Ainz Ooal Gown: Noble Knight.

The baron's body was very heavy.

Rune struggled to drag it deeper into the alley. There lay a pile of garbage, accumulated over an unknown period, emitting a putrid stench, with flies buzzing around it, gathering into a black haze in the sunlight.

Rune dragged the body to the side of the garbage heap, then stepped back a few paces to examine it carefully.

not enough.

That's not enough.

He needed to destroy the corpse to the point where he couldn't cast the fifth-tier faith-based spell, "Resurrection of the Dead." Low-tier resurrection spells require a complete corpse; if the corpse was severely damaged, Baron Levion would be unable to resurrect.

Does the kingdom currently have any faith-based priests who have reached the "hero" level?

Rune searched his mind for information from the original work. Lajus of the Blue Rose—his younger sister—entered that field later.

At this point in time, there are probably no priests in the entire kingdom who can reach the fifth level of magic.

However, it cannot be ruled out that "Eight Fingers" and those nobles of the aristocratic faction could invite priests from other countries.

Rune's gaze fell on the small traces around the garbage heap—rat droppings, paw prints left by wild dogs, and some traces of small animals that he couldn't tell what they were scratching.

The thought had barely formed when a rustling sound came from deep within the alley.

Rune did not move.

He stood still, calming his breathing, and looked in the direction from which the sound came.

In the shadows, pairs of eyes were staring at him.

Cloudy, hungry, eyes belonging to a wild beast.

They were a few stray dogs.

They were so thin you could see their ribs, their fur so dirty you couldn't tell their original color. One of them was missing half an ear, revealing a pink scar. The wild dogs hunched over, emitting low growls, their eyes fixed on the corpse on the ground with a mixture of wariness and greed—or rather, on the stench of its blood.

Rune stared at them for a second.

Then he stepped back, one step, two steps, three steps, until he was back in the light at the alley entrance.

The wild dogs didn't move.

Rune turned around, took a few steps, and then hid in a recess next to the alley entrance.

He waited for a while.

The whimpering of the stray dogs stopped.

Then came the sound of light, tentative footsteps—cautious, probing, approaching little by little.

Rune peeked out from the hollow and watched the pack of wild dogs. One of the emaciated dogs was the first to approach the baron's corpse. It sniffed it first, then looked around, a hint of doubt flashing in its cloudy eyes.

But it was too hungry.

They were so hungry they didn't have time to worry about anything else.

It lowered its head and began to gnaw. The sounds of tearing and biting echoed through the alley, muffled, sticky, mixed with the crisp cracking of bones breaking. Seeing this, other stray dogs swarmed around, jostling and jostling for the flesh.

Rune watched them bury their heads on the baron's corpse, watching his fat face gradually become unrecognizable.

This really suits the fate of such a scumbag.

Faint voices could be heard outside the alley; the market continued, and no one knew what was happening in this dark alley.

Rune took a deep breath and pulled the small knife from his pocket.

The bloodstains on the knife had dried, turning into dark red patches.

Next is his own part.

Considering that the death of a nobleman, unlike that of a commoner, would not attract investigations from various factions and could not be concealed.

Since there was no way to avoid it, Rune decided to define the nature of the matter himself in advance.

Putting aside all appearances, all that needs to be considered are the "rules" of the aristocratic circle and the dignity of "eight fingers".

The power of the Rivière family itself is insignificant.

Rune gripped the knife, looking down at his left hand.

The hands of a six-year-old child were delicate, fair, and covered with fine downy hairs on the back. These were the hands of an aristocrat, hands that had never done any rough work.

He needs to use these hands to create the marks of a "fierce fight".

The tip of the knife is pressed against the forearm.

A cool sensation traveled through my skin, accompanied by a slight sting. With just a little more pressure, the blade would cut through the skin, sever the blood vessels, and let the blood flow.

Rune did not hesitate.

The knife tip sliced ​​down.

The first knife.

A cut ran along the inside of his left forearm, not deep, but long enough. Blood gushed out, warm, trickling down his arm and dripping onto the ground. Pain. A sharp, distinct pain shot up from the wound, straight to the top of his head. Rune frowned, his jaw muscles tensed, but he didn't utter a sound.

Second knife.

On the same arm, near the back of the hand. This time it was deeper, and the blood was gushing out more rapidly.

The third cut. The fourth cut.

Rune left four wounds on his body—two on his left arm, one on his right shoulder, and one on his left waist. None of them were fatal, but each was gruesome enough. Blood soaked through his clothes, clinging to his skin, sticky and warm.

pain.

It hurt more than I imagined.

Rune leaned against the wall at the alley entrance, panting, looking down at his own appearance—his clothes were tattered, he was covered in blood, and he looked exactly like a child who had just escaped from a fierce battle.

Is it enough?

not enough.

He gritted his teeth, raised the knife, and made another shallow cut on his forehead. Blood flowed down his brow bone, blurring his vision in his left eye.

That's enough.

He carefully cleaned the knife, removing all fingerprints, and then tossed it beside the body. Startled by his action, the wild dog raised its head, its mouth full of blood, and stared at him, letting out a threatening growl.

Rune ignored it.

He turned and walked out of the alley.

The sunlight was blinding.

Rune squinted, letting the light shine directly on him. He could feel the blood still flowing, warm and wet, clinging to his skin. Every step pulled at his wounds, causing him to break out in a cold sweat.

He staggered toward the busiest part of the market.

The voices were getting closer.

The cloth shops, the iron shops, the grain shops—everything was the same as before, except that the crowds seemed a little thinner than in the morning.

The moment Rune appeared at the market entrance, the surrounding noise suddenly fell silent.

Then there was a commotion.

"That child—"

"My God, he's covered in blood!"

"Quickly, go find the people from the temple!"

"Judging from these injuries, could it be that you encountered some bad guys?"

Rune's lips curled up slightly, then quickly fell back down.

Right now.

He stumbled and knelt on one knee. Blood dripped onto the stone slab, spreading a small patch of dark red.

People around him gasped and wanted to step forward, but dared not. They could only form a circle and look at him with all sorts of complicated expressions.

Rune raised his head.

Sunlight streamed down from above, illuminating his youthful face clearly—his pale complexion, the bloodstain on his forehead, and the perfect amount of weakness in his half-open, half-closed eyes.

"Baron Levion has gone mad..." Rune murmured, his voice so low it was as if he were speaking to himself, "...he..."

He didn't finish speaking.

Her body slumped forward, her eyes closed, and her consciousness sank into darkness.

The last thing I heard was a chorus of gasps of surprise from all around.