The scent of aged parchment and forgotten lore hung heavy in the air, a comforting aroma to Titus Annaeus Secundus, the chief librarian of the Great Tomb of Nazarick. This was the Wanderer's Library, a repository of all that was, is, and could be. A chaotic, sprawling wilderness of knowledge compared to the meticulously ordered shelves of Ashurbanipal, Nazarick's own grand library. Yet, it possessed a raw, untamed potential that resonated with the skeletal mage's scholarly curiosity.
Titus, a figure sculpted from bone and arcane power, moved with a silent grace that belied the clatter such a frame might suggest. His red gown, embroidered with sigils of protection and knowledge, flowed behind him as he navigated the towering stacks. The seven jewels on his arm bracelet shimmered with contained magic, casting faint rainbows across the spines of countless volumes. His golden amulet, a relic plundered from a forgotten temple, pulsed with a gentle warmth against his bony sternum. Each ring on his four-fingered hands thrummed with a distinct magical signature, a subtle symphony of enchantments, honed and perfected over centuries. The assortment of jewels adorning his waist, each a potent magical artifact, clinked softly with his movements, a subtle counterpoint to the rustling of parchment and the hushed whispers of other patrons.
He was, to the untrained eye, an anomaly amidst anomalies. Most patrons of this extradimensional haven were humanoids, their forms ranging from the mundane to the bizarre, all united by a thirst for knowledge. Titus, however, radiated an aura of ancient power, a quiet confidence that marked him as something… more. A predator patiently observing a flock of sheep, perhaps, assessing their movements, their patterns, their vulnerabilities.
His crimson gaze, sharp and intelligent, scanned the titles as he moved, his mind already sifting through the endless ocean of information, categorizing, cross-referencing, discarding the mundane, seeking the truly valuable. The Librarians, those transformed souls eternally bound to their duty, gave him a wide berth, their ethereal forms flickering with a sense of unease in his presence. Some even seemed to recoil slightly, their translucent forms rippling like disturbed water as he passed. Good. Let them sense the power he represented, a power far older and more potent than anything they could comprehend. Let the subtle tremors of his magic, the faint aura of the Tomb, ripple through this chaotic archive. Let the whispers take them.
He sought knowledge, yes, but not as a mere patron, not as a supplicant begging for scraps of information. He sought understanding, a comprehensive mapping of this sprawling, unpredictable landscape, its strengths, and its weaknesses. The discussions overheard by those embedded within the Serpent's Hand had been… informative. A "new player," seeking "ancient texts and artifacts related to reality manipulation and the creation of artificial worlds." They spoke of an organized force, a methodical approach, a chillingly efficient acquisition of forbidden lore. They spoke, though unknowingly, of Nazarick. Though, the fools, not aware of what this really meant.
Titus paused before a particularly imposing shelf, its wooden surface etched with symbols he dimly recognized from long-forgotten civilizations, symbols that predated even the oldest empires of his world. He reached out a bony hand, his three fingers surprisingly delicate, and withdrew a thick tome bound in dragon hide, the scales still shimmering faintly with residual magic. A Treatise on Foundational Subversion. An intriguing title, to say the least.
He opened it, his crimson eyes scanning the archaic script with effortless speed, his mind absorbing the complex theories and intricate diagrams with preternatural focus. The theories contained within spoke of dismantling the very fabric of existence, of reshaping realities to suit a specific will. It described methods for unraveling the fundamental laws that governed a universe, of peeling back the layers of reality to expose the raw, chaotic potential beneath. Crude in many ways, perhaps, compared to the sophisticated World Item methodologies employed by Nazarick, but potentially valuable in understanding the specific limitations and vulnerabilities of this particular nexus of realities, this strange, interdimensional crossroads. The book theorized that such manipulations were possible, albeit incredibly difficult, and required a deep understanding of the target reality's underlying structure.
As he delved deeper, immersing himself in the complex theories and abstruse calculations, a pattern began to emerge. Many of the volumes he encountered, dealing with similar esoteric subjects – dimensional manipulation, reality warping, the creation of artificial realms – bore faint traces of recent handling. A residue of magic, barely perceptible, yet distinct, hinted at a focused, almost aggressive, search. Someone else was seeking similar knowledge. Others, within this Library, sensed the brewing change, the shift in the tides of power beginning to take place. They felt the tremor of a new great force awakening in the distance, an organized power, a presence that was beginning to make itself known.
He continued his exploration, moving from section to section, his keen eyes scanning the shelves, his mind cataloging the vast array of knowledge contained within. He sought out sections dedicated to dimensional travel, the mechanics of traversing the myriad realities that converged within this Library. He found texts detailing the intricate workings of Ways, the very portals that allowed access to this place, gateways that connected disparate realities. He noted the vulnerabilities inherent in their design, the specific rituals required to activate them, the inherent limitations of their function. Nazarick's Gate network was far superior, more secure, more efficient, but understanding the mechanics of this Library's traversal system could prove beneficial in unforeseen circumstances, allowing for infiltration, sabotage, or even the subtle manipulation of these pathways.
During his time exploring, he encountered other patrons, of course, drawn to this place like moths to a flickering flame. A cloaked figure with too many eyes, each one a swirling vortex of colors, whispering secrets to the pages of a thin, leather-bound volume, its surface covered in pulsating runes. A scholarly-looking serpent-folk, its scales the color of aged jade, meticulously copying complex glyphs from an ancient, crumbling tablet, its forked tongue tasting the very air around the artifact. A group of humans, their faces pale with a mixture of fear and excitement over their understanding, their eyes wide with the thrill of forbidden knowledge, arguing in hushed tones about the nature of causality and the implications of manipulating timelines, arguing like children of their intellectual capabilities. They glanced at him, some with open curiosity, others with barely concealed apprehension, their gazes lingering for a moment before quickly averting, as if sensing the dangerous power he exuded, like they could feel its immensity. They sensed the shift, the subtle, almost imperceptible undercurrent of power that radiated from him, a power that seemed to hum beneath the surface of this reality.
He moved on, his focus unwavering, drawn to a section dedicated to the summoning and binding of entities from other realities, a topic of particular interest to Nazarick. He perused volumes detailing rituals both potent and laughably weak, comparing them to the vast repertoire of summoning spells and techniques mastered by Nazarick's spellcasters, rituals that drew upon the power of YGGDRASIL's intricate magic system. Most were crude, almost childish in their design, mere parlor tricks compared to the meticulously crafted rituals employed by beings such as Demiurge or the other Floor Guardians. However, one particular text, a thick tome bound in what appeared to be petrified wood, its surface intricately carved with unsettling, non-Euclidean patterns, caught his attention. A Lexicon of Trans-Dimensional Pacts.
As he opened it, carefully turning the brittle, ancient pages, a faint whisper seemed to emanate from within, a sibilant murmur that resonated deep within his bone marrow, a subtle vibration that seemed to bypass his ears and penetrate directly into his mind. This was, undeniably, different. This was no mere collection of summoning spells; it delved into far more esoteric practices. This spoke of forging pacts with entities of immense power not just summoning simple creatures, but invoking forces, foundational beings whose very existence warped the fabric of reality, entities that existed on a scale far beyond the comprehension of most mortals. Their power was tempting, even though invoking and controlling them successfully was almost beyond capabilities.
A sudden rustling nearby, the sound of parchment scraping against wood, broke his concentration. He turned, his crimson gaze falling upon a figure hastily retreating behind a towering cylinder of shelves, their form obscured by the dim, flickering light that permeated the Library. A Librarian, perhaps? Or something more… sentient? More aware of what his presence really meant? He sensed a flicker of unease, a palpable wave of fear that clung to the air like dust motes, a subtle trembling in the very fabric of the Library itself, making his form waver slightly, indistinct.
He held the gaze, staring at the spot where he saw them even if no one is there anymore, they would surely reveal eventually, and it doesn't matter since he can sense their fear from miles away; then returning his attention to the ancient text, his mind already dissecting the implications of its contents, while the other individual probably thought it was unnoticed. How amusing, maybe this being would make an excellent lab rat for him to experiment on. Interesting. Someone was watching him. Someone was aware of his presence, of the potential purpose. Did they know of "his Lord," he doubted it. Maybe it was just a matter of time before the name of Ainz Ooal Gown would be known, and feared across these realities too. Good. Let them observe. Let the tremors of Nazarick's awakening, like the subtle shifting of tectonic plates far beneath the surface, reverberate through the very foundations of this library, let them be portends of the coming change. He knew that the Supreme Being would surely approve of his investigations.
He made a mental note of the book's location, committing its position on the shelf to his photographic memory. This knowledge, these potential pathways to unimaginable power, were far too valuable to leave to chance, to the whims of fate or the avarice of other patrons. He would not simply borrow this volume; it would be removed, permanently, from this place. He would dispatch Shalltear to secure it, discreetly, of course. Her… forceful acquisition methods, while occasionally excessive, were often quite effective, in these situations, subtlety often requiring a touch of brutality and overwhelming power.
As he turned to leave the section, his gaze, drawn by an unseen force, fell upon a notice board tucked away in a shadowed alcove, almost hidden from view. Pinned to it were various announcements, requests for information, warnings to unruly patrons, and other ephemera typical of a public space. Most were mundane, irrelevant to his purpose, but one, in particular, caught his eye. A simple, hand-drawn poster, its ink faded and smudged with age, the paper yellowed and brittle. It depicted a stylized, eight-pointed star, its points slightly elongated, almost resembling daggers, with a series of concentric circles at its center. Beneath it, a single line of text, written in a language he recognized as a dialect of ancient High Elven, a language rarely seen outside of historical archives and academic circles. It read:
"The Circle Expands, The Star Advances."
A jolt, not of fear, but of grim satisfaction, of a burgeoning understanding, ran through his skeletal frame. The message was cryptic, certainly, but its meaning was undeniable, especially to one who understood the subtle language of symbols and the hidden messages often embedded within them. It was a sign, a marker, a subtle declaration of intent from another power operating within this Library, a power that, like Nazarick, was expanding its influence, extending its reach across the dimensions. This "Circle," this "Star," they were not merely symbols; they were metaphors, representations of a larger force at play. And the fact that the message was written in High Elven suggested an entity of considerable age and power, one that understood the ancient language of magic. He chuckled internally as he understood now what those cryptic messages of a rising power might be. They might have sensed Nazarick's arrival. Or it's possible they confused his presence with that of another. Either way, the forces gathered in this place are beginning to take notice.
The game had begun. A game of shadows and whispers, of subtle manipulations and strategic acquisitions. A game played across dimensions, with the fate of worlds hanging in the balance. And Nazarick, under the supreme guidance of Ainz Ooal Gown, always played to win. He envisioned the flag of Nazarick hoisted across realities, tattered in the winds of thousands of words, yet it stood firm through conquest.
He straightened his gown, the jewels on his arm catching the faint, ethereal light filtering through the towering shelves, their colors momentarily flaring with increased intensity. It was time to return to Nazarick, to report his findings to his lord, to begin the meticulous planning, the strategic deployments that would see the power of the Supreme Being, the will of Ainz Ooal Gown, spread across this multiverse and beyond, like an inexorable tide, washing away all who stood in its path.
He turned and walked deeper into the labyrinthine corridors of the Wanderer's Library, his form receding into the shadows, leaving behind the cryptic poster, a silent testament to the rising power of an unknown entity, and a subtle, almost imperceptible, hint of the coming storm.. And as he disappeared around a bend in the shelves, the air in that section of the Library seemed to grow colder, the scent of old parchment and forgotten lore replaced by a faint, metallic tang – the scent of iron, the scent of blood, a scent unfamiliar to this place, but one that would soon become all too common. The scent of war, the scent of Nazarick.