The ground was still, save the soft sigh of the wind as it rushed over the treetops and the distant rumble of Draegor's army in motion. The fortress stood in the distance like a menacing sentinel, its dark spires piercing the air, but its presence seemed almost inviting to Draegor. It called to him, though not in the promise of battle—this time, something different hung in the balance.
The Siege of Patience
It had been two days since Draegor's camp was set up at the foot of the daunting fortress, and yet no direct order had been issued. His army waited, the undead and the soldiers both in neat formation as the shadows of night stretched long over the barren landscape. Despite the rising tension, Draegor made no advance—he waited. The same unearthly stillness that had gripped the earth now paralyzed his armies.
It was quiet, but there was a nervous sense of anticipation.
The air reeked of tension, yet Draegor had learned many years ago that patience was as sharp a sword as any dagger. Every battle he had ever waged, every victory he had ever achieved, had been a result of cautious calculation. His enemies always underestimated his ability to wait, to allow things to develop before striking.
He was at the front of his army, his gold eyes on the distant, artificial castle. He had commanded armies of the dead previously, but something here stirred what was ancient, almost archaic, in him. The castle seemed to pulse with power he was familiar with, though he did not know it.
Ainz Ooal Gown.
The name had not departed his mind since the very first moment he had felt the presence of this world-subjugating fortress. He knew its reputation. The Overlord. A creature of immense power, far beyond the reach of any mortal or undead general Draegor had ever encountered. But this was not a time for precipitous action. No—this would be a battle of minds, not armies.
Whispers in the Dark
As night fell, Draegor summoned his inner circle to the interior of the massive war tent, its fabric illuminated by flickering torches. The air was thick with hushed conversation, the low drone of talk between his most senior advisors.
There was a map of the surrounding lands in the center of the table, identifying the locations of cities, villages, and the roads they could take to get to Nazarick's fortress. Draegor's fingers traced the lines methodically, his mind working as he reviewed their options.
And your thoughts, General Korrak?" Draegor's voice was a low snarl as he addressed one of his highest-ranking officers, a hulking giant of a man who was clad in heavy plate armor. Korrak, a feared warlord in life and now one of Draegor's highest-ranking generals, stood next to the map, studying it with a sour expression on his face.
I think we have time. They've made no move toward us. The fortress remains. Or perhaps. testing us." There was a hint of uncertainty in Korrak's voice. His dead, long eyes bore into the map, trying to unravel the significance of the strange situation.
Draegor nodded, his gaze unwavering. "I agree. There is no haste to their approach, nor do we need to be hasty. We have to wait for the time, the tactic."
He turned to the other figures seated at the table, his gaze sweeping over each. They had all battled, they were all warriors, but none had ever battled a foe like this. The stakes were different.
"How do we approach them?" Draegor asked, the question fraught with foreboding. "There is no telling what they know of us, or what they are capable of. But one thing is certain—they will not kneel to arms alone. This will require. diplomacy."
The silence in the tent deepened, the air thick with the realization that something far more complex than war stood ahead of them.
A Quiet Conversation
That night, as his army sat in quiet contemplation, Draegor stepped from his tent into the moonlight which bathed the battlefield. His steps were slow and ponderous, and they carried a weight of purpose. He stood in solitary confinement in the clearing, the night tightening around him like a cloak to protect him from the world.
And then he felt it—a presence. Soft but unmistakable, scarcely detectable. A voice, or perhaps an echo, whispering from the distance.
"Draegor."
It was a whisper, a chorus of dark energy carried on the wind.
He did not turn back.
The voice beckoned again, this time, louder, more commanding. "You seek power, yet not without purpose. Tell me, Draegor, what is it you want?"
Ainz Ooal Gown had spoken.
Draegor's lips curled into a slow smile.
"What I want is simple," Draegor spoke to himself in a low tone. "Control. Dominion. To rule with wisdom as well as might." He hesitated, considering the repercussions. He had no idea if Ainz could hear his thoughts, but he wanted his message to be clear.
The voice responded, "Then you are no different from me. But what will you do when you encounter a being who has overcome everything, even death itself?"
Draegor's amber eyes sparkled. "I will learn. And I will conquer."
The wind whispered again, this time quietly, as if Ainz was considering his words. And then, as suddenly as it had come, the presence was gone, leaving Draegor to a thick, tense silence.
The Dawn of Realization
Draegor walked back to his tent as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, casting long shadows over the battlefield. There was no necessity now. No urgency to attack, to battle. Now there was time to think.
He understood now—a meeting this was not of brute force. This was a meeting of understanding. A meeting of two minds that had reached unimaginable heights, each following their own path, each with their own ideal of how the world had to be.
And he would be heard.
But not yet.
Not until the time was right.
He gazed out at the expanse, his thoughts returning to the fortress. The man—or whatever he may be—inside was an enigma Draegor had yet to solve. This encounter was as much a battle of wits as of brawn.
The two would fight eventually. And when that day came, Draegor would ensure it was not a battle of force—but of wills.
The army hesitated, but for Draegor, it was not merely a pause in his conquest. It was the calm in the storm. His army was in position, his mind sharp, and his next move—when the time came—would be everything.
Yet for now, he waited. And as the winds of fate began to shift, so did his ambitions, coalescing into something far greater than conquest.
The throne was not at the tip of a sword, but at the middle of knowledge. And Draegor would find that path—he would learn from the likes of Ainz Ooal Gown.
And then, he would rule.