That kind of "freedom" was an utterly bizarre sensation.
This was a situation where retreat was the only logical course of action—yet Azuth's body couldn't even muster the attempt.
The "command" issued by Demiurge was absolute.
"Azuth, it seems your mobility can no longer be relied upon, hm?"
"Shut... up...!"
His terse reply brimmed with frustration and urgency.
He should have been able to flee. With this enchanted armor, escaping should have been trivial! Why? How? How could a mere sentence from that creature bind his actions so completely!?
As an adamantite-ranked adventurer—one who maintained close ties with the Platinum Dragon Lord—Azuth had faced countless brushes with death.
He knew, intimately, that this world harbored entities of overwhelming tyranny—beings that could effortlessly crush his will.
Though he often wore a flippant demeanor, he had steeled himself against the worst possibilities. In truth, he was a seasoned veteran, far more composed than his niece, Lakyus.
—And yet.
This was absurd!!
Could a single sentence truly strip away a man's will? How?! Was he truly so weak? So pathetically powerless that mere words could seize control of his very life!?
Beneath the armor, sweat poured from his body, drenching him. His golden hair clumped together in a matted mess.
Every shred of his consciousness screamed in rebellion against the demon's order. Yet not a single cell obeyed his will...
Move!!
Damn it, move! Please, I'm begging you! Curse it—useless! This is my body! Move, move—!
"Don't disgrace yourself, scion of the Eainth Family."
"Huh?! Wha—"
His helmet jerked toward the voice. The old woman stood watching him with a faint smile. Though she was half his height, her gaze carried the weight of someone looking down upon him.
Perhaps she had seen through his wavering heart and exposed fear.
"No escape? Then stand and fight. No chance of survival? Then die with honor. …It's as simple as that, is it not?"
Azuth's expression twisted beneath his helm. He found himself speechless in the face of a true hero's resolve.
The old woman drew the sword at her hip, spun it skillfully through the air, and gave it a clean practice swing. Her falcon-like eyes locked onto her target—a foe she could never hope to defeat: the Sorcerer King.
That supreme undead being—the Sovereign of Death—floated down from the sky. His robes billowed like crawling shadows, and he gently descended before them.
Atop the execution platform, the demon knelt—one hand over his chest, wings drawn tight to his back, unmoving as if carved from stone. Likely an attempt to lessen the sin of gazing down upon his master. Somewhere unseen, another small presence followed suit.
Ainz opened his arms slightly, as though Azuth no longer existed in his eyes. His words were directed solely to Rigrit:
"Now then, before we begin… have you anything left to say?"
(So he's seen through the Eainth heir's fear, has he? Hmph. Vexing. His insight extends even to the soul… but perhaps that's to be expected of one whose existence surely predates even mine.)
"Your Majesty is most generous. Then, rather than speak to you, might this old woman address the human behind you instead?"
"Hm? Hm… I see no issue. Shall I summon him here?"
The question, so seemingly sincere, momentarily caught Rigrit off guard—as if it came from the true heart of the Sorcerer King. She quickly dismissed the notion. No—this was mockery, plain and simple.
"Hahaha! No need, Your Majesty. I shall raise my voice from here! …Fulda Paradyne!!"
The man called upon blinked in mild surprise—but not confusion. He had clearly anticipated this. From afar, he returned Rigrit's gaze.
What he received in return was a pointed question:
"Are you still human?"
"Hmph… what a pointless query. I thought you had something worthwhile to say—"
"Kalau! Have you gone senile? Life-extending forbidden magic is one thing, but that's far from the racial transformation you once fantasized about! I am still—"
"No! I am speaking of this!"
Rigrit jabbed a finger toward her chest.
"I once knew a crybaby. She lost her human shell, but her heart remained human! I've known Heteromorphic race, Demi-human race, and warriors with demon blood—yet all of them understood the hearts of mankind. They fought alongside us, stood with us as brothers!"
"So I ask again, Fulda Paradyne! Are you—are you still human!?"
Ainz glanced back with keen interest, curious how Fulda would respond. But the one who was truly struck speechless by the hero's rebuke… was not Fulda.
It was Jircniv, Emperor of the Baharuth Empire.
Though he'd been pressured into it, he understood full well—he had begun to slide willingly into the abyss... the abyss of betraying his own species.
—At this point, did "protecting the Empire" even mean anything? He couldn't help but wonder.
Was trading away humanity for the sake of a nation truly protection? Was he not already guilty of that very crime? Should he… should he have chosen destruction with dignity instead?
Beside him, Fulda Paradyne—the greatest magic caster humanity had ever produced—grinned.
"…'Human,' you say…?"
"Hehehe… hahaha… HAHAHAHA! Kalau! Let me ask you: must humanity persist?"
"As a fellow human, it's only natural to fight for survival… but what if a god has descended among us? Kalau, the God of Magic stands right before us—His Majesty himself! Struggling against him is nothing but futile rebellion!"
"If His Majesty decrees destruction, then one must accept it as a supreme blessing… to prostrate oneself and embrace annihilation!"
"What? Will you invoke morality against a god? Cry injustice? Righteousness, mercy, justice, virtue… they're all charity! Gifts from the strong! None are rights of the weak! You, as one of the Thirteen Heroes, should know this better than anyone!"
"Besides—His Majesty has no desire to annihilate mankind. Quite the opposite! He intends to create a paradise where humanity need not struggle ever again!"
Fulda's fervor reminded Ainz of the madness with which the man had once sought arcane knowledge.
Of course, Ainz agreed with none of it. His own goal was simple: to preserve Nazarick's supremacy. As for building some paradise for humans—that had never crossed his mind.
Yet Ainz was nothing if not adept at reading a room. He did not voice any objections, instead choosing to nod solemnly, as though to say, Indeed—that is my will.
Jircniv, poor human emperor, stood beside a lunatic. The sheer weight of Fulda's words and the atmosphere of the moment terrified him—made him feel like a child again under his stern old teacher's discipline.
Demiurge, meanwhile, trembled—moved nearly to tears. Not from Fulda's speech, of course, but from the magnificence of his master's influence.
(Ahhh—! Though I saw it firsthand in the Holy Kingdom, still… Lord Ainz! This… this artistry in mental domination…! No violence, no special abilities… far beyond my reach! What an unparalleled Supreme One…!)
It was precisely because Demiurge was enraptured like this—and had paid so little attention to the human's actual words—that he overlooked something critical.
Only Rigrit noticed it.
Fulda hadn't answered the question at all.
Rigrit had asked whether he was still human. He had replied with a long-winded monologue questioning whether humanity ought to exist.
Why?
Because—he was still human. If only for the moment.
There remained in his heart a lingering unease… a guilty conscience he wished to avoid. He deflected the question with rhetoric because he feared the answer.
—But even so, he was beyond saving. Whatever humanity remained in Fulda… it could only be called a crumb.
Having seen through this, Rigrit cast a look of scorn and derision.
Fulda, realizing he had been seen through, grew indignant—almost enraged. But with his old mentor present, he swiftly suppressed his emotions.
(If only I could, like the undead, rid myself of all these petty emotional fluctuations… I wouldn't be so vexed by trivial nonsense…)
If even the smallest shred of humanity remained in Fulda, Rigrit had hoped he might seize Emperor Jircniv then and there.
After all, the public execution of Lakyus was a farce—one that could only have been pulled off with cooperation between the Emperor and the Sorcerer King. Rigrit's mistake was underestimating the extent of the Emperor's fall.
In other words, to Ainz, the Emperor still held strategic value.
If Fulda could take the Emperor hostage—who was no stronger than a common man—there might be a sliver of hope. Rigrit's long adventuring experience had taught her: beings of immense power often lacked the capacity to save the truly weak.
Even the Sorcerer King would likely find it difficult to wrest the Emperor from Fulda's grip. That was her reasoning.
Since she and Fulda were of similar strength—and she had resisted the demon's "command"—she assumed Fulda could do the same. That overbearing "order" should not be a concern.
…Of course, she had never placed too much faith in that outcome. And as expected, Fulda was already beyond salvation.
"It seems the conversation has run its course, Rigrit Bers Car—"
"Just Rigrit will do, Your Majesty."
She shook her head gently, interrupting Ainz's formal address.
And then—
She dropped a bomb into Ainz's heart.
"No need for such decorum. After all… to the vast majority of the 'Pleiades,' the living beings of this world are little more than ants, are they not?"
What...?
Her pronunciation may have been off—but the world's translation mechanisms conveyed her meaning to Ainz with crystal clarity.
There was no doubt. She had just said "Players."
Rigrit knew of the existence of Players!
And the one shocked by her declaration was not Ainz alone.
"Wait! Rigrit! How could you possibly—?!"
Azuth's panicked outburst was cut short by the sweep of Rigrit's sword.
(He's experienced, sure—but still a green shoot.)
Azuth couldn't understand why she had just revealed such vital information.
"Player"—Pleiades. Aside from the Players themselves, almost no native of this world knew that term. It was a keyword laden with tremendous informational weight for any faction.
But to Rigrit, it no longer mattered.
There were countless ways to extract information. Someone of Ainz's caliber could easily dominate the mind—and that demon had already shown similar abilities. If commanded, could Azuth really keep a secret?
Impossible.
So in moments like these, clinging to information was pure folly.
Instead, information could be weaponized—used as a bomb. If it caused even a ripple of doubt in a powerful foe, that was an opening worth creating.
Her many battles against overwhelmingly powerful demon gods had taught her: the greatest weakness of the strong… was their hearts.
Complacency. Overconfidence. And above all—hesitation in the face of the unexpected.
That was the chain to shatter. That was the window for the weak.
The keyword "Player" had struck home. Ainz was visibly shaken. Then—it was time to press the advantage.
Rigrit leveled her unassuming blade at the Sorcerer King. It lacked even the faint glow of a magic weapon.
A simple longsword. And this, from a legendary hero. It was almost laughable.
"Hmph. Do you truly believe that thing—"
She cut him off with another bomb—thrown directly into the heart of the Ainz.
"'Data capacity'—isn't that the right term?"