The devil's bargain was sealed not with a handshake, but with the quiet clink of glass water bottles being passed among parched survivors. Ainz observed from a distance, a silent monolith as Rick's group—Rick, Daryl, Carl, Carol, Glenn, and the others—warily divided the conjured supplies. The Death Knight stood sentinel twenty paces to Ainz's left, utterly still, a statue of terror that made even the night insects fall silent.
[Observation: Social hierarchy is clearly defined. The male "Rick" holds primary authority, but his position is stress-dependent. The hunter "Daryl" operates as a semi-independent agent. Group cohesion is high for a survival scenario, approximately 78% efficient.]
His analytical thoughts were a buffer against the profound… strangeness of it all. The mana here was so thin it felt like suffocating on dust. His connection to Nazarick was a void, a silent ache where a symphony of loyal voices should be. He focused on the data before him.
Over the next few days, a fragile, silent routine emerged. Ainz required no sleep, no food. He would stand at the edge of the farm, scanning the horizons with enhanced senses, or sit perfectly motionless on a rusted tractor, listening. The survivors gave him a wide berth, a bubble of fearful respect. Only two dared approach the bubble with any regularity.
Glenn, the young Asian man, driven by a desperate curiosity and a scavenger's instinct for value, was the first. He brought Ainz a tattered road atlas and a battery-dead laptop.
"You said you wanted information about… before," Glenn said, keeping his eyes lowered from the glowing red orbs. "This is what we used to navigate. The laptop might have stuff on it, but the power's gone."
Ainz took the atlas with a nod. [Appraise Map]. The spell analyzed the ink, the paper's decay, cross-referencing the symbols with linguistic data he was passively harvesting from their speech. "Adequate," he boomed, the word making Glenn jump. "The power is inconsequential." He pointed a bony finger, and a tiny, precise [Lightning] spell arced into the laptop's charging port. With a hum and a flicker, the screen glowed to life. Glenn stumbled back, his mouth agape.
"The knowledge within is likely obsolete given the global collapse, but it provides a cultural and infrastructural baseline," Ainz stated, as if explaining a simple principle to a child. "You may retrieve the device in one hour. Do not attempt to alter its data."
The second was Carol. She approached not with items, but with silent, practical offerings. She would leave a relatively clean blanket on a stump near where he stood, or a chipped mug filled with weak, herbal tea they had foraged. She never spoke, merely bowed her head slightly and retreated. Ainz was perplexed.
[Analysis: Submissive behavior. A form of tribute from a lower-status individual to a higher-power entity, likely to secure goodwill or avoid notice. Alternatively, it could be an attempt at rudimentary socialization based on perceived needs. Conclusion: Continue to observe.]
He left the blanket and the tea untouched, but he noted her actions. In Nazarick, such gestures would be expected, but here, in this brutal equality of decay, they stood out. They were a thread of the old world's civility, and data was data.
The true test came on the fourth day. A large herd, drawn by some distant noise or an instinctive migration, began to converge on the farm from the south. From the farmhouse roof, Rick saw the moving tide of rot—hundreds of them—and despair clamped around his heart. They couldn't run. Not enough fuel. Not with the children.
"Everyone, to the trucks! We fight our way through!" he yelled, his voice cracking.
"Rick, look at that," Daryl grunted, pointing not at the herd, but at the field.
Ainz had walked out to meet them. He stood alone, his robes billowing slightly in the foul breeze. The leading edge of the herd was fifty yards away, then thirty, a groaning, grasping wall of flesh.
This is an opportunity, Ainz thought. A field test of the indigenous undead's responsiveness to tiered magic. And a chance to cement the utility of my protection.
He did not gesture. He did not speak an incantation. He simply activated a skill.
[Despair Aura V].
An invisible wave of pure, soul-crushing dread erupted from him. It was a palpable force, bending the grass and shaking the leaves on the trees. In the farmhouse, survivors cried out, dropping to their knees, overwhelmed by a sudden, inexplicable terror that had no source but their own primal minds.
The effect on the walkers was immediate and total. Every single one within two hundred yards stopped. Their guttural moans cut off into silence. Then, as one, they turned and shambled away, moving with a speed born of blind, instinctual panic. They crashed into each other, tripped, and scrambled, fleeing not from fire or noise, but from an existential terror they could not comprehend. Within minutes, the southern field was empty save for a few stray shoes and the lingering, psychic chill.
Ainz turned and walked back to the farm. The Death Knight fell into step behind him. He found Rick and Daryl leaning against a truck, their faces ashen, their weapons hanging uselessly at their sides. The looked at him not with gratitude, but with a new, deeper horror. He had not fought the dead. He had commanded them, on a level that redefined their very understanding of the threat.
"The area is secure," Ainz stated. "The psychological effect on the living is an unintended side effect. It will pass."
"Why?" Rick asked, the word torn from him. "Why do they fear you? They don't fear anything."
Ainz's red gaze rested on Rick. "In my world, hierarchy is everything. Those are not true undead. They are rotting flesh with a cursory animating principle. I am the apex. They are less than insects. An insect may not understand a boot, but it will instinctively try to flee before it is crushed." He paused, the gears of strategy turning. "This confirms a theory. Your 'walkers' operate on a base sensory level. My aura presents a negative stimulus their fundamental programming cannot process. It is… efficient."
That night, around a fire that seemed too small against the vast darkness, the group's quiet conversations had a new, strained tone.
"He's not human," Shane muttered, his eyes wild. "He's not even a damn mutant. He's the devil, and we made a deal with him."
"He saved us, Shane," Glenn countered, though his voice lacked conviction. "He cleared that herd without firing a shot."
"And what's the price?" Shane shot back. "He's studying us like bugs! He had Glenn's laptop magically working for an hour. What's he looking for?"
From the shadows of the porch, unseen and unheard under [Perfect Unknowable], Ainz listened.
[Data Point Acquired: Factional stress within the group is increasing. The "Shane" individual represents a destabilizing element. His loyalty to "Rick" is conditional and deteriorating. He perceives me as a threat to his own influence. Useful.]
Ainz's priority remained clear: gather intelligence on the world's fall, locate any anomalous energy signatures that might hint at a way home or the source of this necrotic plague, and secure compliant local agents. This group was a valuable initial sample, but they were fragile. Shane's volatility could be a catalyst for useful data on human conflict dynamics.
He looked up at the strange, unfamiliar stars. Somewhere, Albedo was likely in a frantic, world-shattering rage. Demiurge would be crafting a thousand plans. He pushed the thought away. Sentiment was a buffer against optimal action.
For now, he thought, this farm is my laboratory, these survivors my subjects, and this entire blighted world… a new floor to be conquered. He focused his senses. Far to the east, his enhanced hearing picked up the faint, metallic groan of a city dying. Atlanta. A center of population, and therefore, of knowledge.
It was time to propose the next phase of the experiment.