CHAPTER VII: THE MASQUERADE OF FLESH AND BONE
"We're here," Lionel announced, his boots kissing earth with barely a whisper.
The landing zone sprawled far from the city's watchful walls—far enough that the stationed sentinels wouldn't witness three bodies and their master descending from the darkening sky like fallen stars. Like omens. Like plagues wrapped in silk and smiles.
Too suspicious, Lionel thought, eyeing his companions. Walking into town with three girls who look like they've stepped straight out of a coronation portrait? Might as well ring bells and announce 'Attention, peasants: suspicious individuals incoming.'
His fingers twitched, twitched, twitched—the Mold responding to thought made manifest. Between one breath and the next, a jar materialized in his palm, its surface writhing with microscopic life. Pulsing. Breathing. Waiting.
"I don't think you could really blend in," Lionel said carefully, his voice pitched low and cautious. "Here—disperse into flies and slip inside. Simple. Clean. Unnoticed."
He already knew the answer. Could taste the refusal forming in the air between them like copper on his tongue.
"Absolutely not." Bela's arms crossed with the finality of a coffin lid slamming shut. Her lower lip jutted forward—a pout that had probably toppled kingdoms in another life, another world. "You brought us with you, Creator. We're going to experience being adventurers fully. Completely. Thoroughly."
"Worth a try." Lionel's laughter tumbled out—half amusement, half resignation—as he started toward the city walls.
Behind him, the three sisters practically danced forward, their movements light and lilting, skipping-hopping-gliding as they drank in sights both strange and spectacular. New world. New wonders. New prey.
The outermost wall loomed before them—stone and steel and the stolid certainty of military might.
They passed through without incident, without question, without consequence.
The interior spread before them like a war-merchant's wet dream: weapons gleaming in ordered rows, armor stacked with geometric precision, troops marching in synchronized thump-thump-thump rhythms that echoed off cobblestones like mechanical heartbeats.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The sound of an empire's pulse.
Lionel approached a guard stationed near a weapons rack—the knight's posture straight-backed and professional, his armor polished to mirror-brightness.
"Hey, excuse me." Lionel's hand landed gently on the knight's pauldron. Tap-tap. "Where's the Adventurer's Guild?"
"The Adventurer's Guild?" The guard turned, his expression shifting from military neutrality to helpful courtesy. "That's in the middle district. Can't give you exact coordinates—the building's been moved around a few times—but if you wander a bit, you'll find it eventually. Can't miss it, really. Big building. Lots of loud people."
"Much appreciated."
Lionel nodded his thanks, turning to leave.
Behind him—behind him—the guard's gaze lingered. Lingered and narrowed. His eyes tracked from Lionel's retreating to the three elven beauties following in his wake like exotic birds trailing a falconer.
Three elven slaves.
The guard's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding with the sound of stone on stone.
He knew only one person shameless enough, arrogant enough to parade around E-Rantel with three enslaved elves like trophies on display.
Erya Uzruth.
That bastard.
The middle district unfolded before them—commerce and chaos intermingled, the scent of fresh bread mixing with horse manure and human sweat in that particular urban perfume that defined every city across every world.
"There it is," Lionel said, pointing.
The Adventurer's Guild stood before them like a promise carved in timber and stone—its sign creaking in the wind with a rusty screee-screee-screee that spoke of hinges long overdue for oil.
The girls giggled—a sound like breaking glass and tinkling bells, beautiful and dangerous in equal measure.
This is it. The beginning. The starting point of their adventure.
Lionel's hand pressed against the door—wood warm beneath his palm—and pushed.
Creeeeeak.
The interior sprawled before them, and Lionel's shoulders sagged immediately.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
The most generic-looking troublemakers he'd ever seen occupied the space like territorial animals claiming a watering hole. Leather armor that had seen better decades. Scarred faces arranged in expressions of practiced menace. Weapons displayed with all the subtlety of peacocks fanning their tail feathers.
I don't want to fight, Lionel thought desperately. I really, truly, genuinely don't want to—
But the three sisters behind him radiated anticipation like heat from a forge.
And worse—oh, so much worse—the men had noticed them.
Had noticed them and were now staring with eyes that glazed over with the particular brand of stupidity that testosterone and poor decision-making skills produced when combined in lethal quantities.
"Hey!" Generic Douchebag Number One swaggered forward, his grin wide enough to reveal teeth that had clearly never met a dentist. "Why don't you ditch this newbie and go on an adventure with real adventurers like us?"
He gestured to his companions—all of them sharing the same lecherous expression, the same predatory lean, the same fundamental idiocy that preceded most preventable deaths.
"Couldn't help but notice—" Generic Douchebag Number Two stepped closer, close enough that Lionel could smell the ale on his breath, sour and stale and stomach-turning. "—that expensive jewelry around your necks. If you're royalty in need of an escort, we can provide much better services. At a very reasonable cost."
He winked at Bela.
Winked.
And Bela—oh, clever, terrible Bela—smiled back.
Seductive. Sultry. Sinister.
"Indeed, we are," Daniela purred, her voice honey-sweet and venom-laced. Her finger—one single, delicate finger—pressed against the man's chest before trailing downward. Slow. Deliberate. Promising.
"Why don't we leave this place and discuss our... partnership... somewhere more private?"
"Move aside, newbie!" Generic Douchebag Number Three shoved Lionel roughly, his meaty hand connecting with Lionel's shoulder with a solid thump.
For one crystalline moment—one perfect, frozen instant—Lionel saw the sisters' eyes flash.
Rage.
Pure, distilled, incandescent rage.
Their faces remained seductive masks, but their eyes—oh, their eyes—promised violence and vengeance and viscera spread across floors like abstract art painted in blood and screaming.
But they held it. Held it back. Reined it in with visible effort as they returned to their performance.
All six—the three douchebags and the three sisters—left the building.
Cassandra threw Lionel a wink as she glided past, her hips swaying with the hypnotic rhythm of a pendulum counting down to detonation.
"Those girls," Lionel muttered, shaking his head as the door swung shut behind them, "are going to ruin my disguise."
Completely. Utterly. Catastrophically.
He turned and noticed the receptionist at the counter—a young woman with kind eyes and tired shoulders, watching him with an expression caught somewhere between sympathy and secondhand embarrassment.
"Oh, um." Lionel approached, trying to salvage something from this disaster. "I'd like to register as an adventurer."
"I'm so sorry—" The woman's voice carried genuine distress. "—about what just happened. Those men are—"
"Don't be." Lionel's smile came easier now, warmer. "They'll be back."
Probably missing fingers. Possibly missing more important appendages. Definitely reconsidering their life choices.
The woman visibly relaxed, her shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch.
"So, are they registering too?" She gestured vaguely toward the door where the sisters had vanished like beautiful, terrible apparitions.
Lionel nodded.
And then—
From behind the guild building—
"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"
Men's screams shattered the afternoon quiet like glass against stone.
High-pitched. Terrified. Carrying the particular timbre that suggested testicles had suddenly found themselves in serious jeopardy.
Lionel looked down at the counter and covered his face with both hands.
Please don't kill them. Please don't kill them. Please, for the love of everything holy and unholy, don't kill them and make us fugitives on day one—
"I'm really sorry," Lionel said through his fingers, his voice muffled and mortified, "about how my sisters act. They're just... not fond of men who get handsy. Though I assure you—" He peeked through his fingers at the wide-eyed receptionist. "—the adventurers will be fine. Mostly fine. Relatively fine."
Through the hive mind, his voice cracked like a whip: "Do NOT kill those men! I swear to every god in every pantheon, if you turn them into corpses, I'm turning this adventure around and marching straight back to the laboratory!"
The girls' sheepish laughter echoed through his skull—a chorus of oops and sorry and we got a little carried away.
"Cease the hostility. Now."
The screaming stopped.
Blessed, beautiful silence.
"That'll be—" The receptionist cleared her throat, visibly attempting to pretend the screaming hadn't happened. Professional. So professional. "—twenty silver coins for the entry fee and twenty copper coins for the literacy test."
Lionel's blood turned to ice.
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
All he had was Yggdrasil currency—ancient coins from a dead game, worthless in this world and locked away in the treasury besides.
His mind raced—think think think—
"Quick!" He barked through the hive mind. "Steal whatever coins those men have! Call it payment for disrespect and groping! And get back here immediately—this is getting awkward!"
Seconds ticked by.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The receptionist's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.
So. Awkward.
The door burst open, and the three sisters swept in like conquering queens returning from battle—each carrying coin pouches that jingled with the sweet sound of appropriated currency.
"Sorry for the wait," Lionel said smoothly, accepting the pouch from Bela with practiced ease.
He peered inside.
By all the viruses in Umbrella's catalog—
The pouches practically overflowed with coins. Silver and copper glinted in the lamplight like dragon hoards in miniature.
For lowlife douchebags, they were carrying serious wealth. Either very successful adventurers or very successful thieves. Probably thieves.
Lionel counted out the required amount—twenty silver, twenty copper, each coin clink-clink-clinking onto the counter in neat stacks.
"Thank you for registering." The woman's professionalism had returned full force, her smile warm and welcoming. "Now for the literacy test."
Four sheets of paper appeared on the counter—forms waiting to be filled, questions demanding answers, a measurement of competence disguised as bureaucracy.
Thank the Megamycete, Lionel thought fervently. Without it absorbing all that knowledge and consciousness, I wouldn't know jack-shit about this language. Couldn't read it. Couldn't write it. Couldn't tell the difference between 'hello' and 'your mother is a hamster.'
Through the hive mind, he transmitted the linguistic knowledge—grammar, syntax, and vocabulary flowing from his consciousness to theirs like water through connected vessels.
They filled out the forms.
The receptionist reviewed them—her eyes scanning lines, checking boxes, nodding with satisfaction.
She tucked the papers beneath the counter and produced four copper plates—the metal dull and unimpressive, stamped with the guild's insignia and their fresh-minted status.
Copper rank.
The lowest rank.
"You'll all start as copper tier," she explained, her voice settling into the comfortable rhythm of well-rehearsed information. "The ranks ascend through iron, silver, gold, platinum, mithril, orichalcum, and finally adamantite as the highest. Think of it like a ladder—copper at the bottom, adamantite at the top, and a lot of climbing in between."
She paused, her gaze settling on Lionel with an intensity that suggested she saw something beneath his carefully constructed facade.
"You can advance by passing promotion tests—one rank per test, assuming you qualify and survive. But—" Her smile turned mysterious. "—if you accomplish a great feat, you can skip multiple ranks. Leap straight to gold. Vault to platinum. Perhaps even reach adamantite directly if the feat is sufficiently impressive."
She thinks I'm capable of that, Lionel realized. She's looking at me like I'm hiding power. Like I'm more than I appear.
Perceptive woman. Dangerous woman.
"Well—" Lionel arranged his features into sheepish uncertainty, letting weakness show like a flag of surrender. "—I don't think we're quite ready for anything that impressive. So we'll stick to appropriate quests for now. Baby steps. Crawling before walking. Walking before running. Running before facing down ancient dragons or whatever."
"You're in luck!" The receptionist's enthusiasm brightened the space like sudden sunlight. "An old man posted a quest earlier—goblins have been stealing his crops and livestock. Simple pest control, really. Perfect for new copper ranks."
She gestured toward the request board where various quests hung pinned like butterflies in a collection—each one a promise of adventure or death or both.
Lionel plucked the goblin quest from the board.
The paper felt thin between his fingers—so thin, so fragile—yet somehow heavy with the weight of beginning.
He brought it to the counter.
The receptionist marked it with practiced efficiency—stamp stamp stamp.
"The quest is now registered under your name. Complete it and have the client sign this form—that's your proof of completion. Bring it back here, and we'll issue your reward."
"Understood."
Lionel took the paper, offered the woman his warmest smile—thank you, you've been wonderful, sorry again about the screaming—and left.
Behind him, the door swung shut with a soft thump.
Outside, the sisters clustered around him like planets orbiting a sun.
Daniela snatched the quest paper from his hand, her eyes scanning the text before her face collapsed into theatrical disappointment.
"You could've chosen something more worthy of our time, Creator." She waved the paper like evidence of betrayal. "Goblins? Are we hunting goblins? We might as well hunt rats or particularly aggressive chickens."
"We can't rush this, Daniela." Lionel plucked the paper back before she could tear it from sheer boredom. "We don't know how powerful the monsters are in this world compared to ours. What if goblins here are eight feet tall and breathe fire? What if they're actually intelligent and use tactics? What if—"
"They're goblins, Creator."
"Cautious goblins might be different from regular goblins."
Daniela's expression suggested she found this logic unconvincing.
Very unconvincing.
[TIME BENDS—HOURS FOLD—THE FOREST WAITS]
"You were right." Lionel lifted a goblin by its misshapen head—the skull soft beneath his enhanced grip, bone giving way like overripe fruit. "We should've chosen something stronger."
Crunch.
The goblin's head collapsed inward with a sound like stepping on a snail—wet and crunchy and deeply, profoundly unsatisfying.
Gore splattered across his fingers—greenish blood mixed with brain matter, the texture somewhere between pudding and cottage cheese.
He tossed the corpse aside.
Thump.
"Well—" Bela extracted her sickle from another goblin's skull with a wet schlorp. The blade came free, trailing ropes of gore that swung like grotesque party streamers. "—That's the last of them."
"Are we really—" Daniela punctuated each word with a kick to a goblin corpse. Thud. Thud. Thud. "—going to spend our time killing these pathetic creatures until we rank up? That'll take forever! Literally forever! We'll die of boredom before we die of anything else!"
"I don't know." Cassandra crouched beside a particularly fresh corpse, her head tilting with predatory interest. "I found chasing the little things around quite entertaining. Like hunting rabbits. Squeaky, ugly, green rabbits."
She bit into the goblin's thigh.
Crunch.
"They taste different, too," she continued through a mouthful of goblin flesh. "More... gamey. Like chicken that's been left out too long. And possibly diseased."
"Cassandra, NO!" Lionel lunged forward, yanking the corpse from her grasp and hurling it away with enough force that it sailed through the air like a grotesque javelin. "Those things are filthy! Absolutely covered in disease and parasites and gods know what else!"
Cassandra pouted, licking greenish blood from her lips.
Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.
The quest had specified eliminating the goblin camp in the forest.
Simple. Straightforward. Boring.
So naturally they'd tracked the creatures back to their main nest and committed wholesale genocide instead.
Every goblin. Every spawn. Every egg.
The cave behind them reeked of death and blood and burning—the latter courtesy of Lionel's decision to torch the spawning chambers just to be thorough.
"Alright." Lionel surveyed the carnage with grim satisfaction. "Let's head back. I'm bored, you're bored, we're all collectively bored by how easy this was."
The farm sprawled before them—humble and weathered, the kind of place that had stood for generations and would likely stand for generations more.
"We've completed your quest!" Lionel called out, his voice carrying across the fields. "We cleared out both the camp and the main nest. You won't be having goblin problems anymore. Ever. They're extinct in a three-mile radius."
The elderly farmer emerged from the farmhouse—bent-backed with age, skin weathered like old leather, eyes watery but sharp.
He approached Lionel with trembling hands and grasped them both.
"Thank you," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. I feared—I thought—the hive had been there for years. None of the local adventurers would touch it. Said it was too dangerous, too time-consuming, not worth the reward."
He pressed extra coins into Lionel's palm—copper pieces that felt warm from pocket-heat.
"Take this. It's all I can spare, but—"
"The posted reward is fine," Lionel said gently, closing the old man's fingers around his own coins and pressing them back. "We're just glad we could help."
Why do I feel like some armored guy somewhere is proud of me right now?
The thought came unbidden—strange and specific and weird.
Like, there's someone out there who gets deeply, spiritually satisfied by goblin slaying. Some kind of goblin-slaying enthusiast. A goblin genocide connoisseur.
Lionel dismissed the odd sensation with a mental shrug.
"Well, we should get going!" He waved as they departed, the sisters following like exotic shadows. "Enjoy your goblin-free existence!"
Once out of sight—once the farmhouse had shrunk to a speck behind them—they took flight.
The Mold spread from their bodies like wings—organic and wrong, defying physics and good taste in equal measure as they lifted into the sky.
E-Rantel's walls loomed ahead, growing larger as they descended toward the outskirts.
"Don't worry," Lionel announced as their feet touched earth once more. "We won't be taking any more small-fry jobs. I have a plan."
The sisters perked up immediately—interest kindling in their expressions like flames catching tinder.
"How'd the quest go?"
Piers—the guard from earlier, a genuinely decent fellow—greeted them with a warm smile.
"It went well, Piers!" Lionel returned the smile with enthusiasm. "Goblin problem: thoroughly solved. Permanently solved. Extinct-ified."
Even the girls acknowledged this mortal as exceptional.
Polite. Professional. Doesn't immediately try to grope anyone. The bar is so low it's practically underground, but he clears it with room to spare.
"I'll explain the plan—" Lionel scanned the area, his eyes landing on lodging. "—but first we need a place to stay the night."
His gaze settled on an inn.
Calling it an inn was generous.
Charitable.
It looked like it had been condemned, un-condemned through sheer stubbornness, then partially condemned again for good measure.
The sign hung crooked—The Sleeping Rooster—half the letters faded to illegibility.
"There." Lionel pointed. "That'll work. We'll cash in this quest tomorrow morning."
"Really?" Bela stared at the establishment with the kind of horror usually reserved for discovering mold in bread. Or corpses in closets. Or moldy corpses in closet-bread. "That rundown place? I don't think I can sleep there. I don't think it's structurally sound enough to sleep in."
All three sisters complained in harmony—a chorus of absolutely not, and you cannot be serious, and I've seen plague houses more inviting.
"Not my fault, you insisted on coming." Lionel gestured toward E-Rantel's distant walls. "So it's either we sleep there, or the three of you go home and sleep at the castle while I continue adventuring alone."
The threat hung in the air like an executioner's blade.
The girls grumbled—fine, and this is cruel, and we're remembering this, Creator—but followed.
They couldn't return home without him.
Their mother—Alcina Dimitrescu, Lady of the Castle, She Who Must Be Obeyed—would have words.
Many words.
Loud words.
Words that echoed through halls and induced existential terror in anyone within earshot.
Lionel pushed open the inn's door.
Creeeeak.
The interior unfolded before them like a stage mid-performance—a scene already in progress, dialogue already heated, tensions already crackling.
A heavily armored figure—plate mail that caught lamplight and threw it back in harsh angles—stood arguing with a red-haired girl.
Beside the armored man, a raven-haired woman watched with sharp eyes—predatory and precise, missing nothing.
To the side: one broken table, shattered into expensive kindling.
One broken potion, glass shards glittering on the floor like malicious confetti.
Three unconscious adventurers, sprawled in positions suggesting sudden violent contact with the floor.
That armor.
Lionel's breath caught.
That armor that armor that ARMOR—
He recognized it from his crow's surveillance—the spy-bird that had watched Momonga's nighttime wanderings.
It's him. Has to be. Same armor. Same imposing presence. Same, I could kill everyone in this room and not even spill my drink, ' energy.
His suspicions crystallized into certainty as the armored figure produced a red potion—unmistakable, identical to Yggdrasil's healing items—and offered it to the red-haired girl.
He's doing the same thing I am. Exploring. Testing. Learning this new world.
The armored man walked past Lionel without any flicker of recognition—no pause, no second glance, no you seem familiar moment.
Perfect.
He doesn't know who I am. Doesn't recognize my face. Doesn't sense my presence.
Perfect perfect perfect.
Lionel approached the counter where a barkeep stood polishing a glass with mechanical repetition.
Polish polish polish.
Wipe wipe wipe.
The man's jaw was clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.
"I'd like a room for four," Lionel requested, his voice polite and unremarkable.
The barkeep's eyes flicked from Lionel to the broken table to the unconscious adventurers to the armored figure's retreating.
His expression curdled.
"You see—" The words came out tight and strangled. "—that broken table? Normally, it'd be ten copper pieces for a four-bedroom. But as a copper-ranked adventurer—" His smile was all teeth and no warmth. "—you'll have to pay extra. Compensation for damages. Hazard pay. Inconvenience fees."
He returned to polishing the glass.
Polish polish polish.
Waiting for payment.
Waiting for Lionel to meekly accept exploitation.
Waiting for—
"Excuse me?" Lionel's voice remained soft.
Conversational.
Gentle.
The C-Virus is activated.
His face split.
Not metaphorically.
Literally split—the flesh peeling back like obscene petals, skin tearing with wet ripping sounds, revealing the writhing mass of Mold beneath.
The Mold surged forward, forming teeth.
Hundreds of teeth.
Thousands of teeth.
Rows upon rows upon rows—some human-sized, some needle-thin, some broad as gravestones, all of them sharp and wrong and impossibly many.
They filled the opening where his face had been, layer upon layer of enamel and hunger arranged in spiraling patterns that hurt to look at, that suggested geometry that shouldn't exist, that moved with wet clicking sounds like insects crawling over each other.
Click-click-click-click-click.
"I said—" The barkeep slammed his hands on the counter with false bravado, the sound sharp as a gunshot.
CRACK.
Then his knees buckled.
His face went white—corpse-white, milk-white, terrified-white.
His hands trembled against the counter, fingers spasming with the urge to run, hide, or flee.
"I-I-I said—" His voice cracked, breaking like glass under pressure. "F-for you—" Swallow. Throat bob. Visible terror. "—the room is free."
He pointed toward the stairs with a shaking hand.
Lionel's face sealed shut—flesh flowing back together like water, teeth receding into impossible depths, skin smoothing until he looked human again.
Mostly human.
The barkeep looked like he might vomit.
Or faint.
Or both simultaneously.
Upstairs, the hallway stretched before them—narrow and dim, doors on either side like teeth in a jaw.
Their room was right next to Momonga's.
Convenient.
Problematically convenient.
Perfect-for-eavesdropping convenient.
"All of you—" Lionel's voice carried the weight of command. "—rest. I'm tired, and I don't want anyone talking or playing around. Especially not playing around. Especially especially not doing anything that would be overheard through thin walls by heavily armored undead overlords in the next room."
He lay on the bed—lumpy mattress, questionable sheets, springs that creaked with every breath—and activated his enhanced hearing.
The Megamycete's gifts included so many things.
Enhanced strength. Regeneration. Mold manipulation.
And also: the ability to hear a mouse fart three rooms away.
Through the wall, voices bled through like watercolors bleeding on wet paper.
"What should we do about that vile woman?" A female voice—crisp and cold, consonants sharp as knife-edges.
The raven-haired companion. Has to be.
"She has an iron plate—higher rank than us." A male voice, deeper, resonant with power that hummed beneath the words like subterranean machinery. "As her juniors, we should allow her to maintain her public image. Politics and propriety. The price of civilization."
A pause.
Then: "By the way, what do you think of humans?"
Lionel's blood turned to ice in his veins.
Oh no.
Oh no no no—
"They're trash." The woman's voice carried utter conviction—the certainty of fundamental truth. "Every single one. Beneath contempt. Beneath notice. Beneath. Except—"
Lionel stopped breathing.
"—those who entered as we were leaving. Those four." Her voice shifted—confused, uncertain, suspicious. "They didn't feel human at all. Something other. Something wrong. Something that wore human faces like masks."
Sweat broke out across Lionel's forehead—cold and clammy, sliding down his temples like accusations.
She knows.
She fucking KNOWS.
Or suspects. Strongly suspect. Suspiciously suspects.
"Nabe." The male voice—Momonga's voice—carried a gentle rebuke. "I won't tell you to change your thinking. Your opinions are your own. But try to keep your hostility less... visible. We're trying to blend in, remember? The whole point of this exercise is not drawing attention."
"Understood, Lord Ainz."
Ainz.
The name hit Lionel like a physical blow.
Ainz Ooal Gown. Their guild name. He's named himself after his guild.
Understanding cascaded through Lionel's mind like dominoes falling:
He wouldn't do that if other guild members were here. Too presumptuous. Too arrogant. He'd be Momonga still, or Suzuki Satoru, or anything except the guild's name.
Which means—
He's alone.
The only member transported.
Lionel's confidence swelled—not arrogant overconfidence, but tactical confidence. Measured confidence.
He'd feared facing the entire guild—legendary players with legendary builds and legendary equipment.
One legendary player was a different calculation entirely.
Still dangerous. Still powerful. Still capable of turning me into a smear on the pavement.
But not insurmountable. Not hopeless.
Manageable.
Through the wall, the conversation continued:
"And you are not Narberal Gamma—" Momonga's voice carried instructional patience. "—but Momon's fellow adventurer, Nabe. Remember your cover. Maintain your persona. We're adventurers now, not denizens of Nazarick."
"I am very sorry, Momon-saaa...n."
The honorific stretched out awkwardly—saaa...n—like taffy pulled too far, the word caught between formal address and informal habit.
Lionel bit his lip hard to suppress laughter.
Momon-saaa...n.
She almost called him Momon-sama and course-corrected mid-word.
These NPCs. These beautiful, terrible, socially-awkward NPCs.
"Momon-saaa..n sounds a bit silly," Momonga admitted, and Lionel could hear the wry amusement in his voice. "But that's fine. We'll work on it."
Lionel couldn't hold it anymore.
The laughter erupted—hysterical, uncontrollable, wheezing gasps that he tried desperately to muffle against the pillow.
Momon-saaa...n!
The girls stared at him like he'd lost his mind.
Maybe he had.
Through the wall: sudden silence.
Oh shit.
They heard me.
They DEFINITELY heard me laughing.
They know someone's listening.
The conversation ceased—cut off as cleanly as a severed rope.
Lionel cursed internally—a stream of profanity creative enough to make a sailor blush.
"Girls—" He switched to the hive mind, words flowing directly consciousness-to-consciousness. "—here's our plan."
Three pairs of eyes focused on him with predatory intensity.
"I'll use the Mold to disguise myself as Jack Baker—" The face formed in his mind: weathered skin, wild eyes, the look of a man pushed past breaking. "—and post a quest about an unknown monster terrorizing a village."
He felt their attention sharpen.
Good.
"Since the monster is unidentified and the reward is small, they'll classify it as low-priority. Higher-ranked adventurers won't bother. Which means it'll attract exactly what we want: low-level adventurers looking for easy jobs."
"And then?" Bela's mental voice carried eager anticipation.
"And then—" Lionel's smile would have terrified anyone who could see it. "—we convert them. New minions. New subjects. New additions to our growing family."
Perfect.
Simple.
Effective.
He rose from the bed, moving with liquid grace toward the door.
"Stay here. Don't leave this room. Don't talk loudly. Don't do anything that would attract attention."
Outside, the evening air felt cool against his skin—refreshing after the inn's stuffy interior.
Lionel slipped into an alleyway—shadows pooling thick as oil, darkness absolute.
The transformation began.
Flesh shifted—bones lengthening, skin aging, features rearranging like clay in sculptor's hands.
Crack. Pop. Squelch.
Pain flared—brief and bright—then faded as the Mold completed its work.
He looked down at his new hands: calloused, scarred, the hands of a farmer who'd worked hard all his life and had precious little to show for it.
Jack Baker.
Perfect.
He ran toward the guild—shambling gait, desperate energy, the posture of a man at the end of his rope.
The guild door burst open as he crashed through—BANG—drawing every eye in the room.
"You've got to help me!" Jack-Lionel's voice cracked with terror—genuine terror, the kind that came from Lionel remembering every horror film he'd ever seen and channeling that energy. "There's this unknown monster killing my livestock! Slaughtering them! Butchering them!"
He stumbled toward the counter, hands gripping the edge like a lifeline.
"I fear for my family's safety. For the village's safety. For—"
The receptionist—same woman from earlier, her kind face now creased with concern—leaned forward.
"Do you have a reward to offer adventurers?" she asked gently, professionally.
Jack-Lionel's hands trembled as he withdrew coins from his pocket—copper pieces that clinked together with the sound of desperation.
Ten copper coins.
Pathetic.
Barely enough to buy a meal.
"Here—" His voice broke. Actual tears gathered in his eyes—the Mold was so good at mimicking human physiology. "—This is everything we have. Everything. I know it isn't much, I know, but please—"
He grabbed the receptionist's hand.
"—make this a top priority. Please. I'm begging you. My children—my wife—the whole village could be—"
The woman's expression softened—professional distance crumbling beneath genuine compassion.
Hook.
Line.
Sinker.
"I'm not supposed to do this—" She glanced around, checking for supervisors or witnesses. "—but I'll make an exception."
She pulled out a quest form.
"Where is your village located?"
Jack-Lionel filled it out with shaking hands—coordinates, landmarks, nearby features, everything an adventurer would need to find the place.
Everything they'd need to walk directly into the trap.
The receptionist reviewed the form, then stamped it.
THUMP.
The stamp read: TOP PRIORITY.
She pinned it to the quest board—right at eye level, impossible to miss.
"Thank you—" Jack-Lionel's voice carried bottomless gratitude. "Thank you. You've saved us. You've saved everyone."
He left the guild, stumbling out into the evening.
Once outside—once the door had closed behind him—his expression shifted.
The gratitude vanished.
The terror evaporated.
What remained was a smile.
Cold.
Calculating.
Cruel.
"Fools," he whispered, his voice no longer Jack Baker's desperate rasp but Lionel's own voice—quiet and satisfied.
He ducked into another alleyway, and the transformation reversed—flesh flowing back, bones cracking into original positions, features smoothing into his adventurer disguise.
Squelch. Pop. Crack.
Emerging from the shadows, he spotted six adventurers—young, eager, stupid—clustered around the quest board.
They were pointing at his posted quest.
Already.
She works fast.
He connected to the hive mind, reaching across distances to touch the consciousness of Deborah and the Baker family.
"Six adventurers incoming," he transmitted. "They'll arrive in two to three days. Be ready. Be hungry. Make it convincing."
Affirmative responses echoed back—yes, Creator, and we understand, and they won't suspect a thing.
"My work here is done."
The inn appeared before him—The Sleeping Rooster in all its questionable glory.
He climbed the stairs—creak creak creak—and approached their room.
The door swung open.
Inside, the three sisters clustered around something on the floor.
Something that had been a man.
Now it was mostly bones and scattered clothing, blood cleaned so thoroughly the carpet showed no stains.
Only a hand remained—fingers splayed, wedding ring glinting in lamplight.
"That's enough." Lionel's voice cut through the room like a blade. "I'm sending you home."
"NO!" Cassandra lunged forward, gesturing frantically at the pristine surroundings. "We didn't make a mess! Look—no blood on the carpet, no blood on the beds, no blood on the walls. We were careful!"
"We even disposed of most of the body," Bela added helpfully. "Very responsibly. Very tidily."
Lionel stared at them.
They stared back—three pairs of eyes wide and innocent, like children explaining why the broken vase wasn't really their fault.
"Can't decide if I'm proud or disgusted," he finally said.
Proud of the thoroughness. Disgusted by everything else.
"Fine. You can stay. But this—" He pointed at the remaining hand. "—never happens again. Understood?"
Three heads nodded with exaggerated enthusiasm.
"Alright." Lionel collapsed onto the bed—mattress creaking ominously beneath his weight. "Let's just stay here and do nothing. Quiet. Still. Boring."
He stared at the ceiling, mind racing.
Oh shit.
Ainz heard them eating that guy.
He HAD to hear. The walls are paper-thin. The man probably screamed before they killed him.
This is bad. This is very bad. This is 'guild war on day one' levels of bad.
Too early for confrontation. Too early for conflict. Too early for—
"Why'd you eat him anyway?" Lionel asked, keeping his voice low—barely above a whisper.
If we're already compromised, might as well know the whole story.
"He entered our room uninvited—" Bela's voice matched his volume, quiet and precise. "—and tried to assault us. Attempted rape. Very aggressive about it."
She licked her fingers—one by one—before replacing her gloves with delicate precision.
"Wow." Lionel blinked. "Yikes for that guy. Serious yikes. Terminal yikes."
Attempted to rape three vampire nobles who could tear him apart like wet tissue paper.
Darwin Award recipient right there. Honorary mention at minimum.
He lay back, closing his eyes.
"Try to get some sleep if you're tired. And remember—no leaving the room."
Sleep claimed him surprisingly quickly—exhaustion and stress and the sheer weight of everything catching up all at once.
"Is Creator asleep?"
Bela's whisper cut through the darkness—soft as silk, sharp as razors.
She poked Lionel's cheek.
Poke.
No response.
Poke poke.
Still nothing.
No retaliation, no movement, no grumbled threats about personal space.
"He's definitely asleep," Daniela confirmed.
The three exchanged glances—mischief and hunger swirling in their expressions like storm clouds gathering.
"Let's go out!" Cassandra suggested, her grin wide and wicked.
Two heads nodded in perfect synchronization.
They slipped from the room like shadows—silent and graceful, predators on the hunt.
The hallway stretched before them, and there—right there—stood the heavily armored man from earlier.
Preparing to leave.
Alone.
Perfect.
With their Creator asleep, they saw opportunity.
Entertainment.
Fun.
Sure, they were full—the would-be rapist had proven surprisingly filling—but tormenting someone was its own reward.
Different satisfaction.
Purer satisfaction.
"Hmm~" Daniela stepped forward, her voice honey-sweet and venom-laced, dripping with promises both terrible and tempting. "Hello there, big guy. Want to have some fun?"
She swayed closer—hips moving with hypnotic rhythm, eyes half-lidded, lips curved in a smile that had probably launched ships and ended kingdoms.
Instantly—before she'd taken three steps—the armored man's companion materialized between them.
Weapon drawn.
Stance aggressive.
Protective.
The sisters laughed in perfect three-part harmony—musical and mocking, beautiful and wrong.
"Someone's rather protective of their man," Bela teased, her voice carrying knowing amusement.
The raven-haired woman's face flushed—angry-red, embarrassed-red, caught-red.
The armored man stepped backward, hands raised, head shaking with vigorous denial.
No, no, no, absolutely not, don't even think it—
"Don't worry." Cassandra's smile widened, showing teeth. "We don't bite~."
Pause.
Perfect comedic timing.
"Unless... you want us to."
The door to their room exploded open.
BANG.
Lionel's hand shot out—fingers wrapping around Daniela's arm with crushing strength—and yanked.
She flew backward—whoosh—pulled into the room like a fish on a line.
Two more grabs—Bela and Cassandra seized with equal efficiency—and all three sisters found themselves dragged inside.
Lionel looked out into the hallway.
His eyes met Momonga's.
Fuck.
FUCK.
His face went pale—actually, genuinely pale, blood draining like water down a sink.
"Sorry—" The word tumbled out too fast, too desperate. "—sorry about my sisters. They're really—they're very—they're incorrigibly flirtatious."
He slammed the door.
BANG.
Leaned against it.
Breathed.
That was close.
Too close.
Apocalyptically close.
[THE NIGHT SETTLES—DARKNESS DEEPENS—FATE TURNS]
Tomorrow would bring new complications.
New dangers.
New opportunities.
But tonight—tonight—they'd survived.
First contact with Ainz Ooal Gown: complete.
Cover: mostly intact.
Disaster: narrowly averted.
Progress.
Outside, the city of E-Rantel settled into uneasy sleep—unaware of the powers now walking its streets, the forces now converging within its walls, the storm gathering just beyond the horizon.
In one room: a vampire lord and his three terrible sisters.
In another, an undead overlord and his loyal guardian.
Both hiding.
Both watching.
Both waiting.
The masquerade continued.
But for how long?
END CHAPTER VII
Author's Note: Lionel now knows Momonga walks E-Rantel's streets. His plan to acquire new subjects has begun. The adventure continues. The infection spreads. Thank you to everyone who voted and continues reading this story of crossover chaos and body horror.