Morning — or what I think is morning
I don't wake up.
I exist.
There's no breath to draw, no eyelids to peel open, no heartbeat pounding panic into my skull. Awareness just… leaks in, like dye dissolving in water.
Cold.
Wet.
Heavy.
That's the first thing I understand.
The second thing is that I'm on the forest floor.
No—I am on the forest floor. Spread thin, uneven, my edges sinking into damp black soil threaded with roots thicker than my old arms used to be. Sunlight filters down in fractured colors—emerald, gold, sickly purple—through leaves that look too large, too sharp, too alive.
The world is beautiful.
The world is wrong.
I try to move.
Nothing happens.
I try again, harder. Panic flares—not lungs screaming, not muscles burning, but something deeper. A pressure, like my will is pushing against jelly.
My body responds by… wobbling.
A pathetic ripple runs through me. That's it.
That's when it hits me.
I don't have hands.
I don't have legs.
I don't have bones.
I'm a fucking puddle.
No—
I'm a slime.
The realization doesn't come with screaming or denial. It lands quietly, heavily, the way a doctor's words did back then—You shouldn't still be alive.
Back then.
The accident flashes through me in fragments. Twisted metal. White light. A pain so absolute it erased everything else. Doctors whispering like I was already a corpse. Machines doing what my body couldn't.
They said it was a miracle.
They were wrong.
It was stubbornness.
I remember refusing to let go. Clinging to consciousness even when it hurt to exist. Even when fading would've been easier. I lived through what should have killed me—until I didn't.
I fainted.
And that was enough.
Now I'm here.
A mind trapped in the weakest thing I can imagine.
Something moves nearby.
The forest exhales.
A massive shadow passes between the trees—too large, too slow, radiating pressure that makes the soil vibrate. I don't see it clearly, but my entire body reacts, compressing instinctively, like prey flattening itself.
I understand without being told:
If that thing notices me, I'm gone.
Not killed.
Consumed.
Because that's what slimes are.
Food.
Fuel.
Mana in a convenient shape.
I feel it now—my body humming faintly, saturated with raw energy. No wonder monsters wander here. This place isn't just dangerous.
It's a feeding ground.
A Continent of Death, and I'm breakfast.
A thought surfaces, bitter and sharp.
So this is the bottom.
I try to move again. This time I focus—not on motion, but on intent. I remember how I survived before. Not by strength. Not by luck.
By refusing.
My body shudders. Slowly—agonizingly—I pull myself together, contracting just enough to shift a few centimeters. It feels like dragging my soul through mud.
If I had a mouth, I'd be gritting my teeth.
Move. Don't you dare stop.
A ripple of pain—not physical, something closer to strain—runs through me. Then, suddenly—
> [Grand Design acknowledged.]
The voice is calm. Flat. Neither male nor female. It doesn't echo; it simply is, resonating directly inside my awareness.
No awe. No warmth.
Just fact.
> Species: Slime
Status: Basal Lifeform
Evolutionary Rank: Lowest
Yeah. No shit.
> Willpower detected.
Threshold: Insufficient.
The voice vanishes.
No reward.
No blessing.
Not even pity.
I'm left alone with the forest again.
Something skitters nearby—small this time. Insects the size of dogs crawl over bark, their shells glittering with mana veins. One of them pauses. Antennae twitch.
It senses me.
I compress instinctively, pulling my mana inward, dimming my presence as much as I can. The effort hurts. If I could sweat, I would be drenched.
The creature hesitates… then moves on.
Only when it's gone do I loosen, spreading slightly, exhausted.
That's when I understand the rule of this world.
No one is coming to save me.
No miracle evolution.
No shortcut.
If I stop pushing—even for a moment—I will be eaten, dissolved, forgotten.
I don't scream.
I don't cry.
Inside, a quiet, furious thought hardens into something unbreakable.
I didn't die back then.
I'm not dying now.
I don't care if I'm a slime.
I don't care if I need ten evolutions while humans need four.
I don't care how many times this world tries to erase me.
I spread myself just enough to grip the soil.
And I begin to crawl.