Starting from Ainz Ooal Gown, simultaneously traveling through time

On the other side, a dead city.

Grote has been squatting here for several days.

He didn't know exactly how many days it would take.

The immortals don't need to sleep or eat; there's no difference between squatting in a corner for a year and squatting for a day.

He just huddled motionless in that half-collapsed, dilapidated house, like a dried-up corpse forgotten in a corner.

—In fact, he was indeed a dried corpse.

If this weren't a dead city but some normal place, he reckon he'd be covered in spiderwebs by now.

Unfortunately, even spiders can't survive in this godforsaken place, the Dead City.

The air was thick with a deathly stench, like swill left overnight, which permeated the entire city. Not even insects or mold dared to take root there.

When the wind blew in through the broken window, it sounded like someone was crying.

The soul fire in Grot's eyes flickered intermittently as he silently repeated the word his master had taught him:

Waiting for a rabbit to run into a tree stump, waiting for a rabbit to run into a tree stump, waiting for a rabbit to run into a tree stump...

He never quite understood the analogy. What was the connection between the tree and the rabbit? Why would the rabbit run into the tree?

But this did not prevent him from carrying out his mission.

The master said to wait, so he waited.

He fished when his master told him to.

The master said that if someone with an Abyss Body takes the bait, don't rush to act. Observe, make contact, and then—

Grote's meditative recitation suddenly stopped.

In the center of the square.

The space rippled like water, and then a magical ray of light pierced through the solidified grayness of the dead city.

That was the light of the [Teleportation] magic.

The soul fire in Grote's pupils suddenly solidified.

coming.

The figure gradually became clear in the center of the magic circle.

Six withered, branch-like arms, two shriveled heads, a tattered black robe, and—a gleaming knife stuck in his chest.

Grote paused for a moment.

The way this happened... wasn't quite what he had imagined.

In his imagination, the appearance of a high-ranking member of the [Body of the Abyss] should be accompanied by a chilling wind, an overwhelming aura, and an imposing presence.

The man in front of me looked like a defeated soldier who had just crawled down from the battlefield, exuding an aura of "I almost died."

Moreover, the knife was stuck in the chest too straight, like a brooch.

Ben Jerry was completely oblivious to his surroundings; all his attention was focused on that damned knife.

Damn knife.

From the moment he was teleported, the knife seemed to be attached to his body; he couldn't pull it off, couldn't shake it off, and even the slightest touch made his soul tremble.

This isn't pain; the undead are already numb to physical damage.

It was a deeper, more primal resistance, as if the knife was made to suppress his kind of existence.

"Damn it...damn it..."

His two withered mouths moved simultaneously, emitting hoarse curses.

If it weren't for that gray-robed monster who suddenly appeared, he could have smoothly completed his plan and turned the human king into an obedient undead.

Everything was ruined.

His prized Death Knight couldn't even last a minute before being cleaved in two by the monster and ground to dust by the black sun, leaving not even a trace.

He almost died there himself.

If he hadn't been able to cast the teleportation spell quickly, he would probably be joining the Death Knight by now.

Now he's dragging this damned knife, fleeing into this damned dead city...

and many more.

Benjerg raised both of his heads at the same time, his four murky eyes scanning his surroundings.

This dead city was originally a temporary stronghold for him, and he would come here sometimes. When did this place become so deathly?

Moreover, the texture of this lifeless aura is not quite right. It's not the kind of old and decaying that comes from natural sedimentation; it's more like it has been stirred, compressed, and gathered by humans.

It looks like someone is performing some kind of large-scale necromancy ritual here.

He frowned, though it wasn't very noticeable given his current facial structure.

Never mind that, the most important thing right now is to get this knife off.

The knife has been stuck in his body ever since he teleported away, as if it had grown into him.

He didn't have time to think about it when he was running away, but now that he's temporarily safe, the first thing he does is pull this thing out.

He stretched out a withered hand and grasped the hilt of the knife.

拔。

Not moving.

He added another hand, making it two hands.

It still doesn't move.

Benjer took a deep breath—though he didn't breathe—and put all four of his remaining hands on it.

Six arms and thirty fingers gripped the knife handle tightly, like a crab being tied up, all working together.

The blade remained completely still, as if it wasn't "inserted" into him at all, but rather had been a part of his body since birth.

"...Damn it." Benjer's two heads cursed at the same time.

If strength doesn't work, then let's use magic.

He loosened the hilt of his sword, raised a hand, and a series of obscure syllables rolled from his throat: "[Ultimate Magic Enhancement • Eighth Rank • Death's Protection]!"

A dark gray light exploded from his palm, spreading rapidly like an eggshell and forming a perfectly round protective shield around him.

He's very good at this magic.

The effect is that it can resist most physical and magical attacks for a short period of time. As long as the opponent's attack intensity does not exceed the protection limit, it can withstand the damage without being hurt.

Theoretically, I should have used it during the previous battle, but I was too nervous when fighting that gray-robed monster, and I was suppressed from the start, so I didn't find a chance to activate the shield throughout the entire fight.

Now I remember.

An absolutely calm undead can get so nervous that they forget their magic, and get beaten so badly that they forget to use their trump card for survival. It's hilarious to think about.

Ben Jerry couldn't help but want to call himself an idiot.

Then, a gray-black protective shield was erected.

Benjer looked down at the knife in front of his chest.

The knife is still there.

He tried to reach out and pull it out.

It can't be pulled out.

"...This doesn't make sense," he muttered. "I've already activated the protective shield, so why is the knife still here?"

Because he didn't understand one thing: Death Sanctuary protects against future attacks, not things that are already embedded in your body.

Magic isn't a magic cure-all; it can't pull out his sword.

Benjer didn't understand this, but he quickly gave up thinking about it.

He changed his approach.

If you don't pull it out, then destroy it.

"[Item Destroyed]!"

A jet-black light surged from his palm, coating the blade like a corrosive liquid.

He's more skilled at this magic.

Any weapon, armor, or magical item that gets hit by his move will either crack or shatter completely.

If you increase your magic output, you can even turn an entire city wall into rubble.

A black, corrosive light flow covered the blade.

Then--

Went out.

It's like pouring a ladle of water onto a red-hot branding iron; with a hiss, it evaporates without even a puff of smoke.

Benjer's four eyes on his two heads widened simultaneously.

"Gah—"

A strange cry squeezed out of his throat sounded like a crow being choked.