[The Forest - Deep Zone]
"I think... this might be a test," Coulson gasped, wiping sweat from his stinging eyes. "From the other party."
"If we can't even endure this..." he wheezed, forcing one foot in front of the other, "...do we even have the right to meet them?"
"Hang in there, Natasha."
They pushed forward, but the air felt like liquid lead.
The Dragon Fear aura was crushing them. It wasn't just physical pressure; it was a primal command to flee or die.
Coulson's vision began to blur. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. His knees buckled, and the world tilted.
Just as he was about to hit the dirt, a firm hand grabbed his arm, holding him up.
"Whew..." Natasha exhaled, her face pale and slick with sweat.
"Coulson," she whispered, her voice tight. "I think this mission is a scrub."
Even Natasha—a graduate of the Red Room, a woman who had endured torture and conditioning that would break a marine—was shaking. If she was struggling, Coulson didn't stand a chance.
To continue was suicide. Rationality dictated retreat.
"We go back," Natasha decided. She hoisted Coulson's arm over her shoulder, turning them around to face the way they came.
Crunch.
The sound of a leather shoe stepping on dry leaves echoed directly behind them.
Instantly, the crushing pressure vanished. The air became light again.
"My lady," a calm, deep voice spoke from less than a foot away. "The Supreme Being has been waiting for a long time."
Coulson and Natasha froze. Their pupils contracted to pinpricks.
When?!
Natasha hadn't heard a twig snap. She hadn't sensed a presence. This man had simply appeared in their blind spot.
They spun around.
Standing there was an elderly gentleman in a pristine butler's uniform. He stood straight-backed, one hand resting elegantly behind his back, the other extending toward the depths of the forest in a welcoming gesture.
Sebas Tian.
"This way, please," Sebas said, his expression polite but unreadable.
He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't need to.
RUMBLE.
The forest came alive.
The ancient trees groaned, their massive roots tearing from the earth as they shuffled aside like obedient servants, widening the path.
The soil churned.
Click. Clack. Click.
Countless white hands erupted from the dirt. Skeleton Warriors—hundreds of them—crawled out of the earth.
Natasha's hand drifted to her pistol, but she stopped.
The skeletons didn't attack.
Instead, the army of the dead fell to their knees in unison. They prostrated themselves on either side of the path, their foreheads touching the dirt, forming a corridor of bone.
Fwoosh.
Blue Ghost Flames ignited in the hands of floating specters. They hovered above the kneeling skeletons, acting as living streetlights.
A path paved with reverence and death stretched into the darkness.
"Please follow me," Sebas said, stepping onto the path. "You two from S.H.I.E.L.D."
Coulson straightened his tie, regaining his composure. He wasn't surprised they knew who he was. If this organization could command an army of the dead, they could certainly watch the news.
"After you," Coulson murmured to Natasha.
They walked down the aisle of bones. The wind whispered through the trees, stirring the dust, sounding like a dirge played for the living.
[The Entrance of the Tomb]
At the end of the path, the forest ended abruptly.
Waiting for them was a tall man in a sharp pinstripe suit. He adjusted his round glasses as they approached, a thin, metal-plated tail swishing hypnotically behind him.
"Greetings," the demon said, bowing with exaggerated grace.
"I am the Guardian of the 7th Floor and Commander of Defenses for the Great Tomb of Nazarick."
"Demiurge."
His smile was sharp, filled with an unsettling intelligence.
"I welcome you both. Lord Ainz is waiting in the Throne Hall. Please, follow me."
Demiurge turned, leading them toward a massive set of double doors carved with reliefs of screaming demons and suffering sinners.
[The Throne Hall]
The doors swung open silently.
Coulson and Natasha stepped inside and stopped dead.
The contrast was jarring. Outside was a wild, rotting forest. Inside was a palace that put Versailles to shame.
The hall was vast, supported by pillars of black marble. The ceiling was a masterpiece of dark gold patterns, from which hung crystal chandeliers that glowed with magical light. The floor was covered in a plush red carpet that muffled their footsteps.
It was silent. Empty.
Save for Sebas and Demiurge, who walked to the front of the room and took their places on either side of the dais, standing like statues.
In the center of the hall, atop a platform of obsidian, sat a massive, ornate Throne.
It was empty.
"Please wait a moment," Demiurge said softly, his voice echoing in the vast space. "Lord Ainz will be with us shortly."
The air in the room suddenly grew heavy. The light from the chandeliers seemed to dim, bowing to a greater darkness.
Above the empty throne, space distorted.
A figure began to manifest, knitting together from shadows and magic.
First, massive, curved obsidian pauldrons materialized, gleaming with dark enchantment.
Then, broad shoulders draped in a purple and gold academic robe.
A golden staff, entwined with seven serpents, appeared in a skeletal hand.
Finally, the face.
There was no flesh. No skin. Just a bleached white skull, polished to a shine.
In the empty eye sockets, two points of dark red fire burned with a cold, terrifying intelligence.
Under his ribs, a dark red orb radiated a chaotic, world-ending power.
Ainz Ooal Gown. The Overlord of Death.
He sat upon the throne, looking down at the two agents with the weight of a god.
Coulson stared up at the monster on the throne. He felt very small.
He remembered Natasha's joke from earlier that day.
'Your friend might not necessarily be human.'
Coulson swallowed hard.
"You really hate being right, don't you, Nat?"
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