Sebas lightly brushed off his hands.

He replaced the soiled gloves—dirtied a moment ago by mistake—with a fresh pair, silently apologizing to his master, Lord Ainz, for having sullied even the smallest of Nazarick's provisions.

"Disappointing."

That his opponents were weak was not in itself the issue. What was unforgivable was that, despite their weakness, they chose to commit evil and even dared to provoke him.

They could not withstand even a fraction of his true strength. One blow each—that was all it took to end them. That it took as long as thirty seconds was only because they had provoked him.

The so-called Undead King Davernoc, a pitiful scrap of corpse daring to claim the lofty title "Undead King"—a name worthy only of his supreme master—had every bone in his body shattered in a single punch.

The Dancing Scimitar Edstrom drew six blades, making them whirl like a dance in preparation for an assault. Yet her skill fell short, and with one strike her body was separated from her head. Even in death, her blades still twitched to attack—a testament to her willpower, if nothing else.

The Space-Cleaver Peshurian stooped to cheap tricks, disguising petty illusions with the ostentatious claim of "cutting through space." An insult on par with Davernoc's self-styling as "Undead King." It was laughable—his feeble deception evoked, and insulted by comparison, the supreme art of his creator, Touch Me: World Break, the true severing of dimensions.

The Heaven-Slayer Malmvist, lost to madness, mistook an ordinary glove for a legendary artifact and died half-delirious, laughing instead of resisting.

Thus, the four of the so-called Six Arms who had dared provoke Sebas were slain.

It was not a battle. It was a judgment. A mere execution.

They may have held confidence in themselves, but tragically lacked the eyes to recognize the overwhelming might before them. Not that it would have changed the outcome.

"Disappointing."

The words echoed again in his mind. Truly, it was disappointing. Weak as they were, they dared commit evil.

Perhaps, once, they might have been given a chance at redemption—but Sebas had stripped it away without hesitation. His creator, Touch Me, had taught him: "Evil must be punished." Indeed, it must. Severity depends on the crime, but these were irredeemable.

Worse still, they had insulted those under the name of Ainz Ooal Gown. For that sin, combined with Sebas's own anger, the sentence was death.

"Now, it is time to rescue Tuare."

Before this execution began, during their exchange, Sebas had deduced Tuare's location.

Though their note said she was underground, their betraying glances revealed otherwise—it was a lie, a common trick of villains.

The real location had been given away unconsciously. And by their words, she had not yet been harmed.

They had even mentioned her being delivered as a "gift" to one of their higher-ups, which, ironically, meant her safety was assured—temporarily.

But not for long. Once word of these executions spread, Tuare's life would be in jeopardy. Swift rescue was imperative.

Adjusting his gloves, Sebas prepared to move.

It was then that he appeared.

From the ceiling, enveloped in shadows, a massive figure descended.

Even by sheer size alone, he was at least two heads taller than Sebas. And yet, the impression he gave made him seem larger still.

Sebas's body tensed instinctively.

Strong. Terrifyingly strong. Never before in this world had he encountered such might. Perhaps equal to, or beyond, the Floor Guardians themselves. Sebas discreetly gestured toward Solution, hidden in the upper gallery, signaling her to stay concealed.

"Could this be… Zero?"

Before arriving here, Sebas had crossed paths with a group preparing to strike against the Eight Fingers—Climb among them.

From them, he had heard brief information. Of the Six Arms, one stood above the rest: the man said to be their strongest, a warrior known as Berserker Zero.

Until now, Sebas had thought little of him. The Six Arms he had fought were disappointing, barely stronger than Nazarick's automatically spawned skeleton guards. They were hardly worth ten seconds of his time.

So he had not expected much of this "strongest" among them.

But now, standing before him, Sebas abandoned that thought. This man carried a power that might rival the Floor Guardians themselves. If there were more like him, even Nazarick might be endangered.

In the worst case, Sebas resolved to stake his life to relay this information back to Nazarick.

For now, he addressed the man:

"Who are you?"

"…For what purpose have you come?"

The silence pressed heavy, raising Sebas's tension. He considered striking first when at last the reply came:

"I am the one who was to claim the lives of those you just slew."

"…I see. My apologies. I did not realize they had already been spoken for."

"No matter. What's dead is dead."

The deep, gruff voice muttered like a growl.

Only then did Sebas relax slightly and truly look at his opponent. The initial pressure had been so overwhelming that he hadn't properly taken in the man's features.

And now that he did—he realized.

It was a face he had seen before.

He hadn't seen it directly, but he knew well enough.

After all, the man in that photograph was listed at the very top of the information Sebas had gathered, classified among the highest priority targets.

"Are you… Lord Monkyspanner?"

"Hm? You know me?"

"There isn't a soul in the world who wouldn't recognize someone as famous as you."

Monkyspanner El Dragondream — the most famous man alive. Even if some might not know the name of the Scarlet Emperor, sovereign of the Empire, there were plenty who recognized the head of that great clan. Sebas judged it safe enough to feign familiarity.

Sebas's mind raced. Meeting this man here of all places was completely unexpected. The atmosphere wasn't hostile, but if things turned sour, a confrontation with him would be disastrous.

Nazarick's current policy was clear: avoid antagonizing anyone from Dragon's Dream. If possible, steer clear of conflict at all costs.

"Then… do you have other business here? I was about to head further below."

"No, I've no other business."

It seemed they could part ways without incident.

Sebas would have liked to take advantage of the opportunity for a calm conversation, but unfortunately he had neither the time nor the permission. Contact without Lord Ainz's approval was forbidden.

"Originally, I had intended to visit the others as well… but I'll refrain. If someone like you is showing interest in them, I'll step aside."

"I see."

"And one more thing. A message, if you would."

"A message?"

"Yes. For your master… the one who likely came into this world from Yggdrasil, isn't that right?"

That single, passing remark sent Sebas into full alert.

Until now, both he and Demiurge had only suspected the connection to Yggdrasil. To hear it stated so plainly — it meant the truth was out.

"Relax. I only ask you to deliver a message: 'We have no intention of hostility.' That is all."

"You did not consider that I might try to subdue you here and now, and deliver you to my master?"

"Oh? If you think you can, then by all means, try."

Sebas quickly gauged their relative strengths. The conclusion was obvious: this was no foe he could easily overpower. Unlike the four he had just dealt with, Monkyspanner's strength was unreadable.

If he was indeed comparable to a Floor Guardian, then a fight would only expose information best kept hidden.

"And even if you fight, I'll just escape. Fighting you brings me nothing but loss."

"…I see. Very well. But may I ask one more question?"

"Go ahead."

"This message for my master — may I know who sends it?"

"Well, of course."

Monkyspanner smiled.

"It is from me."

"…I see."

Was it truth, or a lie? The answer brimmed with such confidence that Sebas couldn't tell.

Still, the declaration that it wasn't a threat was enough. This was the head of Dragon's Dream — perhaps even the leader of another player faction. It could be taken as a statement of their collective will.

Sebas longed to ask one final question: Are you a player?

That answer would decide much for Nazarick's future. But there was no expectation of an honest reply.

Before he could even voice the thought, Monkyspanner was gone.

Sebas might have pursued him, but then he would never be able to save Tuare.

Left with no choice, Sebas turned back. A heavy feeling gnawed at him, as if he had just made an irreversible decision. He prayed it was only an illusion, and raced like the wind to rescue Tuare.

**********************

***********************

If you want to read 10 advance chapters ahead.

Visit my patreon: patreon.com/Vanity01