Chapter 5: When Gods Walk Among Mortals
Thunder incarnate lay sprawled across the obsidian couch like a war deity at rest—which, technically speaking, he was. Thor's massive frame dwarfed the furniture in Momonga's personal office, his crimson hair spilling across velvet cushions while battle-scarred arms folded behind his head. The God of Thunder watched through half-lidded eyes as Momonga stood before an ornate mirror, Sebas positioned at his master's side with the stillness of a statue awaiting orders.
"Hm..." Momonga's skeletal fingers traced the mirror's gilded edge.
The Mirror of Remote Viewing. If I can master this artifact, Nazarick's perimeter becomes an impenetrable fortress. Every blade of grass, every wandering soul—all laid bare before us.
From the couch, Thor's thoughts rumbled like distant storms. You'll crack it, Momonga. A warrior knows when his brother-in-arms has the mettle.
As if the universe itself bent to expectation, the mirror's surface rippled—liquid silver transforming into crystalline clarity. Images danced across its face like memories given form. Momonga stepped back, the crimson pinpricks of his eye sockets flaring with satisfaction, while Sebas offered a measured applause that echoed through the chamber like the closing of a coffin lid.
"Congratulations, my lord. Your success was inevitable."
"Your confidence sustains me, Sebas." Momonga inclined his skull in acknowledgment.
"Oi, what am I then? Yesterday's mead?" Thor's baritone rolled across the room, thunder without the lightning.
"Your support equally fortifies my resolve, Thor."
"Of course, my lord." Sebas's gloved hand pressed against his chest. "Lord Touch Me forged me for precisely this purpose—to execute your commands, no matter how mundane or monumentally complex. I am the instrument of your will."
"That's our Sebas—loyalty carved into flesh and bone." Thor's lips quirked upward, the ghost of battles won and brothers trusted.
"Very well." Momonga's robes whispered across marble as he approached the mirror. "Let us pierce the veil of this new world."
The Mirror of Remote Viewing became their eye into the unknown. Minutes crawled by as Momonga swept his consciousness across the landscape—forests thick as conspiracies, mountains that clawed at heaven, valleys where shadows pooled like spilled ink. Then something snagged his attention, sharp as a blade catching moonlight.
"Hm. A festival perhaps? No..." His voice dropped, frost creeping into undeath's hollow tones. "Those men wear armor, yet their movements lack a bandit's desperation."
Thor's interest sparked like flint on steel. The God of Thunder rose from the couch—a mountain deciding to walk—and crossed the chamber in three ground-eating strides. His presence arrived before his body did, the air growing heavy with the pressure of divinity contained in mortal(ish) form.
What the mirror revealed could make stones weep.
Armored knights—if such a noble word could be prostituted to describe these creatures—moved through a village like reapers through wheat. Their blades rose and fell with mechanical precision, harvesting screams instead of grain. Bodies crumpled. Children scattered like frightened sparrows. Blood painted the earth in abstract patterns that would haunt even the blind.
Thor's jaw tightened, muscles coiling beneath sun-kissed skin. His eyes—ancient as mountains, cold as the void between stars—narrowed to slits. He'd seen countless battlefields across countless realms, stood knee-deep in the gore of worthy opponents. But this? This was no battle. This was extermination wearing honor's stolen face.
He noticed Momonga frozen in contemplation, the Overlord's skull tilted at that particular angle that suggested internal calculations. Perhaps puzzling over his own absence of emotion, the strange disconnect between witnessing atrocity and feeling... nothing. Race and class changes ran deeper than flesh—they carved new channels through the soul itself, redirected rivers of empathy into different seas.
"What are your orders?" Sebas's voice cut through the silence like a executioner's question.
"Leave them be."
The words landed with finality. Thor's thoughts pressed against the command like a hand testing a blade's edge. Is that your true will, Momonga? Or fear masquerading as pragmatism?
"I see no compelling reason to interfere in the affairs of this world's inhabitants." Momonga's tone remained neutral, analytical—the voice of mathematics solving flesh-and-blood equations.
"As you wish, my lord."
But something shifted in that moment. Both Thor and Momonga witnessed it—the subtle straightening of Sebas's spine, the infinitesimal adjustment of his posture that transformed him from butler to something... else. Someone else. The ghost of Touch Me flickered across Sebas's features like sunlight through storm clouds, there and gone but impossible to unsee.
"Touch Me?" Momonga whispered, and that single name contained galaxies of meaning.
Memory crashed through mental barriers like Thor's hammer through enemy ranks. The past rose—vivid, visceral, inevitable. Momonga remembered the day he'd first met both Thor and Touch Me, when player-killers had cornered him in some forgotten digital wasteland. They'd hunted him for sport, for the crime of choosing a grotesque avatar in a world that punished deviation.
Then Touch Me had arrived—justice wearing armor, righteousness wielding steel—and Thor had followed, thunder made flesh, standing against the tide because some things transcended game mechanics and guild politics. They'd fought because it was right, that simple and that complex, that foolish and that necessary.
The memory settled into Momonga's bones like truth into legend.
I suppose the moment arrives when hesitation transforms into cowardice, Momonga thought, decision crystallizing like ice forming across still water.
Testing our strength in this new world, Thor agreed silently, his mental voice resonating with approval. Postponement solves nothing. Better to learn our limits now than when stakes climb higher.
"Sebas." Momonga's command carried the weight of finality. "We visit the village. Elevate Nazarick's security protocols to maximum—every trap armed, every guardian alert, every shadow watching."
"Inform Albedo to meet us there." Thor's voice rumbled through the chamber like an approaching storm. "Battle-ready. Armed for war."
"Additionally, prepare our reserves," Momonga continued. "I want soldiers skilled in stealth and invisibility, positioned for immediate deployment. If this is a trap, we spring it on our terms."
"Consider it accomplished." Sebas bowed—a movement so perfectly executed it looked rehearsed by angels.
I will honor your example, Touch Me, Momonga vowed silently. Your shadow stretches across worlds, it seems. I pray I'm worthy of walking in its shade.
Thor's grin split his face like a crack splitting stone—all teeth and anticipation and the savage joy of a warrior entering his element. "Finally. Here we go."
"Gate."
Reality tore like wet parchment. The portal yawned open—a mouth lined with magical teeth, exhaling otherworldly winds that smelled of ozone and possibility. Beyond it, screams painted the air in shades of terror.
The forest near the dying village held its breath, trees leaning in like spectators at an execution. Between ancient oaks and younger ash, a blonde girl had become a living shield, her body absorbing sword strikes meant for the smaller figure cowering beneath her. Each blow carved fresh geography across her back—rivers of crimson mapping her devotion.
"Enri!" The younger girl's voice cracked like breaking glass.
The knight—and oh, how that word curdled on the tongue when applied to this creature—laughed. The sound belonged in nightmares and torture chambers, high and brittle and absolutely delighted. He raised his blade again, sunlight catching its edge, blood still wet from previous victims sliding down the steel in slow, accusatory drips.
"Don't look!" Enri commanded, curling tighter around her sister, making herself fortress and tomb simultaneously.
Her father's final words echoed through memory's corridors: Protect her. Run. Live for both of us. She'd watched him stand against three knights, buying seconds with his life, spending himself like copper coins to purchase their escape. The image of his falling body followed her through the forest—ghost companion, eternal witness.
There has to be a way, Enri thought desperately, consciousness fracturing under pain and fear and the terrible mathematics of imminent death. Some path forward. Some miracle. Some—
One knight gasped—the sound sharp and sudden as a branch snapping underfoot. His sword arm trembled. His eyes widened until white showed all around the irises, pupils contracting to pinpricks.
"What... what is that?" The words stumbled from his mouth like drunks from a tavern.
Enri followed his gaze upward. Terror transformed to confusion transformed to awe.
The tree had grown a doorway. Or perhaps reality itself had decided to bleed—purple-black energy crackling around the edges of a portal that should not exist in the natural order of things. A skeletal hand emerged first, finger bones clicking against each other with the delicate precision of a master pianist warming up. Then came Momonga—death wearing wizard's robes, power condensed into bleached bone, eye sockets blazing with crimson malevolence that suggested every nightmare children whispered about was real and patient and here.
Behind him, the portal vomited something else. Someone else.
Thor stepped through like war itself accepting an invitation. His true divine form made reality strain—the air grew thick as honey, pressure building behind mortal eyeballs, the sensation of standing too close to a lightning strike stretched across entire seconds. Crimson hair fell past shoulders that had shrugged off mountains. His eyes held the cold promise of oblivion—not cruel, not kind, simply absolute. He wore minimal armor, as if protecting his body was an afterthought when his very presence served as shield and weapon simultaneously.
"Prepare for judgment, you pitiful insects." Thor's voice wasn't loud—didn't need to be. It resonated in bone marrow and tooth enamel, vibrated in the hollow spaces of the skull where primal fear made its nest.
"Grasp Heart."
Momonga's spell manifested as invisible fingers closing around invisible flesh. The targeted knight groaned—a sound dredged up from his stomach, dragged through his throat, expelled with his final breath. His sword clattered to earth. His body followed, armor clanging like funeral bells announcing his departure from the mortal coil.
His comrades stood frozen, caught between fight and flight, that terrible moment when the brain acknowledges death's proximity but the body hasn't quite accepted the news.
The spell functioned perfectly, Momonga observed with scientific detachment. Ninth-tier magic remains potent in this world. Had it failed, retreat would have been prudent. Knowledge purchased with risk, but not with recklessness.
Clean kill, Thor agreed silently, appreciation coloring his thoughts. Fear is half the battle. You've already won the psychological war.
Indeed. Though I could deploy my melee form if necessary, I'd prefer reserving that revelation for worthier opponents.
Never reveal all your weapons in the first exchange, Thor counseled. Let them die wondering what else you had waiting in reserve.
"It's a monster!" The surviving knight's voice cracked three octaves, puberty revisited through terror's lens.
Interesting, Momonga noted clinically. I felt nothing. No satisfaction, no revulsion, no weight of conscience. The kill registered with the same emotional resonance as stepping on an insect. I've transcended humanity in biology and psychology both—evolutionary divergence complete.
The transformation runs deeper than appearance, Thor observed, his divine consciousness tracing the contours of Momonga's altered nature. You've become something else. Something new. The question remains—what will you do with what you've become?
"What manner of man slaughters women and children," Thor's voice dropped to a growl that made the surviving knight's bladder contemplate surrender, "yet trembles before honest combat?" He stepped forward—one stride eating ten feet of ground. "Your cowardice offends me. Your existence disgusts me. You'll serve as my laboratory rat whether you consent or not. Hakai."
Purple energy erupted around the knight like a miniature star going supernova. He opened his mouth to scream but the sound disintegrated before it formed, molecules separating, atoms divorcing, energy scattering to cosmic winds. His armor clattered to earth—empty, echoing, a steel coffin without its corpse.
In three seconds, he'd been erased. Not killed—unmade. Removed from existence with the casual finality of an author deleting a sentence.
"Pathetic." Thor spat the word like a curse, like poison, like contempt given verbal form.
"Let's experiment with the necromantic arts." Momonga's robes whispered as he gestured. "Death Knight!"
Dark ichor materialized from nowhere—or perhaps from the spaces between nowhere and somewhere, reality's back-alleys where impossible things waited for invitations. The substance poured from Momonga's palm like liquid midnight, spattering across the fallen knight's corpse. For one heartbeat nothing happened.
Then the body convulsed.
Flesh bubbled. Bones cracked and reformed, geometry rewriting itself according to new architectural principles. The corpse expanded—shoulders broadening, spine elongating, limbs thickening with supernatural musculature. Armor fused with bone. Bone married with shadow. Shadow birthed something that had never walked under sun or moon, something that belonged to death now, irrevocably and enthusiastically.
The Death Knight rose—seven feet of animated nightmare, eyes burning with unholy green fire, a roar tearing from its throat that sounded like coffin lids slamming shut in unison.
By the Norns, Thor thought, genuine surprise coloring his mental voice. It consumed the corpse itself. In Yggdrasil, summoned creatures simply manifested. This world's rules run deeper, stranger. Magic adapts here. Evolves.
"Death Knight," Momonga commanded, pointing toward the village, "eliminate anyone matching the armor description of these fallen soldiers."
The creature charged—thundering through underbrush, leaving destruction in its wake, a missile of bone and hatred and terrible purpose.
Silence stretched in its absence. Thor and Momonga exchanged glances—wordless communication honed through countless battles and guild meetings and late-night strategy sessions that felt like lifetimes ago.
"Huh." Thor scratched his jaw. "Well then."
Tactical error, Momonga chastised himself. I summoned a defensive unit then immediately dispatched it. The strategy lacks coherence. I must recalibrate, think three moves ahead, remember that power without planning is just noise.
Yeah, you should refine your command structure, Thor agreed, though amusement threaded through his thoughts. But we all stumble on the first day of conquest. Learn now while the mistakes are small.
Reality split again—the Gate reopening, disgorging one more passenger.
Albedo emerged like vengeance wearing a dress. Her wings spread wide, catching firelight that shouldn't exist in a forest clearing, her armor gleaming with the polish of fanatic devotion. Beauty and lethality had been poured into female form, then set to simmer until both qualities achieved perfection's dangerous edge.
"Forgive my tardiness, my lords." She bowed—movement fluid as silk sliding off skin. "The wait must have been intolerable."
"Your timing proves impeccable, Albedo." Thor's expression softened fractionally, the way mountains soften when spring arrives. "Punctuality is arriving precisely when needed, not merely when scheduled."
"Your generosity honors me, Lord Thor." Albedo straightened, eyes scanning the clearing with predator's efficiency. "Now then—how shall I dispose of these insignificant lower life forms? Slowly? Creatively? Alphabetically?"
Thor's gaze drifted to the sisters—still huddled together, eyes wide as dinner plates, bodies trembling with aftershock trauma. They'd watched gods descend. Watched men die. Watched the fundamental laws of their world rewritten in real-time.
Understanding bloomed behind Thor's eyes like flowers punching through concrete.
"These two pose no threat," Momonga stated, voice carrying absolute certainty. "The armored humans are our adversaries. Focus your considerable talents accordingly."
"I understand completely, my lord."
Thor approached the sisters—each footfall measured, non-threatening, the careful movement of a warrior who knows his own capacity for destruction and consciously restrains it. Divine light haloed his form as power contracted, compressed, transformed. His true godly physique condensed into something more... manageable. Still tall, still radiating presence, but human-adjacent now. Mortal-compatible.
He knelt—bringing his eyes level with Enri's, close enough to see fear and pain and desperate courage warring across her young face. The wound on her back leaked crimson accusations.
"You're bleeding, little one." His voice had lost its thunder, gentled to summer rain on leaves. "Drink this. It will help."
From seemingly nowhere—pocket dimension? Magical storage? Divine sleight of hand?—he produced a vial containing liquid that glowed like captured rubies.
"Blood?" Enri's voice trembled. "If you insist, I'll... I'll drink it. But my—"
"NO! Don't do it, Enri!" The younger sister threw herself forward, tiny body interposing between threat and beloved sibling.
"Nemu!?"
"It's alright, little—" Thor began, patience infinite as oceans.
"How dare you!" Albedo's screech could have shattered glass, curdled milk, stopped hearts mid-beat. Her weapon materialized—vicious, elegant, absolutely committed to violence. "Insects reject charity from GODS? I'll teach you gratitude carved into your worthless flesh!"
Both girls gasped—sound sucked into lungs that might never exhale again. Albedo reared back, weapon raised high, judgment about to fall like a guillotine blade.
"ALBEDO!"
Thor's voice detonated. Not loud—massive. It didn't echo—it EXISTED, occupying space usually reserved for other sounds. The shout contained layers: command, fury, divine authority wielded like a bludgeon, disappointment sharper than any blade.
The universe held its breath.
Albedo froze mid-strike, weapon trembling in her grip. Momonga's skeletal form had gone absolutely still, every instinct screaming that they'd reached a precipice, and the next second would determine whether they plunged or retreated.
Thor had revealed his true anger—the cold, infinite, terrible wrath of divinity offended. Not by defiance, but by cruelty to the helpless. The air grew arctic. Pressure built. For one terrible moment, even Albedo—created to be supremely powerful—faced the reality of her comparative insignificance.
"Lower. Your. Weapon." Each word landed like hammer blows, forging silence from sound.
"As... as you command, Lord Thor." Albedo's voice had shrunk, terror replacing zealotry. Her weapon lowered—not surrendered, but leashed. Chastised.
Thor's expression softened, anger draining like water finding lower ground. He returned his attention to the sisters, voice gentling instantly. "This isn't blood, little ones. It's a healing potion—medicine distilled into liquid form. I'm not here to harm you. I'm here to help."
Enri studied his face—searching for lies, finding only sincerity. With trembling hands, she accepted the vial. The liquid slid down her throat like honey mixed with starlight. Warmth spread through her torso, pooling in the wounds on her back. Green luminescence haloed her spine—flesh knitting together, pain evaporating like morning dew under noon sun.
Within heartbeats, the injuries had vanished. Scars didn't even remain—just unmarked skin, as if the violence had never occurred.
"Wow..." Enri breathed the word like prayer, like prophecy, like the first word learned in a new language.
"The pain—it's gone?" Thor asked, though he already knew. Still, asking demonstrated care, and care built trust, and trust was the foundation of everything that mattered.
"Yes. Completely gone."
"Good. I'm very glad." Thor's massive hands—hands that had crushed giants, shattered weapons, broken armies—gently patted both sisters' heads. The gesture radiated such profound tenderness that even hardened warriors would have wept witnessing it.
Albedo watched, confusion etched across perfect features. "Lord Thor... why extend such kindness to these lower life forms? They're barely sentient by our standards, their lives measured in decades rather than millennia, their power nonexistent compared to your divine might."
Silence stretched. Thor's jaw worked, grinding words before speaking them, weighing each syllable for truth and necessity.
"Because," he finally said, voice carrying weight that bent the air, "I choose to."
"But my lord—"
"They've suffered. Their world collapsed. Their parents died—violently, recently, definitively. They need protection, guidance, purpose. They need someone to demonstrate that strength doesn't automatically equate to cruelty, that power can build as easily as it destroys."
Momonga shifted, skeletal frame broadcasting curiosity through body language alone. "Thor, where exactly are you going with this?"
Thor looked at the sisters. Looked at Albedo. Looked at Momonga. Then smiled—broad and genuine and absolutely committed to the insane idea crystallizing in his divine consciousness.
"I'm adopting them."
The words landed like meteors.
Silence.
Profound, absolute, universe-pausing silence.
"WHAT?!" Three voices in discordant harmony—Momonga's hollow shock, Albedo's scandalized shriek, and both sisters' breathless confusion.
"Are you absolutely certain?" Momonga managed, recovering first. "That's... quite the commitment."
"But Lord Thor, why?" Albedo's voice climbed three octaves. "They're mortal. Temporary. Fragile as spun glass."
"Precisely why they need protection." Thor's expression had settled into determination—immovable as continental plates. "These girls have lost everything. Their parents sacrificed themselves buying seconds. They have no home, no safety, no future beyond starvation or slavery. I can provide all three. I will provide all three."
He turned to Albedo, eyes softening. "Perhaps you could assist me? Raising children requires patience, wisdom, and a feminine perspective. You possess all three—when you're not threatening to murder innocents for minor protocol violations."
Albedo's cheeks flushed crimson—caught between horror, flattery, and something dangerously close to maternal instinct awakening. "Well... if you command it, Lord Thor... I suppose I could... manage..."
"I don't oppose your decision," Momonga stated carefully, tone diplomatic as treaties between hostile nations. "But understand—this responsibility falls entirely on your shoulders. Care for them properly. Protect them fiercely. They're your daughters now."
"Daughters." Thor tested the word, rolling it around his mouth like fine wine. "I like how that sounds. Alright then!" His grin could have lit cities. "You two fine with having a god for a father? I promise happiness, safety, every dessert imaginable, and a family that'll move mountains—sometimes literally—to keep you whole."
Enri glanced at Nemu. Nemu stared up at Thor—seeing strength tempered with kindness, power wielded with restraint, divinity choosing compassion over indifference. Her eyes sparkled like stars reflected in wells.
Mother and Father are gone, Enri thought, the truth settling like stones in still water. I can't protect Nemu alone. But this man—this god—he could. He wants to. He's offering what I cannot provide: genuine safety. Real hope.
"We accept." Enri's voice carried weight beyond her years. "We'll be your daughters."
Thor erupted—joy transforming into kinetic energy. He swept both girls into a crushing hug, laughing with delight that rumbled from his chest like benevolent earthquakes. Then he released them, spun toward Albedo, and before she could protest, pulled her into an embrace while peppering her cheek with grateful kisses.
Albedo went rigid—then melted, blushing so furiously she resembled a tomato attempting human cosplay. "My lord... not in front of... this is hardly... oh fine, I suppose I don't entirely mind..."
Momonga chuckled—sound like wind through crypts, but genuinely amused. "Well then. Now that we've established domestic arrangements, allow me to address practical concerns."
He approached the sisters, who now watched him with reduced terror—still wary, but willing to trust their new father's allies. "Tell me—have you encountered magic before?"
"Yes, my lord." Enri bowed instinctively, courtesy overriding confusion. "A friend visits our village sometimes. He's a pharmacist who practices minor magic."
"Perfect. This simplifies explanation considerably." Momonga gestured, and reality obeyed. "Anti-Life Cocoon. Protection from Arrows Wall."
Translucent barriers shimmered into existence—layered defenses wrapping around the sisters like a mother's embrace rendered into spell form. The magic hummed, barely audible, protection given voice.
"Two defensive enchantments now shield you both. As long as you remain within their boundaries, conventional weapons cannot harm you."
Thor produced two horns from his belt—carved from material that seemed to shift between ivory and moonlight. "Additionally, take these. Blow them if danger approaches. Goblin armies will manifest to defend you—completely loyal, utterly ruthless, and only answering to whoever commands them. Don't hesitate if threatened. Survival first, questions later."
"Excuse me!" Enri's voice broke slightly. "Thank you! Both of you! We're forever grateful—we'll never forget this kindness!"
"Thank you very much, Mister and P-P-Pa—!" Nemu's courage failed at the final word, caught between old reality and new possibility.
"It's alright, little one." Thor's smile could have gentled dragons. "Say it when you're ready. No rush. Family isn't built in moments—it's constructed through countless small actions, day after patient day."
"It was our pleasure," Momonga assured them, inclining his skull. "Truly."
"Wait!" Enri called as the three began turning away. "Please—may I know the names of our saviors?"
"Our names?" Momonga repeated, and something shifted in his bearing.
Yes, his thoughts whispered. They should know. Everyone should know. This is where it begins.
Go ahead, Momonga, Thor encouraged silently. Plant the seeds. Let the legend grow.
Momonga's skeletal grin widened—death learning to smile with genuine satisfaction. "Remember it well. Speak it to all who'll listen. Let the name echo through this world until mountains remember and rivers sing. I am Ainz Ooal Gown!"
"And I," Thor stepped forward, presence expanding until godhood became undeniable, "am already known to some. But allow me to reintroduce myself properly—your new father, the strongest Norse god, the one who stands between order and chaos:" His voice dropped to thunder, to prophecy, to the sound that precedes lightning. "Thor, God of Thunder!"
The words hung in air thick with destiny. Somewhere, fate adjusted its calculations. History began rewriting itself, ink still wet, outcome uncertain.
The sisters stared—no longer at saviors, but at legends deciding to walk among mortals.
And in that moment, everything changed.
— TO BE CONTINUED —