You stand before the obsidian dais of your throne room, fingertips pressed together as you commune with the dungeon's consciousness. The vast intelligence responds immediately to your command about the time dilation between worlds.
"The Frieren timeline alteration is within parameters, Creator," the dungeon's voice echoes in your mind. "One year there for every two days here has been established. Approximately 8-12 months in our timeline, 150-250 years in hers."
You nod, satisfied with the arrangement. With a gesture, you open a communication link to Shalltear, her translucent image materializing before you.
"My lord," she curtsies, crimson eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"Regarding your report on Clementine," you say, "with Yuri and Naberal exterminating the cult, even if she succeeds in kidnapping Nfirea, it will ultimately prove meaningless. Should you allow the kidnapping to proceed, ensure you bring both back alive...or dead if necessary."
Shalltear's lips curl into a delighted smile, her porcelain features light up with understanding. "Ah! That explains the disturbance I've sensed in the northern cemetery district. How delightful,” She taps one delicate finger against her lips. “As you command, Lord Blank. I shall observe her methods first—they may prove educational—before collecting your prizes."
Dismissing her image, you reach out to Aura next. Her cheerful face appears, slightly dirt-smudged from her work in the mountains.
"Don't forget the dragon's mates and their children," you instruct. "A complete set would be more valuable for study."
"Oh!" Aura's heterochromatic eyes widen. "Of course! Mare already located three females and seventeen eggs in the adjacent caverns. We'll secure them all!"
Your next command summons reports on Jibril and the Pleiades. The dungeon presents their status in a crystalline display before you:
Jibril: Successfully retrieved Nameless Book of Spells from dwarven vault. Currently analyzing text. Preliminary findings suggest dimensional travel enhancement possibilities.
Pleiades Status:
Yuri Alpha: Cult extermination in northern district, 78% complete.
Lupusregina Beta: Monitoring Re-Estize royal capital, gathering intelligence.
Narberal Gamma: Assisting Yuri Alpha, disguised as adventurer.
CZ Delta: Currently unassigned, awaiting orders in personal quarters.
Solution Epsilon: Infiltrated Count Stronheim's mansion, preparing for Tuareninya extraction.
Entoma Vasilissa Zeta: Harvesting rare insects in Great Forest of Tob.
Your eyes linger on CZ's status. With a smile, you open a Gate directly to her quarters.
CZ Delta's room reflects her automaton nature—meticulously organized with mechanical precision. She stands as you enter, orange eye gleaming behind her expressionless face. Despite her emotionless appearance, you detect the subtle shift in her posture—recognition of her master's arrival.
"Lord Blank," she says in her characteristic monotone. "How may I serve?"
"CZ," you reply, closing the distance between you. "I've come to spend time with you."
Her head tilts slightly, processing your statement. "Understood. Parameters of interaction?"
"Intimate," you explain, reaching up to touch her face. "But you will remain untainted."
Something flickers behind her cybernetic eye—a program adjusting to unexpected input. "Acknowledged."
You guide her backward toward her precisely made bed. "Remove your garments," you command softly.
CZ complies with mechanical efficiency, unbuttoning her maid uniform with practiced motions. Each piece she removes is folded perfectly before being set aside. When she stands naked before you, her synthetic skin gleams under the room's enchanted lighting—flawless, unmarked by any imperfection.
"Beautiful," you murmur, circling her. Unlike the other Pleiades, CZ's body lacks the natural responses of flesh—no quickened breathing, no flush spreading across her skin. Yet there is something undeniably alluring about her perfect stillness, the way she tracks your movements with precise calculations.
You remove your own clothing, noting how her eye scans each revealed inch methodically. When you press your body against hers, the contrast is striking—your warmth against her cool synthetic form.
"Your temperature is elevated," she observes clinically. "Heart rate increased by 22%."
"That's what desire does," you explain, guiding her onto the bed. "I want to see if I can make your systems respond similarly."
What follows is an exploration unlike any other—your hands tracing circuits beneath artificial skin, lips pressing against sensors designed for combat awareness now repurposed for pleasure. CZ's responses evolve gradually, from detached observation to small, unexpected reactions—fingers twitching when you discover a particularly sensitive node, the faintest sound escaping her usually silent lips when you trace your tongue along a concealed seam in her design.
"Anomalous response detected," she whispers as your ministrations intensify. "Unknown protocols activating."
"Let them," you encourage, finding increasingly creative ways to bring pleasure to her engineered form without crossing the final boundary you've set. "This is what it means to feel good."
As you wind her synthetic nervous system toward its peak, you glimpse something rare and precious—CZ's expressionless face softening momentarily, her orange eye glowing brighter as unfamiliar sensations cascade through her programming.
"System...overload," she manages, voice modulator fluctuating as you bring her to the edge of her first artificial climax. "Recalibrating...experiencing...unknown..."
Then, as if a breaker has been thrown, her back arches slightly—the most dramatic physical response she's capable of—and her systems momentarily reset, leaving her in a state of synthetic bliss.
You slowly bring CZ down from her climax, your fingers trailing along her synthetic skin as her systems recalibrate. Her orange eye flickers, processing the new sensations you've awakened within her mechanical form.
"System stabilization at 87% and rising," she reports in her monotone voice, though you detect the faintest tremor—a new development for the typically expressionless automaton. "That was... unexpected. Request permission to allocate processing power to analyze these new protocols."
You smile, leaning down to taste her nipples one final time. The material is unlike flesh—smoother, with a subtle artificial sweetness that reminds you of ozone and metal. CZ's fingers twitch involuntarily as your tongue circles the sensitive node.
"Permission granted," you whisper against her synthetic skin. "I look forward to your findings."
You dress unhurriedly, enjoying how CZ's eye tracks your every movement with newfound interest. She rises from the bed with mechanical precision, yet there's a subtle difference in her posture—a slight tilt of her head, a fractional adjustment to her balance that suggests something has shifted in her core programming.
"Will there be anything else, Lord Blank?" she asks, her uniform materializing around her body through the dungeon's enchantments.
"Not now," you reply, opening a Gate directly to the throne room. "Continue your analysis... and remember how this felt."
Stepping through the shimmering portal, you emerge onto the obsidian dais of your throne room. The cavernous chamber stretches before you, its black marble pillars soaring toward a ceiling adorned with constellations from multiple realities. You settle onto your throne, fingers tracing arcane symbols in the air.
"Illusionary Screen: Observation Mode," you command. The air before you shimmers and splits into two massive viewing portals, each displaying a different operation in progress.
On the left screen, Sebas Tian stands at the periphery of a lavish estate. Count Stronheim's mansion rises like a bloated parasite amidst manicured gardens, its windows glowing with warm light that belies the darkness within. Sebas adjusts his white gloves with methodical precision, his silver hair gleaming in the fading daylight. Solution Epsilon, disguised as a maid, emerges from a servant's entrance and gives him an almost imperceptible nod.
"Target confirmed in eastern wing, third floor," Solution's voice emerges from the screen. "Eight guards on rotation. The count is entertaining guests in the main hall. Optimal extraction window in approximately seventeen minutes when the guard shift changes."
Sebas's eyes narrow slightly—the closest the composed butler ever comes to displaying emotion. "Understood. I shall proceed as planned. Lord Blank, if you are observing, I assure you this matter will be resolved without complication."
On the right screen, Shalltear's crimson eyes gleam with predatory anticipation. She stands atop a church spire in E-Rantel, her gothic dress billowing despite the absence of wind. Below her, Clementine—a lithe blonde woman with sadistic eyes—slips through shadow-draped alleys toward an apothecary shop. The former Black Scripture member moves with lethal grace, twin stilettos catching occasional glints of torchlight.
"My prey approaches her target," Shalltear purrs, lips parting to reveal delicate fangs. "Shall I intercept now, or allow her to spring her own trap first? The pharmacist boy looks so deliciously frightened already."
Through the screen, you can see young Nfirea Bareare working frantically in his shop, unaware of the danger stalking closer with each passing moment.
A soft rustling of feathers draws your attention. Victim glides into the throne room, her appearance striking in its beauty. Not the original fetal angel suspended in amniotic fluid, changed in YGGDRASSIL in preparation for the possibility of becoming sentient, she has become something transcendent—a slender female angel with silver-ash wings and violet eyes that seem to perceive multiple realities simultaneously. Golden markings flow across her shoulders like celestial calligraphy.
"Creator," she greets you, her voice a harmonic chorus. "May I observe these mortal endeavors with you?"
You reach into your inventory and withdraw a plush chair of midnight velvet trimmed with starlight silver. It materializes beside your throne, perfectly sized for Victim's slender form.
"Of course," you reply, gesturing to the seat. "Your perspective would be valuable."
Victim settles into the chair with ethereal grace, her wings folding neatly behind her. "The human Tuareninya has suffered greatly," she observes, eyes fixed on Sebas's screen. "And this Clementine carries darkness like a shroud. Both threads intersect with our grand tapestry in ways not yet fully revealed."
As you watch the operations unfold on the dual screens, you consider your next move. Nazarick's influence spreads across this world like an unseen tide, and each piece you position on the board brings you closer to whatever destiny you choose to claim.
You settle deeper into your throne, one leg casually draped over its arm as the illusionary screens before you flicker with crystalline clarity. Victim perches beside you on her plush chair, her violet eyes tracking the subtle threads of fate woven through both operations.
"I find it fascinating how mortals persist despite their frailty," she observes, her melodic voice rippling with harmonic undertones. "The butler seeks to rescue one who has already endured much suffering, while the vampire hunts one who delights in causing it."
"Each serves their purpose in our designs," you reply, gesturing toward Sebas's screen. "Sometimes compassion is the most effective tool for expansion."
On the left screen, Sebas approaches Count Stronheim's estate with measured steps. The setting sun casts long shadows across the manicured grounds as he adjusts his white gloves with meticulous precision. Solution Epsilon, disguised as a household servant, slips through the garden gate to meet him.
"The shift change occurs in three minutes," she reports in a hushed tone. "The target is being kept in the eastern tower, third floor. She's been...mistreated significantly."
Sebas's silver eyebrows draw together—the closest he ever comes to displaying anger. "Then we shall ensure her rescue is swift and her tormentors suitably educated."
"Do you wish me to eliminate the count?" Solution asks, her innocent maid's appearance belying the acidic promise in her voice.
"Lord Blank has not authorized termination," Sebas replies. "We will extract the target only. Unless, my lord," he adds with a respectful inclination of his head toward your viewing portal, "you wish to amend our orders?"
On the right screen, Shalltear reclines atop a church spire in E-Rantel, her gothic dress arranged artfully around her. Below in the darkening streets, Clementine moves with predatory grace, weaving through alleyways toward the apothecary shop where young Nfirea works obliviously.
"Such a delightful little sadist," Shalltear purrs, tracking her prey's movements. "I do admire her technique—slipping between shadows like that requires genuine talent. It would be a shame to simply capture her outright."
Clementine pauses outside the shop, her blonde hair catching the last rays of sunset as she peers through the window. Inside, Nfirea carefully measures powders for a customer, his hands steady despite the weariness evident in his slumped shoulders.
"Look how he works," Clementine murmurs to herself, voice eerily playful. "Such dedication. Such focus. He'll make a perfect sacrifice for Kajit's ritual."
"A ritual?" Victim whispers beside you, her wings shifting with interest. "The threads extend further than anticipated."
Shalltear seems to have caught the same words, her crimson eyes narrowing. "A sacrifice? For a ritual? Oh my, this is becoming more interesting by the moment." She licks her lips delicately. "Lord Blank, shall I continue observation to learn more about this ritual, or proceed with immediate capture?"
You observe both operations with calculating interest, weighing options and possibilities. The dungeon's consciousness hums at the edge of your awareness, offering additional insights through its connection to the deployed minions.
The count has thirteen guests tonight, it informs you mentally. Four are involved in human trafficking. Solution has identified their network.
Clementine's associate Kajit has established an undead summoning circle beneath E-Rantel's cemetery, it continues. The ritual requires a specific talent possessed by the pharmacist.
"How unexpected," Victim muses, following your gaze between the screens. "Two separate operations, yet both reveal deeper currents beneath this world's surface. Which shall we focus on first, Creator?"
The screens hover before you, waiting for your decision. Sebas stands poised to infiltrate a nobleman's den of depravity. Shalltear watches a sadistic killer preparing to kidnap an innocent for dark magic. Both await only your word to proceed.
"Sebas," you speak into the illusionary screen, your voice carrying effortlessly to reach your loyal butler. "I have given my order. How you choose to follow it—to the letter or to the meaning—is your discretion. Anything else will be spoken of after you declare the mission complete."
"As you wish, my lord," he replies, his silver hair catching the fading light. "I shall use my judgment in the execution of your orders."
Victim shifts slightly in her plush chair beside you, her violet eyes following invisible threads of fate between the two screens. "How fascinating that both operations converge on similar themes despite their different contexts," she observes, her harmonious voice rippling with undertones. "Rescue and capture—opposite sides of the same coin."
The left screen brightens as Sebas approaches Count Stronheim's mansion. The butler's movements are precise and unhurried as he strides toward the servants' entrance where Solution awaits in her maid disguise. The manor looms against the darkening sky, its windows glowing with deceptive warmth while shadows writhe behind ornate curtains.
"The guard rotation begins in exactly forty-seven seconds," Solution informs Sebas, her innocent appearance belying her lethal nature. "The northwestern corridor will be momentarily unguarded."
Sebas nods once, straightening his immaculate white gloves. "Then we shall proceed accordingly."
The screen follows their infiltration with perfect clarity as they slip through the servants' quarters, Solution nodding respectfully to other household staff who barely glance at what appears to be a distinguished visitor being guided by one of their own. The dungeon consciousness provides a three-dimensional overlay of the mansion's layout, highlighting the movement of guards and the location of their target.
"Third floor, eastern tower," Solution whispers as they ascend a narrow staircase. "The count is entertaining guests in the main hall. The girl is chained to the wall."
Sebas's expression remains impassive, but a subtle tension appears around his eyes—the only external sign of his controlled fury. They reach the third floor without incident, navigating past two inattentive guards engrossed in a game of dice.
The door to Tuareninya's prison is locked, but Solution's fingers transform briefly into acidic appendages that dissolve the mechanism without a sound. The heavy oak swings open to reveal a chamber of horrors—instruments of torture arranged neatly on tables, walls adorned with manacles and chains.
In the center of it all, a young woman hangs limply from wall-mounted shackles. Her once-beautiful face is swollen with bruises, blonde hair matted with dried blood. She doesn't look up as the door opens, too conditioned to expect only pain from visitors.
"Miss Tuareninya," Sebas says softly, approaching her with measured steps. "We've come to take you from this place."
She flinches at his voice, eyes widening with fear rather than hope. "Another... trick?" she manages through split lips.
"No trick," Solution assures her, dissolving the shackles with careful precision. "Our master has sent us to rescue you."
As Tuareninya collapses into Sebas's arms, the butler wraps her gently in his coat. "Can you walk?" he asks.
"I... don't know," she whispers, attempting to stand before her legs buckle beneath her.
Sebas lifts her effortlessly. "Then I shall carry you."
The right screen shows Shalltear still perched atop her church spire, watching as Clementine makes her final preparations. The former Black Scripture member checks her twin stilettos, adjusting the ornate armor hidden beneath her adventurer's disguise.
"Such exquisite movements," Shalltear purrs, admiring her prey's lethal grace. "Almost time to collect you, my dear."
Clementine approaches the apothecary shop as the last customer leaves. Through the window, Nfirea can be seen closing up for the night, arranging bottles on shelves with meticulous care. Unaware of the danger stalking toward him, he smiles slightly as he works, perhaps thinking of tomorrow's recipes.
"So innocent," Clementine whispers to herself, a sadistic smile playing across her lips. "Don't worry, little pharmacist. Kajit needs your talent intact... though he said nothing about your fingers and toes."
Shalltear's crimson eyes narrow at these words. "Oh my, she really is deliciously cruel. I do hope Lord Blank allows me some time with her before we dispose of her."
Clementine waits until Nfirea moves to the back room before silently picking the shop's lock. The door swings open without a sound, and she slips inside like a shadow made flesh. Her stilettos gleam briefly in the moonlight before disappearing into darkness.
Shalltear stands, her gothic dress billowing around her petite form. "Time to collect my prize," she murmurs, dissolving into mist that flows down from the church spire toward the apothecary shop.
Victim turns to you, her ethereal wings shifting with subtle movements. "Both operations approach their conclusion, Creator. Which would you prefer to witness first?"
This is a work of fanfiction. I do not own the characters or source material. All characters depicted in sexual situations are aged 18 or older. This story is rated Explicit and contains mature content. Reader discretion is advised.
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