Seeing through their intent to ensnare Ainz in a cunning political net, the butler softened his tone.
"My, what harsh words. We are merely extending an invitation, nothing more."
"Don't you think the timing is far too contrived?"
"His Majesty is a busy man, so I must apologize that the schedule could only be arranged in this manner."
With stiff, angular movements, he bowed at the waist. The butler's head seemed light, like that of a man who could cast aside his pride whenever necessary.
Then Ainz stepped forward.
"Raise your head."
The Emperor's hair could be cut at any time.
There was no use pressing a man like that.
Ainz was ignorant of political maneuvering, but he still understood what the most appropriate action was at present.
"This has come too suddenly. We need time to think as well. Since your side has also committed a discourtesy, you can understand our circumstances too, can you not?"
Judging those words reasonable, the butler nodded and took his place outside the door.
"Then I shall await your favorable answer."
Once the door closed and silence settled over the room, he sought Flamme's counsel.
"What do you think would be best?"
If Flamme had not been here, he likely would have attended the party the butler recommended without a second thought.
When one does not know, the wisest course is to ask someone who does.
For now, it was the best choice available.
"Ainz, what do you think is the most important reason they're trying to draw us in?"
"Surely the healing potion."
"Correct. You can think of the party as a kind of spectacle meant to remind everyone of that."
Talent was a matter of importance. The goose that laid golden eggs was Ainz himself, and the Empire was making a show of telling everyone not to covet that goose.
"The Empire stands to gain quite a bit from this. They can curry favor with neighboring countries suffering under the demons, and by drawing you in, they can also share in your reputation."
There were countless other benefits if one cared to list them all.
Still, one question remained.
"Did they really need to do it like this? Couldn't they simply have explained the situation instead of approaching it this way?"
Rather than spreading a net beneath the surface like this, if they had just explained their purpose, he might have accepted without much suspicion.
Flamme's answer to that question was simple.
"Rumors seem to spread quickly. Do you remember what the citizens in the capital were saying?"
"You mean those embarrassing names?"
The many titles that had trailed after Ainz.
"Those are nicknames attached to you because you've become famous. And didn't I tell you? The more famous you are, the more enemies you gain. This is part of that."
Perhaps he had become an eyesore to the nobles.
Or perhaps they thought the title Sorcerer King challenged the Emperor's authority.
"This is what you'd call taming."
It was foolishness made possible only because they did not know the military power Ainz possessed.
Once he had confirmed the direction of all these thoughts, Ainz finally understood and asked,
"What happens if I refuse the party?"
"Nothing major. It would just become an awkward situation."
Rumors in high society spread faster than the iron-feathered birds that flew at the speed of sound.
That he had refused a party recommended by the Emperor. That despite being called by such grand titles, he lost his nerve and fled the moment the noble elite of the capital gathered.
If given even a scrap to feed on, they would twist the facts however they pleased.
Slander could swell without limit when its target was absent.
"Is that really right? We would only be declining to attend a party."
"That's right. But from their side, they only extended an invitation. Outwardly, they haven't done anything wrong either."
Inside that elegant gift box called a party, countless political schemes were surely mixed together.
"Isn't that petty?"
"That's politics."
Words shaped by the tongue became magic even without mana.
Was language not the most primitive magic of all, the thing that moved people?
It might feel satisfying if I just blew everything away, but I can't do that.
It would certainly be the easier path, but if he killed the living in accordance with Undead instinct, he would destroy the life he had built up until now.
And the thought that Flamme might be saddened by it deepened his dilemma all the more.
What should he do?
If his comrades were here, what would they have done?
When his thoughts reached that point, he made his decision.
"If I run away here, it would become a shameful story attached to the name Ainz Ooal Gown."
From the moment he had taken that name for himself, he could not allow a stain to be carved into that signboard.
Because it was not only his honor at stake, but everyone else's as well.
"I'll attend the party."
*
His bold declaration was all well and good, but Ainz's compatibility with parties was abysmal.
A party was the flower of high society.
And since this one had been hosted by the Emperor, its scale could only be enormous.
So much for modest.
He understood that the instant he entered the hall.
It was a festival of social butterflies, something a shut-in gamer could never hope to endure.
The chatter of nobles, the graceful sweep of dancing figures, the gentle music filling the air—it all brought to mind a ballroom from a fairy tale.
It was more than enough to make the swollen self-image he had built up shrivel in an instant.
If he had merely been a guest who happened to attend by chance, he could at least have passed the time by eating the food laid out on the tables.
For Ainz, an Undead, that was impossible.
In the end, he was left holding a glass of wine and pretending to be a statue.
Every now and then, saying something like, "Hm, the bouquet is pleasant," made it feel as though the atmosphere improved.
Only a little.
As he went on killing time like that, there were people who recognized Ainz and approached him.
"Oh! It's a pleasure to meet you. So you're the one who made that healing potion."
The rumors spreading through the capital had naturally revealed information about Ainz, and given the nature of nobles—people with many ears always listening—there was no way they would fail to recognize such an unusual figure in a mask.
How am I supposed to answer?
He recalled what Flamme had told him before he came to the hall.
"The goblins are all collapsed drunk, so I can't come help because I have to look after them. Endure as best you can." That was what she had said.
Flamme had looked at him with worried eyes, but there had been no helping it.
He had to live up to expectations.
He had to manage on his own and make sure his shallow knowledge was not exposed in front of these people.
Several approached him, and they exchanged small talk meant to build familiarity.
From renowned scholars to daughters of noble houses and eldest sons of distinguished families.
To all their words, laden with endless embellishments meant to adorn themselves, the only responses he could manage were, "Hm... I see," and solemn nods as though he understood.
In truth, he understood none of it, but if they misinterpreted that and said things like, "As expected of the creator of the healing potion summoned by His Majesty. Remarkable," then so much the better.
It was exactly as people said—once you became famous, they'd applaud even if you took a dump. That was precisely what these people were like.
Is this what the Emperor wanted?
He felt dizzy.
It was painful, like being forced into clothes that did not fit.
Was this place not exactly the same as the upper class on Earth?
The top of the arcology, something he had only ever been able to look at from afar and never approach, flickered through his mind.
Were people like Touch Me and Sajucheon Jujak, who had been upper class even in the guild, doing things like this too?
There was a gulf between the modern age and the medieval one, but in the mind of Ainz, who had lived as one of the lower classes, the lives of the rich were not all that different from these people's.
Why am I even doing this?
The question kept coming.
What answered it was a remnant of the past.
To make Ainz Ooal Gown into an eternal, undying myth.
For whose sake?
For my comrades.
They were not in this world.
There was no one here forcing him up onto a pedestal. There was only Flamme, watching him with concern.
Once that thought came to him, he found himself unable to enjoy the atmosphere here any longer.
The lights of the ballroom were too dazzling.
He had already fulfilled the pretext of attending, so it should be fine if he stepped away.
"Excuse me for a moment."
Using the excuse of going to the lavatory, he left the hall.
Outside the reach of the singing music, he looked into the mirror hanging in the washroom.
The Jealousy Mask reflected there seemed to embody his current mood.
Endless jealousy toward something.
This was the lofty place his parents had so desperately wanted and hoped he would reach, yet all he felt was disgust.
If only he could vomit.
He wanted to empty out this revolting emotion.
The moment he thought that, his mind suddenly cleared.
Emotional suppression.
The innate trait of the Undead crushed down his discomfort and every petty feeling along with it.
Once all emotion returned to zero, what bloomed instead was nothing more than self-loathing that he had to have his emotions suppressed over something so trivial.
Perhaps that was why he used this magic.
"<Greater Teleportation>"
Magic that differed from the system of this world allowed him to move elsewhere, beyond the Empire's sight.
In an instant, the scenery changed to a very familiar stone chamber.
He called out to the one idly reading a book there.
"Serie."
Her eyes blinked at the sudden appearance of Ainz, but only for a moment. At the familiar sight of him, her gaze soon softened.
She set the book down on the chair and approached.
"Didn't you say you were going to the capital?"
"I ran away. Just a short break."
Because he had often come to deliver news while staying with Flamme, Serie was already well aware of his teleportation.
"Tell me. What happened?"
"I don't particularly want to talk about it..."
How was he supposed to explain it?
That after speaking so boldly, he had run away.
He had compromised.
Even with a body beyond humanity, he still had not managed to escape the bleak one-room apartment where the VR set had once sat.
Serie's instincts were sharp.
"Tell me. No one here will laugh at you."
Her voice was firm.
Those words rang like a telephone in that tiny room.
Yes, that was why he had come here.
Perhaps because, deep down, he thought this was the place where he felt most at ease.
He had wanted to unburden himself.
Not to just anyone, but to her—the one he trusted most.
In the end, after he explained the whole sequence of events that had happened in the Empire, what he got in return was this:
"Idiot."
It was neither comfort, nor concern, nor mockery, but a rebuke.
"What kind of fool just walks out of a party like that?"
Serie frowned deeply and let out a sigh.
"How embarrassing that a fool like you is my collaborator."
That was harsh.
The blunt truth stung, and because she was right, he had nothing to say.
"You said it was a party, didn't you?"
As he lowered his head and stared at the floor, Serie suddenly seized his hand.
"Ordinarily the man should be the one to offer his hand first, but expecting that from a skeleton who knows nothing of etiquette would be too much."
"What are you trying to do?"
"Match my steps."
She ignored the question.
Disregarding technical terms and all else, she expressed herself simply and clearly through movement.
Tap.
Serie's toe nudged Ainz's foot away.
"When I step forward, you move your foot back."
"Explain—"
She stepped on his foot.
Only then did he move it back.
"The style used in the Empire probably hasn't changed. They're stiff people who think the old ways are noble."
When Serie snapped her fingers, music began to flow from empty air.
It was calm, soothing music.
The melody was the same as what had been playing at the social gathering.
"Give yourself to the music and follow my movements in reverse."
She moved her body to the side.
"Normally, leading is something you, the man, should do—not the woman. But just this once, I'll do it for you."
She said she would only teach him once, and that from next time onward she would not do it again, so he had better master it at once.
With both hands clasped together, they moved left and right in step with the song.
Only then did he understand what this was.
"Serie, are you trying to dance with me right now?"
"You're slow to notice."
To a life that had never once had any connection to dancing,
"I'm teaching you how to live as a person."
At this moment, this place was no different from a ballroom.
His partner for eternity said,
"So match my steps."
That was what she said.
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