Ainz Ooal Gown: Noble Knight

Dasha looked at the bucket of swill and felt a wave of nausea wash over her.

He smelled the aroma of roasted mutton wafting from outside—it was from their orcish sheep. The sizzling, caramelized fat contrasted sharply with the sour, foul-smelling swill before him.

"This isn't for orcs!" Dasha's voice rose even higher. "I want to get out! I want to find those silver demons..."

"Dasha!" His mother covered his mouth and pulled him into a corner.

“Mom!” Dasha struggled. “Can’t you smell it? They’re eating our sheep! They’re raised in the village…”

His mother's grip tightened, her fingers almost digging into his skin.

She lowered her head, tears falling onto the boy's face: "Live, Dasha, please, you're all I have left."

Dasha's struggles stopped.

The mother let go of his hand, wiped away her tears, and walked towards the wooden bucket. She picked up a chipped wooden bowl from the side of the bucket, scooped out half a bowl of swill, and brought it back.

"Have some," she said, handing the bowl to Da Sha.

Dasha turned her head away. "I won't eat."

“Dasha…”

"I said I won't eat it!" He shoved his mother's hand away, the wooden bowl fell to the ground, and swill spilled all over the floor. "Only humans eat this kind of thing! I'm an orc! I won't eat it!"

The mother stared at the grayish-white paste on the ground and remained silent for a moment.

She bent down, picked up the bowl, wiped it with her sleeve, scooped half a bowl from the bucket, and silently took a sip.

The taste was sour, astringent, and bitter, mixed with spoiled vegetable leaves and unknown residue.

She swallowed it, her stomach churning, but her face remained expressionless.

As Dasha watched her mother's Adam's apple bob, a sudden, inexplicable sadness welled up inside her.

But he stubbornly pursed his lips and refused to take the bowl; this was his last shred of dignity.

Time crawled slowly in the midst of hunger.

Dasha's stomach felt like it was being repeatedly kneaded by an invisible hand, the initial gurgling sound turning into a persistent dull pain.

His head began to spin, and his vision became somewhat blurry.

He leaned against the fence, his tail drooping limply to the ground, too weak to even lift it.

His mother sat beside him and offered him a bowl several times, but he shook his head and refused.

then

A fragrant aroma wafted over.

The flavor is strong and rich, with an irresistible meaty aroma, like a pot of broth that has been simmering for a long time finally having its lid lifted.

The aroma filled the air, permeating the nostrils of every orc.

Dasha's throat bobbed.

He knows this taste all too well.

Stewed human flesh.

My father would only bring back a small bowl of food during tribal festivals and birthdays.

It melts in your mouth, and the broth is rich and flavorful; it's the best thing he's ever eaten.

After each meal, he would lick the bottom of the bowl clean, leaving not a single drop of soup.

And now, the fragrance is wafting in from outside the crowd, very close, as if someone is deliberately tempting them.

Dasha swallowed hard.

He heard the other orcs around him swallowing, and some began to move closer to the fence.

The gate to the fence was opened again.

Gehrman walked in.

A smile graced his scarred face, his lips parted wide, revealing a set of slightly yellowed teeth.

He was carrying a wooden bucket filled with stewed meat, the pieces of meat bobbing in the broth, glistening with oil.

Two soldiers followed behind, carrying two larger wooden barrels, also filled with meat.

"Dinner's ready!" Gehrman called out to a group of long-waiting diners in a rough voice. "I brought it to you personally, so don't be shy, there's plenty to go around."

He placed the wooden bucket on the ground, stirred it with a spoon, and the meat chunks rolled up, steaming hot.

The aroma of stewed human flesh became even stronger, almost solidifying into a tangible form.

The beastmen looked at each other, none of them daring to move.

Gehrman's gaze swept across the crowd, finally settling on the small figure huddled in the corner.

His eyes lit up, and he picked up the wooden bucket and strode over.

Dasha looked up and saw the "silver-white demon" with a face full of scars standing in front of him, holding a bucket of meat in his hand, the soup in the bucket still steaming.

“Eat up.” Gehrman squatted down and placed the wooden bucket in front of Dasha, the corners of his mouth curving upwards even more. “I specially reserved a private meal for you; no one else gets this treatment.”

Dasha looked at the chunks of meat in the bucket, and his throat bobbed again.

He was so hungry, so hungry he was almost out of his mind. The aroma was like an invisible hand, dragging his soul into the bucket.

He pounced on him.

"Wait!" His mother's voice came from behind, and she grabbed Dasha by the back of his collar and pulled him back.

The mother bent down, leaned close to the wooden bucket, and sniffed it carefully.

The taste is fine, it just tastes like stewed human flesh.

But she still hesitated, her tiger eyes sweeping across Gehrman's scarred face, trying to read something from that smile.

"What?" Gehrman raised an eyebrow, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "I kindly brought you food, and you're not even grateful?"

The mother's body stiffened for a moment.

She glanced at the longsword that was already half-drawn.

"Eat." Her voice was soft. She took the bowl from Dasha's hand, scooped up a spoonful of broth, and took a sip herself first.

The soup slid down my throat without any noticeable discomfort.

She put down the bowl and handed it to Dasha.

"Eat."

Dasha took the bowl and began to gulp it down.

The food was soft and melted in his mouth; he ate it very quickly, even chewing the bones and swallowing them.

Seeing that someone was taking the lead, the surrounding beastmen also gathered around.

The two large buckets of meat carried by the two soldiers were quickly devoured. The orcs grabbed chunks of meat with their hands and stuffed them into their mouths, some even drinking the soup directly without using bowls.

Most of the orcs were doing very well.

After all, they had been starving for so long, and it was a rare delicacy made from human flesh, so who cared about anything else?

Only a small number of orcs, especially the older women, hesitated noticeably.

They took the bowls and held them to their lips for a long time, only reluctantly taking a few sips when the soldiers stared at them intently.

But I ate it anyway.

In less than fifteen minutes, the two large buckets of stewed meat were completely devoured, leaving not even a drop of broth.

Many orcs were still not satisfied, licking the remaining oil from their fingers and looking around as if searching for more.

As Gehrman watched this scene, his smile deepened. He clapped his hands and stood up.

“Since everyone is still not full,” his voice was particularly clear in the now quiet crowd, “then we’ll have to trouble the chef a little longer. I’ll treat you all to the freshest food.”

He clapped his hands again.

The gate to the fence was opened again, and another squad of soldiers came in.

They moved quickly and soon set up a large pot and a grill in the open space outside the circle of people.

The water in the pot started to boil, and the charcoal under the grill was lit, making crackling sounds.

Next, they brought in the ingredients.

The orc's corpse.

The adult male orcs who had just been killed at the village entrance were now piled on the ground.

Some heads were still intact, while others had been severed, the blood at the cuts dried, turning a dark brownish-black.

The soldiers put some of the ingredients into the pot, and the rest were placed on the grill.

The orcs were stunned.

"What...what do you want to do?" Dasha's mother asked, her voice trembling.

Gehrman didn't answer, but simply nodded in one direction.

A man wearing a symbolic chef's hat came out.

The man had an ordinary face, wore an apron stained with oil, and held a long-handled soup ladle in his hand.

He walked to the large pot, stirred the boiling water with a ladle, and then went to the grill and turned the iron skewers on it.

The moment the spoon stirred, the smell in the air changed.

The corpses were clearly those of orcs, yet they emitted a strong smell of human flesh.

Dasha's stomach suddenly clenched.

He looked down at his greasy fingers and the soup still clinging to the corner of his mouth.

The chunks of meat churned in his stomach, as if they had suddenly come alive, struggling and writhing inside him.

"No..." he murmured, "It's impossible... I clearly ate..."

“It’s clearly human flesh, isn’t it?” Gehrman’s voice came from above him, filled with undisguised pleasure. “It is human flesh. Only, it’s human flesh of you orcs.”

He bent down, bringing his face close to Dasha's, his eyes gleaming with a morbid pleasure.