lost master in this strange, medieval land? The thought sent a shiver down his spine – a mix of anticipation and trepidation. He needed to be ready. He needed to be stronger.