The Throne of Conquest
The wind howled through the ruined city of Karthos, with the scent of blood and flames. The dawn had come, but its golden radiance could not dispel the shadows that now held sway in these lands.
Draegor sat on the gigantic black throne, made from obsidian and adorned with the remains of past monarchs. It had belonged to a king, a tyrant who had ruled this city in an iron grip—before Draegor took it from him.
And now, it was his.
His kingdom.
Below, in the grand court of the former royal palace, his army arrayed itself in disciplined ranks. The Fallen Vanguard, his necromantic soldiers, stood impassive, armor burnished to a dull brilliance in the light of dawn. The living men, battle-scars etched on their faces, were interspersed with them. In their eyes there was a mix of awe and horror as they looked upon their unnatural comrades-in-arms.
They were soldiers who had chosen to serve him, bound by allegiance, ambition, or sheer survival. They knew that Draegor was no ordinary warlord.
He was greater.
And now they marched into the unknown.
The Army of Shadows Moves
Conquest banners billowed in the wind as Draegor's army marched through the countryside.
His troops grew because of the battle of Karthos. Some had given up, offering their swords in the hopes of not being killed. Others had been killed, but at his behest, they stood again.
The mere presence of them was enough to terrorize villages.
The Fallen Vanguard: Once noble knights and soldiers, now bound in undeath. They walked in rigid, unblinking, and unnerving silence.
The Blackguard: A mob of living fighters—mercenaries, veterans, and raiders who had sworn loyalty to Draegor. In black armor, they clashed with ferocious efficiency.
The Abyssal Riders: A new recruit to his ranks—undeath cavalry, their ghostly horses thundering unheard. They were a presence that froze even the hardest combatants.
Resistance dissolved wherever Draegor's army advanced.
Cities fell without resistance, their rulers bowing in submission. The small number who resisted were shattered—and revived to work for him.
But as they advanced deeper into these lands, something changed.
The air grew heavy, charged with a supernatural energy. The sky darkened, as though there were a storm gathering out of view. Even the dead sensed it, their vacant eyes raking the horizon.
And then the scouts came.
The Fortress That Ought Not Be
At the front of his army was Draegor, golden eyes narrowed as he gazed off into the horizon.
There, where open fields ought to be, stood a fortress.
It was gigantic, towering higher than any castle Draegor had ever seen. Black walls, crude and unnatural, towered into the air, crackling with a malevolent magical energy. The air puckered around it, as if reality itself avoided its presence.
This was no ordinary fortress.
Draegor breathed slowly out. Something not of this world had entered it.
The silence of his troops was suffocating. Even the mindless and heartless Fallen Vanguard looked more steadfast than ever.
And then, suddenly—
A distant, low rumble shook the atmosphere.
It was not thunder.
It was laughter.
Within the Throne of Nazarick
Deep within the fortress, past great halls crowded with irreplaceable treasures and ferocious guardians, was a throne of bone and gold. On it, in dark royal robes, sat the master of this land—
Ainz Ooal Gown.
His shining crimson eyes glowed as he looked down upon the army below.
They were strong. Stronger than most human armies. The undead among them captivated him, their breed like the ones under his control—but with a different source. This was no sorcery he understood.
And at the very epicenter of it all was their commander.
A tall warrior, clad in black armor, his golden eyes burning with power. Even from where he was, Ainz could feel it—this man was no ordinary man.
Ainz chuckled softly, the sound echoing through the throne room.
"He's interesting."
Albedo, kneeling beside him, tilted her head.
"Should we destroy them, Lord Ainz?" she asked, her tone infused with excitement.
Ainz leaned back in his throne, his eyes following the marching army with amusement.
"No," he answered. "Not yet."
Albedo's gold-hued eyes glinted.
"Then. what should we do?"
Ainz's skeletal fingers tapped the armrest thoughtfully.
A great power had entered his domain.
A power that craved domination.
Perhaps.
It was time to introduce himself.