New World

In the quiet of the room, the energy ball floated gently above the plush, cream-colored rug. Soft, ambient light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow that melded seamlessly with the orb's iridescence. Occasionally, the ball's colors shifted from a tranquil blue to a soft, golden hue, reflecting a sense of calm awakening. The room, with its simple modern furnishings—a low, cozy armchair and a neatly made bed with a knitted throw—served as the perfect backdrop to the energy ball's subtle dance of light. Yeah, this is me. I'm in my own room before being transferred to the New World. My shape-shifter form is essentially an energy ball.

"Looks like everything went as planned," I thought. Not going to lie, I was sweating bullets during the countdown. I bet everything on it, and I'm glad I won.

Throne Room

"Momonga-sama, is everything alright?" Her dark hair flowed like a river of night, cascading down her back in glossy, untamed waves that seemed to absorb the ambient light, casting a near-imperceptible halo around her. Two elegantly curved horns, as black as the void itself, sprouted from her forehead, their tips glistening with an otherworldly sheen. These horns gave her an air of regal menace, blending seamlessly with her alluring, otherworldly beauty. The beauty in question was none other than Albedo.

Momonga's skeletal fingers twitched nervously as he scanned the opulent surroundings of the throne room. The grand hall, with its dark, polished stone and intricate gold filigree, seemed both majestic and intimidating. His mind was a storm of confusion and disbelief. "The GM call isn't working,"

"My apologies, my lord. I have no knowledge of the GM call you are seeking," Albedo replied.

The room felt suffused with an uneasy silence. Inside Momonga's mind, questions whirled like a tempest. What's happening? Are these NPCs really speaking? Their mouths are moving, and their voices sound so… real. This can't be right, can it? Could this be some kind of unprecedented update or easter egg? No, that's impossible with the technology we have. It should be beyond the realm of possibility. But—

"Uh, forget it. Just... come closer," Momonga said, his voice almost a whisper. He watched as Albedo approached, his eyes darting nervously. 'Should I try that?' he thought

"Albedo... Can I, um, touch your chest?" he asked, his face a mix of nervousness and curiosity. He tried to keep a straight face but couldn't hide his blush. 'I can't believe I just asked that. What if she says no? Or worse, what if this isn't a hallucination? How will I handle this? I'm such an idiot!'

Before Momonga could second-guess himself, Albedo's eyes lit up with an enthusiastic smile. "Of course, my lord! I'm all yours!" She puffed out her chest, making it easier for him to reach.

'CALM DOWN ME!'

A glowing light emanated from the skeleton skull. "Ah..."

Momonga reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and touched her chest. The sensation was both foreign and startling; it felt warm and unexpectedly soft under his fingers. 'It seems I'm not in the game,' he thought, his mind struggling to catch up. 'In-game, this would be considered highly inappropriate and could easily get a player banned. How could this be happening?'

He hesitated, feeling a mix of confusion and alarm as he slowly withdrew his hand. The lingering warmth from the contact seemed to amplify his growing unease. 'Damn, how long have I been doing this without realizing the implications?' he wondered, a sense of embarrassment settling in. 'Was I so absorbed in the moment that I failed to see how wrong this was?'

Looking up at Albedo, Momonga was stunned to see her reaction. She was actually moaning softly, her expression one of genuine pleasure. His eyes widened in shock and disbelief. 'Don't tell me she's actually enjoying this? Just from a touch?'

"Hmm... nothing has changed. Good, everything is as it should be," I thought, observing from the sidelines. "Except the dialogue seems a bit different from what I remember, and Momonga seems to be enjoying this a little more than I expected. Well, whatever." I activated the random teleport function engraved on my ring and disappeared.

I had no plans to stick around with Nazarick or change anything. I just wanted to live freely. Don't worry, I had my world items with me. I used a little exploit before the end to store them in my inventory. I didn't need to fear them, since I was equipped with the "Eye of the Realm" ring. World items couldn't affect another world item holder. Though ridiculously overpowered, I could still be killed by a world item. That's just how the game's underlying code worked.

"It's good to be a god," I said with a contented sigh, savoring a deep breath of fresh air. Don't ask why a ball could breathe; it's magic.

Nobody understands. Nobody. The sensation of living in a world where the sun rarely shines—a place cloaked in perpetual gloom, to the point of despair. The ever-present dampness, acid rain drizzling constantly, and air so polluted it had to be filtered before you could safely breathe. It felt like being forcibly stuffed into a box. But now, it's all over. It's all been worth it. Days and nights spent in relentless, grueling effort just to gain a single level. All of it was to escape that hellish world and become a god. I don't care if others judge me; I doubt they will, as almost no one knows what I did. But yes, I did many, many things—starting with killing my parents to seize their wealth, moving on to manipulation, murder, and threaten. I did everything, and it was all for this moment.

To be a god. If someone wants to judge me for that, I'll gladly accept it. The chance to become a god—how stupid of you to let it go? If I hadn't seized my parents' wealth, there's no way I could have afforded the Orb of Creation and all the other crucial items. Sure, I could still be overpowered, but to pass up the chance to be even more invincible? No way. I'm willing to give up anything for that. My legs? Hands? Love? Hate? Family? Blood? Soul? EVERYTHING—I'd trade it all just for that chance. And I think it's still worth it.

When you're striving to become a god, you can forget about being human until you succeed.

That's my motto, and it's what keeps me going. Well, enough thinking—time for action. "Let's start my journey as a human now—or a ball, I guess," I mused, deciding to walk most of the way. I wanted to savor this journey slowly, enjoying every moment. Don't ask why ball have legs. They don't. But they can walk somehow.

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The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden-orange hue across the sprawling landscape. The once-verdant fields were now a patchwork of browns and yellows, scorched by the relentless heat of summer. The sky, streaked with wisps of crimson and violet, painted a stark contrast to the grim procession making its way down the winding road toward the capital.

The slave caravan trudged forward with a relentless rhythm, its heavy wheels creaking and groaning under the weight of countless burdens. The wooden carts, once proud and finely crafted, were now battered and scarred from the journey. The edges of their wheels were rimmed with layers of dust, while the iron fittings glinted dully in the fading light. Each cart was a grim testament to the arduous path they had traveled, bound for the capital where their grim fate awaited.

At the forefront of the procession, a group of heavily armored guards rode on imposing warhorses, their stern faces hidden behind steel visors. Their presence was a constant reminder of the power they wielded, their armor clinking softly with each movement. They scanned the horizon with vigilant eyes, ensuring that no one dared to disrupt their convoy.

The slaves themselves, shackled and weary, were a silent sea of despair. Their chains clinked together rhythmically, a mournful symphony to the harsh reality of their plight. Their hands and feet were bound in iron, the metal biting into their skin. The once-proud clothing they wore had long since turned to rags, tattered and stained from the unforgiving journey. Each face told a story of hardship and loss, eyes downcast, shoulders slumped in resignation.

Among the throng, a few slaves dared to steal glances at the distant silhouette of the capital, its towering spires and majestic walls just visible on the horizon. The city, bathed in the last rays of sunlight, seemed both a beacon of hope and a grim reminder of their fate. Its grandeur was a stark contrast to the squalor of the caravan, a symbol of the chasm that separated the rulers from the ruled.

As the caravan pressed on, the air grew cooler, and the first stars began to twinkle faintly in the evening sky. The scent of the earth, rich and loamy, mixed with the sharp tang of sweat and iron. The occasional murmur of conversation among the guards and the soft rustling of the slaves' chains were the only sounds that broke the profound silence of the dusk.

With every step closer to the capital, the weight of their journey seemed to grow heavier. The city's towering gates loomed larger in the distance, and with them came the promise of new trials and tribulations. The slaves' fate was sealed with the city's grand entrance, a cruel reminder that their passage from freedom to servitude was almost complete.

And so, the caravan moved onward, a procession of broken spirits marching into the embrace of a city that would soon transform their lives forever.

"Brother, are we going to die?" The small, trembling voice of Tinker broke the uneasy silence. His wide, innocent eyes looked up at his older sibling, Nae, who was lost in thought. "No, Tinker. We'll be alright," Nae reassured, his voice steady despite the uncertainty around them. His eyes, though weary and scarred by hardship, held a flicker of hope that shone brighter than any other in the bleak world of the slaves.