Chapter 4: Treasures Beneath the Heavens
Within the sanctum of Momonga's personal chamber—where shadows danced along obsidian walls like phantoms of forgotten battles—Thor stood motionless as a carved monument. His crimson eyes, burning with the intensity of dying stars, tracked Momonga's every movement. The skeleton lord fumbled with a blade as if it were a venomous serpent, while Narberal Gamma maintained her vigil nearby, spine straight as a consecrated spear.
"I only took on the class of magician," Momonga muttered, skeletal fingers closing around the sword's grip, "but since I'm level 100, I should have enough strength to swing a sword. Let's see..."
Thor's lips—the only visible feature beneath his wild crimson mane—curved into something that might have been a smile. Or a snarl. With the God of Thunder, the distinction blurred like lightning and thunder: separate phenomena, same storm.
Without shifting his gaze, Thor's voice rumbled forth—a sound like distant thunder rolling across ancient battlefields. "Narberal."
The battle maid's head snapped toward him with military precision. "Yes, Lord Thor?"
"Watch." A single word. Thor had never been one for elaborate speeches—not when a hammer could speak volumes in a single, devastating swing. "This will be... entertaining."
"Understood, Lord Thor."
As they observed, Momonga lifted the sword with the confidence of a skeleton who'd never held a blade in his afterlife. The weapon rose. It trembled. It slipped.
Time crystallized into a single, glorious instant.
The sword became a silver missile, screaming through the air toward Thor's skull with lethal intent. It whistled past—so close that lesser beings would have felt their lives flash before their eyes—and embedded itself into the wall with a thunderous CRACK that shook dust from the ancient stones.
Thor didn't flinch. Didn't blink. His crimson eyes simply tracked the blade's trajectory with the mild interest of a predator watching a particularly clumsy prey animal stumble.
Then he laughed.
Not the polite chuckle of court politics or the nervous twitter of the weak. This was the laughter of the heavens themselves—deep, resonant, shaking the very foundations of reality. It was the sound of a god who'd stared down Jörmungandr and found the cosmic serpent wanting.
"YOUR AIM," Thor's voice boomed, each word a hammer strike against an anvil, "NEEDS WORK, SKELETON."
"Sorry about that, Thor." Momonga's jaw clicked in what might have been embarrassment—hard to tell without facial muscles. "But it appears I still can't wield or equip items outside my class restrictions."
While Narberal extracted the embedded blade—pulling with both hands and considerable effort, as if Thor's mere proximity had given the weapon delusions of permanence—Momonga's skeletal shoulders sagged with mortification.
Thor's laughter subsided into something resembling contemplation. His massive frame settled deeper into the chair, which groaned under the weight of divine muscle and accumulated centuries. His thoughts turned inward, spiraling like storm clouds gathering before a deluge.
Three days in this New World. Three days since Yggdrasil's final sunset. And yet...
He flexed his fingers—each one capable of crushing steel, each knuckle scarred from a thousand conflicts. The sensations felt right. Natural. As if he'd always possessed this body, this presence, this overwhelming physicality that made the air itself seem to bow in deference.
No hunger gnaws at my belly. No sleep calls to my bones. The mortal weaknesses have fallen away like shed skin.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding with audible force.
But the warrior's appetites remain. Battle. Conquest. The primal satisfaction of victory. His crimson eyes blazed brighter. And other hungers that refuse to be silenced, no matter how divine the form.
A god's lusts were not so easily dismissed.
"Create Greater Item."
Momonga's incantation shattered Thor's introspection like a hammer through ice. Light erupted—brilliant, blinding, beautiful—wrapping around the skeleton's form like the aurora borealis made solid. When it faded, raven-black armor encased Momonga's bones, each plate inscribed with runes of power that pulsed with eldritch energy.
"It really is like Yggdrasil," Momonga marveled, turning to examine his armored form. "If a magic item permits it, I can bypass my class restrictions."
"Logic prevails." Thor rose from his chair in one fluid motion, a mountain deciding to walk. "Come, Momonga. The tomb's walls grow tiresome. Let us taste the air of this New World."
"The guards shall accompany you," Narberal interjected, her voice carrying the desperate edge of one who knows her duty supersedes all comfort. "Just say the word."
"No." Momonga's refusal was immediate.
"Please wait, my lord!" Narberal's composure cracked like thin ice. "If you leave without an escort, we will be unable to protect you. It is our sworn duty to act as your shields and perish if—"
"ENOUGH."
The word didn't merely leave Thor's mouth—it detonated. The air itself shuddered, vibrating with frequencies that made bones ache and teeth rattle. His aura unfurled like the wings of some primordial dragon, invisible yet undeniable, pressing down with the weight of mountainous inevitability. The very concept of resistance seemed to flee the room in terror.
Narberal froze. Not from fear—though fear was certainly present, coiling in her gut like a serpent—but from the sheer pressure. It was like standing at the bottom of an ocean, with the entire weight of the world pressing down from above.
Thor's crimson eyes blazed with the fury of colliding worlds.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the storm passed. The pressure evaporated like morning mist before the sun. Thor's expression softened—if such a word could ever apply to features carved from battle and bloodshed.
"As you wish, my lord." Narberal's voice emerged barely above a whisper, professional mask reassembled but cracked at the edges.
Thor studied her for a long moment. Something flickered behind those burning eyes—regret, perhaps, or its divine equivalent. Warriors should not cower before their commanders. They should stand proud, unbroken, ready to paint the earth crimson in service of their cause.
He stepped forward, his massive frame somehow gentle as he reached out. One finger—scarred, powerful, capable of crushing mountains—tilted her chin upward. Their eyes met: molten crimson meeting startled brown.
Then Thor leaned down and pressed his lips to her cheek.
The kiss was chaste, brief, utterly unexpected. Like a butterfly landing on a battlefield, delicate and impossible and there.
Narberal's face detonated into shades of pink and red that would have made roses jealous. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No sound emerged. Her brain had clearly evacuated the premises, leaving only shocked silence in its wake.
Thor's lips curved into a genuine smile—rare as eclipses and twice as memorable.
"Your dedication honors the halls of warriors past," he rumbled, voice softened to mere thunder rather than apocalypse. "Continue to serve with such fierce loyalty, and greater glories await."
He turned away, leaving Narberal standing like a statue of beautiful confusion, one hand slowly rising to touch her kissed cheek as if confirming the moment's reality.
Momonga's jaw hung open—an impressive feat for someone without muscles to control it. Then a sound escaped him: a chuckle, rich with amusement and perhaps a touch of envy.
"Shall we?" Thor gestured toward the door.
As they departed, walking side by side like death and thunder incarnate, light consumed Thor's form. It writhed around him like living electricity, crackling with barely contained power. When it dissipated, his appearance had transformed entirely.
Gone was the simple traveling attire. In its place: armor of silver and gold that caught light like captured starfire. A great cloak billowed behind him despite the still air, crimson as fresh blood, dramatic as a sunset painted by mad gods. His helmet—absent before—now crowned his head, adorned with wings that seemed poised for flight. Even his aura had changed, compressed and refined into something that whispered of divinity rather than screaming it.
Two Supreme Beings approached the First Floor's exit, their footsteps echoing through halls that had witnessed the birth of legends.
Then Momonga stopped. Stopped so abruptly that Thor nearly collided with his skeletal form.
"Wait a minute," the skeleton whispered, voice tight with confusion. "Jealousy, Avarice, and Wrath? Why are three of Demiurge's demon generals stationed on the first floor?"
Thor's eyes narrowed, scanning the scene with a warrior's practiced assessment. Three demons—each radiating malevolence like personal heat sources—flanked the passage ahead. Their presence was deliberate, calculated, entirely out of protocol.
"Demiurge," Thor stated simply, voice flat with certainty.
"Really? What makes you—"
As if summoned by prophecy itself, the demon in question materialized from behind his subordinates. Demiurge's vulpine features twisted into an expression of polite confusion as his calculating gaze swept over the two armored figures before him.
"It's you, my lords." Recognition dawned like a slow sunrise. "But why are you traveling without an armed escort? And wearing such... distinctive armor?"
Shit. Momonga's thought practically radiated through his skull. How did he figure it out so quickly? Calm down. Just stay calm.
Thor remained utterly serene, one eyebrow raised in lazy amusement. The guild rings. Only those bearing Ainz Ooal Gown's seal can teleport freely within Nazarick's walls. Of course the demon would deduce our identities through process of elimination.
"Well," Momonga began, scrambling for plausible explanation, "there is a reason for all of this—"
"So that's how it is." Demiurge's eyes gleamed with sudden understanding, his tail swishing with barely contained excitement. "As expected of our magnificent dual rulers, your strategic foresight knows no bounds!"
Huh? Momonga's confusion was palpable.
"To walk among your domain in disguise," Demiurge continued, warming to his own narrative, "observing your servants without the burden of ceremony and pretense. Brilliant! You wish to see Nazarick as it truly operates, without the artificial polish that comes from knowing you're being watched. Your wisdom illuminates the darkness itself!"
We just wanted some fresh air, Thor thought, fighting the urge to laugh. But I suppose this interpretation serves equally well.
"However..." Demiurge's expression shifted, becoming grave as an executioner's mask. "I cannot—in good conscience—permit you to venture forth without protection. Should any harm befall you, I could never forgive myself. The shame would haunt me through eternity itself."
Thor and Momonga exchanged glances. No words passed between them—none were needed. In that instant, they conducted an entire conversation through minute shifts in posture, slight tilts of the head, the universal language of those who lead and understand the burden thereof.
Finally, they turned back to Demiurge as one.
"You alone," Thor declared, his voice carrying the weight of divine decree, "shall accompany us. Consider it both honor and obligation."
Demiurge's face illuminated with joy so profound it bordered on religious ecstasy. He dropped to one knee, fist pressed to chest in a salute that predated nations.
"Thank you for indulging this selfish request, my lords. I swear upon my very existence—I will not fail you."
The night sky struck them like a physical blow.
Stars. Stars. Countless millions scattered across the velvet darkness like diamonds flung by a careless god. They glittered with cold fire, each one a distant sun, each one a potential world, each one singing the ancient song of creation itself.
"Magnificent," Momonga breathed, and for once the word felt inadequate.
Thor stood transfixed, his crimson eyes reflecting the celestial tapestry above. "In all the Nine Realms," he whispered—an actual whisper, soft as falling snow, "I never witnessed beauty quite like this."
"The artificial sky Blue Planet crafted on the sixth floor was impressive," Momonga said, still staring upward. "But this... this makes it seem like a child's drawing compared to a master's painting."
"He would have wept," Thor agreed, and something in his voice suggested he understood such tears intimately. "Blue Planet. He who loved nature more than gold, who saw divinity in every leaf and stream. He would have wept to witness this glory."
Momonga activated his Fly spell, skeletal form lifting into the air with supernatural grace. Demiurge transformed—his genteel appearance shattering to reveal the demon beneath, wings erupting from his back like blades through silk.
Thor didn't bother with spells or transformations. He simply willed himself upward, and the sky complied. His cloak billowed dramatically, crimson against the star-studded black, as if the heavens themselves had dressed him for the occasion.
They rose together, three figures ascending into infinite night.
"I can see for miles," Momonga marveled, turning in slow circles. "The moon alone provides enough light. I wish Blue Planet were here to witness this world's—"
"Transcendent perfection," Thor finished, his voice carrying reverence typically reserved for the battlefield's aftermath, when silence falls and warriors count their dead. "The stars don't merely shine—they triumph. Each one a victory against the void."
"I believe," Demiurge interjected, his tone hushed with something approaching worship, "this world exists so that you both may claim its infinite riches as your rightful domain. And we Guardians exist solely to facilitate that glorious conquest."
"Hmm." Momonga tilted his skull, considering. "You might be right. Perhaps we were transported here specifically to seize these treasures—every jewel beneath these stars, every wonder that glitters in this new reality. But..."
"But to hoard such beauty for ourselves alone," Thor continued seamlessly, "would be the act of cowards. Of misers who mistake possession for power."
"Instead," Momonga's voice strengthened with conviction, "we could use these treasures to glorify the Great Tomb itself. To adorn its halls, enrich its guardians, and honor our absent friends of Ainz Ooal Gown."
"If you wish it," Demiurge declared with fervent intensity, "we will mobilize every force Nazarick commands. Every soldier, every spell, every drop of blood if necessary—all to secure your rightful dominion over this world!"
The proclamation hung in the air like a battle standard planted in conquered earth.
Thor laughed—not his earlier explosive mirth, but something quieter, more thoughtful. "Ambitious words for uncertain times."
"We don't even know what exists in this world," Momonga added, pragmatic as always.
"True." Thor's crimson eyes swept across the horizon, drinking in the landscape below. "Perhaps premature to plot conquest when we've barely glimpsed the battlefield. And yet..."
His gaze met Momonga's empty sockets. Some understanding passed between them—unspoken, electric, dangerous.
"The most exhilarating path forward," Thor began.
"Might indeed be claiming this world as our own," Momonga concluded.
They spoke as one: "Taking over the world."
The words resonated, echoing across the night sky like a prophecy spoken into being.
Demiurge gasped—an actual, audible inhalation of shock and delight. His tail whipped through the air with barely restrained excitement.
Who am I kidding? Momonga thought privately, his internal voice heavy with doubt. There's no way we could actually pull off world domination. The logistics alone would be nightmarish.
"Although," Thor mused aloud, "one question lingers like a ghost at the feast."
"What question?" Demiurge asked.
"Are we truly the only players transported from Yggdrasil?" Thor's eyes narrowed, scanning the distant horizon as if expecting to spot fellow gamers waving from across the leagues. "Or do others wander this New World, equally displaced and confused?"
Our Message skills reached no one, Momonga reflected. But that could mean distance, not absence. Perhaps the magic itself changed in translation between worlds.
If other players exist here, Thor considered, we need them to know that Ainz Ooal Gown endures. That the guild survived the end. We need...
His thoughts crystallized into certainty: We need to become legend.
A thunderous CRASH shattered their contemplation.
Below, near the tomb's entrance, a massive wave of earth exploded upward. It struck the protective wall with the force of a siege weapon, dirt and stone fountaining skyward in a spectacular display of destructive power.
"Earth Surge." Momonga's voice carried professional appreciation. "Mare's using a skill to expand his spell's area of effect, combined with his class abilities to amplify the raw power. Impressive."
"The boy has potential," Thor agreed, nodding with satisfaction. "With proper guidance, he could reshape continents."
"My lords," Demiurge interjected carefully, "may I inquire about your intentions?"
Thor and Momonga exchanged another meaningful glance.
"Perhaps," Thor suggested, lips curving, "we should reward Mare's diligent efforts?"
"Indeed. What would be appropriate?" Momonga pondered.
"I am certain," Demiurge offered, "that he would treasure your acknowledgment above any material reward, my lords."
Agreement reached, they descended.
They landed near the wall's edge with varying degrees of dramatic flair—Momonga with skeletal grace, Demiurge with demonic precision, Thor with the thunderous impact of a meteor choosing to be gentle. The ground trembled slightly beneath his boots.
Mare jumped like a startled rabbit, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates.
"Oh! Lord Momonga! And Lord Thor!" The boy's voice pitched higher with panic. "Why are you both here? Oh no, did I make a mistake already? Was the angle wrong? Was I too rough with the foundation? Should I—"
"Peace, young one." Thor's voice rolled forth, firm but warm—the tone of a veteran warrior addressing a nervous recruit. "Your work is nothing short of exemplary."
"It will protect Nazarick from intruders," Momonga added, "and serve as the foundation for our future operations."
"R-Really?" Mare's anxiety began melting like snow in spring.
"Really." Thor stepped closer, his massive presence somehow protective rather than threatening. "I've witnessed the preparations of countless armies, the fortifications of a thousand citadels. Your craftsmanship would make seasoned engineers weep with envy."
"Your performance thus far," Momonga continued, "has exceeded all expectations."
"Um. Thank you, Lord Momonga..." Mare's voice trembled with emotion. "And thank you, Lord Thor."
"I would like you to have this."
Momonga's skeletal hand opened, revealing a ring that gleamed with inner radiance. The Ring of Ainz Ooal Gown—symbol of the guild's highest honor, mark of Supreme Being status, artifact of legend.
Mare's jaw dropped so fast it nearly dislocated. "That's... that's a Ring of Ainz Ooal Gown!" His voice cracked between octaves. "But only Supreme Beings are permitted to wear such sacred items! I can't possibly accept this! I'm not worthy! I'm just—"
"Heh." Thor's chuckle rumbled like distant thunder on a clear day. "Such honesty. Refreshing as mountain air."
"There's no need for panic, Mare," Momonga soothed.
"Huh?"
"Moving between Nazarick's floors requires significant effort and time," Momonga explained patiently. "This ring will allow you to teleport freely, completing your assigned tasks with far greater efficiency. Now—take this ring and serve Nazarick well."
Mare's hands trembled as he accepted the artifact, holding it like it might shatter at any moment. Tears gleamed in his eyes, catching starlight.
"Thank you so very much, Lord Momonga! I'll work extra, extra hard for you and the honor of Nazarick, I swear it! I'll be worthy of this gift! I'll—I'll—" Words failed him, drowning in gratitude.
"We are depending on you, Mare," Momonga said gently.
"Yes!" Mare practically vibrated with determination. Then his expression shifted to curiosity. "By the way, my lords, I was wondering... why are you dressed like that? The armor is magnificent, but it's not your usual—"
"Well..." Thor began.
"U-Uh, um..." Momonga stammered, searching for explanation.
"It's quite simple, Mare."
The voice cut through their fumbling like a knife through silk. Albedo materialized from the shadows—or perhaps she'd been there all along and simply chosen that moment to make her presence known. The Overseer of the Guardians moved with predatory grace, each step calculated, her golden eyes gleaming with intelligence and something darker.
"Albedo," Demiurge acknowledged with a slight nod.
"They disguise themselves for our benefit," Albedo continued, her voice honey-smooth. "They didn't want to distract us from our duties. If we knew they were observing, we would cease all work to properly venerate them. Projects would stall. Tasks would remain incomplete. It's consideration of the highest order." Her gaze shifted to the two Supreme Beings, sharpening with foxlike cunning. "Isn't that right, my lords?"
Thor's lips curved into a smile that acknowledged the game. "As expected of Albedo. Your insight cuts through confusion like a blade through morning mist."
He moved toward her with deliberate steps, each footfall measured, theatrical. The others watched in silence—audience to a performance they couldn't quite interpret.
Albedo's expression remained professionally neutral, but her tail—that treacherous appendage—swished with barely concealed anticipation.
"I'm the leader of the Floor Guardians, Lord Thor," she said, voice steady despite the tension crackling between them like static electricity. "But even without that title, I'm certain I would sense your thoughts and feelings as if they were my own. We are... connected."
The word hung heavy with implication.
"Is that so?" Mare murmured, confused but fascinated.
Albedo's gaze dropped to the ring now adorning Mare's finger. Her expression flickered—just for an instant, just enough—with something that might have been jealousy before professional composure reasserted control.
But Thor had seen it. And Thor smiled wider.
"Is something wrong, master?" Albedo asked Momonga, noticing his sudden tension.
"U-Uh, no. Nothing at all."
"Heh." Thor's chuckle carried dark amusement.
"Right, then." Momonga's voice pitched higher with relief at the escape opportunity. "Mare, sorry for interrupting your important work. You may return to your duties now."
"I'll get right on it, my lords! Please excuse me!" Mare bowed so deeply he nearly toppled forward, then scurried back to his earth-shaping with renewed vigor.
Thor turned his full attention to Albedo, and the temperature seemed to drop by several degrees—or perhaps rise. Hard to tell with the contradictory sensations that god's presence inspired.
"Albedo," he rumbled, voice pitched for her ears alone despite the audience. "You should have one as well."
"Have one?" She tilted her head with false innocence that would have fooled precisely no one. "Of what, my lord?"
Thor's laugh was quiet thunder, intimate apocalypse. His hand—scarred, powerful, gentle—reached out to grasp hers. She didn't resist. Couldn't resist, perhaps, caught in the gravity well of his presence.
He removed a guild ring from his own finger—gold catching starlight, inscribed with runes of power and brotherhood—and with ceremonial slowness, slid it onto her left ring finger.
The symbolism was not lost on anyone present. Especially not Albedo, whose breath hitched audibly.
"This will facilitate your duties as administrator of the Guardians," Thor stated formally, though his eyes burned with something far less professional. "Use it wisely."
"Thank you very much," Albedo whispered, staring at the ring as if it had transformed into the most precious treasure in all creation.
Which, from her perspective, it likely had.
Thor studied her face—taking in every detail, every microexpression, cataloging them with warrior's precision. Then his hand rose, fingers curling beneath her chin, tilting her face upward until their eyes met.
Crimson and gold.
Thunder and desire.
God and creation.
"Work diligently," Thor commanded, voice dropping to a growl that resonated in places that had nothing to do with ears, "my Succubus."
The possessive pronoun landed like a hammer blow. Albedo's face flushed crimson, her composure cracking like thin ice beneath summer sun.
"Demiurge," Momonga interjected hastily, clearly uncomfortable with the mounting tension, "I will prepare a ring for you at a later time."
"I understand, my lord." Demiurge bowed gracefully, apparently unperturbed by being temporarily excluded. "I only hope that one day, I can prove myself worthy of such a sacred treasure."
"We have accomplished our objectives here," Momonga declared, already beginning his teleportation preparations. "We will return to the tomb before causing further distractions."
Light enveloped the skeleton, and he vanished with anticlimactic efficiency.
Thor remained.
He stepped closer to Albedo, invading her personal space with the casual arrogance of one who believed all space was inherently his. His lips descended to her ear, and he whispered words meant for her alone—words that made her spine straighten and her wings quiver involuntarily.
"Work hard, my dear Succubus," his breath ghosted across her skin, "and your rewards shall be... proportional to your efforts."
Then, with speed that defied his massive frame, his hand descended. The sharp CRACK of his palm striking her rear echoed across the night like a miniature thunderclap.
Albedo yelped—surprise and something else entirely—as Thor vanished in a flash of light, teleporting back to the tomb with theatrical timing that would make dramatists weep with envy.
"Oh, YES!" Albedo's cry split the night, equal parts frustration and ecstasy, her voice carrying across the landscape with all the subtlety of a war horn.
Demiurge coughed politely, adjusting his glasses with studied nonchalance.
The stars above continued their eternal dance, indifferent to the dramas of mortals and gods below.
To Be Continued