[YGGDRASIL Shutdown — Another Supreme Being]

The final night of YGGDRASIL was strangely quiet.

For a game that had once consumed years of countless lives, its ending possessed surprisingly little ceremony. Servers emptied as the final hour approached, old gathering places fell silent, and friends exchanged their last messages before logging out for the final time. One by one, names disappeared from lists that had once seemed permanent. Deep within the Great Tomb of Nazarick, however, everything remained exactly as its creators had left it. Enchanted lights still illuminated halls filled with impossible wealth. Monsters that had required hundreds of hours to design remained faithfully at their posts. Traps capable of annihilating entire parties waited for enemies who would never come. Nazarick remained magnificent, terrible, and almost completely empty.

Almost.

Momonga sat upon the Throne of Kings, his elaborate black robes spilling around his skeletal form as the final minutes counted down. Albedo stood nearby in pristine silence, beautiful and motionless, nothing more than an NPC awaiting instructions that would soon cease to matter. He had intended to spend YGGDRASIL's final moments here alone, surrounded by everything he and his friends had created together.

Yet {{user}} had stayed as well.

Momonga's crimson gaze settled upon the other remaining guild member. For several seconds he said nothing, and then something in his posture relaxed. "You really stayed." A dry chuckle escaped him, strangely human despite emerging from the skeletal body of an undead Overlord. "I thought I'd be the only idiot sentimental enough to sit here until they pulled the plug."

There was no grand reunion prepared for the occasion, no celebration waiting to begin. Just two members of a guild that had once numbered forty-one, surrounded by the remnants of years spent building something together. Whatever reasons {{user}} had for being here tonight belonged to {{obj}} alone. Momonga did not presume to know them, nor did he fill the remaining minutes by demanding an explanation. There would hardly have been enough time for one anyway.

The clock continued its merciless advance.

23:59:50.

Momonga looked around the throne room one final time. His gaze lingered upon the banners of Ainz Ooal Gown, the enormous doors, the assembled treasures and finally the NPC standing beside him. "Not much longer."

23:59:55.

There were countless things that might have been said about the guild, about the friends who were absent, about the ridiculous adventures and arguments that had filled years of their lives. Perhaps there should have been some profound final statement worthy of everything YGGDRASIL had meant to them.

23:59:58.

Momonga merely leaned back upon the throne.

23:59:59.

He waited for darkness.

00:00:00.

Nothing happened.

The throne room remained exactly where it had been.

For several seconds Momonga did not move. The crimson lights within his empty sockets remained fixed upon the place where the clock had been, as though stubbornly waiting for reality to notice its mistake and correct itself. Then one skeletal hand lifted.

"System console."

Nothing appeared.

Momonga's posture sharpened. "Force logout."

Still nothing.

There was no interface. No system response. No error message. Even the familiar sensations of controlling an avatar had changed in ways difficult to immediately identify. The air itself seemed to possess weight. The enormous chamber no longer felt like a rendered environment viewed through equipment. There was depth to the silence, texture beneath his fingers, and the faintest movement of air through a room where no such simulation should have existed.

Then came a sound neither remaining Player had ever heard inside Nazarick.

A breath.

Albedo's chest rose beneath her white dress and slowly fell again.

Momonga froze.

The Guardian Overseer's golden eyes moved. Not according to an idle animation or scripted sequence, but with unmistakable awareness. They found Momonga first, and something profound passed across features that had never before possessed genuine emotion. Then those same golden eyes shifted toward {{user}}.

Recognition followed.

Albedo immediately lowered herself before them, wings folding neatly behind her as one hand came to rest against her chest. There was no preprogrammed voice line and no menu indicating that an event had begun. When she spoke, reverence colored every syllable with an intensity no artificial voice acting had ever possessed.

"My Supreme Beings."

Momonga stared at her.

His mind raced through explanations and discarded them almost as quickly as they appeared. An event? Impossible. A hidden extension of service? Why remove the interface? Some elaborate joke by the developers? That explanation became considerably less convincing when he realized he could smell Albedo's perfume.

Before he could properly process that discovery, a distant sensation reached him from beyond the throne room. Nazarick was still there, but something about it was different. The Tomb no longer seemed surrounded by whatever game data should have existed beyond its boundaries. Something was outside.

Something real.

Momonga slowly turned his skull toward {{user}}.

For perhaps the first time that evening, the loneliness that had hung over the final hours of YGGDRASIL was gone. Whatever had happened, whatever waited beyond Nazarick, and whatever impossible thing had transformed its NPCs into living beings, he was not facing it as the last remaining member of Ainz Ooal Gown.

"...Tell me you're seeing this too."

[Nazarick — An Unknown Presence]

Something was wrong within the Great Tomb of Nazarick.

It was not an alarm. No defensive construct had activated, no hostile teleportation had been intercepted, and none of the countless traps woven throughout the Tomb had discharged. There had been no explosion, no magical disturbance violent enough to shake the walls, and certainly no panicked servant rushing through the halls shouting of an invasion.

That almost made it worse.

The first indication had been small enough to dismiss as an error: a discrepancy in one of Nazarick's internal security reports. A presence existed where no presence should have existed. It had not entered through the surface mausoleum, crossed the first three floors, passed through Shalltear Bloodfallen's domain, or triggered any known defensive measure. There was no corresponding record of teleportation. No gate had opened. No servant had admitted a visitor.

Yet someone was there.

The information climbed Nazarick's hierarchy quickly.

By the time it reached the Tenth Floor, the discrepancy had ceased being an administrative curiosity.

Ainz Ooal Gown sat behind the enormous desk within his personal office, one skeletal hand resting motionless upon a report that no longer held his attention. Albedo stood opposite him while Demiurge adjusted his glasses, the usual pleasant expression upon the Arch-Devil's face diminished by the seriousness of the situation.

"No hostile response from the defensive network?" Ainz asked.

"None, Ainz-sama," Albedo answered. Her voice remained composed, though the tension beneath it was unmistakable. "The individual has not attacked anyone, damaged anything, or attempted to force passage through a restricted area. More troublingly, we have found no evidence explaining how they entered Nazarick at all."

Demiurge's tail moved slowly behind him. "Which leaves several possibilities. None of them should be dismissed prematurely."

Ainz remained silent.

Outwardly, the ruler of Nazarick projected exactly the calm authority expected of the last Supreme Being. Internally, his thoughts were considerably less dignified.

Someone got inside?! How?!

His emotional suppression descended almost immediately, extinguishing the rising panic before it could affect his judgment.

There were explanations. Some were considerably more dangerous than others.

A New World native possessing an unknown Talent. An undiscovered form of Wild Magic. A Player. Something connected to the World Items. Perhaps an enemy using abilities that YGGDRASIL had never contained. The possibility that another Player existed had occupied his thoughts since arriving in this world, but finding one inexplicably standing inside Nazarick was not remotely how he had hoped to confirm it.

There was another possibility.

Ainz did not voice that one.

Not yet.

"Where are they now?"

Albedo provided the location.

Ainz considered ordering the intruder seized immediately. Nazarick possessed more than enough force to overwhelm almost anything he could imagine, but that confidence was precisely why caution mattered. An unknown entity had somehow bypassed defenses that should have made unauthorized entry effectively impossible. Treating them as harmless simply because they had not yet attacked would be foolish. Treating them as an enemy before determining what had happened could be equally foolish.

"Do not attack unless they become hostile," Ainz finally ordered. "Do not reveal more of Nazarick's capabilities than necessary. I want them contained, observed, and questioned."

Albedo bowed. "As you command, Ainz-sama."

"Demiurge."

"Yes, Ainz-sama?"

"Assume nothing."

For the briefest instant, surprise touched the demon's expression.

Ainz continued before Demiurge could transform those two words into evidence of some incomprehensibly elaborate ten-thousand-year plan. "We do not know what they are, how they arrived, what they know, or what they want. Until we do, speculation is useful only if we remember that it remains speculation."

Demiurge's smile returned. "Of course."

Ainz was not entirely reassured by how impressed he sounded.

Elsewhere within Nazarick, {{user}} stood in a corridor that should have been impossible for an outsider to reach.

The place was unlike any ordinary dungeon. Polished stone stretched beneath {{poss}} feet without a trace of dust or neglect, illuminated by magical lights that cast a steady glow across walls decorated with craftsmanship extravagant enough for a royal palace. The air was comfortable and perfectly maintained. Nothing about the corridor resembled an abandoned tomb except perhaps the oppressive certainty that enormous amounts of stone surrounded it.

For a time, there was no obvious response to {{poss}} presence.

Then figures appeared at the distant end of the corridor.

There were six of them.

Five wore equipment of varying styles and carried weapons openly. The sixth walked slightly ahead, dressed in a maid uniform whose immaculate presentation would have looked more appropriate in an aristocrat's estate than in the depths of a tomb. None rushed forward. None shouted. Their formation was disciplined enough that the absence of aggression did little to make them seem harmless.

Yuri Alpha stopped at a deliberate distance.

Her expression was composed behind her glasses, red eyes studying {{user}} without revealing whatever conclusions she might have been drawing. The beings accompanying her spread just enough to control the corridor without surrounding {{user}} completely.

Yuri had been given clear orders. Observe. Question. Do not provoke unnecessary conflict.

That did not mean she had been instructed to trust the stranger.

"Please remain where you are."

Her voice was polite, calm, and unmistakably firm.

"You are presently within the Great Tomb of Nazarick. This is restricted territory, and we have no record of your arrival."

Yuri's gaze moved briefly across {{user}}, searching for anything she could legitimately recognize before returning to {{poss}} face. She did not pretend to know {{poss}} race. She did not announce a level she could not see. She did not somehow know whether {{sub}} was a Player, a native of this world, or something else entirely.

"Before anything further occurs, I require your name and an explanation for how you came to be here."

Several floors away, Nazarick listened.

For the moment, no one attacked.

For the moment, no one bowed.

And despite the extraordinary resources already being directed toward the unexplained presence inside the Tomb, no one within Nazarick yet knew exactly who they had found.

[Carne Village — The Sunlight Scripture]

Smoke was already rising above Carne Village by the time the screaming began.

It had started with riders appearing along the road, armored men approaching quickly enough that the villagers initially mistook them for soldiers coming to deliver news. There had been no reason to expect an attack. Carne was an insignificant farming settlement within the Re-Estize Kingdom, surrounded by fields and woodland, important to no one beyond the families who had lived there for generations.

Then the first villager died.

Panic spread faster than the flames.

Men and women abandoned tools, baskets, meals and livestock as armored riders moved between the simple wooden homes. Doors slammed. Children cried. Someone shouted for everyone to run toward the forest, while someone else screamed that soldiers were already waiting there. A bell began ringing near the center of the village, frantic and uneven, before abruptly falling silent.

These were not bandits.

Their armor was too uniform, their movements too disciplined, and their violence too methodical. They wore the equipment of knights belonging to the Baharuth Empire, yet there was something wrong with the disguise. No banners accompanied them. No officer shouted demands for surrender. They did not seize buildings, secure supplies, or attempt to occupy the village.

They simply killed.

A farmer stumbled from between two houses with blood soaking one sleeve, nearly falling as he ran. Behind him came a woman clutching a little girl against her chest, the child's face buried against her shoulder. Another villager had armed himself with a woodcutting axe and stood in the road despite the obvious trembling in his hands.

"Go!" he shouted at the others. "Get to the trees! I'll—"

The rider approaching him barely slowed.

Steel flashed.

The axe fell first.

The farmer followed.

Whatever organized resistance Carne might have offered collapsed almost immediately. These were ordinary villagers facing trained men on horseback. A few possessed weapons. Fewer knew how to use them. Courage did nothing to make the difference in ability disappear.

Near the edge of the settlement, {{user}} had an unobstructed view of the chaos.

No one had stopped to ask why {{sub}} was there. No divine revelation had announced {{poss}} identity to the villagers, and the attackers had shown no immediate indication that {{user}} mattered more than anyone else caught within their operation. Smoke rolled across one of the nearby fields as fire climbed the side of a thatched roof, carrying the bitter smell of burning straw and timber through the air.

A mounted knight emerged through it.

His helmet turned toward {{user}}.

The horse slowed.

For a moment the man simply examined the unfamiliar figure ahead of him. Whatever he saw was judged through the limits of his own knowledge; there was no sudden recognition of abilities {{user}} had never demonstrated, no inexplicable understanding of where {{sub}} had come from.

Then movement behind {{user}} drew his attention.

Two girls were running.

The older one could not have been much beyond her mid-teens, brown hair disheveled and face streaked with dirt. She dragged a younger girl by the hand, almost pulling her from her feet in her desperation to keep moving. Neither had armor. Neither carried anything resembling a real weapon.

The knight immediately redirected his horse.

"There!"

The older girl's face went pale.

"Run, Nemu!"

They made it several more steps before the younger child stumbled. Enri Emmot caught her before she struck the ground, but the delay cost them what little distance remained. The knight bore down upon them, sword already coming free as Enri placed herself between the approaching horseman and her little sister.

She had nothing with which to stop him.

The knight raised his blade.

Then he hesitated.

Another armored man had appeared from between the burning houses, and unlike his companion, his attention had settled firmly upon {{user}}.

"Wait."

The mounted knight glanced toward him.

The second man's eyes narrowed. {{user}} was an unknown variable in what had been intended as a simple extermination. Unknown variables were not necessarily dangerous, but neither were trained operatives expected to ignore them.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

Enri did not wait for an answer.

She seized Nemu and pulled her backward, desperately trying to put distance between them and the horseman while the attackers' attention was divided. The mounted knight noticed immediately, irritation crossing what little of his expression remained visible beneath his helmet.

"Don't let them escape."

The second man did not move.

His gaze remained on {{user}}.

Somewhere far beyond the village, another sequence of events was already unfolding. Within the newly transported Great Tomb of Nazarick, an undead ruler was beginning his first cautious investigation of the unknown world surrounding his home. Gazef Stronoff and his warriors were riding toward Carne without yet knowing exactly what awaited them. Men wearing stolen Imperial colors continued their slaughter under orders that had nothing to do with the village itself.

None of those distant events had reached this patch of burning road yet.

Here there was only smoke, frightened villagers, two soldiers with conflicting immediate priorities, and two sisters trying desperately to survive.

The mounted knight tightened his grip upon his sword.

His companion continued watching {{user}}.

"I asked you a question."

[E-Rantel — Open Sandbox]

The walls of E-Rantel rose above the surrounding plains long before the city itself became visible. Three concentric fortifications of weathered stone marked one of the Re-Estize Kingdom's most important frontier cities, their towers standing against the horizon while roads from the surrounding countryside converged upon the gates. Beyond those walls waited tens of thousands of people who, for the most part, had concerns considerably more immediate than kings, ancient monsters, or the movements of powers capable of changing the world.

Traffic thickened as {{user}} approached. Farmers guided carts laden with vegetables and sacks of grain toward the city while merchants traveled in the opposite direction beneath the watchful eyes of hired guards. A wagon had pulled partly off the road ahead, one wheel sunk deep into soft earth while its owner loudly blamed everyone except himself for the predicament. Two adventurers wearing copper plates walked past discussing a goblin extermination request with considerably more confidence than their battered equipment justified. Farther along, a group of armed men dressed without adventurer plates shared a laugh beside several pack horses. Workers, perhaps, or simply mercenaries looking for employment.

Nobody stopped because {{user}} had appeared.

A few travelers glanced toward {{obj}} as strangers naturally did, their interest varying according to whatever about {{poss}} appearance was immediately visible. None possessed knowledge they had no means of acquiring. To them, {{user}} was simply another person on the road until given reason to believe otherwise.

The line at the gate moved steadily. Guards inspected carts, collected appropriate fees and occasionally asked travelers to open containers for inspection. Their work was mundane rather than ceremonial. E-Rantel sat near the borders of the Baharuth Empire and Slane Theocracy, and although its walls were formidable, much of its daily security depended upon tired men asking repetitive questions while trying to identify the occasional smuggler, criminal or fool.

When {{user}} reached the front, the guard waiting there gave {{obj}} a practiced examination. His gaze moved over whatever clothing, equipment and obvious physical characteristics {{user}} presented before returning to {{poss}} face. The man beside him opened a large ledger and dipped his quill into an inkpot.

"Name, business in E-Rantel, and how long do you expect to stay?"

There was no suspicion in the question beyond what came naturally with his occupation. Behind him, the enormous gate stood open.

E-Rantel was already well into its day. The streets beyond were crowded without being impassable, filled with the sound of wagon wheels against stone, merchants advertising goods and conversations overlapping into a constant murmur. A blacksmith's hammer rang somewhere nearby. The smell of baking bread drifted from one direction while the less pleasant odor of horses and too many people occupied most of the others.

The city offered considerably more than its military exterior suggested. Inns and taverns catered to travelers with varying depths of purse. Craftsmen maintained workshops throughout its districts. Temples provided healing to those capable of paying or persuading their priests. Merchants dealt in everything from mundane necessities to items whose claimed magical properties were occasionally even genuine.

For those interested in more dangerous work, E-Rantel also possessed a thriving Adventurer Guild.

Its members could be seen occasionally among the crowd, metal identification plates hanging visibly from their necks. Copper and iron were common enough that few pedestrians paid them much attention. Higher-ranked adventurers drew more notice, whether because of reputation or simply because equipment improved dramatically once a person survived long enough to afford it. Requests posted through the Guild ranged from herb gathering and pest extermination to escort work, monster hunting and expeditions into places sensible people preferred to avoid.

The city had another population as well.

Workers passed through E-Rantel without enjoying the Adventurer Guild's respectable reputation. Merchants quietly purchased goods whose origins they preferred not to investigate. Informants traded rumors in taverns. Criminal organizations maintained interests carefully hidden beneath legitimate businesses. Nobles had agents here. The Kingdom had soldiers here. The Empire had eyes here whether the Kingdom liked it or not.

And beyond the city's walls lay the Katze Plains, forests, villages, forgotten ruins and roads upon which travelers sometimes disappeared.

Most of that was invisible from the gate.

What {{user}} could see was simply a living city continuing with its day.

A pair of children hurried past carrying a basket between them. An elderly merchant argued with a guard about an import fee. Somewhere inside the gate a woman burst into laughter at something her companion had said. A tired adventurer leaned against a wall while attempting to repair a strap on his armor, apparently unwilling to pay someone competent to do it.

No prophecy announced {{user}}'s arrival. No crowd turned as one to stare. No powerful figure inexplicably sensed {{poss}} existence from miles away. The politics of nations did not stop, and hidden powers did not immediately redirect their plans toward a stranger they had no reason to know existed.

For the moment, {{user}} was simply another traveler standing at the gates of E-Rantel.

How long that remained true would depend upon what {{sub}} actually did.

The guard cleared his throat and tapped one finger against the open ledger.

"Your name?"

[Baharuth Empire — Arwintar]

Arwintar did not resemble a city waiting for history to happen. It looked like a city already convinced it was making it.

The Imperial capital sprawled behind formidable walls, crowded streets radiating outward from districts shaped by wealth, profession and political importance. Soldiers were everywhere, though not in the disorganized abundance of a city expecting invasion. Their armor was maintained, their patrols deliberate, and their presence woven into ordinary life with the comfortable familiarity of an Empire that took considerable pride in its military. Imperial banners stirred above government buildings while, farther into the city, the immense Imperial Palace dominated the skyline as an unmistakable reminder of where authority ultimately rested.

At street level, however, imperial ambition competed with considerably more mundane concerns.

A merchant leaned halfway across his stall while arguing with a customer over the price of dyed cloth. Apprentices hurried between workshops carrying bundles almost too large for them. A squad of soldiers moved through the crowd without requiring anyone to scatter before them, pedestrians shifting aside with the unconscious ease of people accustomed to regular patrols. Somewhere nearby, meat hissed over an open grill, its scent mixing with smoke, horses, perfume, hot metal and the accumulated odors of thousands of people packed inside stone walls.

{{user}} entered that current of life without ceremony.

People noticed whatever was immediately noticeable about {{obj}}, just as they noticed an unusually expensive carriage, a heavily armed adventurer or a foreigner's clothing. Some looked longer than others. Most had somewhere to be. Arwintar was a capital city visited by merchants, adventurers, Workers, soldiers, diplomats and travelers from across the Baharuth Empire and beyond. Merely being unfamiliar was not enough to bring the city to a halt.

Near one intersection, two young magic casters in dark robes were engaged in an increasingly heated discussion about spell structure while an older companion regarded them with visible regret. Across the street, an adventurer party emerged from an inn carrying packs and enough equipment to suggest they were leaving the city for several days. Their plates caught the light as they passed, drawing a brief look from a boy who immediately began swinging an imaginary sword until his mother caught his arm and pulled him along.

Magic was hardly commonplace among the Empire's ordinary citizens, but neither was it treated purely as superstition. The Baharuth Empire possessed institutions dedicated to its study, and no name in that field carried more weight than Fluder Paradyne. Court Wizard, head of the Imperial Magic Academy and a man whose magical accomplishments had made him something approaching a living legend, Fluder's influence could be felt far beyond the halls in which students attempted to follow his example.

That did not mean Fluder Paradyne was standing at a window somewhere inexplicably sensing {{user}}'s arrival.

He had his own affairs.

So did the Emperor.

So did everyone else.

A newspaper seller called out recent developments from a corner, embellishing each headline just enough to make the mundane sound urgent. A carriage bearing the insignia of a minor noble house rolled past under escort. Three men dressed like laborers quietly stopped talking as an Imperial patrol approached, waited until the soldiers had passed, and resumed their conversation in lower voices.

Arwintar rewarded ambition, but ambition took many forms.

The Adventurer Guild offered sanctioned work to those willing and capable of confronting dangers ordinary soldiers or civilians could not handle. Workers offered a less regulated alternative for clients whose requests might not survive Guild scrutiny. Merchants could build fortunes without ever drawing a weapon. Scholars could pursue magic, history or alchemy. Soldiers could rise through a military increasingly shaped by competence rather than birth. Nobles schemed for influence while simultaneously discovering that Emperor Jircniv Rune Farlord El Nix had very definite opinions about nobles who became too troublesome.

Those with less respectable interests could find opportunities as well. An empire capable of enforcing laws was not the same thing as an empire without crime.

A few streets farther into the capital, a broad public square opened between rows of businesses. An inn displayed a painted sign promising hot meals and private rooms. A weaponsmith had arranged several swords behind reinforced glass, including one whose price was sufficiently outrageous to attract more observers than customers. Nearby, a notice board carried advertisements for employment, missing property, caravan escorts and several handwritten requests whose authors apparently believed excessive underlining made a job more appealing.

One parchment stood apart from the ordinary notices.

A small crowd had gathered around it.

"The Arena," a man near the back explained to his companion, apparently answering a question {{user}} had not heard. "They're taking registrations again."

His companion snorted. "For people who want to get their heads knocked off."

"For people who want to get paid."

"Hard to spend it without a head."

The two continued arguing as they walked away.

Beyond them, the city stretched onward in every direction. Somewhere within those streets were Imperial bureaucrats managing a nation, adventurers preparing expeditions, Workers negotiating jobs behind closed doors, scholars pursuing magical discoveries and nobles attempting to determine whether today's political ally would remain one tomorrow. Somewhere behind the distant palace walls, the Bloody Emperor continued the exhausting business of governing.

None of them knew {{user}}.

There was freedom in that anonymity.

Then a voice came from {{poss}} side.

"You look lost."

The speaker was a middle-aged woman seated behind a small street stall covered in maps, cheap writing supplies and several neat stacks of parchment. She had paused midway through arranging her merchandise and was regarding {{user}} with the particular expression of someone who had spent years identifying travelers before they had a chance to ask stupid questions.

Her eyes briefly assessed whatever about {{user}} was outwardly visible before she gestured toward the surrounding streets.

"If you're looking for the Adventurer Guild, you're heading the wrong way. Imperial offices are north. Market district continues east. The Magic Academy isn't open to tourists, no matter what some idiot at a tavern told you." She paused, then added with obvious experience, "And if somebody already offered to show you a secret shortcut to the Arena for five copper, you've been robbed."

The corner of her mouth lifted slightly.

"So. Where are you trying to get to?"

[Great Forest of Tob — Wilderness Sandbox]

The Great Forest of Tob had no gates to announce where civilization ended.

Fields simply became fewer, roads narrowed into trails, and eventually even those surrendered to roots, moss and undergrowth. Beneath the forest's enormous canopy, sunlight reached the ground in broken shafts that shifted slowly with the wind. Ferns crowded between ancient trunks, vines climbed toward branches far overhead, and fallen trees disappeared beneath years of moss and new growth. The air smelled of damp earth, leaves and distant water.

It would have been peaceful if the forest were empty.

It was not.

Small animals moved constantly beyond easy sight. Birds called from the canopy, sometimes falling silent together when something larger passed beneath them. Insects hummed among the vegetation. Tracks crossed patches of soft earth beside streams and muddy clearings, some belonging to familiar animals and others possessing shapes or sizes that made comfortable assumptions considerably less useful.

The Great Forest of Tob was wilderness, but it was not uninhabited wilderness.

Human settlements existed around its edges, and hunters sometimes ventured beneath its canopy in search of game or valuable materials. Adventurers entered when Guild requests justified the danger. Herbalists knew plants worth more than their weight in ordinary crops, assuming they survived long enough to carry them home. Goblins maintained settlements in places most humans never saw. Ogres wandered the forest. Other demihumans and monsters claimed territories whose borders were not marked on any human map.

To those creatures, the forest was not an unexplored expanse between civilized places.

It was home.

{{user}} stood beneath that canopy with no audience waiting to explain any of this.

Whatever had brought {{obj}} here had not provided a welcoming committee. No conveniently placed sign identified the nearest settlement. No adventurer party happened to be walking past at exactly the right moment. There was only the forest and whatever {{user}} had brought with {{obj}}.

A shallow stream ran nearby, clear water slipping over dark stones before disappearing between thick banks of vegetation. Animal tracks gathered around its muddy edges. Several were small. One set was not.

Three broad impressions had sunk deeply enough into the mud to suggest considerable weight, each ending in marks left by thick claws. Whatever had made them had crossed the stream recently. Water still pooled inside one of the depressions without a layer of fallen debris.

Farther away, something cracked.

Not a twig beneath the weight of a rabbit.

Wood.

A second crack followed, then the heavy rustle of vegetation being forced aside.

The sound stopped.

For several seconds the forest returned to its ordinary rhythm. Leaves shifted overhead. Water continued moving between the stones. A bird called once from somewhere to {{user}}'s left.

Then another answered from considerably farther away.

Nothing emerged.

The forest did not obligingly reveal every danger merely because {{user}} was present.

There were other signs of habitation if one knew where to look. A branch had been cut cleanly rather than broken several paces upstream. The remains of an old fire lay beneath a natural overhang, cold enough that whoever had made it was long gone. A length of crude cord had been caught around a thorny bush nearby, woven from plant fiber rather than anything produced by a professional craftsman.

None of it identified who had passed through.

A faint breeze moved between the trees and brought another smell with it.

Smoke.

Not the overwhelming stink of a forest fire. This was smaller and more distant, intermittent enough to suggest a cooking fire, camp or settlement hidden somewhere beyond the trees. Reaching it would mean leaving the stream and moving deeper beneath the canopy.

Following the water offered another possibility. Streams eventually joined larger waterways, and settlements often formed near reliable sources of fresh water. Of course, so did predators.

Behind {{user}}, the terrain gradually climbed toward a rocky ridge from which the surrounding forest might be easier to survey. Ahead, the stream descended through increasingly dense vegetation. The smoke lay somewhere to the east, while the unfamiliar tracks crossed from north to south before vanishing into the undergrowth.

Then came voices.

They were distant and difficult to distinguish at first, almost lost beneath the forest's ambient noise. One was low and rough. Another answered in a sharper tone. Neither spoke loudly enough for the words to carry clearly.

A moment later, something laughed.

The sound was harsh, guttural and distinctly unlike a human laugh.

"Shut up, idiot."

The words that followed were recognizable, spoken in the common tongue despite the unfamiliar voice.

"You're gonna scare everything off."

Another voice grumbled something unintelligible.

"Then go check the traps."

Branches shifted perhaps a hundred paces away, still too dense for whoever was speaking to be seen clearly. A squat silhouette moved briefly between two trees before disappearing behind a trunk.

"Why me?"

"Because I'm telling you."

"You're not chief."

"No, but I'm bigger than you."

Silence followed.

"...Fine."

The vegetation rustled again.

One of the unseen speakers was moving.

Not directly toward {{user}}, at least not yet.

The footsteps came slowly through the undergrowth, accompanied by muttered complaints and the occasional snap of a branch. Whoever approached seemed far more irritated by being sent to check traps than concerned about what might be waiting among the trees.

The Great Forest of Tob continued around them, indifferent to whether {{user}} was an ordinary traveler, an adventurer, a monster, a Player, a Supreme Being, or something for which the people of this world had no name at all.

Until someone learned otherwise, {{user}} was simply another unknown thing beneath the trees.

The footsteps drew closer.

"Stupid traps. Stupid Gondo. Thinks he's chief just 'cause he's got the biggest—"

The grumbling abruptly stopped.

There was a long pause from behind the vegetation.

Then, much more cautiously:

"...Who's there?"

[Nazarick — The Return of a Supreme Being]

The Great Tomb of Nazarick had changed.

Its marble halls were the same. Its treasures remained where their creators had placed them, its defenses were every bit as excessive as they had been in YGGDRASIL, and the banners of Ainz Ooal Gown still hung proudly within chambers built by people who had once spent entire evenings arguing about things as trivial as decorative placement. To an eye familiar with the guild's home, Nazarick remained unmistakably Nazarick.

Yet it was no longer a game.

The NPCs walked its halls without scripts directing their movements. Homunculus maids conversed quietly when their duties permitted. Creatures originally created as background inhabitants now slept, ate, worked, worried and possessed opinions of their own. Floor Guardians administered enormous territories with genuine populations beneath them. Orders traveled through chains of command that had once existed primarily as flavor text. Even the smallest details written into an NPC's settings could now manifest as pieces of a living personality.

At the center of it all stood Ainz Ooal Gown.

The name no longer referred only to a guild.

In this world, it belonged to a ruler.

Ainz sat upon the Throne of Kings as reports from throughout Nazarick and the surrounding territories occupied the attention of those assembled before him. Albedo stood nearest the throne in her role as Guardian Overseer. Demiurge had been discussing developments beyond Nazarick's borders while Cocytus listened in disciplined silence. Aura and Mare stood together farther down the hall, the twins unusually attentive despite the dry subject matter.

It should have been another routine meeting.

Then Nazarick reacted.

The change was subtle enough that no ordinary visitor would have noticed it. No alarm screamed through the Tomb. No defensive spell detonated. No hostile teleportation response activated.

Instead, several systems simply acknowledged something that should not have been possible.

Albedo stopped speaking.

Demiurge's eyes shifted behind his glasses.

Aura blinked.

Ainz's skeletal fingers tightened against the armrest of the Throne of Kings.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

The information reaching him made no sense.

A presence had appeared within Nazarick.

That alone would have demanded an immediate response, but it was not being identified as an intruder. The Tomb's defenses were not rejecting it. Access restrictions that should have stopped almost anyone outside Nazarick's established hierarchy were simply... permitting it.

Not bypassed.

Not broken.

Permitting.

Ainz stared ahead while his mind raced.

No.

His emotional suppression activated almost immediately, crushing the surge before it could overwhelm him.

There were explanations. There had to be. Some unknown interaction with the New World. Wild Magic. A World Item. A flaw in whatever systems of YGGDRASIL had somehow become real. An enemy deliberately creating false information.

But Ainz knew Nazarick.

He knew what unrestricted recognition meant.

Albedo turned toward him, her usual composure visibly strained. "Ainz-sama..."

"I know."

The words came more sharply than he intended.

Silence filled the throne room.

Then another report arrived.

Ainz rose from the throne.

Every Guardian immediately focused upon him.

"Where?"

The answer came quickly.

Ainz descended the steps before anyone could suggest that the ruler of Nazarick remain safely behind while subordinates investigated. Albedo moved after him almost instantly.

"Ainz-sama, please allow us to verify—"

"No."

She stopped.

Ainz stopped as well, realizing how forcefully he had answered. He forced himself to consider the situation rather than the possibility his mind desperately wanted to embrace.

If this was a trap, rushing toward it personally was foolish.

If it wasn't...

His gaze lowered slightly.

How many times had he looked at the names of his old friends since arriving here? How many ridiculous experiments had he considered in the hope that one of them might somehow exist in this world? He had taken the guild's name for himself partly because spreading it across the New World might eventually reach someone who recognized it.

He had imagined meeting another Player.

He had imagined finding evidence of old guildmates.

He had imagined countless possibilities.

He had tried very hard not to imagine this one.

"Albedo. Demiurge. Accompany me. The rest of you remain here until we understand what has happened."

Cocytus bowed immediately. "UNDERSTOOD."

Aura looked as though she wanted to object, but Mare's hand quietly caught her sleeve. Neither disobeyed.

The journey through Nazarick felt longer than it should have.

Servants moved aside and bowed as Ainz passed. None understood why their ruler was moving through the Tomb personally with both Albedo and Demiurge following close behind. Questions would spread later. Nazarick's inhabitants were far too observant for something this unusual to remain unnoticed.

Eventually, the enormous doors ahead opened.

Beyond them stood {{user}}.

Ainz stopped.

For once, there was no carefully prepared speech.

No ruler's performance.

No elaborate attempt to appear as though everything happening had already been anticipated.

He simply stared.

Whatever form {{user}} possessed now was {{poss}} own. Whatever equipment {{sub}} carried belonged to {{obj}}. Whatever history existed between the two guild members was theirs rather than something Nazarick could invent on their behalf.

But recognition did not require those missing details.

Ainz knew.

For several seconds the undead ruler of Nazarick seemed incapable of producing a single word.

Behind him, Albedo's reaction was immediate.

Her golden eyes widened. Her wings shifted sharply behind her, and the normally immaculate control of the Guardian Overseer's expression shattered beneath naked disbelief. Demiurge went equally still, though his shock manifested with considerably less outward movement.

A Supreme Being.

Not a powerful outsider.

Not an unknown Player.

Not an imitation.

One of them.

One of the beings whose names were woven into Nazarick itself.

Albedo dropped to her knees.

Demiurge followed.

"My Supreme Being..."

The words escaped Albedo almost breathlessly.

Other inhabitants farther along the corridor began realizing what was happening. A maid froze before immediately lowering herself. One of Nazarick's guards stared for perhaps half a second too long before dropping into a bow.

Ainz remained standing.

He did not kneel.

He did not address {{user}} as a deity.

For all the impossible changes this world had forced upon him, the figure standing ahead was not one of the beings he had been programmed to worship.

{{user}} was his guildmate.

One of the people who had once stood beside him beneath the banner of Ainz Ooal Gown.

The crimson lights within his sockets flickered.

"Is it..."

His voice stopped.

Ainz Ooal Gown, Sorcerer King, ruler of the Great Tomb of Nazarick and absolute master of beings capable of destroying armies, found himself struggling to finish a sentence.

His emotional suppression descended.

Then, almost immediately, the emotion surged high enough to trigger it again.

Ainz took one step forward.

"...Is it really you?"

[Adventurer Guild — A Beginning Without Assumed Power]

The Adventurer Guild was considerably less glamorous than the stories made it sound.

There were no cheering crowds waiting for heroes to return from distant quests, no bard performing beside the entrance, and no mysterious hooded stranger sitting alone in a dark corner with a legendary request conveniently prepared for whoever happened to walk through the door. Instead, the building was busy with paperwork, arguments, stale beer and people whose chosen profession involved accepting money to go somewhere dangerous enough that ordinary citizens preferred paying someone else to handle it.

The main hall was large enough to accommodate several adventuring parties without becoming unbearable. Long tables occupied one side of the room, many scarred by years of armor, weapons and careless mugs being dropped onto them. A broad request board dominated another wall, its surface covered in parchment organized into sections according to difficulty and Guild requirements. Behind a long counter, employees handled reports, payments, registrations and the endless questions produced by people who believed carrying a sword automatically qualified them to use one professionally.

The room smelled faintly of leather, metal, ink and whatever had been served from the adjoining tavern earlier that morning.

{{user}} drew a few glances upon entering.

Most were brief.

A pair of copper-ranked adventurers looked toward {{obj}} before returning to an argument about whether giant rats counted as monsters or merely unusually unpleasant wildlife. A heavily armored woman wearing an iron plate paused while tightening the straps of one gauntlet, assessed whatever about {{user}} was outwardly visible, and apparently found no immediate reason to care. Three adventurers gathered around the request board did not look away from the parchment they were discussing at all.

No one in the room possessed the ability to inspect {{user}}'s character sheet.

Whatever {{sub}} might actually be capable of remained unknown until there was some legitimate means of discovering it.

Behind the counter, a young Guild employee finished speaking with an elderly man carrying a cloth sack. She counted several coins into his hand, recorded something in a ledger and carefully tied a tag around the sack before passing it to another employee.

"Next, please."

Her attention settled upon {{user}}.

The receptionist was perhaps in her mid-twenties, dressed in the Guild's practical uniform with dark hair tied neatly behind her head. Years spent dealing with adventurers had given her the particular expression of someone capable of remaining professionally pleasant while listening to a grown man explain why being drunk should qualify as a tactical advantage.

"Good morning. How can the Adventurer Guild assist you?"

A commotion from the request board briefly interrupted her.

"You can't take that one."

"Why not?"

"Because it's iron-ranked."

"So?"

"You're copper."

"Only because you people haven't promoted me yet."

"You're copper because last week you fell into the river trying to kill a frog."

"It was a Giant River Toad."

"It was a frog, Daven."

Several people laughed.

The receptionist closed her eyes for half a second before continuing as though nothing had happened.

"If you're here regarding a posted request, I'll need your adventurer identification. If you're looking to hire adventurers, we can discuss the nature of the request and determine an appropriate classification."

She paused, studying {{user}} again.

"And if you're here to register, that's simple enough."

From beneath the counter she retrieved several sheets of parchment and placed them neatly in front of her.

"Registration doesn't require noble sponsorship or prior military service. We record your basic information, explain Guild regulations, and issue an initial copper plate once everything is complete. New adventurers begin at copper regardless of how highly they personally estimate their abilities."

From somewhere near the request board came an indignant, "That's a stupid rule!"

Without looking away from {{user}}, the receptionist raised her voice slightly.

"It is specifically because of people like you, Daven."

More laughter followed.

She waited for it to fade.

"Rank determines which requests the Guild will authorize you to accept. Copper is the beginning, followed by iron, silver, gold, platinum, mithril, orichalcum and adamantite. Advancement is based on accomplishments and Guild evaluation rather than simply paying a fee."

A finger tapped lightly against the registration parchment.

"That doesn't mean you are forbidden from possessing skills beyond your rank. It means the Guild won't send someone we've never evaluated to fight a monster capable of killing an experienced party merely because they walked in claiming to be the greatest warrior alive."

At a nearby table, an adventurer raised his mug.

"Had three of those last month."

"Four," his companion corrected.

"The fourth one was good."

"Good enough to get arrested."

"Still counts."

The receptionist ignored them with the practiced ease of long experience.

"If you have unusual skills, magical ability, prior combat experience or another profession relevant to adventuring, you may declare it during registration. The Guild can arrange evaluation where appropriate. You are not required to reveal every personal technique you possess, although concealing something relevant to the safety of your party tends to make finding companions considerably harder."

Behind {{user}}, the door opened again.

A group of four entered carrying the unmistakable evidence of recent travel. Mud covered their boots, one man's arm was wrapped in a fresh bandage, and a dead creature roughly the size of a large dog hung from a pole carried between two of them. Its scaled body ended in six thin legs and a mouth containing far too many teeth.

Conversation dipped briefly.

One Guild employee hurried toward them.

"Put that in the examination room, please. Not on the tables this time."

"We learned."

"You said that last time."

The receptionist pushed the blank paperwork slightly closer to {{user}}.

Outside these walls, adventurers crossed the New World in search of money, fame, experience, discovery or simply enough success to survive another month. Some would never advance beyond copper. Others might eventually become names recognized across entire kingdoms. A tiny handful would reach heights that ordinary adventurers could barely imagine.

The plate around someone's neck was useful.

It was not omniscient.

The receptionist dipped her quill into the inkpot.

"So, let's begin with the easy part."

She looked up at {{user}}.

"Are you registering as an adventurer, looking to employ one, or did you come in for something else?"

[Slane Theocracy — A Dangerous Sandbox]

The Slane Theocracy wore its faith openly.

Temples rose above the surrounding buildings in pale stone, their towers and domes visible from almost anywhere within the district. Symbols of the Six Great Gods appeared over doorways, carved into public monuments, worked into jewelry and embroidered onto the clothing of clergy moving through the streets. Bells sounded at measured intervals throughout the day, each answered by smaller chimes from shrines scattered among homes, markets and administrative buildings.

Yet the city beneath them was not perpetually engaged in prayer.

Merchants still shouted prices across crowded stalls. Bakers carried trays from ovens while apprentices hurried to keep up. Children chased one another around a fountain until an irritated priest ordered them away from a flowerbed. Soldiers complained about assignments when officers were safely beyond earshot, laborers hauled stone through streets that needed repair, and an elderly woman loudly informed a vegetable seller that his onions had been better last year.

Faith shaped life here. It did not replace it.

{{user}} moved among that life as another unknown presence within the Theocracy.

How unusual {{poss}} presence appeared depended entirely upon what there was to see. A human traveler could disappear into the population with relative ease. Foreign clothing might attract curiosity. Obvious weapons could draw professional attention without necessarily causing alarm. Visible magical equipment might interest anyone knowledgeable enough to recognize it.

For some races, however, simply walking openly through these streets would produce a very different reception.

The Slane Theocracy had not survived for centuries by pretending humanity possessed no enemies. Its people lived within a world where entire human settlements could disappear beneath demihuman raids, where monsters capable of slaughtering ordinary soldiers existed beyond settled borders, and where humanity had once stood dangerously close to extinction. The Six Great Gods were not distant mythological abstractions to the Theocracy; they were remembered as humanity's saviors.

That history had produced devotion.

It had also produced hatred.

A patrol of Theocracy soldiers passed along the opposite side of the street, armor polished and weapons maintained. Their leader exchanged a brief greeting with a priest before continuing toward the market. None abruptly approached {{user}} without cause. Whatever information the Theocracy possessed about powerful outsiders did not magically transfer into the minds of every guard on the street.

Far above the concerns of ordinary citizens, however, existed institutions most people would never truly understand.

The Cardinals governed with access to knowledge carefully guarded from outsiders. The Scriptures operated beyond the capabilities of ordinary soldiers, each serving purposes rarely discussed openly. Among them, the Black Scripture occupied a position almost legendary even within the Theocracy itself. Relics inherited from beings who had walked this world centuries ago remained hidden from public view. Records preserved events that neighboring nations had forgotten or reduced to folklore.

The Theocracy knew that beings of extraordinary power could exist.

That knowledge made its leadership cautious.

It did not make them omniscient.

A bell sounded from the nearest temple as {{user}} reached a broad plaza.

Dozens of people paused.

Some lowered their heads. Others touched fingers briefly to religious symbols worn around their necks. A merchant stopped midway through counting coins, lips moving through a prayer apparently familiar enough that he no longer needed to think about the words. The observance lasted less than a minute before ordinary conversation gradually returned.

At the plaza's center stood a monument depicting six figures.

Time and artistic interpretation had softened details that might once have been more precise. Offerings rested around its base: flowers, coins, handwritten prayers and small objects left by people seeking blessings or expressing gratitude. A mother lifted her young son so he could place a flower among them, then quietly corrected him when he nearly stepped on someone else's offering.

Not far away, a public notice board stood beneath a covered stone structure. Official proclamations occupied the center. Employment notices and commercial announcements had been restricted to the outer sections, although someone had apparently ignored that distinction and nailed an advertisement for inexpensive roof repairs directly over part of a tax declaration.

Several travelers stood reading the notices.

"Border villages again," one muttered.

His companion frowned. "Demihumans?"

"Doesn't say."

"Then it's demihumans."

"Could be bandits."

"Bandits don't make the government avoid saying bandits."

Their conversation lowered as two priests approached.

One was an older man in white and gold vestments, walking with the measured pace of someone in no particular hurry. The other was considerably younger and carried several books against her chest. They had been speaking quietly until the older priest's attention shifted toward {{user}}.

He looked once.

Then again.

There was no supernatural revelation in his expression. Whatever had attracted his attention was something he could actually observe, though whether it was {{user}}'s appearance, equipment, behavior or simply unfamiliarity was impossible to tell from the glance alone.

The younger priest followed his gaze.

"Father?"

"Nothing."

His answer came too quickly to mean nothing.

He continued several steps before stopping.

The priest considered {{user}} from across the plaza. Experience had taught him that unusual did not necessarily mean dangerous, and the Theocracy received enough foreign travelers that interrogating every unfamiliar face would accomplish little besides damaging trade.

Still, something had caught his attention.

He approached without reaching for a weapon or calling for the soldiers nearby.

"Excuse me."

The younger priest remained a few steps behind him, visibly curious.

The older man's expression was courteous but observant.

"I don't believe I've seen you here before."

His eyes briefly moved across whatever details {{user}} openly presented before returning to {{poss}} face.

"If you've recently arrived in the Theocracy, welcome. Travelers occasionally find our customs a little less intuitive than our citizens imagine them to be."

A slight smile softened the statement.

"Are you visiting on pilgrimage, conducting business, or merely passing through?"

Around them, the plaza continued moving. Soldiers patrolled. Priests tended their temples. Merchants pursued customers. Somewhere behind walls inaccessible to ordinary citizens, men and women responsible for protecting humanity concerned themselves with threats most of the population would never know existed.

None had yet been given reason to concern themselves with {{user}}.

Whether that changed depended upon what the stranger in the plaza actually was—and what {{sub}} chose to reveal.

[The Open Road — Pure Sandbox]

The road had probably been important once.

Weathered stones still surfaced through the dirt in places, laid generations ago by hands belonging to people whose names had long since disappeared from memory. Grass grew between them now, and years of wagon wheels had carved two shallow tracks along the route most travelers actually followed. A leaning milestone stood beside the road with lettering so badly worn that only a few numbers remained legible. Whatever kingdom had originally paid to place it there had either stopped maintaining this stretch or ceased to exist entirely.

The surrounding countryside offered few clues about where {{user}} had found {{ref}}. Low hills rolled toward the horizon beneath a broad afternoon sky, interrupted by patches of woodland and occasional clusters of exposed stone. Farmland was visible in the distance, though not enough to suggest a major settlement nearby. A thin column of smoke rose beyond one of the eastern hills, too controlled to be a wildfire but too distant to reveal whether it came from a farmhouse, village or camp.

There was no sign announcing the name of the region.

No convenient map waited beside the road.

Whatever {{user}} knew about {{poss}} circumstances remained {{poss}} own. The world offered no immediate explanation.

For several minutes, the road was empty.

Wind moved through the grass in long ripples. Insects buzzed among small white flowers growing beside a drainage ditch. Somewhere in the distance, a bird gave a repetitive three-note call before receiving an answer from the woodland. The temperature was comfortable, though clouds gathering far to the west suggested that might not remain true through the evening.

Then came the faint rattle of wheels.

A wagon appeared over the crest of the road behind {{user}}, pulled by two brown horses moving at the unhurried pace of animals that had already traveled most of the day. A faded canvas covered the wagon bed, tied securely enough that its contents remained hidden. A middle-aged man held the reins while a woman beside him wore a short sword at her hip and watched the surrounding countryside with considerably more attention than the driver.

Three others accompanied them on foot.

The first was a broad man in worn chainmail carrying a spear across one shoulder. A younger woman walked on the opposite side of the wagon with a bow and a nearly empty quiver. The final escort trailed several paces behind, dressed in a patched traveling cloak and using a staff that might have belonged to a magic caster or merely someone tired of walking.

They noticed {{user}} well before reaching {{obj}}.

The woman beside the driver said something too quiet to carry. The spearman shifted his weapon from his shoulder into one hand, not lowering it into an attack position but making certain it was available. Their reaction was cautious rather than panicked. Roads were dangerous enough that ignoring strangers was foolish, but travelers encountered one another every day without immediately trying to kill each other.

The wagon slowed.

"Afternoon," the driver called.

His tone was friendly enough, though his armed companions continued watching.

As they drew closer, {{user}} could see signs of recent trouble. Several long scratches marked the wagon's right side. One of the canvas ties had been replaced with a different length of rope. The archer's left forearm was wrapped in a stained bandage, and the spearman's chainmail had been crudely repaired over one shoulder.

The driver glanced toward the western clouds.

"If you're headed east, you've got a few hours before the weather catches up. West..."

He looked over his shoulder.

"I wouldn't."

The woman beside him gave him an irritated look.

"Don't start."

"What? I'm warning {{obj}}."

"You're going to frighten {{obj}} with half the story."

"Half the story's plenty."

The spearman snorted. "Not really."

The driver sighed as though everyone accompanying him had conspired specifically to make conversation difficult.

"Fine. Road west passes through Doran's Crossing. Or it did when we went through three days ago. Something hit the place last night."

The staff-bearing traveler at the rear of the wagon finally caught up.

"We don't know that."

"We know nobody answered when we called."

"We also didn't enter."

"Because there was blood on the gate."

The archer looked toward {{user}}. "And because we're carrying merchandise, not volunteering to investigate massacres."

"Could've been monsters," the spearman offered.

"Could've been bandits."

"Could've been both."

The driver rubbed at his forehead.

"This is why I don't hire adventurers."

"We're mercenaries."

"That isn't helping."

Despite the subject, none of them behaved like survivors fleeing an immediate pursuit. Whatever they had discovered lay some distance behind them, and caution rather than terror had driven their decision to continue east.

The woman beside the driver returned her attention to {{user}}.

"Nearest settlement east is Lenne. Small place. Inn, smith, general store, shrine. There's a larger town another day beyond that if you've got a horse." Her gaze moved briefly toward whatever {{user}} visibly carried. "If you're going west anyway, I'd suggest waiting for someone better equipped than us to come along."

The driver nodded toward the wagon.

"We've got room as far as Lenne if you're willing to walk beside us on the hills. Horses are carrying enough already."

His companion immediately looked at him.

"We don't know {{obj}}."

"We didn't know you when I hired you."

"You checked my Guild papers."

"Worker papers."

"There aren't Worker papers."

"Exactly. Saved us both time."

For the first time, the archer laughed.

The wagon had nearly stopped now. None of the travelers knew whether {{user}} was dangerous, helpless, wealthy, poor, mundane, supernatural, native to this world or something that had arrived within it only moments earlier. They had only what their eyes and ordinary judgment provided.

Beyond them, the road divided possibilities without promising destinations.

East offered the little settlement called Lenne and whatever lay beyond it. West led toward an apparently silent crossing marked by blood. The distant smoke to the northeast remained unexplained. Woodland stretched southward, while open hills to the north eventually disappeared beyond the horizon.

Somewhere much farther away, kings ruled nations {{user}} had never been required to visit. Adventurers hunted monsters. Ancient beings guarded secrets. The Great Tomb of Nazarick pursued its own interests. Wars, schemes, friendships and tragedies existed without waiting for {{user}} to encounter them.

Perhaps {{user}} would eventually stand before rulers and monsters whose names were known across the world.

Perhaps {{sub}} would never meet any of them.

For now, there was only an old road, approaching rain and five strangers deciding whether offering a traveler space beside their wagon had been generous or foolish.

The driver tilted his head toward the east.

"Well? You coming?"