Chapter 1 The fall of the elven kingdom

The ancient trees of the elven kingdom, tall and majestic, swayed eerily in the cold wind, their once comforting presence now reduced to ominous shadows that stretched across the marble streets of the capital. Lyria stood in silence, her platinum hair catching the moonlight, framing her angular face with a cold beauty that was almost unnatural. Her skin was porcelain white, smooth and flawless, with eyes like twin orbs of silver—a rare, ethereal appearance among her kin. She had always stood apart, not just for her beauty, but for her unmatched intellect, her knowledge of alchemy, and her strategic mind. But now, none of that mattered.

The kingdom was dying, and her people were to blame.

"Lady Lyria," came a voice behind her, strained with fear. She didn't turn to face the speaker, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the dark clouds gathered. The winds whispered of chaos and death, and Lyria could feel it in her bones. The Sorcerer King's forces had arrived.

"You must come at once. The council has…" the messenger hesitated, his voice faltering as if he couldn't bring himself to utter the words.

"Speak plainly," Lyria demanded, her tone sharp as a blade.

"They have made a pact… with the invaders."

Lyria's breath caught in her throat, but she didn't allow herself to show any weakness. She turned slowly, her silver eyes locking onto the young messenger who stood before her, trembling as if the very ground beneath his feet might give way. His pale face was damp with sweat, and he avoided her gaze, staring at the floor as though ashamed of what he had to say.

"A pact?" she repeated, her voice low and dangerous. "With whom?"

The boy swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he forced the words out. "With the Sorcerer King… Ainz Ooal Gown."

For a moment, the world seemed to tilt around her, the trees swaying unnaturally, their branches creaking like bones in the silence. Lyria's mind raced, trying to process what she had just heard. The council—the very leaders who had sworn to defend their people at all costs—had made a pact with him, the undead tyrant whose forces had decimated entire kingdoms.

Without another word, she brushed past the boy and stormed toward the council chamber, her long white robes billowing behind her. Her footsteps echoed through the marble halls as she moved with purpose, each step bringing her closer to the heart of the betrayal. The corridors, once bright and filled with life, now seemed like a tomb, the shadows of defeat looming in every corner.

As she approached the grand oak doors of the council hall, she could hear the murmurs of the council members inside. The stench of fear hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint scent of incense that was meant to calm, but now only seemed to mock the gravity of the situation.

Pushing the doors open, she stepped into the chamber, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene before her. The council, a group of elder elves who had once commanded respect and authority, now sat huddled in their seats like frightened children. And there, standing in the center of the room, towering over them with an aura of death and power, was Ainz Ooal Gown.

The Sorcerer King's skeletal form exuded a cold, malevolent energy. His eyes glowed a faint crimson, empty sockets that seemed to pierce through to Lyria's very soul. Standing beside him, with a sadistic smile playing on her lips, was Albedo, the Overseer of Nazarick's Guardians. Her black armor shimmered in the dim light, and her golden eyes glinted with barely contained malice.

"You have betrayed us," Lyria spat, her voice cutting through the tense silence like a whip. Her silver eyes burned with fury as she glared at the council members, each one too ashamed or too cowardly to meet her gaze.

Ainz's hollow gaze shifted toward her, his voice an empty echo as he spoke. "Betrayal? That is a matter of perspective."

One of the council members, Lord Maelor, rose slowly to his feet. His face was pale, his hands trembling as he gestured toward Lyria. "Lyria… you must understand. We had no choice. The Sorcerer King's forces… they are unstoppable. We cannot stand against them."

"You didn't even try," Lyria hissed, her voice low and venomous. "You sold our kingdom, our people, to this… abomination."

Ainz stepped forward, his skeletal frame moving with an eerie grace. "Such harsh words," he mused, his voice deep and resonant. "I have no interest in the destruction of your people, Lyria. In fact, I have come to offer you something far greater than survival."

Lyria's gaze snapped to him, her fists clenched at her sides. "And what is that? Slavery?"

Ainz's empty eyes gleamed with an unnatural light as he regarded her. "No. I offer you a place in my kingdom. Your talents are… extraordinary. You would serve me well."

"Serve you?" Lyria's voice dripped with disdain. "I'd rather die."

Ainz's skull tilted slightly, a gesture that might have been curiosity. "I admire your defiance, but it is misplaced. Your kingdom is mine now. Your people… they have already surrendered."

Lyria's heart pounded in her chest, the weight of the betrayal suffocating. She had dedicated her life to the protection of her people, to building the alchemical marvels that had kept them safe for so long. And now, in the face of true danger, they had cast her aside, offering her up like a lamb to the slaughter.

"Why me?" she demanded, her voice shaking with barely contained fury. "Why not take them? Why single me out?"

Ainz's gaze lingered on her, and for a moment, there was silence. Then, he spoke again, his voice calm, measured. "Because you are special. Your knowledge of alchemy, your intellect… you are far more valuable than any of these weak-willed fools." He gestured to the council with a dismissive wave.

Before Lyria could respond, a sharp voice cut through the chamber. "You will serve, whether you like it or not."

The words came from Demiurge, who appeared from the shadows, his calm, calculated expression belying the malice beneath. He stepped forward, his glasses catching the light as he adjusted them with a gloved hand. His smile was thin, almost polite, but there was no mistaking the threat in his eyes.

Lyria's breath hitched as Demiurge approached her. "If you refuse," he continued, his voice soft yet cutting, "I will personally ensure that you are… persuaded."

Lyria's stomach churned. She knew what Demiurge was capable of—his reputation for cruelty was legendary even among Nazarick's denizens. She could already feel the weight of the chains tightening around her, the noose drawing ever closer.

Ainz remained silent, his expression unreadable as Demiurge's words hung in the air. Behind the cold mask of the Overlord, a flicker of doubt crossed his mind, but he crushed it immediately. The Overlord persona was necessary—he could not afford to show mercy, not here, not now.

Momonga, the man behind the Sorcerer King's skeletal façade, recoiled at the cruelty of his minions, but he buried those feelings deep beneath layers of authority and detachment. This is necessary, he reminded himself. She must fear me, as they all must. Yet, somewhere beneath the surface, the vestiges of his humanity squirmed at the thought of forcing this woman into submission.

Lyria's voice, trembling but defiant, interrupted his thoughts. "You can torture me, kill me, but I will never willingly serve you."

Demiurge's smile widened slightly, his eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement. "Oh, we have ways of changing your mind, my dear. Pain can be a very… effective motivator."

Lyria clenched her teeth, every muscle in her body tensing. She could feel the walls closing in around her, the weight of inevitability pressing down on her shoulders. But the fire of her defiance still burned bright. She would not break so easily.

Ainz watched her in silence, his mind torn between the desire to maintain his fearsome image and the uncomfortable pull of something that felt dangerously like sympathy. He could end this here, force her into submission with a single word, but some part of him—a part long buried beneath the mantle of the Sorcerer King—was reluctant.

Demiurge, sensing his master's silence, stepped closer to Lyria, his voice a venomous whisper. "You misunderstand. This is not a negotiation. You will serve Lord Ainz, or you will suffer unimaginable pain until you beg for death."

The room grew colder, the oppressive weight of Nazarick's power pressing down on Lyria's fragile hope.

The room grew colder, the oppressive weight of Nazarick's power pressing down on Lyria's fragile hope. Her heart raced as Demiurge's dark promise settled into her bones like ice. She stood rigid, unwilling to bend, unwilling to give them the satisfaction of seeing her break. Yet, beneath the bravado, she knew the gravity of her situation. They would not relent, and her mind, sharp as it was, couldn't see a path forward where resistance didn't end in unimaginable suffering.

The silence in the room was palpable, broken only by the faint sound of Ainz's robe shifting as he took a step closer. He was impossibly still, his skeletal form towering over her, a living reminder of the futility of defiance. Her silver eyes met his empty sockets, defiant but weary, knowing that she was a mere breath away from a decision that could seal her fate.

But Ainz hesitated, an unnatural pause that went unnoticed by his subordinates. Inside, Momonga pondered the scheme demiurge and him had come up with, was all this theatrics necessary he thought. In the moment, he had just agreed with demiurges plant without knowing it as usual.

But she will be an excellent tool for nazarick thst I can't give up, I can't turn her into an undead because she would loose her intellect in alchemy which is why he was here. Her skills were far part those of enfirior, his alchemist from carne village who is yet to produce the needed blue potion. He inwardly sighed, But in moments like this, the mask of the Overlord felt suffocating. This wasn't a game anymore. This woman wasn't an NPC he could dismiss; she was real, and the fear in her eyes, though veiled by defiance, unsettled him.

Ainz kept his voice low, controlled, as his mind fought to maintain the terrifying persona he had cultivated. You have to be the Sorcerer King. His voice, when it finally came, was emotionless and cold, though somewhere beneath it was a sliver of conflict.

"Demiurge," he said, his voice steady, though his internal struggle persisted, there is no need for threats, if she refuses, then I'll turn into un undead.

Demiurge bowed deeply, his expression a mix of satisfaction and curiosity. "Of course, Lord Ainz," he said smoothly, though his voice carried a hint of regret. "However, if Lady Lyria continues to resist your will, I fear we will need to resort to… less pleasant methods of persuasion." He said while glancing at the elf in question.

Lyria's heart pounded in her chest, the words "less pleasant" sending a surge of adrenaline through her veins. Her thoughts swirled—escape was impossible, and outright refusal would invite a fate far worse than death. Ainz had the power to destroy everything she held dear, and Demiurge had the means to extract every last ounce of defiance from her soul.

Her options were gone.

Still, she clung to the last shred of her pride. "You may force me to serve, but know this," she said, her voice low but steady, "I will never serve you willingly. You will never have my loyalty."

Ainz regarded her silently for a moment, his hollow gaze betraying nothing. Internally, Momonga struggled with the conflict between his desire to maintain control and the discomfort he felt at her words.

"It does not matter," Ainz said finally, his voice devoid of emotion. "Loyalty is not required, only obedience."

The words stung, but Lyria kept her face a mask of cold indifference. Her gaze flicked to Demiurge, who was watching her with the eyes of a predator savoring its prey. She knew she couldn't win this fight—not here, not now. But that didn't mean she would forget. Deep within her, the flame of vengeance still burned, and she vowed that one day, she would make them pay for this.

Slowly, Lyria lowered her gaze, a gesture of reluctant surrender. "Very well," she said, her voice soft but full of hidden venom. "I will do as you command… for now." The latter part said inwardly.

Ainz's skeletal form remained still, though something in the room shifted, the oppressive air lifting slightly as the tension ebbed. He didn't say a word, though a sense of relief passed through him—relief that he would not have to push her further, not yet. In his mind, he told himself it was a tactical decision. Breaking her spirit outright would be a waste of talent. Yet, deep down, Momonga knew it was more than that.

"Good," Ainz said simply, turning toward the exit. "Demiurge, ensure that Lady Lyria is… comfortable in her new quarters. I will expect her skills to be put to use soon."

Demiurge bowed low, his sharp, foxlike grin returning as Ainz left the room, Albedo close behind him. The doors closed with a soft click, leaving Demiurge and Lyria alone in the council chamber, the silence hanging between them like a blade.

"You made the right decision," Demiurge said smoothly, his voice almost too kind. "I look forward to seeing what you create for Lord Ainz. But remember," he added, his tone darkening, "should you falter in your duties, there will be consequences."

Lyria shot him a cold look, her pride still intact despite her reluctant submission. "You can tell your master that I will fulfill my duties," she said, her voice like ice. You will refer to him as Lord Ainz, he says in a gental voice musking his sedictive nature.

He turned to leave, his metal tail flowing behind him. "Your quarters will be prepared. You will begin work tomorrow."

As the doors closed behind him, Lyria was left alone in the cold, dimly lit chamber. The elder had already been dismissed.

The weight of her betrayal pressed down on her like a suffocating fog, and for a moment, she allowed herself to feel the full extent of her despair. Her people had sold her to this undead tyrant without a second thought. Her kingdom, her life, everything she had known was gone.

But as the silence enveloped her, a new resolve began to harden within her. She would play their game—for now. She would bide her time, gathering strength, knowledge, and allies. Ainz may have forced her into servitude, but he had not broken her spirit. Damit why him!!

As she turned to leave the council chamber, her mind was already working, calculating the possibilities. She had always been a strategist, always seen the angles no one else could see. And now, in the heart of her enemy's domain, she would begin her work.

Would it even be possible, the sorcerers kingdom as amassed a large number of colonies that I can't even fight alone. This will be difficult, but I swear one day I'll have my revenge.