ov4

23:59:45,

"Well, that was bathetic…" he said with his altered voice, the melody of his utterance something he'd wished he had in his first life. Unsurprisingly, the dramatic spectacle he'd concocted for his fellow transmigrator left him with little in the way of satisfaction, like a tedious task he'd crossed off his list.

His brows prickled in frustration that was unclear in its origins.

Perhaps he had never been one for such sadistic and tyrannical acts…or maybe it was the tension of the upcoming transmigration that deprived him of any acts of levity for the time being. His focus drifted easily to the time that crawled and yet remained uniform in its passage as it approached midnight.

50,

51,

All the data transfers were completed, and even the sorting process of the newly pilfered items and information from Amata's data cache— because the moron kept everything in his in-game ID database.

He reached his hand out and grabbed at the fabricated existence that he'd overlaid on the reform room to fool Amata into thinking nothing was out of place, the room rippled and teared, revealing the truth of his renovations beneath the falsity of Sculpted Reality.

56,

These were the spells that Satoru had talked about, illusions strong enough to even fool reality…at least for a brief period. Such unfathomable power, it reminded him of Authorities exclusive to the Lord of the Mysteries.

His visage displayed an expression of mild amusement, if he had been truly unfortunate, he might have been transmigrated into that eldritch world where corruption could have claimed him upon entrance and damned him forevermore.

Then again, he doubted anyone would be that unlucky.

He shook his head, and allowed himself a quick recall of his short time in this life. All the stress, the work, questionable preparations, lack of rest, and security breaches that weren't as smooth as he would've liked.

57,

The last vestiges of the illusion fell, revealing the resplendence of the new throne room. In this room, the grand Throne of Kings stood elevated atop a dual set of white marble stairs that spoke of delicate balance and artistic excellence, its walls were decorated with palettes of resplendent white and gold that intensified the regal air that was prominent within the luxurious space.

Tasteful carvings grace the walls, telling tales of urbanity and history that never saw truth, while towering pillars emanated strength and grace. Deluging curtains, a blend of royal blue and shimmering gold, framed the throne room, adding to its majestic overtone.

And large windows with intricate octagon panels permitted streams of natural light in the never-present day of Helheim to dance and illuminate this splendid space.

Above it all, the fortunate transmigrator languished on the kingly world treasure with the pomp and regard of one who owned it all. The vanquished illusion allowed the true appearance of his avatar to touch upon the virtual space.

An Elven man sat on the throne, his light brown skin radiating a timeless glamour that encroach on divine perfection. Cascading down like a descend of moonlight, his long white hair added an unreal quality to his presence. His golden eyes, akin to sunlit dawns, held an enthralling depth that could either intimidate with their intensity or warmly captivate with their benevolence, tailored to the observer.

He was draped in royal attire that was further accentuated by glimmering jewels that adorn his form, enhancing his majestic image.

Ainz Ooal Gown was no more, and only the aesthetics and addresses of its priced creations remained as remnants of its once formidable existence.

He took an inhale, taking in the metallic scent of blood that was potent in Satoru's room as his last moments in this futuristic reality drew ever closer. A small part of him wished that the spineless cubical worker would be lucky to be granted another chance at life…to be given an opportunity to flourish and find happiness in a world that wasn't so hostile to humanity.

But then again…

59,

…opportunities like that weren't for the weak of heart.

He held his breath in anticipation, waiting for the transfer and the beginning of his new lease on life, and for the second time in this new life, a genuine smile stretched his unseen features just milliseconds before virtual space became reality.

"Hello, New World!"

00:00:00…

And just like that, the in-game interface blinked out of reality as a rich pale glow smothered the throne room in the absence of Continual Light.

Arathorn heaved a sigh of relief as true existence came to his avatar. "If the descend of the New World's moonlight upon the room wasn't proof enough then this certainly is," he said with a tremor of joy, relief and an unmistakable sense of power that favoured his new body like a second limb.

He wasn't overwhelmed, no the cruel usurper was far too wise to allow for such things. Even now as he immersed himself in relief, he could feel the invasion of flavour text rob him of ignorance about his newly found might and situation. His face scrunched in mild annoyance as the trauma of killing Satoru washed away like a wet dream…taking with it the nightmares that would have no doubt made his nights a pain to suffer through.

Epiphanies and past actions…mistakes bombarded him as his intelligence and wisdom grew in leaps and bounds, but above all, he felt the gifted boon of instinctual hacking fade with only the barest of understanding remaining.

"No matter." Arathorn let out in an unheard whisper, but despite that there was a significant part of him that lamented the loss.

Still, he treasured his newly found existence. And what made him appreciate it more was the mental difference he felt between his new existence compared to both his previous ones.

"Is this what it feels like to be a genius?" the Elven Lord found himself questioning, not with bafflement but wonderment, "because if it is…"

He shook his head with a little chuckle resonating his larynx, he didn't quite know what to say after that. Did this level of intelligence allow him to view those with lesser mental gifts as sheep? Arathorn didn't believe that…and besides, wisdom was greater than raw intelligence.

He ran his hand through his hair, esteeming the unnatural silliness of his ashen locks. He shouldn't let all this get to him… Be not taken by authority, but be frugal in its usage. Arathorn stood from his throne— that made him smile, all of this was now his in the truest sense of the word— and the ethereal tendrils of the World Item detached from him.

The oppressive power of the Throne of Kings left his control upon his abandonment and reverted back to its semi-active state where it only exercised restrictions on those within Arathorn's protection. To the Elven Lord's surprise, there was no lingering want at the loss of power. Then again, the World Item's power wasn't truly his to begin with.

He could exercise it because of the items he had linked to it. But those items could just as well give the authority of the world treasure to another person.

His legs took him behind the massive throne with graceful, almost regal steps that produced soft taps as his dragon hide shoes knocked against the marble floor. He gazed upwards at the massive window that allowed moonlight into a room that had never known external luminescence.

Having transformed the impenetrable stronghold of Ainz Ooal Gown into a creation of his unique make, Arathorn had further reimagined Nazarick's staging layout.

With a clear design, he'd condensed the once vast 10-floor structure into a streamlined three-tiered domain, and resourcefully inverted the order of descent. This transformation hadn't been fueled by mere vainglory; rather, it was a strategic move. By minimizing height and maximizing scale, he'd established an expansive city, scrupulously crafted to accommodate the 50 thousand NPCs who had evolved into tangible entities, now residing as his loyal subjects within this sprawling fantastical metropolis.

So essentially, there were three floors to this dungeon once known as Nazarick: The first floor, or surfaces floor, was a vast city laid with all the necessary infrastructure and occupations and population…

Arathorn tapped into his most potent skill gifted to him by the unique class of Ruler and permanently tethered it to the Air. Having done this, he was rewarded with the ability ofComplete Aerokinesis. Basic usage came to him in an instant, but his increased intelligence allowed him something akin to semi-mastery.

The Elven Lord willed his ability to lift him, and gravity made no attempts to confine him to its laws. Arathorn's body began to elevate into the air, and despite the overwhelming joy that filled his heart to bursting, this body's unmeasured decorum allowed him an amused facade.

A moment later he came by the window's length and his golden eyes widened at what they saw.

…in the grassy plains that had housed the first floor of Ainz Ooal Gown was, rather than a huge ruined mausoleum that had appeared when Nazarick made its entrance into the new world, a vast silent city that shone with orbs ofContinual Light now stood, fantastical and medieval.

"My city." He murmured…awed at the beating live that connected to his Elven heritage. He felt the rich soil, the disturbed earth, the green plants, but above all, he felt the vitality of his subjects, alive and peaceful save for those who maintained order within the city.

The Elven Lord reached his right hand towards the window, his mind still in a trance, and touched the glass with calloused hands formed by unfought battles.

Dwarven Crystal, his unlived memory whispered to him, that was what it'd been called by the true inhabitants of YGGDRASIL.

His eyes flickered to the moon, large and brilliant, and Arathorn could understand why the view had turned Satoru poetic for but a moment. This was nothing like the moon of Earth, far from it even. It was ten times its size and thrice its radiance…

'I truly have arrived, haven't I,' the twice transmigrator thought, a sense of acceptance finally taking hold of him as his overwhelming joy morphed into a more timid sense of contentment.

With a nod, Arathorn turned afloat to the empty room and waved his hand towards the unlit orbs with a pulse of mana and intent on his fingertips. A brilliant shine bloomed and filled the room with magical luminescence, feeding from the infinite ambient energy to maintain its continual glow.

"I have had enough time to acclimate myself to this new reality…" he hummed, still in the air and watching the ends of his black cloak dancing to an unfelt breeze. "I think it's about time I meet my living subjects."

As if the giant doors were waiting for him to say that, they started to open up with a soundless cry. Unfazed, the Elven Lord gazed at them with a raised eyebrow as he continued to drift in the air.

An aged, handsome man dressed in a resplendent suit of black stepped into the room with a poise and grace that spoke of diligence and commitment.

Sebas Tian, the diligent and loyal draconic butler created by Touch Me and tasked with caring for the 9th Floor…and in another life, that was what he would have done. Expectedly, Arathorn took liberties with his character sheet and restructured his background— little was done to his personality— to match this new environment.

The Draconic butler looked up at him and frowned, a devastating expression on the man's normally stoic face, "My Lord Liaqen, need I remind you how improper and uncouth it is to fly indoors?"

Arathorn, with unlived familiarity, rolled his eyes within his socket with a smile playing on his lips.

"Be at ease, Sebas," he replied, but at the same time took heed to the butler's words and descended, albeit slowly. "I was merely exercising a newly discovered skill, I'm sure you've noticed."

The butler nodded and moved towards him, his sharp eyes scanning and searching. A maid followed behind him, pushing a food tray stacked with a myriad of drinks, confections and finger foods. The maid herself was dressed in a traditional maid uniform from the Victorian era, but she was by far the prettiest person he had ever truly seen.

Her eyes, a mesmerizing shade of green akin to precious emeralds, sparkle with a soft, tender charm. A button nose perched delicately above her lips, which were painted a subtle and elegant shade of pink, thin and inviting. Her beauty carried an air of diligence and subservience…timidness, and she radiated a cuteness that warmed the hearts and beckoned for protection.

Arathorn looked upon her for a brief instant before finding interest in other things. Rather than attraction, his heart swelled with pride and joy at her appearance…demeanour and grace. Because outside that shell of innocence was a skilled spy with unquestionable loyalty and commitment.

Another reason why he was unmoved by her beauty was because Arathorn was a man in love…greater than that even, he was hopelessly in love. Another of the unfixable mishaps his lesser self had settled him with.

'And yet I'm unable to see that as a bad thing.' He thought, amused. Aside from the juvenile thought of wanting to sample other skirts that might catch his fancy, the more severe drawbacks were linked to his partner and how Arathorn would react should something bad befall her.

It would be a violent outburst, he knew, and the only thing that might settle him would be Shooting Star and yet he didn't want his mind altered again.

"Is that why Lord Liaqen had decided to seclude himself in here until midnight?" Sebas's query breached through his dark thoughts and demanded his attention.

The transmigrator looked at the butler as his mind searched where their conversation had left off. He shook his head, and settled himself once more on the world treasure, reconnecting with its vast might. "My seclusion could be credited to the expansion that is scheduled to take place tomo—today." He cracked a smile, "and here I thought you kept yourself informed with matters of court, Sebas."

"I do indeed keep myself and the palace servants informed with important matters," this time it was the butler who quirked his brow, "I just didn't know that reading my lord's mind fell under the same category."

Arathorn scoffed with amusement, "it is that cheek of yours that's keeping you from building any notable relationships outside the palace, Sebas. You know very well what I meant."

The butler smiled faintly, and ascended the stairs until reaching where the Elven Lord sat and gave a customary bow.

Arathorn dismissed it with a lazy gesture of his hand.

"I suppose I do, my lord." Sebas said with a lighter tone, he motioned towards where the maid and the tray stopped and the marble beneath her started to move…ascending. Even without the knowledge, Arathorn senses allowed him to detect the magical disturbance that was brought by the mystical artefact within the butler's sleeves.

Magic…true magic, the art that perversed reality and subjected it to an individual's wants, whims. A small part of Arathorn was still floored by its existence and wanted to explore it further, while the larger part of him didn't even regard it as something phenomenal, just a part of reality like light, air or even water.

'It's an art demanding significant time and dedication, and I have more pressing matters to attend to than spending it on researching spells... or rediscovering ancient miracles.' Boyish dreams had no place in the life of a supreme ruler, 'I'm certain those fossils down the institute will not disappoint in its pursuit.'

For the first time since his arrival in this reality, his mind contemplated developments beyond the scopes of his domain.

In Arathorn's opinion, Jircniv had the right of it, developing an Academy tailored toward the pursuit of magic was a capital idea. Unfortunately, the young emperor was far too ignorant of the Arcane Arts, and their vast sub-categories, some of them even forbidden.

Naturally, Arathorn had, too, constructed such facilities, and he'd been sure to fill them with aspirants and exceptional instructors.

Still, he was curious of how different the tier formulas from the imperial magic academy would be compared to those of his own. After all, spellcrafting was a complicated art with endless possibilities, there was a reason why most of the spell-focused players within the game opted for player made spells rather than just the basic spells awarded by the game.

Unfortunately, being an in-game spellcrafter didn't necessarily mean you completely understood the process of spell creation. This was similar to how mages within the game didn't retain the understanding of spell learning, as was the case with Ainz.

…unless you were an NPC that was.

Luckily for Arathron, his prior existence had been able to foresee this and took measures to prevent it.

Still, the Elven Lord remained curious.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by the sweet scent of lingonberries and mild vanilla assaulting his nose. Looking, he found a cup of red tea held before him by the dexterous hands of Sebas.

"Quite rude of you to be lost in thought in the presence of company, my Lord Liaqen. Dear Olira has been regaling you with the captivating tale of her day, and yet I doubt my Lord retained any part of her story."

Arathorn shook his head at the false disappointment in the butler's tone before accepting the warm cup, "It seems you still need work in your deliverance of believability. With that kind of acting, not even a daft cat would believe you, Sebas."

"My Lord, one shouldn't take pride in the art of deception. I would truly be befuddled if a single person were to believe my lies." The butler pointed out. And it was true, Sebas was almost honest to a fault…but he was no fool.

Arathorn took a sip of the red tea and enjoyed in its unmatched taste and aroma. This was the taste of food made from individuals who knew their craft and ingredients touched by magical particles.

Truly amazing!

He opened his eyes and let a soft smile slip on his face before turning to the maid, "Thank you for the tea, Olira. You can take your leave now."

Graceful, the diligent maid bowed, posture still perfect and dutiful despite her fluster, "By your will, Lord Liaqen."

The maid didn't linger, and was out of the room before even a minute had passed. Arathorn guessed his dismissal was somewhat unforeseen and abrupt…but he didn't lament his actions or let the thought simmer.

He took another sip of his tea, and the butler let him be with his thoughts a bit longer.

Despite how the pair had arrived, their presence was expected, pre-arranged before the transmigration even took place. Sebas was to enter when the lights to the room came on followed by the maid with a tray carrying foods.

The Elven Lord reached his hand towards the plated confections the butler had prepared for him and grab himself a purple macaron.

Unlike in the canon timeline, Arathorn wiped any forms of YGGDRASIL from the NPCs and made it so they would believe themselves to be denizens of this world… and of course with appropriate backgrounds. This was a calculated risk that might backfire if significant changes had been made to the timeline.

Still, he was extremely cautious and only gave the NPCs the most rudimentary of new world's knowledge like the layout of nations, landmark locations, races and creatures. They had their own history, but it was minor and forgettable, thus lacked significant import.

He bit into the phenomenal pastry and hid his undignified moan with an appreciatory hum. 'Truly, this food is unlike anything I've ever tasted before.'

Timed, the butler extended him a napkin…

As for why he did this, he'd done so to avoid any sense of detachment from his subjects and encourage mingle with the natives.

That was what the so called expansion was about…to reach out into the wider world and form relations, building roads, build more infrastructure, acquire land, and most importantly of all gather information.

Geologically speaking, he knew that his domain stood a great distance away from the two nations that bordered it— almost a nation's difference given how great the forest of Tob was in actuality. It had taken the ancient wizard's scrying months to even come about the false front of Nazarick, months of diligence and lack of frustration.

Arathorn took the offered cloth and used it as intended. He didn't want to gorge himself, despite the great desire to do so… No, the Elven Lord had made promises and he didn't want to break them. Even with the diligent work his prior self had put into this transmigration, there was one thing that forever filled him with drive…

He stood, "I've grown weary and desire rest, Sebas."

The butler bowed, "of course, my lord."

What did his prior self say again…

Better comforts awaited him, his impressive memory supplied him with the recollect. A faint, devious smile stretched his lips a tad, as a glint of carnal desire fleshed in his golden eyes.

'I hope you'll forgive me for what I'm about to do to you, Albedo.'

The Saint: Yes, the MC spawned a city instead of a guild. Something that I noticed when reading OG is how Ainz stated that YGGDRASIL was huge and diverse, despite it being primarily a MMORPG. Like I said before, there will be a vast array of POVs and storylines that will probably not interconnect until later on. 

The next chapter will be Albedo (this fic's vision), there will will see the NPCs mindset and reactions. 

Anyway, POVs are third-person limited with a dash of unreliable narratives.