Ellental Manor stood at the crown of the highest hill overlooking the town of Ellental, and from a distance, it looked less like an architectural achievement and more like a very expensive, deeply dramatic mistake.
It was tall, black, and crooked, boasting twelve chaotic floors of steeply gabled roofs, crooked chimneys that spewed violet smoke, and narrow, glowing windows that seemed to watch the valley below. A jagged ring of wrought-iron fence enclosed a garden of pale, luminescent roses that bloomed only in total darkness, their thorns dripping a sweet, sticky nectar that attracted giant obsidian butterflies. Below the fence lay a wide, empty cobblestone plaza where, on certain cool evenings, the stones appeared to shift, turn, and whisper quietly among themselves.
A long, winding road carved from dark basalt snaked up from the town below, terminating at a pair of enormous front doors forged from blackened bronze and carved with intricate, swarming shapes of bats.
seasonal frost covered the lower slopes, but the town of Ellental itself remained perpetually dim, pleasant, and quiet. It was orderly to a fault and entirely populated by lesser vampires who went about their days in high-collared coats, tipping their silk top hats politely to strangers and biting them only when properly provoked—or when form 4-B for Consensual Feeding had been filled out in triplicate.
It was a dungeon. It was, in fact, one of the better, most treacherous high-tier dungeons in the entire region, and the hardened Vault Holders who braved its traps and guardians called it a living nightmare.
Its owner called it home.
"Has anyone seen my other shoe?" said Blanc.
She stood in the center of the grand entrance hall, under a massive chandelier made of upside-down gothic arches and black tallow candles. She was dressed in a lavish, heavy red-and-black gown trimmed with cascades of dark lace, currently wearing one shiny black leather shoe and one oversized, fluffy pink slippers shaped like a bunny. Her long, snow-white braids were tied up with crimson silk ribbons. Her eyes—a deep, glittering crimson—were fixed on the black marble floor with an expression of fierce, unblinking concentration.
She was a Baron. Not a title given by a king, and not a class chosen from a menu, but a race: a Vampire Baron. Which meant that when she smiled, two sharp, brilliant fangs flashed brightly; when she was angry, the shadows in the room leaned inward like eager predators; and when she was happy, which was most of the time, heavy objects around her had a habit of floating an inch off the floor and gently bouncing.
"It is under the grand staircase, milady," said a stiff, perfectly immaculate voice.
Four figures stood in a neat, symmetrical line at the foot of the stairs. The first was a tall, unnervingly handsome vampire in a tailcoat so crisp it looked structural. Silver tipped his temples, and his posture suggested he had never leaned on a wall in his entire existence. His name was Weiss, and he ran the manor's daily chaos with absolute, terrifying efficiency.
Beside him stood three tall Laestrygonians in matching gold-trimmed livery. Towering at over seven feet with broad, armored shoulders and calm faces, they had been standing there for fifteen minutes with the stoic patience of the exceptionally well trained.
"Thank you, Weiss," Blanc said, peering toward the dark space behind the steps.
"It is an absolute pleasure, milady."
"Why was it under the staircase?"
"I believe the third-floor zombies were playing a game of pass-the-slipper with it," Weiss replied smoothly, holding out the missing polished shoe on a velvet cushion.
"The zombies," Blanc said, her voice dripping with deep, tragic betrayal.
"They are notoriously fond of footwear, milady."
"I know, but that's my good shoe. The one with the real silver buckle."
"I have spoken to them," said Weiss, using the precise tone of a head butler who had delivered a forty-minute stern lecture to creatures with no working brain activity.
The zombies of Ellental Manor were not the usual rotting, screaming variety. There were thirty-one of them in total—gentle, slow-moving, notoriously clumsy creatures who shuffled around in impeccably ironed uniforms. Every single one wore a polished wooden name tag tied around its neck. They served as gardeners, doormen, coat-check staff, floor polishers, and, on one memorable holiday occasion, a surprisingly harmonious backing chorus. They were not very bright, but they were intensely loyal and loved their Baron with a simple, dedicated passion. Three of them—Barnaby, Barnaby Jr., and Todd—were currently struggling to carry her luggage without falling over each other.
"Okay," said Blanc, stepping out of the bunny slipper and into the leather shoe. "Is everyone actually ready?"
"I have packed the silver tea service, master," said Azalea, the eldest of the three Laestrygonian guards, lifting a massive woven wicker basket that smelled intensely of butter and baked vanilla. "Along with three dozen cream puffs, eighteen lemon tarts, a crate of blood-orange scones, and a few small extra things."
"What extra things?" Blanc asked suspiciously.
"A roasted boar, three cheeses, and some travel snacks for the journey."
"We're traveling through a spatial gateway," Blanc pointed out, blinking. "It takes ten seconds."
"One can never be too prepared when crossing dimensional thresholds, master."
"Carmine," Blanc said, turning her gaze to the second Laestrygonian. "Are you okay?"
Carmine stood straight as a pike, holding a cream puff delicately in each huge, gauntleted hand. A very thick, very obvious smear of white powdered sugar crossed their chin.
"Yes, master," said Carmine with immense, unshakeable dignity.
"You've eaten the cream puffs."
"I have not."
"There is sugar all over your face."
"That is a pure coincidence. A draft blew through the kitchen."
"Carmine," said Weiss. His voice was quieter than usual, which made it sound like cold iron scraping on stone.
"Yes, Weiss."
"Wipe your chin."
"Yes, Weiss."
"And put back the remaining cream puffs."
Carmine carefully set them back into the basket. "They are two of the thirty-six."
"Thirty-six minus two is thirty-four," said Magenta, the third Laestrygonian, in a completely flat, deadpan voice.
"I know how to count," Carmine snapped back with tremendous offense, hastily wiping their chin with the back of an armored glove.
Blanc giggled, the sound light and musical, echoing off the high stone arches.
"We are prepared to escort you, milady," Weiss said, adjusting his white silk gloves.
"Wait, you're coming too?" Blanc asked, turning to him.
"We have been formally advised that this is a high-level diplomatic mission," Weiss said smoothly. "It requires a proper honor guard and an attending steward."
"I mean... it's just tea."
"It is a very important tea."
"It's tea with a skeleton."
"A very important skeleton," Magenta chimed in solemnly.
Blanc paused, considering this. "Right. That's fair."
She stamped her foot down to settle the shoe, smoothed her lace sleeves, and spread her arms wide.
"Okay!" she declared. "Let me double-check... cape? On. Fangs? Clean. Alright, let's go see Ainz!"
From the cavernous darkness at the back of the great hall, behind the archways leading to the inner courtyard, came a long, low, rolling three-part groan that vibrated the glass in the chandeliers.
"And you too, Burgundy," Blanc called out cheerfully.
The great skeletal beast unfolded himself from the shadow of the pillars. He stood six meters high at the shoulder—a magnificent monstrosity made entirely of sun-bleached dragon bone, with a ribcage wide enough to frame a cathedral nave and massive wings like the torn, blackened sails of a ghost ship.
He had three heads. Once, they had been three distinct Dragonsteeth soldiers—vicious, bloodthirsty guardians sown from dragon’s teeth—until Leah had combined their souls and sealed them into a single massive bone egg.
The leftmost head, Vermilion, was currently wagging its massive lower jaw in a delighted, high-pitched whine. The rightmost head, Scarlet, scanned the hall solemnly, checking every shadowy corner for potential assassins. The middle head, Crimson, was snoring softly with its jaw resting against the floor.
Burgundy ducked his massive central head under the central crystal chandelier—a faint, metallic clink echoing as his horns brushed the glass—and fell obediently into line behind the guards.
"Good boy," Blanc said sweetly, reaching up to give one massive, ancient rib a affectionate pat.
Before turning for the door, she paused. Her eyes drifted upward, looking past the spiraling balconies to the long, dim staircase that climbed into the deepest shadows of the upper spire.
At the very top, tucked away in a quiet turret room lit by a single perpetually burning red candle, lay a long wooden coffin lined with deep, plush velvet. It was masterfully carved from black oak, fitted with polished silver hinges and a silk cushion embroidered with tiny golden bats. It was, without a doubt, the most comfortable bed Blanc had ever slept in.
It was also her respawn point.
If she died anywhere in this world or any other, she would simply wake up in that coffin three hours later—a little stiff, a little cross, but whole—with Weiss standing at the foot holding a warm, steaming mug of spiced blood tea. Her retainers had an even better deal: if destroyed, they pulled themselves back together at the manor threshold after exactly one hour, whether they wanted to or not. It was a remarkably efficient system. It had never once failed.
"Okay," Blanc said again, taking a deep breath of the crisp night air blowing through the opening doors. "Thursday."
She turned and led her little army out into the cool dusk.
Down the dark basalt winding hill they went, past the bowing vampire townsfolk, past the glowing rose gardens, and out across the open countryside toward the deep, ancient shadows of Trae Forest. There, tucked in a hidden hollow where the mist never cleared, two ancient, moss-covered standing stones were already beginning to hum, waiting for the last ray of twilight to touch their runes.