Chapter 2: Whispers and Shadows
The morning after his first successful "soul harvest," Elian Hollow, or rather Momonga inhabiting that form, woke with a chilling clarity. The slight expansion of his mana pool was a tangible reassurance, a concrete step on the long road back to his former might. But three souls were a mere drop in the ocean. He needed more. Many more.
His first task was to deal with the evidence of last night's… acquisitions. He couldn't leave three corpses rotting near his lands; it would attract unwanted attention, and not the kind he could easily manage yet. Besides, waste not, want not.
He found Tom already bustling in the small, damp kitchen, trying to make a meager breakfast of stale bread and thin oat gruel look presentable.
"Tom," Elian began, his voice still that of a youth, but with an undertone of command that made the old steward pause. "There were… intruders last night. Near the old copse by the stream. Three of them. They won't be troubling anyone again."
Tom's eyes widened. "Bandits, m'lord? Did you…?"
Elian gave a curt nod. "They were dealt with. I need their bodies brought within the walls. Discretely. And then burned." He initially considered animating them. Three Skeletons or Zombies would be a minor addition to his workforce or defenses. However, the sight of walking dead, however useful, might be too much for the fragile psyche of his current household, and would certainly attract the wrong kind of attention from the wider world. Burning was simpler, cleaner, and offered a degree of plausible deniability if questions were asked. He could always claim they were diseased or simply ensuring no trace remained to incite further banditry. For now, subtlety was key until he understood more about this world's perception of necromancy.
Tom looked shaken but also… impressed. "At once, m'lord. I'll take young Hal and Timms. They're… sturdy enough for such work." Hal and Timms were two of the remaining men-at-arms, both past their prime but still capable of heavy lifting.
While Tom organized the grim task, Elian retreated to his chambers. He sat on the edge of his bed, focusing inward. The mana was still regenerating at its slow, steady pace. The capacity was the bottleneck. He ran through his spell list mentally. So many were unusable, requiring vast reserves he simply didn't possess. But even his low-tier spells, wielded with intellect and surprise, could be devastating in this world.
He thought about the NPCs. His mental call the previous night had been a shot in the dark, a desperate hope. Had any of them felt it? Were they even here? The uncertainty was a constant, gnawing ache. He pictured Albedo's fervent loyalty, Demiurge's keen intellect, Shalltear's terrifying power now constrained and perhaps rampaging, Aura's boundless energy, Mare's quiet strength, Cocytus's warrior pride, Sebas's dignified competence, and the unwavering service of the Pleiades. Even Pandora's Actor, his overly dramatic creation, would be a welcome sight.
If you are out there, find the faintest trace. I will build a beacon for you, however small it starts.
Later that day, Maester Hannis sought him out. The old man's eyes were wide, a mixture of fear and awe. News of the dead bandits, dispatched single-handedly by their young lord, had clearly spread through the Keep like wildfire.
"M'lord Elian," Hannis began, his voice trembling slightly. "A… a remarkable feat. To dispatch three armed men… The Gods themselves must have guided your hand."
Elian kept his expression neutral. "The element of surprise is a powerful ally, Maester. And they underestimated me." He decided to test the waters of local belief. "Perhaps the Warrior himself lent me strength."
Hannis nodded eagerly. "Indeed, m'lord! The Warrior, or perhaps even the Old Gods of the forest, given your… your affinity for the wilds of late."
Elian filed that away. Multiple pantheons. Interesting. "Maester, I need more information about the surrounding lands. Beyond what common knowledge tells us. Are there any… particularly dangerous areas? Places known for harboring large groups of these 'Broken Men'? Or perhaps lairs of dangerous beasts?" His tone was casual, that of a young lord concerned for his domain's security. His true motive, of course, was scouting for more souls.
Hannis pondered, stroking his thin, grey beard. "Well, m'lord, the Whispering Woods, some leagues to the south, have always had a dark reputation. Folk say it's haunted, that men go in and don't come out. More practically, it's dense and easy for outlaws to hide in. Then there's the Blackmorass further west, towards the Blue Fork – full of treacherous ground and… things best left undisturbed. As for beasts, shadowcats are sometimes seen in the higher hills, and direwolves, though rare this far south, are not unheard of, especially after a harsh winter or war."
"Shadowcats… direwolves…" Elian mused. Potentially more powerful souls than mere human bandits. "And of our noble neighbors? Who holds the lands around Greywater Keep?"
"To our immediate north lies the small lordship of House Piper, though their main seat is further upriver at Pinkmaiden. To the east, the lands are largely unpopulated until you reach the domain of House Bracken at Stone Hedge. South, beyond the Whispering Woods, are the territories of House Blackwood of Raventree Hall. They are ancient rivals, the Brackens and Blackwoods, their feud legendary." Hannis sighed. "And we, House Hollow, are caught in the middle of it all, too small to matter much to any of them, thankfully or perhaps regrettably."
Elian nodded slowly. Minor players, all of them, in the grand scheme he was beginning to perceive. But for now, they were the world.
Meanwhile, in a bustling, filth-ridden city far to the south…
Demiurge, in a meticulously crafted human guise – that of a nondescript merchant named 'Master Arin,' complete with subtly expensive but unassuming robes and a polite, almost obsequious demeanor – sat in the shadowed corner of a dockside tavern in King's Landing. The air was thick with the stench of fish, cheap wine, and unwashed bodies. Sailors, merchants, and city watchmen a Gilded Rose girl or two filled the cramped space with raucous noise.
He had been in this… primitive world for what felt like an eternity, though his internal chronometer suggested it was merely a few weeks. The transition had been jarring. One moment, awaiting the final shutdown of YGGDRASIL with his beloved Lord Momonga and his fellow Supreme Beings (or so he'd hoped, though only Lord Momonga remained at the end), the next, he was plummeting through an alien sky, his demonic form thankfully cloaked by an illusion spell he'd cast reflexively.
He had landed in a field somewhere in a region called the Crownlands. His first priority, after ensuring his own concealment, had been to gather information and locate any other denizens of Nazarick, particularly Lord Ainz. His intellect, honed by countless strategic simulations and his innate genius, had quickly allowed him to grasp the basics of this world's languages and social structures. Humans were the dominant species, squabbling over land and titles with a predictable, shortsighted fervor. Magic, true magic of the kind Nazarick wielded, seemed exceptionally rare, almost legendary.
A few days ago, while deep in meditation, trying to extend his senses, he had felt it – a faint, almost imperceptible pull. Not a direct communication, but more like a sudden, distant flare of familiar energy, a ripple in the fabric of this world that resonated with the essence of his creator. It was weak, distant, but undeniably Lord Ainz.
His crimson eyes, hidden behind cleverly glamoured brown irises, narrowed slightly. The sensation had been too diffuse to pinpoint an exact location, but it had a direction, a vague bearing towards the north-west. It was enough.
He had already begun establishing a network. Information was power, and Demiurge intended to arm his Lord with an unparalleled understanding of this realm. He'd "acquired" a few key assets – individuals in positions to gather whispers and rumors. His methods were, as always, efficient and persuasive, often involving subtle enchantments or the exploitation of human weaknesses.
"Another ale, Master Arin?" a serving wench asked, her smile a little too bright.
Demiurge offered a polite, thin smile in return. "Thank you, no. I must be on my way." He left a few copper coins on the table, more than generous for the watered-down drink.
Outside, the cacophony of the city assaulted his senses. He needed to consolidate his resources, perhaps even establish a more permanent base of operations closer to the likely direction of Lord Ainz. The Riverlands, perhaps? It was a fractured, war-torn region, ripe for infiltration and manipulation.
Lord Ainz is alive, he thought, a fierce, almost ecstatic loyalty burning within him. And I will find him. I will bring all the might of Nazarick to bear, and we shall craft a new kingdom for him in this world, a beacon of his glory.
His first step would be to dispatch discreet agents, those few humans he'd already suborned, towards the Riverlands. They would be his eyes and ears, searching for any anomaly, any whisper of unusual power or a figure fitting his Lord's majesty, however disguised.
Back at Greywater Keep, Elian was growing bolder. The initial fear of his predicament was being steadily replaced by a cold, calculating ambition. He spent his days familiarizing himself with every crumbling stone of his keep, every weed-choked acre of his meager lands. He spoke with his few tenants – mostly elderly farmers and their families – learning their grievances, their struggles. He was, outwardly, the concerned young lord. Inwardly, he was assessing resources, potential threats, and opportunities for "growth."
He initiated small changes. He "suggested" to Tom that the men-at-arms practice drills, however rudimentary, to maintain some semblance of readiness. He "advised" the farmers on crop rotation techniques he vaguely recalled from some documentary Suzuki Satoru had once watched, and showed them how to dig better irrigation ditches from the small stream that fed the keep's well. Simple things, but they fostered a sense of activity, of purpose, that Greywater Keep hadn't seen in years.
His primary focus, however, remained his mana capacity. He needed more souls.
A week after the first incident, he decided on a more proactive approach. Under the guise of a hunting trip – "to supplement our dwindling meat stores," he'd told Tom – Elian, accompanied by Hal and Timms, ventured towards the fringes of the Whispering Woods. He'd chosen these two as they were the most capable of his "guards" and also the most likely to be cowed into silence by a display of power.
They rode on three bony nags that were the pride of Greywater's stable. Elian was armed with a simple shortbow – a weapon he was surprisingly proficient with, thanks to the muscle memory of his new body combined with his own Overlord-level intellect quickly mastering the physics of it – and a hunting knife. Hal and Timms carried rusty spears and dented shields.
The Whispering Woods lived up to its name. Ancient trees, gnarled and twisted, clawed at a perpetually overcast sky. An unnatural silence hung in the air, broken only by the rustling of unseen things in the undergrowth and the unsettling whisper of the wind through the leaves.
"M'lord," Hal said, his voice hushed, "Best we don't go too deep. This place… it ain't natural."
Elian, however, felt a familiar thrill. This place reeked of potential. He could sense faint traces of ambient magic, nothing refined, more like the raw, untamed essence of nature itself. And beneath that, the faint scent of fear and desperation – the tell-tale signs of brigands.
It wasn't long before they found a crudely made campsite, the embers of a fire still warm. Tracks led deeper into the woods.
"Looks like a larger group this time, m'lord," Timms observed, nervously gripping his spear. "Maybe ten, twelve of 'em."
Elian's lips curved into a faint smile. Excellent.
"We will observe," he said. "Find their main camp. We won't engage unless the opportunity is perfect."
He led them, using his innate senses, honed by years of navigating YGGDRASIL dungeons, to track the bandits. His teenage body, though not supernaturally agile, was light and moved with a stealth that surprised his companions. He found he could enhance his senses slightly with a minor, almost zero-cost cantrip, sharpening his hearing and sight.
They found the main camp nestled in a hollow: a collection of ragged tents around a large bonfire. At least fifteen men, rough-looking and heavily armed, were milling about, some drinking, others sharpening weapons.
"Too many for us, m'lord," Hal whispered urgently. "We should withdraw."
Elian ignored him, his mind racing. A frontal assault was out of the question. He needed a plan. His mana was still limited. He had perhaps enough for one, maybe two, moderately impactful spells if he pushed it, or several weaker ones.
He considered [Fireball]. Classic, effective, but noisy and might consume his entire reserve, leaving him vulnerable. Plus, the risk of a forest fire was problematic. What he needed was precision, fear, and a way to isolate targets.
He motioned for Hal and Timms to stay hidden. Then, with a deep breath, he focused his will.
[Silent Magic: Message]
He sent a telepathic message directly into the mind of the bandit who seemed to be the leader – a big, scarred man with a cruel face. The message was simple, a distorted, inhuman whisper: "Your end is nigh. The forest demands retribution."
The bandit leader jerked, looking around wildly. "Who said that? Show yourself!"
His men looked confused. Elian sent another [Message] to a different bandit, this one on the edge of the camp: "Flee. Death walks among you."
That bandit yelped, dropping his tankard, his eyes darting nervously into the shadows.
Panic was a wonderful weapon. Elian then targeted a stack of poorly maintained bows and quivers near the fire.
[Summon Low-Tier Undead: Tiny Skeletal Hand]
A minuscule wisp of his mana, barely a flicker, coalesced. A tiny, skeletal hand, no bigger than a child's, erupted from the earth beneath the weapons and began to subtly tug at bowstrings and scatter arrows. It was too small to be seen clearly from a distance, but the effect – arrows toppling, bows clattering – added to the growing unease.
"What in the seven hells?" one bandit exclaimed.
The leader was now shouting, trying to restore order, but fear was spreading. Elian used this moment.
[Obscure Self]
It was a very low-level illusion, making him harder to spot, like a shadow within shadows. He moved to a better vantage point, then took careful aim with his shortbow. He wasn't aiming to kill, not yet. He nocked an arrow.
Twang.
The arrow struck the bandit leader's waterskin, sending a spray of ale into the air. The man roared in anger and confusion.
"They're out there! Find them!"
Several bandits, emboldened by their leader's rage or simply eager to escape the unnerving campsite, plunged into the woods in the direction Elian had fired from. This was what he wanted. Splitting their forces.
He let them pass his hiding spot, then gestured for Hal and Timms. "Now. We take the ones that remain at the camp. Quickly, before the others return."
He dropped his [Obscure Self] spell and stepped into the clearing, shortbow ready. Hal and Timms, seeing their young lord's unnatural calm and the bandits' disarray, found a surge of courage they didn't know they possessed.
Elian loosed another arrow, this one aimed true. It struck a bandit reaching for a sword in the chest. The man fell with a cry.
One soul. A small warmth, a tiny expansion.
Hal and Timms charged with surprisingly fierce cries, their rusty spears finding their marks against the confused and now outnumbered bandits remaining in the camp. The fight was brutal, short, and ugly. Elian picked off targets with his bow, his [Magic Arrow] (when he could spare the mana for a guaranteed hit), and even resorted to his hunting knife when one got too close. He moved with a deadly grace that belied his youth, his YGGDRASIL combat experience translating surprisingly well to this gritty, real-world violence.
Each kill sent that now-familiar warmth through him, his mana capacity growing incrementally. It was intoxicating.
Within minutes, the five bandits who had remained at the camp were dead. Elian was breathing heavily, not from exertion, but from the sheer intensity of it, the constant micro-management of his dwindling mana as he used small cantrips to aid his aim or misdirect an opponent's strike.
"The others will return," Hal panted, blood dripping from a shallow cut on his arm.
"Then we prepare a welcome," Elian said, his eyes glittering. He quickly scanned the fallen, stripping them of anything useful – a few decent blades, some coins, usable scraps of leather. He then dragged the bodies to the edge of the clearing, propping one up against a tree with its own spear piercing its chest, a grim tableau.
He looked at Hal and Timms. They were bloodied, tired, but alive and looking at him with outright awe.
"We surprised them, m'lord," Timms said, still slightly dazed. "Like… like in the stories of old heroes."
Elian merely nodded. "Hide yourselves. When they return, we ambush them again."
The returning bandits, perhaps seven or eight of them, found their camp a slaughterhouse and their companion impaled. Their howls of rage were quickly cut short as arrows flew from the trees, and Hal and Timms, emboldened by their earlier success and their lord's seemingly magical prowess, fell upon them.
This second fight was tougher. These men were more alert, more desperate. Elian was forced to use [Fly] for a few precious seconds to avoid a wild axe swing, a move that shocked his own men as much as the enemy. He expended the last of his useful mana on a final, powerful [Magic Arrow] that took down the most dangerous of the remaining bandits. The rest was grim, close-quarters work.
When it was over, a dozen bandits lay dead. Elian himself had taken a shallow cut on his arm, a stinging reminder of his human fragility. But his mana pool… it had grown significantly. He felt stronger, his inner reserves noticeably deeper.
He looked at the carnage, his young face splattered with mud and blood. He felt no remorse, only a cold satisfaction. This was the price of power in this new world. A price he was more than willing to pay.
"We burn the camp," he ordered, his voice raspy. "Take what we can carry. Leave nothing for scavengers."
The ride back to Greywater Keep was mostly silent. Hal and Timms were subdued, occasionally glancing at Elian with a mixture of fear and reverence. They had seen their young lord, barely a man grown, orchestrate the annihilation of a bandit group that would have overwhelmed them easily. They had seen him float, seen his arrows strike with uncanny accuracy, seen a light flash from his hand.
They didn't understand it. But they knew one thing: Elian Hollow was not the boy he once was.
As Greywater Keep's crumbling walls came into view, Elian felt a sense of grim accomplishment. He had resources – weapons, some coin, and most importantly, a significantly expanded mana reserve. He had also instilled a healthy dose of fear and loyalty in his men.
But as he looked at the Keep, he also felt a pang. This hovel was not Nazarick. His true followers were still lost.
That night, after his wound was tended by a nervously silent Maester Hannis, Elian sat in his chamber. He could feel the thrum of his increased mana capacity. It was still a shadow of his former glory, but it was progress.
He closed his eyes and once again sent out his mental call, stronger this time, imbued with the confidence of his growing power.
Ainz Ooal Gown is here. I await you. Find me.
And somewhere, miles away, perhaps in a crowded city, a lonely forest, or a forgotten ruin, a loyal servant might just have felt that call grow a little clearer, a beacon shining a little brighter in the oppressive darkness of Westeros. The game was truly afoot.