Starting from Ainz Ooal Gown, simultaneously traveling through time

Benjer has lived for nearly four hundred years and has been casting spells for almost four hundred years. He believes he has seen all sorts of things.

He has seen the strong, killed the weak, and destroyed at least eight hundred, if not a thousand, magical artifacts.

Even those kingdom treasures with layers of defense, supposedly indestructible, rarely last more than three seconds against his [Item Destruction] technique.

Scratches, cracks, dullness—even if it's just a layer of paint being scraped off the surface, something will always remain.

This is a truth that he has verified countless times over the past four hundred years.

until today.

He stared blankly at the knife in front of his chest.

His "prop destruction" attack was like spitting into the ocean; it left no trace, not even a sound.

The moment the dark light touched the blade, it vanished like a flame falling into water; the eerie, cold gleam on the blade didn't even flicker.

It didn't even bother to acknowledge him.

Benjer's four eyes on his two heads fell silent at the same time, and for the first time he began to wonder if he had wasted his four hundred years of his life.

He couldn't resist trying it again.

[Props destroyed].

A black light enveloped the blade.

—Extinguished.

He tried again.

Extinguished.

Again.

Extinguished.

Benjer's six arms trembled as if he had Parkinson's disease; it wasn't anger, it was... fear.

He lowered his head and looked intently at the knife in front of his chest.

The blade is long and slender with a slight curve, and the edge has a faint, cold blue sheen.

The gauntlets were engraved with patterns he couldn't understand; they were neither runes nor inscriptions from any magic system he knew.

The patterns lay quietly on the metal surface, like sleeping snakes.

One of Benjerry's heads spoke, its voice a little dry: "...Is this something used by a demon god?"

Another head chimed in, its voice even drier: "...Or perhaps, the power of a legendary god?"

No one answered him; the dead city remained as quiet as a giant tomb.

What Benjerg didn't know—of course he didn't know, since he'd never played the game.

The problem he's facing now, if explained in gaming terms, is actually quite simple.

Hierarchical suppression.

His level is 55.

This sword, the Spider Cutter, is a level 65 artifact weapon.

He is 10 levels higher than him.

These 10 levels are an insurmountable chasm for him.

In the game, a level 55 player wants to destroy a level 65 piece of equipment.

Unless he has a special skill or class skill bonus specifically designed to destroy equipment, there's no chance; he'll just be immune, immune, immune.

All his current attempts are like a person trying to destroy an iron ingot with his bare hands without any other tools.

It's not that they don't work hard, it's that they're simply not on the same level.

He tried several more spells.

[Dispel] - Attempts to remove any "evil-repelling" attributes that may be attached to the blade.

The knife remained completely still.

[Demonic Transformation] - An attempt to demonize this sword, rendering it ineffective.

The knife remained completely still.

【Anti-Summoning】—An attempt to “teleport the sword back to its original owner”.

This idea is actually very close to the correct answer. It's a special magic for dealing with summoned creatures and contracted weapons, and theoretically it can forcibly repatriate things that don't belong here.

However, Dao Li ignored him completely.

He even tried [material cutting], attempting to cut off the entire part of his body with the knife stuck in it.

This is actually the smartest move.

He is immortal; cutting off a piece of his body won't kill him. He can just find a place to sew it up and patch it up, and he'll be a hero again.

Wouldn't it solve the problem if we just threw the knife away along with the piece of meat?

The problem is, he can't cut it.

The blade of the spatial cutting landed on his chest, like a dull knife cutting through cowhide, without even breaking the skin.

He forgot that the knife was stuck in his body, and also inside him; for matter to cut into his flesh, it first had to ask the knife for permission.

The knife refused, so his attempt to cut through matter failed once again.

Benjer's six arms all hung down.

He was tired, not physically tired, because immortals don't experience physical fatigue.

It's mental exhaustion.

Both his heads were tilted back, gazing at the perpetually gray sky above the dead city, lost in philosophical contemplation:

What have I been busy with for the past four hundred years? Why can't I even handle a knife? Why is this knife targeting me? What did I do wrong?

A thought suddenly popped into his head: Maybe I shouldn't have gone out today.

Once this idea pops into your head, it grows like wildfire, like weeds.

Maybe I shouldn't have accepted that mission to investigate the city's anomalies; maybe I shouldn't have founded the [Abyss Body] in the first place; maybe, maybe I shouldn't have chosen to be an undead four hundred years ago. Wouldn't it have been better to be an ordinary dead person, lying obediently in a grave?

Benjer's left head drooped its eyelids, completely giving up thinking, while the right head was still struggling, but only mechanically, repeatedly asking itself questions and answering them.

How do I get this knife out? What if I can't get it out? Will it stay stuck in my chest for the rest of my life? If I get into a fight and someone slashes at me with a knife, do I have to pull the knife out of my chest to block it? No, if I can't pull it out, then I can't even block it.

Benjer's right side of his head drooped as well; he was now utterly despondent.

For a fleeting moment, he even thought that the gray-robed monster could have simply killed him with a single blow, so why did he have to spare his life and stab him with a knife?

Isn't this torture?

Oh right, he's not considered a person.

This is torture for the undead.

That's even more vicious.

Just as he was utterly despondent and preparing to lie down on the spot, letting the knife pierce him for ten thousand years, a voice came from the edge of the square.

Are you alright?

Benjerg's two heads simultaneously turned sharply toward the source of the sound.

In the shadows of the ruins, a figure appeared out of nowhere.

No, it's not a person.

The eerie green flame flickering in their eye sockets, the decaying, withered skin revealing bones in many places—the undead.

Moreover... his strength should be quite high.

Benjer did not respond immediately; his six hands rose reflexively, and magic began to gather at his fingertips.

But the figure didn't approach; he stood motionless at the edge of the ruins, like a statue.

His gaze, or rather the two flames of his soul in his eyes, first swept over Benjeri, then stopped on the knife stuck in his chest.

It paused for about two seconds.

Then he spoke, his voice flat, monotone, even a little wooden: "You look...in need help?"

Grote stood at the edge of the square, looking at his fellow human not far away.

Or rather, looking at the knife in the chest of that fellow human being.

He recognized the knife.

【Spider Cutter】.

The weapon of the number one subordinate of the master.

He had never met Number 1 in person, but he recognized the Spider Cutter; his master had shown him a video of it.

The knife is now stuck right in the center of this unfortunate man's chest, straight and steady, like a nail driven into a wooden board.

Grote suddenly understood the true purpose of his master's sending him.

The owner told him to "wait for the rabbit to run into the tree stump" here.

What does "waiting for a rabbit to run into a tree stump" mean?

Just find a place to squat and wait, you don't need to do anything, because the rabbit will run into you on its own.

Now the rabbit has not only run into you, but it has also tied itself up like a gift box, with knives already stuck in it.

Grote took two steps forward and added, his tone still flat, but for some reason, there was a subtle hint of schadenfreude in it: "You've been fussing around for so long, and this knife's stuck in pretty firmly, isn't it?"

Benjer's two heads stared at him simultaneously, remaining silent for three seconds. Then one of the heads spoke, its voice carrying a numb calm born of utter exhaustion: "...Can you say something useful?"

Grote thought about it seriously for a moment, then said, "You can't pull this knife out."

Benjer was silent for a moment, then said, "Do you know where this knife comes from?"

Grot didn't answer the question. He simply looked at Benjerry, the soul fire in his eye sockets flickering quietly. He said, "Never mind the origins of the blade. Tell me first—you're from the [Abyss Body], right?"

Benjer stared at him, his six fingers beginning to subtly gather strength again.

Grote simply stood there, like a dutiful watchman, and said calmly, "No rush, take your time thinking. Anyway, with this knife stuck in your body, you can't run away."

Benjerg took a deep breath with both heads at the same time, if they had lungs.

He was now in a very awkward situation: the unfamiliar undead in front of him seemed to be no weaker than him.

He was fearless when he was at his peak, but now, with a knife stuck in his body, nearly half of his magic power gone, and traumatized by some inexplicable gray-robed monster, he was left with a psychological scar.

Not to mention this desolate wilderness, dead city, lonely graves, who knows if this guy has any accomplices lurking in the shadows?

After hesitating for a long time, he finally managed to squeeze out a sentence: "...Who exactly are you?"

Grote didn't answer immediately; his soul fire flickered quietly, as if he were contemplating how to phrase his words. Then he said:

"Me?"

"He's someone who's waiting for a rabbit."

Ben Jerry paused for a moment.

Waiting for rabbits? What rabbits? What does this have to do with rabbits?

Looking at Grote's expressionless, decaying face, he felt for the first time that perhaps he had really wasted his four hundred years of life.

He no longer understands this world.