New World

The day had finally arrived. Marcus sat in his chair, his gaming headset resting comfortably over his ears. His heart raced as the countdown edged closer to midnight—this was the moment he'd been preparing for since the day he started playing Yggdrasil. The servers would shut down tonight.

His screen displayed the vast halls of the Eternal Dominion, bathed in the soft glow of mana that radiated through its enchanted walls. Velkharion—his perfect creation—sat in the Frostfire Throne, overlooking the grandeur of the castle he had built brick by enchanted brick. The NPCs moved about the domain mechanically, responding only to preset commands as they carried out their programmed duties. The silence within the castle mirrored the server itself—so few players remained.

Marcus scanned the player list for the guilds and allies he'd grown familiar with over the years. The list showed nothing but empty slots. None of his friends were online, save for one name.

"Momonga," he murmured, his lips curling into a faint smile. The leader of Ainz Ooal Gown, a fellow gamer who had poured as much into his character and base as Marcus himself. At least one soul remained to witness the end alongside him.

The clock ticked closer to midnight. Marcus leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. He had prepared everything—the castle was fortified, his treasury overflowing, his NPCs flawlessly equipped. He was ready.

The final minutes stretched, each second feeling longer than the last. Marcus closed his eyes, letting the hum of the game's ambient sound wash over him. This was it—the last chapter of Yggdrasil.

As the clock struck midnight, Marcus felt… nothing. No grand shift, no sudden jolt. Just the stillness of the room around him and the hum of his own thoughts. For a brief moment, he wondered if the he'd even go to the new world but...

As his eyes were closed momentarily, as he opened his eyes.

The clarity of his vision startled him. The once-familiar glow of Yggdrasil's graphics had changed—become sharper, richer, more real. The throne room of the Eternal Dominion looked less like a game and more like a tangible space, each detail leaping out in vivid perfection. Marcus blinked, his fiery eyes—the eyes of Velkharion—focusing on the subtle movements around him.

It wasn't just the visuals. Marcus felt something. The weight of his sword resting against his back, the cold touch of the mana surging through him, the sheer power that coursed through his being—it was all real.

His fingers clenched into fists, the sensation startling in its authenticity. "This… isn't Yggdrasil anymore," he murmured, his voice resonating deeply. "We've been sent somewhere else."

Marcus—Velkharion—rose from his seat, the Frostfire Throne casting a faint glow against his silhouette. He couldn't contain the surge of excitement rushing through him. He had prepared for this moment, planned for it endlessly, and now it was here.

"Isaril!" he called out, his voice echoing through the chamber.

From the shadows, Isaril, the Crimson Warden, stepped forward. Her crimson armor shimmered under the light, her silver hair flowing like liquid moonlight. But it wasn't just her presence that startled Marcus—it was her voice, eloquent and alive in a way he had never heard before.

"My lord," she said, her tone carrying a grace and authority that made Marcus's heart race. "We have received a strange report from the Scouting Division, transmitted from the Observation Tower. It seems—"

"Yes!" Marcus interrupted, his deep voice booming with excitement. He clenched his fists, feeling the overwhelming surge of mana within him. "I can feel it! The magic—it's alive! The power flows through me like never before!"

Isaril tilted her head slightly, a faint smile gracing her lips. "My lord, your strength resonates throughout the Dominion. The scouts report… unusual phenomena beyond our borders."

Marcus turned sharply, his fiery eyes blazing with excitement. "Is the land around us different perhaps," he asked, his voice rich with dramatic intent. Internally, he hesitated. I can't just blurt out that we're in the new world. I need to assess the situation first.

He grasped the hilt of Crimson Fang, the warmth of the blade comforting in its familiarity. "Assemble all generals to the throne room," he commanded. "It seems we have matters to discuss."

Isaril bowed deeply. "At once, my lord." Without hesitation, she turned and strode away, her movements fluid and purposeful.

Marcus made his way to the throne room, his steps echoing through the grand halls. The Dominion was alive in ways it had never been before—magic pulsed through the runes on the walls, the faint hum of mana resonating like a heartbeat. The NPCs moved with purpose, their actions no longer rigid or mechanical but smooth and natural.

Entering the throne room, Marcus paused, taking in the sight of the towering crystal chandeliers above and the intricate carvings that adorned every surface. His Frostfire Throne awaited him at the far end, its brilliance a beacon of authority.

He seated himself, the throne's mana-infused glow radiating around him as he rested Crimson Fang across his lap. The Dominion was his, and now it stood within a world where its perfection could be realized.

The large doors of the throne room opened, and the generals began to enter one by one. Each bowed deeply as they stepped inside, their presence commanding yet reverent.

From the Guard Division came Kroxar, the Umbra Vanguard, his massive frame casting shadows across the room. His dark armor shimmered faintly with mana, and his crimson eyes burned with loyalty.

From the Scouting Division came Miryss, the Veil Dancer, her ethereal form gliding gracefully to her place. Her violet eyes scanned the room with calculated precision, her shadowy wings folded neatly behind her.

From the R&D Division came Zelefar, the Rune Weaver, his golden-flecked eyes betraying his sharp intellect. He carried an air of mystery, his dark robes flowing as he bowed deeply.

From the Tactical Division came Sythera, the Frostscale Tactician, her shimmering scales reflecting the throne room's light. Her gaze was unwavering, her movements precise.

From the Treasury Division came Valnor, the Gilded Bloodkeeper, his stout frame emanating authority as he took his place among the others.

Finally, Isaril, the Crimson Warden, entered, her presence regal as she knelt before Velkharion.

The room was silent for a brief moment, the gathered generals kneeling in unison. The Head Butler, standing at the edge of the room, stepped forward, his voice carrying across the chamber as he introduced each figure, their titles and divisions echoing through the air.

Marcus—Velkharion—smirked, the faint glow of his fiery eyes illuminating his expression. "Perfect," he said, his voice steady and commanding. "Now… let us begin."

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