The earth was still.
Draegor's army stood at attention, an army of brute strength, but their commander was not yet giving the order to move. The castle of Nazarick loomed on the horizon, its absolute mass a guarantee that brute strength would not be enough to capture the untested.
For two days, Draegor had waited—observed, listened, and allowed things to follow their natural path. He was not foolish. The Overlord of Death, Ainz Ooal Gown, was an adversary not to be dealt with on the spur of the moment.
It was no ordinary kingdom. It was a kingdom of the unknown.
And Draegor was not foolish enough to make the first move.
A Strategic Silence
Inside his war tent, Draegor was seated upon a black, ornate throne crafted from the bodies of long-forgotten beasts. His most trusted generals sat around him in silence, the flickering flame of candles casting long shadows across the heavy map spread out before them.
It had been two days since his taciturn encounter with Ainz. The voice had disappeared into the shadows, leaving Draegor with more questions than solutions. But far from being irked, he basked in the intrigue.
For after all, he knew that silence was a strategy in itself.
"He is watching us," Draegor finally spoke, his voice measured and contemplative.
Across the table, his skeletal general, Korrak, agreed. "Do you believe he will make the first move?"
Draegor's yellow eyes gleamed in the light. "He has done it. When he addressed me, he made his decision. Now he waits to see what I will do as a reply."
There was a subdued muttering among his officers. Synthia, black and crimson robes, leaned forward, her pointed face showing her interest. "Do you intend to respond?"
A slight smile played on Draegor's lips. "Not yet. Let him wait. Let him wonder. The longer I wait, the more he will wonder what my purpose is."
It was a waiting game, a subtle one that Draegor had played thousands of times.
Even with his enormous army and undisputed authority, he was wise enough to realize that Nazarick was not like any kingdom he had ever known. The fortress was an enigma—a world of utter order, but one controlled by an intangible set of rules.
To rush in was the mark of a fool.
Draegor would let Ainz take the next step. And then he would decide what to do.
The Watchful Fortress
Greatly far from the war camp of Draegor, within the center of Nazarick, Ainz Ooal Gown sat upon his bone throne, his red eyes staring at a hovering image of the battlefield.
The silent Overlord sat still, his skeletal fingers tapping against the armrest.
The enemy forces had not budged.
No attacks. No aggression. Only stillness.
It was. not what they had anticipated.
"He does not act impulsively, Lord Ainz."
The speaker was Demiurge, the scheming demon tactician who stood watch by the throne. His blazing, inhuman eyes zeroed in on the projection. "Most would have already attacked, in ignorance or hubris. But this one…"
Ainz nodded intentionally. "Yes. He waits."
Although his face still looked inscrutable—his gaunt face fixed in its habitual smile—Ainz couldn't help but feel a curious sense of amusement.
This Draegor was not what he expected.
The undead warlord did not stride as a mindless conqueror, but as a tactician. He wielded power, yet he did not use it at once. He commanded an army of the dead, yet he did not march with sheer bloodlust.
Ainz was. interested.
What do you make of him, Demiurge?"
The demon's smile grew wider by a hair's breadth. "I believe he is a man who responds to calculations, my lord. He does not see you as an adversary—yet. At least. He is waiting and observing, as we are. But his reserve augurs for something else as well."
"And what would that be?"
Demiurge's eyes were gleaming with interest. "He has respect for power."
Ainz remained silent, allowing those words to settle.
Demiurge continued, his voice smooth. "If we were dealing with a hot-headed warlord, they would have already attacked our walls in a suicidal charge. But Draegor? No. He is waiting to see how we react. He wants to know about us before he acts."
Ainz slowly reclined in his throne.
So this was the kind of person Draegor was.
Not a madman. Not a fool. But a player in a larger game.
A Calculated First Move
The third morning dawned, with the sun just breaking over the battlefield, when a lone messenger rode into Draegor's camp.
He was no one of Nazarick's terrifying Floor Guardians. He was not an undead horror or demon beast.
No, the first emissary from Ainz Ooal Gown was. a regular human.
A youth, no older than twenty-five, clad in simple black robes, his face serene but clearly well-disciplined. He moved with the quiet assurance of one who knew that they were watched by forces beyond the grasp of mortal minds.
Draegor stood at the edge of his camp as the messenger reached a stop a few paces distant.
There was a silence for a moment.
Then the man bowed deeply. "Lord Draegor. I have a message from the Supreme One, Ainz Ooal Gown."
Draegor observed him for a long time before nodding for him to continue.
The messenger unwound a scroll and read out:
"Ainz Ooal Gown sees you. He observes your strength, your intelligence, and your patience. He invites you to come and meet—not as enemies, but as masters of their own worlds. A meeting, between two beings of power."
Draegor didn't answer, his gold-hued eyes furrowing ever so slightly.
Ainz had unfolded his hand.
The game was on in earnest.
A good long stretch of time passed before Draegor finally spoke, his voice heavy and commanding.
"Tell your master…"
He let the silence linger, a deliberate beat of tension. And then smiled, just the smallest fraction.
"I accept."
The messenger bowed again, then turned and went away, without another word.
As Draegor watched him disappear over the horizon, he exhaled slowly.
The pawns were moving.
But this was not going to be a duel of swords.
This was going to be a duel of brains.
And Draegor had no plan on losing.