Shurpuff here: Dumping here some of the writing notes I'd made for the story, in the form of completed excerpts. As stated this was expected to be some form of CYOA for a pool of readers, but it was hard to establish a good framework for the whole thing.

Have a nice day!

Shun ever the names of the Six Demigods, who sought to challenge the Forty-One.
-from Doctrines of Heresy, by Illuminary Jeanne-Marie

Grasp Heart(Necromancy)(Range: 60 Feet)(Time: Instant)(Agility negated)(Duration: 10 minutes)
The most basic spell granted to aspiring acolytes of Zuranon, the caster connects a dark, sinister limb to his target's heart. On successful hit, the limb is "anchored" to the heart for a certain duration, and will require breaking the caster's focus to dispel or the use of certain spell-breaking abilities or spells. At any time that the limb is connected, the caster may focus his energy to squeeze the target's heart using the dark limb. The heart is squeezed irresistibly until it is no longer identified as a focal target by the spell; that is, until it is no longer recognized as a "heart".
The target feels as if a chill akin to Momonga's silent finger had brushed against his heart, and thus recognizes the fatal threat he faces. This is an apt time for the acolyte to negotiate, or otherwise use the target for whatever means.
The spell will always target a "heart" for it to connect. In the rare case of a target without any feasible definition of a "heart" (such as a divine construct, or certain types of undead), the spell fails. (Addendum: Certain incorporeal undead have been known to possess "hearts" for the spell to connect to, it is recommended to study the list of confirmed Grasp Heart targets to better prepare oneself.)

The New Face of War

Only a few have ever seen them: like tall, forbidding golems they stride across the battlefield, swifter than a gazelle and as impervious as dragon's scales. But these are not constructs made by ambitious Casters, but actual, human knights, clad in the wondrous black armor that has become more and more a fixture of international warfare. Suddenly hordes of peasant levies firing barrages of weak spell-fire is nothing more than chaff to be swept aside by these soldiers. Thus do these "Jashin" enter the fray, tromping forward on boots of impenetrable steel.

Alone, the titan can withstand a whole cavalry charge by veteran knights, and can leap fearlessly into the fray of a thousand gleaming swords. The only recourse of any country against such a threat, is to bring out their own titans. It is a wonder to witness, as the two dark shapes collide against each other, using their fists to pummel and break the other's armor.

Their objective-to reach over and destroy the warmachine's only conventional weakness-the Weight-glyph on its lower back. Without its support, the armor will be too much for the person inside to bear, ending in a defeat by the armor's crushing weight.

The Jashin are called by many other names, and are eacch painstakingly crafted by the Cult of Amanomahitsu, which remains neutral in the Great Game. The armor costs a small nation to commission, and that is why even the Baharuth Empire is rumored to only have a few of these warmachines. By themselves, the armored ones can tip the scale of a battle. Should the Cult be given a reason to produce these objects at an increased pace, we may just see a new brand of warfare in our lifetimes.

The State of the Draconic Breed, Chapter 1

In the distant age, long before humanity rose to become the masters of the known world, the dragons were said to rule over the primordial age. They were the first denizens to live in this sacred world that the Forty-One gods forged. They were, however, too prideful and greedy to be of use to the gods, refusing to worship them as was their right as Creators. And so the Gods were said to have descended, and lead armies of our ancestors to exterminate them.
Strong are the dragons we see today, glutted with magic and wisdom-but stronger still were their ancestors, whose wings could cover up an entire plain in eternal dark. But our Gods were mightier still, and led us to victory time and again. In those days, it was said that the Warrior Takemikazuchi delighted in the hunting of the wyrms-for he wrestled them from their aeries high in the sky, or routed them from their lairs deep in the ground, laughing all the while. The fearless Order of Dragonslayers is thus devoted to that powerful war god, and has been just as successful in defeating the dragonic when it was needed. When the dust was settled, peace was finally enforced. As the Gods taught us their Magic to counter their Wild Magic, the dragons were left with too few of a number to amass in such a way ever again. Thus, the Gods left us to tend their garden, and from then on Humanity has advanced.

To Be a Responsible Witness to Lord Momonga, 21

One need not be a follower of Zuranon's grand tradition to accept the Overlord Momonga's eternal gaze into our lives. One must always keep in mind the single, most important truth that the liars of the Slaine Theocracy have spread: Lord Momonga is not an uncaring god, but a just and loving god, who watches over the Forty-One's creation like a farmer does his land.

In this comparison he is the head of the household, the hardest and hardiest of the workers there, who rises at the earliest hint of dawn and retires at the latest patch of dusk. For he is God of Death as well as the Overlord of Ainz Ooal Gown, and thus he presides over that dread function which all of humanity rightly fears. Death is the domain which none but the most peaceful ever enter with glad hearts, and already there have been many who wished to cheat Momonga, to forestall the final judgment with spell and trickery.

It is the duty of Zuranon to root out and destroy these abominations, but that does not mean those who are outside of our order cannot help! Undeath is a universal plague on every nation, and thus must be approached with the same zeal as that of an eternal enemy. Take care to report any suspicious necromantic activities, while making sure to distinguish those from we who actually belong to Zuranon. You will recognize Zuranon by the copper masks we wear, as the metal is offensive to the undead not chosen by Our Lord. Yes, lend your knowledge and expertise to even the zealots from Touch Me's sanctum. For though they would deny it, our goals align.

Undeath is a privilege, not a right, and should only be reserved by those blessed by the Almighty Momonga.

Communing with the Holy Ones of the Beastmen Tribes, Book 2, Chapter 3

The Katanjec are infamous for their pestilential threat to the northern hinterlands of the Baharuth Empire. Raids of these bird-men fly at odd hours to ravage unsuspecting villages, carrying off goods, trinkets, and even poor humans, all to feed their ravenous hunger. At Trebasik, home to these bird-man hybrids, I found their local head-shaman Goloyurith. The good sage was able to understand my work, and was much enthusiastic in conveying his race's spiritual faith to me, despite the rampant misgivings of his fellow people, who eyed me as a potential substitute for dinner.
The feather-shawled beastman ushered me inside his shrine, only stopping me from entering the depths of the rancid-smelling tent closer than the small altar they had constructed. Predictably, there is the horned effigy of the Beastmen's Patron: Ulbert Alain Odle. Around the base, there are offerings and carved fetishes which seem to be devoted to the other gods, or perhaps to "gods" of the Katanjec's own invention.
What interested me, though, was the fashioned image of the Triune Goddess Bukubukuchagama, instead of the expected effigies of her eminent brother, the Winged Striker, Peroroncino.
When I asked, the Katanjec shaman laughed, and pointed me towards the many eggshells strewn across the base of the shrines.
"To the man-things, yes, the Winged God rules, but here we rebuke him. Demon of Lust we call him, for disaster came upon Katanjec, when through His blessing we bred too much for our hungers to sate. And then we were forced to war with the other beastmen. We were near to be wiped out, except for one final nest, protected by the grace of the Old Shrieker. That is why we worship her now, not her dread brother. Yet most of all we fear and worship the Demonfather, who will usher in an age of plenty, where we need not fear hunger ever again. Remember that, human, on the day the Katanjec falls on your cities in numbers uncountable."

Excerpt from chapter "His Ascendance"

They all stared at him with hostile eyes. Some were calculating, like fishermen considering the haul he'd brought back to shore, and measuring it against his family's survival. Among their number were the dwarves, steady but uneasy allies of the Empire, the diverse representatives from the City-State Alliance, or the earnest troupe of paladins from the Holy Kingdom.

Others were cold, distant, like cream-topped mountain peaks in the far distance-tall and untouchable. These included the likes of the sneering emissaries from the Re-Estize Grand Duchy, the tall, hulking armored frames of the Forge-Priests of Amanomahitotsu, or the Draconic Kingdom's people, whose faces were always difficult to read.

Still others were stormy and wrathful, as if bearing the grudge of a thousand lifetimes. That would belong to those beastmen tribes he'd invited here to this gathering; they who would never forget that it was a human hand that brought them low, thousands of years past. Some others were angry at Jircniv himself, for it was through Jircniv's recent decrees that many of the Empire's beastmen were forced to abandon their lives and flee to the margins.

Still other eyes were calm and mocking, like parents self-assuredly watching a child put on a show. The elven ambassadors from their distant kingdoms, the chattel-lords whose kind Jircniv had purged early in his reign, or the members of the Sunlight Scripture, whose demeanor was at odds with their superior Cardinal Dominic, whose expression was nonetheless hidden behind his snarling, copper mask.

Predators. Yes. Those were the gazes of predators all around. Already they glance at the other representatives, weighing them as all predators are wont to do. Jircniv wondered if it was a good thing that he aspired to become the biggest predator here.

"Preposterous," someone said, a so-called minor lord from the Grand Duchy. "You wish to reclaim the title of King-Emperor? By what right do you push your claim to that ancient, hollow title?"

"Indeed," came the mellow, bass voice of Cardinal Dominic. "Such a thing, sad as it is to consider, has already met its end during the Empire's dissolution long ago. But you know this, I assume, my lord. Or Lord Fluder has been much remiss in your education."

Jircniv glanced openly at his teacher, confindante, and Court Mage. The elder's great, bushy eyebrows twitched, acknowledging the Cardinal's words. But he remained silent, and did not answer the barb.

"If there is anyone who could be rightfully called the King-Emperor," one of the paladins stated, "It is our very own Queen Calca, who is descended from King-Emperor Dayo Nobuhiro's youngest daughter."

And according to the laws of the Old Empire, she would never have been able to inherit, Jirniv thought, but allowed the Cardinal to speak that fact out loud instead. Instead he turned his attention, subtly, to the expected objection from the Grand Duchy's camp, which came right as the Cardinal finished.

"If we are talking rights, then of course we of the Kingd-the Grand Duchy have the greater claim." He glanced around, as if daring anyone to question him. "We hold the ancient capital, and are proud to have it endure for all this time."

"Bricks and stones," someone said, in a voice so deep and unearthly it could have come from the far edges of a dark and stormy night. "Worthless words and claims," the representative from Zuranon continued. The lich, garbed in austere, but no less resplendent clothes, turned his skeletal visage towards Jircniv. The Emperor willed himself to look into the burning fires within the empty sockets, confident that every royal talisman he had on him could protect against a devotee of Momonga, if he ever turned treacherous.

"We who care not for the trivialities of your little sand-kingdoms are losing our patience," the lich continued. "Why have you summoned us here, Emperor Jircniv, if not to test and see if it is impossible to earn our ire?"

There came a dull thunk of a stave being slammed against the floor. All eyes turned towards the Forge-Priest, whose form was as of an armored statue given life. Devotees of the forge-God Amanomahitotsu, and jealous keepers of His great secrets. Yearly the Empire, and everyone else who desired to keep an upper hand in warfare, paid their tributes to the cult, just so they would not withdraw their favors. "Time, Emperor Jircniv, is Precious. I concur with the priest of Momonga-what is our purpose here?"

His own citizens, the high priests from the local shrines, as well as the devotees present from the Slaine Theocracy, wished to speak; but he and the Cardinal had made it clear to them that they were not to stir up a debate. Zuranon was already a dangerous entity by itself, whose members had all been given dubious blessings by the Chief God of Ainz Ooal Gown, the Overlord of Death. Fluder may condemn them in private as much as he liked for turning to undeath just to "cheat", but even the less devoted among the people learned to keep a healthy dread for Lord Momonga, the only one powerful enough to shackle all the myriad, troublesome Forty-One Gods together. If Zuranon had His favor, then no one would dare disagree.

The Forge-Priests were also a major factor to always consider. They had once served as the Old Empire's official cult for Lord Amanomahitotsu, but since the fall had changed their stance to providing their wondrous craft to anyone who needed it, even the beastmen tribes or the demihuman nations. Their inventions had advanced warfare so much that entire countries could be buried under dust if they did not pay their tributes to the Blacksmith's aides. Even the dwarves, whose patron god was the Blacksmith himself, was forced to pay tribute to them to keep up with their almost explosive rate of technological advances.

"My fellow rulers, great eminences, humbled am I to serve you as my honored guests. Believe me when I say that I vow on my life, by Lord Momonga's name-" He caught a flash of something like anger in the Zuranon lich's eyes, but there was also a hint of respect-to swear on Momonga's name was dangerous only if the oath would not be fulfilled. "-that if falsehoods drip from my lips on this austere, but pressing meeting, then may He flay my soul from my body, and name me and my own Liars from here on. So let it be."

He looked around at the assembly, who said nothing. So far, the Cardinal's suggestion of using the name of the greatest of the Supreme Beings was bearing fruit. "I wish to reclaim the title of King-Emperor of Ainz Ooal Gown," he continued. "And I shall do so, by invoking the Trial of the Forty-One."

The noisome hubbub expected to come from those who saw the title as their own sputtered out, quickly replaced by a noisome buzzing, as words began to drift through the representatives like pestilential locusts. Even his own citizens, the high priests, were taken aback by his declaration.

"A Trial?" said one of the beast-men, speaking in his guttural rendition of Human-speech. "You, a human, would dare put yourself into Lord Ulbert's cunning gaze?" It was a good question, as outside of the beastmen, only the Theocracy held the god Ulbert as a god to be worshiped. Otherwise he was treated as taboo along with the other troublemaker gods by the human nations. The beastmen, who saw in the god's sneering goat face an idol, unanimously took him up as their patron god above even Momonga, and wove heretical tales and songs to raise up the god as a protector of freedom and the Wild Things against Momonga's rigid tyranny.

"I will, good sir," Jircniv said calmly. "I do not make this declaration lightly. It was said that the first King-Emperor was blessed by the Forty-One themselves, before he founded the Old Empire. And to gain their favor he endured the test from each and every one of them. From Yamaiko the Wise to Luci*fer the Cruel; from the just protector Touch Me, to the Lord of Upheaval, Ulbert Alain Odle. I shall do the same, and become King-Emperor, or I shall die trying."

The beastman laughed, a sound like rocks bashing against each other. "So you say, human. Let us see if your pathetic soul can withstand such a thing."

"Or your mind..." hissed the heretofore silent representative from the Lithids, the Holy Kingdom's mysterious neighbors who lived in their underwater cities, their heads like octopi, and their intellects more than a match for any human-as was fitting for devotees of the Scholar Tabula Smaragdina. "...We shall look forward to your mental fortitude, Emperor Jircniv."

He glanced at Fluder, who motioned subtly with his cane, a signal for his own citizens to finally speak.

"Your righteousness shall be tested indeed," spoke the representative from the Church of Touch Me.

"As will your compassion," said the High Priestess of She-of-Three-Aspects, Bukubukuchagama.

One after another, the others chimed in, declaring themselves speakers for their gods. Only the Grand Duchy, the Holy Kingdom, and the elves did not speak. The latter worshipped Yamaiko's kin, formed by a heretical notion that their progenitor elf-goddess was a forty-second Supreme Being named Akemi. Jircniv, following orthodoxy, would not expect words from them, nor would he be expected to endure the so-called Akemi's judgement.

"In the name of the Forty-One, who are One," said the Cardinal, speaking the official stance of the Theocracy. "And on behalf of my brothers and sisters who could not be here, I admonish you, Jircniv Falord El Nix, for your stubborn pride in seeing yourself equal to your betters. But," the Cardinal continued in his booming voice, "We see your earnestness, and see no reason to deny the skeins of destiny, which only the Forty-One can foretell. Should you succeed in your trials, then the Slaine Theocracy will personally grant you the title of King-Emperor, and anoint you, and bestow upon your head the Broken Crown of the Last Emperor."

There was a gasp, particularly from the Imperial remnants with their own claims. The Slaine Theocracy had their own claim, the crown passed by Emperor Nobuhiro on his deathbed to his confessor, who'd founded the Theocracy and led the successful rebellion that toppled the Six Renegade Gods. The story was told that Nobuhiro refused to grant his crown, and the title of succession, to his son, who had declared for the Renegades; and had pleaded for the Theocracy to safeguard the crown until a worthy one stepped forth.

"I am humbled, my lord," said Jircniv. As previously discussed, he bowed on one knee for everyone present to see, accepting whatever blessing the Cardinal might give, even if none were coming.

"We shall see if you are indeed worthy of the Supreme Beings' favor," the Cardinal said in dismissal. Jircniv smiled-inside his heart. Oh yes, it would certainly be a challenge to undergo Forty-One trials. But the pieces were already in place. Before the year ended, he would be crowned King-Emperor, and his work would then begin.

"I do not know what you have planned, Emperor," the lich from Zuranon told him, his voice a quiet rumble. "But know that lord Momonga's justice is swiftest and most just, and though however tests you pass under the Supreme, it is His ultimate judgment that will see your ambitions exalted, or end a broken rubble. Do not forget that the eyes of Momonga are always upon you, and his Scales are ever ready to claim you."

Jircniv Crowned King-Emperor

Midday, Wensdei Baharuth Empire, Imperial Capital

Millions gathered today to witness what is being hailed in the Baharuth Empire as the "crowning moment of our nation". Emperor Jircniv Farlord El-Nix, known to most as the Blood Emperor, has been anointed the "King-Emperor of Ainz" by Hierarch Dominic Ihre Partouche, Cardinal of the Slaine Theocracy. It has not been five years since the young ruler has ascended to the throne of Baharuth, and already he has laid claim to the title that had once belonged to the King-Emperors of Ainz Ooal Gown hundreds of years ago.
Garbed in the royal garments of lavish appearance, Emperor Jircniv ascended the great steps of Arwintar's central temple, where representatives from Slaine's Forty-One Temples awaited to anoint him with the sacred oils. This was followed by a long ritual presided by Hierarch Dominic, where the Crown of Ainz Ooal Gown, which once sat on the head of the last King-Emperor Dayo Nobuhiro, was placed on Jircniv's head, affirming to the rest of the world the Theocracy's legitimization of the Emperor's claim.
This is also an affirmation of a long-rumored alliance between Baharuth and the Slaine Theocracy, in light of recent measures undertaken by Emperor Jircniv to curb the pro-demihuman laws his ancestors laid out. In the meantime, the Ruble Holy Kingdom and the Grand Duchy of Re-Estize have publicly lodged their protest of the claim, the former citing their monarch Calca Bessarez's descent from Nobuhiro's youngest daughter; while the latter pointed to the fact that the old Imperial Capital was located within their borders. Whatever happens in the future will only be a matter for speculation. But one is assured that this new move will make waves in our land's political and social landscape, and may even have unpredictable consequences down the road. One might only be able to pray fervently to the Forty-One, who are forever Watching, for the right path.

Excerpt from Prologue chapters

"Ah, are you a visitor from out of town?"

The priest's voice echoed in the silence of the small chapel. The old man peered through the dust falling from the eaves at the surprise night-time visitor to his secluded domain. His eyes were already failing him, but it was clear to see this person was a gentleman of some import-he was well-dressed and stood in the stiff manner of a nobleman. His hair was as white as his own, which was a surprise, but as a priest of a failing cult he had no time to be stingy with the ages of his flock.

"Yes," said the stranger. "I am sorry for the intrusion."

"Not at all," the priest said with a wave. "All are welcome under the aegis of Lord Touch Me, blessed be his name." He made the sign of the Protector. "But, I find myself ashame not to be able to offer you anything more than these words of mine. Our branch here at Carne is in a sorry state, as you can see. A dwindling flock along with an enemy who glories in our Patron god are a nasty combination. It is only good that the township yet fears the Gods enough to not throw me out entirely."

"Hm." The man sounded noncommittal. Their eyes both went to the statue dominating the small hall. It was a marble statuette of the chapel's god, Touch Me of the Forty-One, a well-armored soldier with a shield leaning against his knee, and a sword slung over his shoulder. There had been many names attributed to this god, but he was foremost the "Grand Protector".

"It shames me to have to ask you this, good sir, but are you a believer?" The question was not without merit; as there had been many hoodlums in the neighborhood who'd loved to take potshots at this small chapel. He'd had to clean up a mess of manure himself on the walls outside.

"...In a manner of speaking," the visitor said, his eyes still intensely focused on the statue. Then, as if knowing what the priest was thinking, he further said, "You have nothing to fear from me. I would never do anything to insult Lord Touch Me, or any of the Supreme Beings, for that matter."

"'Supreme Beings'?" the priest repeated.

"Ahem... I mean the gods."

"Ah." The priest blinked. Usage of the odd term was puzzling, but not uncommon. He'd heard of the demihumans in the Argaland Council State who called them "Exalted Ones".

"Are there other shrines like these?" the man asked.

"You did not see the great shrine dedicated to Lord Amanomahitotsu near the entrance gates? It's not hard to miss. Carne Town has long had cults dedicated to the Matriarchal Aspect of Bukubukuchagama, since the time it was just a simple village on the outskirts of the old Kingdom, -so there's a chapel on the west end of the city. And lastly: well, I've only heard rumors, mind. But I hear tell there's a Death Pack in town who's secretly dedicated a heretical shrine to Momonga. Fools." The priest spat. "Lord Momonga should just smite them for daring to besmirch His name."

"I see. That was most helpful, sir."

"Think nothing of it, my brother," the priest said. "It is the duty of all who follow Lord Touch Me to come to the aid of everyone who needs it.

The stranger seemed about to say something else, but a noise from the entrance drew their attention. Armored guards burst in, the clatter of their armor shattering the peaceable silence inside the chapel. "Oi priest!" One of them said. "There's been a break-in at the gates! Have you seen some stranger come in?"

The priest's eyes widened. "Oh no, there's nothing-" He turned, but saw the stranger had disappeared, as if he had never been. He blinked rapidly. "-Nothing. Ahem. No, there's been nothing."

"I see. Sorry to disturb you," the guard said. "But we'd just like everyone to be alert."

"Yes..."

"Especially with the news that..." the guard's voice became hushed. "...That the Archduke's second son is leading an army here."

"Oh dear. Forty-One defend us." The priest glanced towards the statue of Touch Me, which seemed empty of divine inspiration. It seemed to be just a statue.

)()(

"So you've returned, Sebas."

"I am sorry for being late," said the man who looked like a venerable butler. He looked around at the hall, and greeted his fellow high-level Guardians.

"No, no, we had only just gathered ourselves," Demiurge said. It was difficult for anyone who knew the tailed devil dressed in a well-pressed suit to sound so amicable, but stranger things had already happened.

"So? So?" Aura Bella Fiora asked, jumping up and down in front of the butler. "How is it? Is it the same? Is it different? Are there strong monsters out there?"

"S-Sister..." Mare Bello Fiore came up timidly to softly admonish his sister. The twin dark elves were practically similar in appearance, if not for their clear difference in dress.

"Whaaat? You know you're as excited as I am to know!"

"B-but..."

"I TOO WOULD LIKE TO KNOW THE STRENGTH OF OUR ENEMIES," Cocytus boomed. The looming, insectile giant garbed in cruel ice. "BUT WE MUST LISTEN TO SEBAS' REPORT FIRST."

"Okay..."

"Such foolishness..." A child-like figure, wearing gothic lolita clothes, remarked. "Perhaps it would be best if the report could commence immediately, Demiurge? Being the Guardian of the first three floors, I must take charge of revitalizing our defenses. It is vital that I not tarry here."

"Of course, Shalltear," Demiurge said. "I'd wanted to hear it when 'they' came, but it appears they aren't coming, for now. Sebas?"

Sebas nodded, stepped up to stand before the other level 100 Guardians, and spoke.

He spoke of the ease of leaving the bounds of Nazarick, of the lack of anything that would hinder them from leaving. He described his surprise when he saw that outside was not an uninhabitable swamp, as many of them had guessed, but a great, grassy plain, extending far into the distance.

As he'd been commanded to, he set to exploring the area, and soon found himself in a town with humans.

"Humans..." Every Guardian tensed, as if Sebas had just described an enemy.

The humans were not hostile-or maybe it was that Sebas moved too fast for their senses. He was able to infiltrate inside the town called "Carne" by the inhabitants, and there found a surprise he had not expected.

There were many signs of their Masters within. On the outside of a grand temple was a giant stone carving of the great crab-like Lord Amanomahitotsu, wielding a hammer and tongs. Upon the headstones of a cemetery nearby were inscribed the effigies of the Guildmaster, the Overlord Momonga. Another temple, on the other side of town proclaimed the name of Bukubukuchagama, and within Sebas found a choir of humans singing hymns to that great one.

Inside homes were small shrines dedicated to this or that Supreme Being. Pleas and sacrifices to Peroroncino, to invite virility, burnt offerings to Yamaiko, for a safe childbirth; even an altar dedicated with curses to invoke the wrath of Luci*fer upon an enemy. Painted along the walls of a certain district were exaggerated caricatures of Ulbert Alain Odle and Bellriver, each Supreme One tearing apart a fat man limb from limb and devouring them. And then there had been the small chapel dedicated to Sebas' own creator, Touch Me.

After muttering with wonder and glee at Sebas' report, Demiurge was the first to remark, "Perhaps the Supreme Beings had created this great Outside. And yet... to be treated as gods?"

"And are they not gods, oh crafty one," Shalltear said, her cheeks flushed. "Oh, for who else but a god could create images of perfection, like us?"

"Demiurge," Sebas said. "I feel you should not doubt the humans' claims. For indeed, they are gods in here. I have witnessed the humans perform magic, in their name."

"Magic, you say?" Sebas nodded in response.

When Sebas had left Touch Me's chapel, he had gone for one last look at the town. He had borne witness to a certain soldier, clad in thick, almost gigantic armor. It pointed at a wall, and shouted, "By Ulbert Alain Odle, whose domain is disaster, [Earth Spike]!" Then, and Sebas could not miss it, Lord Ulbert's face had appeared, for a brief second, above the armored warrior, and the wall had shattered from the blow of a spell.

"I see..." Demiurge said, though he yet sounded skeptical.

"If you do not believe that, then believe this." And Sebas unveiled the last part of his report. He held up his glove, the one he used to wear on his hand, and showed to them all the hole that had been made through it.

After, Sebas had encountered elements of the town's guard. Not wishing to cause a scene, he'd evaded their pursuit. But just before he could scale the walls to escape, one of their number had shouted, "By Tabula Smaragdina, [Extend: Ice Spear]!" The projectile had been fast, and Sebas deflected it with his hand. It was only after he'd left the walls entirely that he realized that the spell had pierced his glove. The glove, which had been given to him by the Supreme Beings, had been damaged by a spell that had invoked their power.

That changed things. Demiurge adjourned the meeting, and urged Shalltear to tighten their defenses, and for the other Floor Guardians to look to their own. For if the humans here had been blessed by their masters, then they would be hard-pressed to defend against their assault. And as the creations of Nazarick, of Ainz Ooal Gown, their foremost duty was the defense of the vast dungeon.

And also, there was another reason to heighten security.

Sebas returned to the meeting hall, where the Pleiades awaited.

"Has there been a change?"

Yuri Alpha, the second in command, shook her head. Sebas joined them in looking towards the center of the room. There, arranged around a great big circular table, were the Forty-One Supreme Beings (plus one). All of them, in their powerful and resplendent garb, displaying their might as the powerful guild Ainz Ooal Gown. And yet, there was one thing that they instantly noticed.

None of them moved. None of them spoke. They all just sat there, as if frozen in time. Only Momonga seemed different from the rest, as he had risen from his seat and raised his clenched bony arm, as if ordering the whole guild to mobilize. But even he was frozen in that pose.

The Guardians had noticed that they had been frozen like this for a long time. There had been a long time before any of them had even thought to enter the meeting room, and see the truth; and it had taken an even longer time for Sebas to volunteer to exit Nazarick. And through all that time, the Forty-One had remained the same. They did not respond to the NPCs. They did not respond to their personal creations. They were as statues.

And now with the knowledge of a hostile and unknown world out there, it became more important than ever to fulfill their roles as Guardians.

For what is our world, but the plaything of the Forty-One?
-from the epistles of St. Cirmar the Devout to the Troll Kingdoms