After resting at the inn for the night, the next day, EeDechi and Barrett hired a carriage and headed toward the Golden Apple Tavern.
The Golden Apple Tavern sat in the central district of E-Rantel, freshly renovated and decked out in style. Compared to the rundown shops around it, it truly lived up to its name—a shiny Golden Apple.
What stood out most was the sheer space inside. The ceiling soared almost twice as high as a regular inn's, and to cater to patrons of all races, the place was rigged with gear in every size imaginable.
There were tree-stump chairs hefty enough to hold an ogre's weight, and low wooden tables so even a dwarf wouldn't have to stretch on tiptoes. Massive iron tankards with wide rims sat alongside dainty crystal goblets—every size you could think of, they had it. If the tavern owner had planned it this way, he'd gone all out to make "racial harmony" more than just a buzzword.
Like everywhere else, a giant portrait of Ainz Ooal Gown hung on the wall, and the seats next to it were always empty.
EeDechi and Barrett strode into the Golden Apple Tavern. Behind the magically reinforced glass counter stood a handsome young human bartender.
Barrett ordered a beer, dipped his finger in the foam, and scrawled "teleportation" on the counter.
The bartender flashed a knowing grin and slipped into the back room. Moments later, a middle-aged man in a black suit, sporting a mustache, stepped up to the counter. No doubt about it—this was the Golden Apple Tavern's boss.
Barrett didn't beat around the bush. Both of them were old dogs who'd been around the block too many times to play coy. He dipped his finger in the beer again and traced the outline of a gold coin on the counter—cash was on the table.
The boss twitched his mustache, dipped his own finger in some liquor, and wrote a "4" on the counter.
Four? Barrett froze for a second. Four gold coins? No way. Four hundred, maybe? He added two zeros after the "4" with a swipe of beer.
The boss shook his head lightly and wiped away the two "0"s with a flick of his hand.
If it wasn't 400, then… four times? Barrett's eyes widened in shock. After the "4," he scribbled the word "times."
The boss gave a barely noticeable nod.
Why don't you just rob me blind? Barrett shot the boss a pissed-off glare.
This meant coughing up four times the official price for a teleportation circle. A single trip usually ran 700 to 1,000 gold coins—times four. The tavern boss was basically shaking him down like a damn bandit.
The boss shrugged with mock regret, wiped away Barrett's original "teleportation" scribble, and walked off.
"Now what?" EeDechi asked Barrett.
"If this were any other city, I'd tie that greedy bastard up and be done with it," Barrett growled, fuming. "Let's grab a drink and bide our time for an opening."
The two ordered a plate of fried potatoes and two bottles of malt beer, settling into a corner of the tavern. The place was buzzing with business—ogres, dwarves, satyrs, lizardfolk… all kinds of weird races chowing down and boozing it up. The noise from the crowd was a chaotic mess, while serving girls in maid skirts flitted around like white butterflies.
EeDechi and Barrett sat there like predators lurking in the shadows, scoping out the room, waiting for their shot.
The tavern was packed with oddball patrons. A minotaur's voice rumbled low and muddy, like a cheap drum with bad tone. A lizardfolk chugged half a bottle of rye beer, gulping it down with loud glugs. The mix of sounds clashed together, louder than a pigsty at feeding time.
EeDechi speared a fried potato with her fork, popping it into her mouth with a bored chew. Barrett refilled his empty glass with half a mug of beer.
Suddenly, the street outside erupted with loud cheers of "LONG LIVE!" "LONG LIVE!"—a whole chorus of voices shouting in unison.
The cries of "LONG LIVE!" grew louder, like they were closing in on the tavern.
The clamor in the Golden Apple Tavern suddenly died down, silence crashing in like a tidal shore flash-frozen mid-wave. A dead chill spread through the air, as if creeping straight out of hell's front door.
In the mirrored glint of the beer bottles on their table, EeDechi and Barrett caught sight of the last two people they wanted to see.
A skeletal undead draped in a fancy robe and an arrogant succubus forever clad in a pristine white evening gown stepped into the tavern side by side.
Ainz Ooal Gown and Albedo marched forward with the swagger of rulers.
Wherever they went, folks scrambled to drag chairs out of the way, parting left and right to clear a path. A plastered dwarf got yanked back by his buddy, who clamped a hand over his mouth. Drunken patrons sobered up fast, lips sealed tight, heads bowed low.
The bartender behind the counter bent into a deep bow, like he was facing down a goddamn army. The mustached tavern boss bolted out from behind the bar, eyes crinkling into crescent moons as he dropped to his knees in front of Ainz Ooal Gown with the slimiest, ass-kissing grin imaginable.
Ainz Ooal Gown scanned the tavern left and right, red light flaring in his eye sockets like torch flames. He gave a pleased nod. "Well done with the renovations. From now on, this tavern of yours will be the blueprint for every joint in the Sorcerer Kingdom's turf."
The boss hit the floor with both knees, forehead kissing the ground. "All follows the Supreme Overlord Ainz's guidance. The Golden Apple Tavern's been fixed up into a spot where every race can kick back and spend their coin."
The tavern was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Seeing all the patrons with their heads down, scared shitless and mute, Ainz put on a fake gentle tone. "Hope my showing up doesn't ruin your good time. Please, everyone, carry on with your business."
The crowd grabbed their forks and knives with shaky hands, fumbling for their drinks, chugging and chewing in jittery, robotic motions—like a bunch of jerky marionettes with half-cut strings.
The vibe in the room turned creepy as hell. In the sprawling tavern, the only sounds were the clinking of forks, knives, and mugs—no one dared open their mouth. Barrett pulled a brown top hat from his ring of holding and slapped it over his face. EeDechi kept her head down, sliding a beer bottle in front of herself.
"WHOA!" Albedo pointed at the massive Ainz Ooal Gown portrait hanging in the tavern, her eyes sparkling like a fangirl. "Lord Ainz looks so damn hot in this painting! I want it for my collection!"
"Take it if you like it." Ainz flicked a finger, and the painting's frame broke free from the wall, zipping straight into Albedo's hands.
Albedo clutched the portrait and planted a big, wet kiss on the painted Ainz. "I don't swing by E-Rantel much, but coming here with Lord Ainz today, I had no idea so many races were hanging up your pictures all on their own! Everyone's totally obsessed with you!"
"Naturally," Ainz thought, smug as hell. He hadn't ordered anyone to put up his portraits—some of his underlings had just started slapping them around E-Rantel on their own.
Then it snowballed like a goddamn plague. More and more folks started hanging his likeness everywhere—in shops, on streets, in taverns, in diners, you name it.
The portraits varied in size, some with fancy frames, some plain, but they all had one thing in common: Ainz looked radiant and badass in every single one.
Some people even bowed and prayed to his pictures, like they used to worship those old gods. Except the elven goddesses, Gaia, and the dwarf gods were stuck up in the sky somewhere, while Ainz was a god walking the earth right now.
And those statues all over E-Rantel? Not one of them was built on his orders either.
It all started with a suggestion from his minions, and Ainz didn't shoot it down. After all, they were itching to build statues of him out of pure worship and respect. If he said no, wouldn't that just crush the spirits of his loyal crew? Plus, Ainz had to admit—he got a kick out of seeing his grand statues pop up in the city he'd poured his heart into designing.
Once a few of his statues went up, the nobles and fat cats of E-Rantel sniffed the wind like dogs catching their master's scent. They started shelling out cash to slap Ainz's statues all over the city, hoping to kiss up to the Sorcerer Kingdom and score its protection.
Ainz didn't mind one bit. Who'd turn down a little adoration? Besides, shutting down people trying to worship him—wouldn't that just dent his own badass reputation?
Back in the day, he'd gone to the Baharuth Empire's palace to figure out how to act like a big shot. Now he got it: as long as people needed something from you, they'd naturally bow, scrape, and sweet-talk you with soft, humble voices, tripping over themselves to kiss your ass. That's when you'd start oozing that top-dog vibe without even trying.
Everyone needed something from Ainz—begging him not to kill them.
Standing on a high platform, looking down at tens of thousands cheering "LONG LIVE!" and groveling at his feet, sent a rush of pure, soul-deep joy through him. That taste of power was so sweet, so addictive—once you had it, you'd never let it go.
He wasn't that spineless little office drone from his past life anymore.
Now, a single word from him could decide the life or death of thousands, the fate of hundreds of thousands, or whether a race that'd been around for millions of years kept kicking or got wiped out for good!
He was the King of Kings, the God of Gods, the Supreme Overlord Ainz Ooal Gown—the greatest ruler the world had ever seen!
Ainz's badass gaze swept over the tavern, and every patron shrank back, shaking like leaves, too chickenshit to meet his eyes. That made him very pleased.
He clocked the tavern boss pulling out a sheet of parchment and a quill, staring up at him like a farmer in a drought praying for rain—eyes dripping with hope and groveling.
And it wasn't just the boss. An elf yanked a notebook and pen from her pack, and more patrons followed suit.
These clowns with their paper and pens? The second Ainz opened his mouth, they'd scribble down every word.
Seeing so many races itching to soak up his wisdom, Ainz figured he ought to drop some knowledge.
"It pleases me to see people of diverse races enjoying good drinks together here." Ainz said.
Scribble, scribble, scribble—the tavern erupted with the sound of pens racing across paper and notebooks, everyone jotting down Ainz's words. When they finished, they looked up at him again, faces glowing with worship and awe, practically begging for his next gem.
"Work hard, get along with other races, live good in this city, follow the law…"
As Ainz's steady, commanding voice rolled out, the paper-and-pen crowd kept scribbling his every word. The ones without supplies? They were freaking out, scratching their heads, sweating bullets, scrambling for anything to write with.
An elf smeared chocolate frosting from a dessert onto a tablecloth to take notes. A dragonborn whipped out a dagger and carved Ainz's words into the table. An orc bit his own finger open and scrawled in blood on his arm. Every trick in the book—they were all hell-bent on recording what Ainz said.
Of course, most of the poor saps couldn't find a damn thing to write with. They just cranked up the devotion, striking poses like fanatical believers soaking up a god's prophecy as they hung on Ainz's every word.
EeDechi and Barrett hunkered down behind a few opaque beer bottles on the table. Neither of them bothered jotting down Ainz's words—just kept their heads low, silently wishing he wouldn't see them.
But right next to EeDechi, a pint-sized halfling was scribbling away in a notebook with a reed pen, tucked behind the bottles, taking Ainz's speech dead seriously.
"That's all I've got to say," Ainz wrapped up his off-the-cuff talk short and sweet. He glanced around the tavern and nodded. "The decor in here's pretty solid."
Scribble, scribble, scribble—the crowd hunched over their notes didn't miss a beat, still scratching down that last line he'd just tossed out.
"No need to write that one down," Ainz said, throwing them a heads-up.
They didn't stop. EeDechi watched the halfling next to her scribble "No need to write that one down" right into his notebook.
She nearly cracked up but clamped it down hard. Something about this whole scene felt weirdly familiar, though.
After that, Ainz's voice finally cut off.
Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! The tavern boss started slamming his hands together like a maniac.
With him leading the charge, the rest of the tavern's patrons jumped in, clapping their asses off.
Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!
Every damn creature in the place was clapping—even EeDechi and Barrett faked it, joining in.
Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!
Two minutes dragged by, and the applause still hadn't died down.
Ainz stood there, soaking it all in, like he was loving every second of the thunderous praise.
Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!
Four minutes ticked by, and the clapping still hadn't let up. Some patrons' hands were red and swollen from smacking them together, but they kept going, slamming out applause like their lives depended on it.
Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!
Six minutes in, the applause was still roaring. A few arms were aching, palms swollen and red, but they pushed through, refusing to stop.
The reason was dead simple: nobody had the balls to be the first to stop.
Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!
Eight minutes hit, and finally, Ainz gave a satisfied nod. "Alright, that's enough."
The crowd dropped their swollen hands and sore arms, the clapping dying out at last. Then they shakily went back to their drinks—or at least pretended to.
Ainz took a casual stroll through the tavern, ordered a bottle of wine, and sat across from Albedo. Being a skeleton, he couldn't drink jack, so he just watched her sip.
"Lord Ainz" Albedo's eyes went all dreamy. She lifted her goblet, took a small sip of wine, and held it in her mouth before leaning close to his face. "Let me feed you some, huh?"
"Watch where we are," Ainz said, shoving her back with a sigh.
Albedo plopped back into her seat, sulking as she downed two glasses of wine. Then she threw herself into Ainz's lap again.
Her face flushed red, she straddled his thigh bone, wiggling her sexy hips. "I'm drunk, okay? I'm about to get wild after all this booze. I want you so bad, Lord Ainz So damn bad~"
Ainz felt a headache pounding where his forehead would've been and shoved Albedo off again.
The two of them were flirting and messing around, but the crowd in the tavern felt chills crawling up their spines and their legs turning to jelly.
Sure, getting a front-row seat to the mighty Supreme Overlord and his favorite woman getting all cozy was a rare treat—seeing a side of the Supreme Overlord that didn't match the usual hype. But if he didn't want outsiders peeking at his private moments, he might just slaughter every living thing in the tavern to keep them from blabbing and tarnishing his shiny rep.
That thought alone made everyone feel like they'd stuck their necks in a guillotine, the blade ready to drop any second.
So what the hell could they do? Just sit there waiting for the Grim Reaper to show up?
Finally, an aarakocra with an eagle head and human body couldn't take the panic anymore—he cooked up a plan!
He hopped up from his seat, shuffled over to Ainz Ooal Gown with tiny steps, dropped to his knees, and belted out, "The glory of my people belongs to the Supreme Overlord Ainz Ooal Gown! You're the highest, strongest, mightiest badass in the world! My break's over—I gotta get back to work for the Sorcerer Kingdom. Can't stick around drinking anymore. Real sorry about that!"
Ainz gave a slight nod, playing the nice guy.
The aarakocra finished his bow, then backed out of the tavern. The second he hit the door, he spread his eagle wings, a gust of wind kicking up as he shot into the sky and vanished in a flash.
One guy made his break, and the rest jumped on the bandwagon. Humans, lizardfolk, dwarves, minotaurs—they all scrambled to bow to Ainz, spewing the most ass-kissing lines they could muster, then bolted out the tavern door like their asses were on fire.
With patrons bailing left and right, the tavern got a little noisy again, but the headcount was dropping fast. Barrett and EeDechi locked eyes, trading a silent look before deciding to duck into the tavern's bathroom to lay low for a bit.
Barrett caught sight of an open door next to the counter. A stone slab stood beside it, carved with the word "toilet" in Common, Elvish, Orcish, Dwarvish… and a bunch of other languages he couldn't even guess at.
The two of them faked a bathroom emergency, slinking along the wall like a pair of thieving cats, and slipped into the restroom. EeDechi started heading toward the women's side, but Barrett yanked her into the men's room instead.
The bathroom was a whole damn world of its own—sprawling like a freaking hall, almost big enough to rival the main floor of the Golden Apple Tavern. The reason it took up so much space? To fit every race's size and shitting habits.
Urinals came in all shapes—big, small, high, low. The stalls for dropping a load were the same deal: some were massive enough for a troll to stretch out and nap, others were tiny, just right for a dwarf to squat and ponder life. A few even had chair-like toilets.
Most stalls were built for human-sized bodies and habits, though—makes sense, since the majority of smart races out there were human-ish in shape. Every stall had a solid redwood door, thick enough to keep anyone from peeking at you while you were taking a dump.
In this bathroom as roomy as a council chamber, Barrett and EeDechi ducked into the two deepest stalls, planning to lay low and ride out the storm.
…
"Lord Ainz" Albedo slithered her hips like a water snake, pressing up against him. Her eyes shimmered with a hazy, needy glow as she purred, breath sweet as hell:
"Why'd you bring me here, huh? Far as I know, taverns are where male humans and female humans get all flirty I'm totally wasted—won't you carry me to a bed? I swear I've got no dirty thoughts about you~"
Ainz was screaming inside. The whole reason he'd ditched the Great Tomb of Nazarick and rolled up to the Golden Apple Tavern was to get a damn break from Albedo, this clingy little succubus pain in his ass.
But what he didn't see coming was Albedo sniffing out his trail. Under the excuse of protecting her master, she stuck to him like glue.
Earlier, when Albedo grilled him about where he was headed after leaving the Great Tomb of Nazarick, Ainz had brushed her off with a half-assed story about going to E-Rantel. He'd picked the biggest tavern he could find, pretending to check out the whole racial harmony gig. Truth is, he wouldn't waste a damn second on petty tavern crap like that.
Albedo swore up and down that as the "strongest shield of Nazarick," it was her duty—her goddamn calling—to guard Supreme Overlord Ainz forever. Preferably up close and personal, with no clothes in the way.
Ainz let out a long sigh in his head. This was E-Rantel, the first chunk of land the Great Tomb of Nazarick had conquered—the golden city that never sleeps, where all the world's races played nice. It was the Sorcerer Kingdom's poster child. What kind of threat could possibly touch him here?
Deep down, Ainz knew if he didn't give Albedo what she wanted, she'd hound him nonstop. But ever since he turned undead, his emotions had gone cold—love was a ghost he could barely feel. Plus, his skeletal body didn't exactly have the equipment to satisfy her anyway.
"Lord Ainz~" Albedo's pale, slender hands snaked around his skeletal chest. "I just read this wild book by some human bard. It's a true story, you know."
Her voice turned all cutesy and shy, like some innocent girl next door. "The book says a skeleton demon king can use magic to slap a dick on himself…"
She pulled out a booklet, its red cover stamped with gold and a fancy, curvy title: The Extraordinary Demon Lord's Exclusive Love for the Proud Princess.
"I didn't dare show it to you back at the Great Tomb of Nazarick—didn't want Shalltear spotting it and that fake-titted loli getting any nasty ideas!"
Your ideas ain't exactly pure either, Ainz grumbled to himself. He sighed out loud:
"My skeleton body's a level-100, top-tier undead frame—stats on par with world-class items. Regular magic doesn't do shit to me. Sure, I could maybe dial down my resistances for a bit, but it wouldn't last. It's like trying to stick mud on a gold brick—my body just can't handle a dick…"
Albedo wasn't having it. She latched onto his skeletal arm, rubbing her barely-contained curves against him, eyes dripping with want. "Just give it a shot…"
Maybe I should wipe out every damn bard in the world—these story-spinning assholes are nothing but trouble, Ainz thought. He coughed awkwardly and turned to the tavern boss still groveling on the floor:
"Take me to check out… the bathroom."