A Companion to "He Who Brings the End, She Who Remembers the Beginning"

So this is something a little different. These are side stories mostly focused on the interactions between Ainz and Übel—moments that are usually off to the side of the main plot of He Who Brings the End, She Who Remembers the Beginning.

They will be brief scenes for the most part.

More Frieren characters will probably appear in their own chapters.

Some of these scenes might have happened. Some of them…probably didn't. Or maybe they did, but only in spirit. A lot of these ideas popped into my head while writing the main story—dialogue snippets, banter, little moments that didn't quite fit the tone of the main arc but felt too fun not to explore. I've seen others talk about exploring these interactions, and I hope you enjoy them.

Please don't treat every single one of these chapters as strict canon. Consider this collection a mix of semi-canon, exaggerated, or "meanwhile, elsewhere…" moments that lean more into the comedic, infuriating, chaotic, and sometimes strangely heartwarming bond between an undead overlord and the unhinged human that won't leave him alone.

Some interactions might be lighthearted, some not so much. There might be some darker glimpses at his mental state and struggles. This isn't linear either.

If there's interest in these, I'll share once weekly if possible.(I enjoy writing these more than I expected.)

The sun dipped behind the trees, casting long orange shadows over the warded clearing. Ainz Ooal Gown stood like an obsidian obelisk in the light, hands folded behind his back, surveying the magic barrier stabilizing beneath his feet.

A breeze drifted by, tugging softly at the hem of his robe.

For once—blessed quiet.

Then—poke.

He froze. A solid, brittle stillness overtook him, as if someone had paused a golem mid-incantation. Ainz's skull turned with glacial slowness, the crimson in his eye sockets narrowing to sharp slits.

There she was.

Übel.

"Don't do that," he snapped, rotating fully to find her finger still extended, frozen in the act like a child caught mid-graffiti.

"I've been thinking," she said, absolutely undeterred and radiating poor decisions.

"How dreadful." Ainz exhaled through the remains of a sigh, arms falling to his sides with rising tension.

"Do you ever get dust buildup in your eye sockets?" she asked brightly, stepping closer like a curious apprentice about to dissect an ancient relic. "Like, real buildup. Would you need to swish your skull in water or use some kind of...undead eyeball duster?"

His posture stiffened further, and for a moment, he simply stood there—silent, unwilling to even dignify the question. Then, "...No. Of course not."

"You sure?" She leaned in, squinting up at his face as if scanning for cobwebs. "You're so still. That wind earlier? You could have cobwebs in there. Or a stray leaf. Maybe a feather."

"I do not collect debris," he said, taking an elegant but distinctly retreating step back, his robe swaying protectively like a curtain drawn against nonsense.

"But your ribs are open," she said, circling him now, eyes flicking downward. "You know, prime squirrel-stash real estate. Ever find acorns in there?"

Ainz lifted his hands, then lowered them—caught somewhere between a rebuttal and outright casting [Silence].

"I am not a granary," he said, more defensive than intended.

She grinned. "So you have."

"No," he said sharply, then hesitated. "Well—once. A vole, or some creature like it. It built a nest behind my World Item. I was…distracted. That area lacks sensory feedback."

"HAH! I knew it!"

He turned away, hoping that would end the exchange.

It did not.

"What about spiders?" she said, circling him again like she was conducting a full inspection. She stood on tiptoe, attempting to peer through his ribcage. He recoiled. "They love dark crevices. Eggs in your sternum? Hundreds of little legs crawling—"

"That's disgusting and mildly disturbing. No." He interrupted sharply, almost hissing as he began to walk away.

She followed. "...Ever had a seed sprout out of your nose holes?"

Ainz turned his whole body this time, his regal black robe billowing around him like a thundercloud. "What?!"

"You know, like, you're standing around in a forest, air's humid, magic everywhere—boom. Life finds a way." She made an exploding gesture with her hands, mimicking a tree blooming from a skull.

"There are no sprouts," he said coldly, "and there have never been sprouts growing out of my nasal cavity." He turned to face her fully now, the movement regal, robe trailing with perfect stillness behind him. "I am always clean."

She squinted. "Always?"

He paused, wary. "Yes."

"Even after wandering through muddy graveyards?"

"Yes."

"After explosions? Dungeons? Rain? That time the mutated abomination bled all over you?"

He faltered—just slightly—then gestured dismissively with one hand. "It's passive magical cleansing," he said flatly. "Or…I assume it is. I never cast it. It just…happens."

She narrowed her eyes. "That's suspicious. What if you're a divine artifact and don't know it?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

She blinked. "So basically, you're a self-cleaning skeleton."

He didn't answer.

Perhaps he should use [Gate] and drop her a few miles away, right into a swamp.

"I bet if I buried you in a field, the crops would grow faster."

"I—"

"And I swear your skull's gotten shinier. Did you cast something like [Maximize Gloss]?"

"That is not a spell." He snapped. "You know what? I'm am about to cast you into—"

She leaned around his side again, unbothered by the threat, standing on top of a large stone to peer at the edge of his face. "Do your nasal holes collect dirt? Have you ever sneezed dust? Or spores?"

"I do not sneeze spores, or dust, or anything—I can't sneeze!"

"Yet."

Ainz let out a long, suffering breath, his glowing eye sockets dimming. "I command an army of the dead. I—"

"—have never exfoliated," she interrupted, now poking directly at the edge of his collarbone. "You're not even flaking. Impressive."

"Please stop touching my phalanges," he muttered.

She let go of his hand, as she tilted her head. "Hey, now that I think about it—do you smell?"

"I—I don't—what kind of—why would you ask me that?"

"I mean, do you ever smell?" she repeated, sniffing the air dramatically. "You've been walking around in those same robes since…well, ever. I've never seen you do laundry. Or change."

He instinctively lifted his arm slightly and sniffed beneath it—despite having no flesh or sweat glands.

"…I don't think so?" he said, almost confused at himself. He then spun dramatically on his heel, pointing a long finger at her. "Why are you asking this?! Do I smell? Is that it?"

Übel blinked. "No. Actually…" she leaned a little closer again, sniffing loudly near his sternum. He flinched a bit. "You smell nice."

He jerked back further. "What?!"

"I've smelled you before."

"Eh? You—what does that even mean?!"

"You know, you walk by, you leave a trace. It's kind of comforting."

Ainz froze, curiosity getting the better of him. Something he would likely regret. "What do I smell like?"

She looked thoughtful. "You smell like…old paper. Dry ink. Like knowledge and dust. An old library that hasn't burned down…yet."

Ainz stood there, locked in an existential freeze-frame. "I…don't know whether to feel complimented or deeply insulted."

"Oh, definitely complimented," she said, poking his shoulder. "I could've said compost. Or rotting cheese."

"Please don't."

"Or the inside of the Royal Capital's sewers. When I first met you I expected the smell of swamp rot and funeral incense."

Ainz groaned and pressed both hands to his skull. Then—

A pulse of unseen magic ushered forth from within his body. Just for a moment.

The tension bled away from his stance. His shoulders relaxed, his spine straightened, and his movements once more became composed—cold, imperious, distant. "It continues to astound me how someone so magically talented can be so utterly bankrupt in sense." he said at last, voice even now.

Too even.

Übel leaned closer. "Did I just embarrass you into some sort of spell?"

"No," he replied with a smooth lie, tone flat and regal. He walked past her. "I simply do not require commentary on my scent or hygiene. I am undead. It is irrelevant."

She followed once more. "You pulled your robe higher when I said you smelled nice," she noted. "That's suspicious."

"I was adjusting my attire for tactical reasons."

"Are the tactics to avoid compliments?"

"Übel," he said, tone now perfectly frosty, "if you do not cease this line of questioning and pestering—"

She raised her finger again, mischievous, testy. "Just one more—have you ever walked around in just bones? You know. Full nudity. A Lich au naturel?"

Ainz's head turned slowly. The red glow of his gaze burned hotter.

"I am not," he said with cutting emphasis, "a nudist necromancer."

"I bet the Death Knights have seen everything—"

"THAT IS ENOUGH." His arm rose like a hammer of divine judgment. The air thickened.

From beyond the clearing came a deep, grinding roar—metal over stone, earth cracking open as one of the Death Knights patrolling the grounds charged.

But it didn't just charge. It barreled.

Through the trees. Through stone. Through a half-crumbled archway. A blur of blackened steel, flowing red eyes, and sheer kinetic hate. Two trees splintered in its wake, one exploding in a shower of bark, the other sheared clean through at the base.

It looked angry. Angrier than usual.

Übel's expression dropped. "You wouldn't dare. You wouldn't—is this because of the squirrel thing, isn't it?! You're petty! You're an undead tyrant!"

She dove for her staff just as the Death Knight swung, the flamberge missing her head by inches as she rolled. "He's fighting me for real!" she shrieked, already backpedaling, stumbling in the grass as she pivoted and lunged toward the edge of the camp where her staff leaned lazily against a tree trunk.

The Death Knight was so loud now—the roar of metal, the thud of its weight, the guttural growl that seemed to reverberate through the very ground.

Ainz didn't move. His hands folded once more behind his back, regal as a statue. Almost smug.

She grabbed her staff just as the Death Knight's sword came down, the edge carving into the dirt where she'd just been like a farmer scything wheat.

BOOM. The ground then detonated—soil and debris blasting into the air in all directions.

The Death Knight swung once more, and Übel yelped, ducking into a shoulder roll as bits of splintered bark and stone flew past her head. The tree she'd leaned on was now a stump, its upper half gone, cleaved by sheer force and weight.

Another swing, then a second. The Death Knight loomed as it stepped into the clearing—massive, relentless, its shield up and sword dragging furrows behind it.

Ainz watched from a distance, standing unmoved in the heart of camp.

There was no urgency in him.

Only the faintest whisper of a chuckle.

If only she knew. The Death Knight wasn't even using half of its strength. Barely a fraction.

But he'd told it to go hard. Hard enough to make her run. Hard enough to make her sweat.

And she was sweating now. Panting. Backpedaling. Staff held low, shoulders tight, her grin long since gone.

"Alright then," she muttered. "Let's dance, bone-boy."

The Death Knight surged forward again, and Übel's staff snapped upward. She slashed the air horizontally, and the world seemed to ripple. A line of invisible force screamed through the clearing—no light, no glow, just a distortion that raced toward the Death Knight's chest.

The blow struck the raised tower shield with a deafening clang. A clean scar appeared across the surface—a shallow diagonal line cut into the thick steel. The top layer had been stripped away like bark from a tree.

But that was it.

And it kept coming.

"What is that thing MADE of?!" Übel shouted, pivoting and drawing another arc through the air with her staff. A second slicing wave shot forward—this one vertical.

Clang!

Another clean groove in the shield.

The Death Knight didn't stagger. It didn't slow.

She also noticed the faint glow that the tower shield emitted for a brief moment upon being struck. "You enhanced his defenses! You're cheating!" She decried between breaths, raising her staff to protect herself. A hastily built defensive magic shield bloomed to life in front of her. The shape hovered, rotating faintly as it caught the light of the setting sun.

The Death Knight's sword came down.

CRACK. Her barrier didn't shatter—it exploded. Blue shards of solidified magic disintegrated mid-air as the sword slammed through it like it wasn't even there. Übel stumbled back, thrown off-balance by the blast wave alone.

"Too slow!" she hissed, twisting and ducking just in time to avoid a horizontal slash that bit through the grass where her legs had been.

She dropped into a slide, flung herself upright, and swept her staff toward the summon again. The wave tore forward, slicing low across the Death Knight's shins. It hit, carved into the armor plate—and again, did nothing beyond surface level.

She skidded back, boots digging furrows into the earth. "Oh, COME ON!"

The Death Knight roared forward, its glowing eyes bright with fury, its shield crashing down like a gate meant to crush. She raised her staff—

CLANG!

She blocked it. Barely. The blow sent her skidding backward ten feet, heels digging in, arms shaking from the impact. Her stance broke, her legs buckling beneath her as the ground cracked from the force.

She hit the dirt hard, coughing as she rolled, the staff still in hand.

The Death Knight advanced without pause.

"AINZ!" she shouted, her voice cracking. "STOP HIM! HE'S TRYING TO KILL ME!"

Ainz didn't move.

He didn't speak.

He simply watched.

Regal. Cold. Silent.

And deep inside, he smiled.

Let her panic.

Let her fight.

She wasn't in real danger. Not really. He'd told the Death Knight not to land killing blows. But the pressure? The desperation? That, she'd have to earn her way out of.

Let her believe this was her punishment for every ridiculous question. Every poke. Every joke.

Let her think this was justice for suggesting he'd sprouted leaves from his skull.

Let her remember—

Tormenting the Sorcerer King always has consequences.