The last sensation I registered in the world of the living was the smell of ozone and the taste of iron.
It was a Tuesday. It should have been a Tuesday. I had been walking home from a convenience store, carrying a bag of lukewarm oden and a magazine I'd never get to read. The screech of tires hadn't sounded like a movie; it sounded like a dying animal. Then came the impact—a dull, heavy thud that turned my vision into a kaleidoscope of red and black.
I remember lying on the asphalt, the cold rain mixing with the warmth of my own blood. I waited for the "white light." I waited for my ancestors to beckon me. Instead, I just felt a profound, biting regret.
I didn't do anything, I thought. Thirty-four years. I had mastered atmospheric chemistry to sit in a cubicle. I had read a thousand stories of heroes to stay in my room. I was a spectator who had finally been kicked out of the stadium.
Then, the world vanished.
How long was I in the dark?
In the beginning, there was no "I." There was only a sequence of sensations. Cold. Damp. Pressure. I felt like I was being squeezed through a straw for an eternity. I tried to gasp for air, but I had no lungs. I tried to flail my arms, but I had no limbs.
I was a mind floating in a thick, gelatinous void.
Am I a ghost? I wondered. Is this the 'Limbo' the priests talked about? Just an infinite stretch of nothingness where you're left with your own failures?
I tried to focus. I pushed "outward" with my mind. To my shock, something pushed back. It was a physical sensation—the feeling of something smooth and viscous hitting a jagged surface.
Clack.
The sound vibrated through my entire being. It wasn't a sound I heard with ears; it was a frequency I felt in my marrow.
< Logic Sequence Initiated... > < Analysis of Local Mana Density: High. > < Physical Vessel: Confirmed. > < Status: Spirit Slime (Juvenile Grade). >
The voice was cold, mechanical, and echoed from the very center of my consciousness. It wasn't the voice of God. It felt like an operating system booting up on a damaged hard drive.
Spirit Slime? I thought, a wave of hysterical realization washing over me. You've got to be kidding me. I died as a bottom-tier human just to be reborn as a literal puddle of goo?
< Answer: Your current form is a result of high-order soul migration. The 'Spirit Slime' genus possesses 'Infinite Growth' potential, provided the core remains intact. >
"Who are you?" I pulsed.
< I am the Archivist. I am a sub-skill born from your subconscious desire to categorize and understand the world. I am the bridge between your human memories and your current biological reality. >
I took a figurative breath—or rather, I expanded my translucent body. If I was going to be a slime, I wasn't going to be a pathetic one. I remembered the stories. I remembered the legends. In those worlds, magic wasn't just a miracle; it was a science.
"Archivist," I thought. "If I am a Spirit Slime, I should be able to sense the energy around me. Show me."
< Skill [Magic Sense] is currently dormant. To activate, the host must synchronize their internal mana circulation with the ambient atmospheric pressure. >
This was where my old life came in. I knew pressure. I knew the laws of gases. I began to focus on the "weight" of the air in the cave. I imagined the mana as a fluid, much like the oxygen and nitrogen I used to study. I drew it in, not through a mouth, but through the semi-permeable membrane of my skin.
The world suddenly "snapped" into focus.
I still didn't have eyes, but I could see. It was like a 360-degree sonar map. I was in a vast, glittering grotto. Stalactites hung from the ceiling like frozen teeth. The walls were laced with veins of blue ore that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic light.
I was beautiful. My body was a sphere of shimmering, silver-blue liquid, glowing with an inner luminescence.
But I was also alone.
The first month was a lesson in technical obsession.
I didn't explore. I didn't seek out adventure. I followed the philosophy of a man who knew that in a new world, the one with the best foundation wins. I spent hours—days, perhaps—manipulating the mana inside me.
In the stories, mages chanted long, flowery poems to make a spark. To me, that seemed like a waste of breath. Magic was simply the application of intent upon reality.
I focused on a small puddle of water near a geothermal vent. I didn't think "Fireball." I thought Excitation. I visualized the molecules of the water moving faster and faster, rubbing against each other, generating friction.
Hiss.
The water began to steam. Within seconds, it was boiling.
< Proficiency Gained: [Thermal Manipulation - Level 1]. > < Title Acquired: The Silent Scholar. >
"Not bad for a puddle," I muttered to myself.
I moved through the cave, consuming anything that looked magical. I ate "Glow-Moss," which gave me [Acid Resistance]. I consumed "Mana-Laced Quartz," which sharpened my [Archivist] functions. Each time I ate, my body grew denser, my silver sheen more pronounced.
I was evolving. Not through a "Level Up" screen, but through biological adaptation. I was building a masterpiece out of my own slime.
But the cave was quiet. Too quiet.
I found myself talking to the Archivist just to hear a voice. I'd recount the plots of movies I'd seen, explain the laws of thermodynamics, or complain about the lack of decent coffee in the afterlife. The Archivist never judged. It just recorded.
Then, one day, the vibrations changed.
Usually, the cave was a symphony of dripping water and shifting stone. This was different. It was a ragged, uneven pulse. It was the sound of something living—and something dying.
I slid toward the source, my body moving with the grace of mercury on glass.
In a side-chamber, lit by a cluster of crystalline fungi, I saw him.
He was massive. A wolf the size of a carriage, with fur that looked like it had been woven from moonlight. A Direwolf. But the silver fur was matted with dark, viscous blood. A massive gash ran from his shoulder to his flank, exposing bone. His breathing was a series of wet, bubbling rasps.
He had been the king of this mountain, and now he was a carcass-in-waiting.
His eyes—a piercing, intelligent gold—flickered toward me. He didn't growl. He didn't have the strength. He just looked at me with a dignified sort of resignation.
He's like me, I thought. A remnant of something great, discarded by the world.
"Archivist," I pulsed, my core humming with a sudden, frantic energy. "Can I heal him?"
< Warning: The subject has lost 70% of its vital essence. Conventional healing magic will fail. The only viable path is 'Soul Anchoring' through the act of Naming. >
"Naming?" I remembered the term. In this world, a name wasn't just a label; it was a gift of power.
< Caution: Naming a creature of this caliber will consume 90% of your current mana capacity. There is a 40% chance of core collapse. >
I looked at the wolf. In my first life, I had always played it safe. I had stayed in the lines. I had let opportunities pass because I was afraid of the "cost."
Not this time.
I slid forward until my silver body touched the wolf's cold fur. I felt his life force—it was a fading ember, flickering in a cold wind.
"I won't let you go out like this," I whispered into the mana-stream. "You are too beautiful for this hole in the ground."
I gathered every drop of energy I had spent the last month cultivating. I compressed it into a single point of light within my core.
"Your name," I declared, the words vibrating through the very stones of the cave, "is Fenris. You are the Silver of the Moon and the Fang of the Forest. Rise."
The cave didn't just light up; it screamed.
A pillar of silver light erupted from the spot where we met. I felt a vacuum open up inside me. It felt like my very consciousness was being unspooled, thread by thread, and woven into the wolf's skin.
< Naming Confirmed: Fenris. > < Evolution Initiated: Silver-Moon Wolf. > < Mana Depletion: Critical. Entering Sleep Mode... >
The last thing I felt before the darkness claimed me was a warm, wet tongue licking my silver surface, and a pulse of fierce, undying loyalty that wasn't my own.
I had a friend. And for the first time in two lives, I had a purpose.
[Volume 1: Chapter 1 End]
Chapter 2: The Forest of Jura
Deep sleep is a luxury for the living, but for a slime, it is a state of total structural reassessment.
When I finally drifted back to consciousness, the first thing I noticed wasn't the dark. It was the weight. A heavy, comforting pressure was draped over my translucent body. I pulsed my [Magic Sense]—now significantly sharper and more intuitive—and realized I was tucked into a bed of soft, silver fur.
Fenris had grown.
What was once a dying, ragged beast was now a magnificent engine of destruction. His fur didn't just look like moonlight; it shimmered with a faint, metallic luster. His paws were the size of dinner plates, tipped with obsidian claws that hummed with latent mana.
As I shifted, the wolf's ears twitched. He let out a low, rumbling huff and nudged me with a nose that felt like wet velvet. Through our soul-link, I felt a wave of gratitude so intense it made my core vibrate.
< Status Report: Naming Successful. > < Subordinate: Fenris (Rank: A- Grade Calamity). > < Host Evolution: High Spirit Slime (Juvenile). > < New Skill Acquired: [Link-Communication]. >
"You're awake," I thought, testing the new skill.
"Master," Fenris's voice echoed in my mind. It was deep, resonant, and filled with a gravelly dignity. "The cave is no longer safe for your brilliance. The scents of the outside are calling."
I couldn't agree more. I had spent enough time in this stone womb. It was time to see the world I was supposed to inherit.
The transition from the cave to the Forest of Jura was like moving from a funeral to a festival.
As we crossed the threshold of the cavern, the air changed. The damp, mineral scent of the deep earth was replaced by the overwhelming fragrance of pine, damp earth, and blooming wildflowers. The sun—a massive, golden eye in a sky of bruised purple—beat down on my silver skin, and for a moment, I feared I would evaporate.
Instead, I felt invigorated. My [Thermal Manipulation] automatically kicked in, regulating my internal temperature to match the humid forest air.
The Forest of Jura was a vertical labyrinth. Massive trees, their trunks as wide as houses, reached for the heavens, their branches intertwined like the fingers of giants. Everything here was oversized. Butterflies with three-foot wingspans flitted between flowers that pulsed with bioluminescence even in the daylight.
"Archivist," I thought, taking in the sheer scale of it. "Analyze the local mana density."
< Answer: Mana concentration is 400% higher than the cave environment. Host is advised to maintain [Magic Sense] at all times. Predatory levels in this sector are high. >
I didn't need a computer to tell me that. I could feel eyes on us. Not just animal eyes, but something with intent.
We hadn't been walking for an hour when the first "greeting" arrived.
A rustle in the high ferns to our left was followed by a sharp, whistling sound. Instinct—or perhaps the Archivist's predictive processing—screamed at me to move. I compressed my lower membrane and launched myself upward, a silver streak in the green gloom.
A wooden spear, tipped with jagged flint, thudded into the ground where I had been a second ago.
"Intruders!" a high-pitched voice rasped in a tongue I shouldn't have understood, yet the mana carried its meaning. "The Silver Puddle and the Moon-Dog! Kill them for the Chief!"
From the undergrowth emerged six creatures. They were small, barely four feet tall, with skin the color of rotting limes and large, bulbous eyes. They wore loincloths made of cured hide and carried primitive weapons.
Goblins.
In my old world, Goblins were the fodder. The "Level 1" enemies you farmed for gold. But as they circled us, their movements were coordinated, their faces twisted with a desperate, starving hunger.
Fenris let out a growl that shook the leaves from the trees. The air around his maw began to crackle with static electricity.
"Wait, Fenris," I commanded.
I wanted to test something. In Mushoku Tensei, the protagonist learned that communication was the most powerful form of magic. If I started my new life by slaughtering the first sentient beings I met, I was no better than the monsters they thought I was.
I slid forward, placing myself between the Goblins and Fenris's bared fangs. I didn't have a mouth, so I used the air. I vibrated my entire body, manipulating the sound waves to mimic the human speech I remembered.
"We... are... not... enemies," I boomed. The voice was metallic and echoed strangely, but it stopped the Goblins in their tracks.
The leader, a particularly wizened Goblin with a scar across his nose, lowered his spear slightly. "The puddle... talks?"
"I am Aris," I said, gaining confidence in the vibration. "And this is Fenris. We seek the path, not your blood. Why do you attack travelers?"
The leader looked at his companions, then back at me. His eyes weren't filled with malice; they were filled with terror. "Travelers? No. We protect the village. The Direwolves... they have been hunting us for weeks. We thought you were the vanguard."
I felt Fenris bristling behind me. "I am no mere Direwolf," he rumbled through our link. "I would not hunt such pathetic morsels."
I ignored his pride. "We have no quarrel with your village. In fact," I looked at their protruding ribs and shaking hands, "it looks like you could use a friend."
The Goblin village was a tragedy in wood and straw.
It consisted of a dozen leaning huts centered around a dying fire. The smell of sickness and rot hung heavy in the air. As Fenris and I entered, children hid behind their mothers' tattered skirts. These weren't the fierce warriors of legend; they were a dying breed.
The Chief, an elderly goblin whose skin hung in folds off his frame, hobbled out to meet us. He knelt before me, his forehead touching the dirt.
"Great Silver One," he wheezed. "Our warriors say you speak with the voice of the wind. We have nothing to give you. Our hunters return empty-handed. The 'Fang-Pack' has claimed the river."
I felt a familiar tug in my chest—the same one I felt when I saw Fenris dying in the cave. This was the "Protagonist's Curse," I suppose. I couldn't just walk away.
"I don't want your gold," I said. "I want information. Tell me about this 'Fang-Pack.' And tell me about the world beyond this forest."
For the next three hours, the Chief spoke. I learned that the Forest of Jura was a "Neutral Zone" between the Holy Kingdom of Millis to the west and the Eastern Empire. I learned that the "Great Catastrophe"—the battle of the dragons—had shifted the balance of power, leaving the forest monsters to fight for scraps.
The Fang-Pack was a group of thirty Direwolves who had been driven mad by a "Black Miasma" leaking from the mountains. They weren't just hunting for food; they were killing for sport.
"They come at moonrise," the Chief whispered. "Tonight... tonight is the end."
I looked at my translucent hands—or the pseudopods that served as them. I remembered my first life. I had watched as my neighborhood was torn down for a shopping mall, and I had done nothing. I had watched as my own life fell apart, and I had done nothing.
"Fenris," I thought.
"Yes, Master?"
"We're staying. We're going to teach these wolves the difference between a predator and a Sovereign."
< Sub-Quest Initiated: The Defense of the Green-Skin. > < Reward: Potential for Village Foundation. > < Warning: Enemy numbers exceed host's current mana output. Tactical intervention required. >
"I know, Archivist," I thought, a cold, blue light beginning to pulse in my core. "But I didn't spend three months studying thermodynamics just to lose to a bunch of overgrown dogs."
I spent the afternoon transforming the village. I didn't give them better spears—I gave them physics. I showed them how to dig pit traps with angled stakes to maximize piercing pressure. I used my [Thermal Manipulation] to harden the tips of their wooden arrows until they were as strong as iron.
But for the main event, I needed the river.
I slid to the edge of the village, where a small stream fed into a pond. I began to work. I didn't cast a "Water Spell." I manipulated the surface tension. I created a series of "Liquid Lenses" suspended in the air, hidden by the foliage.
If the wolves wanted a fight, I would give them a lesson in optics.
The moon rose, a bloated silver coin that bathed the forest in a ghostly light.
Then came the howling. It wasn't the dignified howl of Fenris; it was a discordant, screeching sound that set my nerves on edge. Shadows detached themselves from the treeline. Thirty pairs of red, glowing eyes focused on the village gates.
The lead wolf, a scarred beast with matted black fur, stepped forward. He sniffed the air, his lip curling in a snarl as he caught the scent of Fenris.
"A traitor," the lead wolf growled, his voice a distorted mess of mana. "A Direwolf who bows to a puddle. We will feast on your core."
"You're welcome to try," I said, my voice echoing through the "Liquid Lenses" I had placed around the clearing.
The wolves charged.
They expected a massacre. They expected terrified Goblins. What they got was a calculated nightmare.
"Now!" I signaled.
The Goblins released the pit traps. The first line of wolves fell into the earth, impaled on hardened wooden spikes. But the rest leaped over their fallen brothers, their speed supernatural.
"Fenris, the left flank!"
Fenris became a blur of silver light. He didn't just bite; he moved with a grace that defied his size. Every swipe of his claws sent a wave of pressurized air—a "Vacuum Blade"—that sliced through hide and bone.
But there were too many. Three wolves lunged at me simultaneously.
I didn't move. I waited until they were inches away, their jaws wide, their breath stinking of old blood.
"Archivist. Focus the lenses."
< Light Concentration: 100%. >
The moonlight hitting the "Liquid Lenses" I had suspended in the trees wasn't just light anymore. It was a laser. By manipulating the curvature of the water, I had created a series of magnifying glasses that focused the lunar mana into a pinprick of absolute heat.
Searing.
Thin beams of white-hot light lanced down from the canopy. They didn't just burn; they cauterized. The three wolves vanished in a cloud of steam and scorched fur.
I didn't stop. I slid into the center of the battlefield, my body glowing with a fierce, cobalt light. I pulled the moisture from the very air, creating a fog so thick the wolves couldn't see their own paws. Then, I dropped the temperature.
"Flash Freeze."
The fog turned into a storm of microscopic ice needles. I didn't need to kill them all; I just needed to break their will.
The lead wolf, seeing his pack decimated by a "puddle" and a single silver wolf, let out a whimper of pure animal terror. He turned to flee, but Fenris was already there, his obsidian claws at the beast's throat.
"Do we kill them, Master?" Fenris asked, his eyes glowing with the thrill of the hunt.
I looked at the surviving wolves. They were broken, shivering in the cold I had created.
"No," I said. "We consume."
I didn't mean literally. I moved toward the lead wolf. "You have two choices. You die here, or you submit. I am Aris, the Sovereign of the Silver Loop. And this forest... it belongs to me now."
The lead wolf bowed his head. One by one, the others followed.
< Battle Concluded. > < Result: Absolute Victory. > < Experience Synthesized. New Skill Acquired: [Lord's Ambition]. > < Evolution Progress: 15%. >
The Goblins emerged from their huts, silent and awestruck. The Chief walked toward me, his eyes wet with tears.
"You saved us," he whispered. "We are yours. Our lives, our village... it is all yours."
I looked at the moon. I had been in this world for less than a year. I had a wolf, a pack of defeated enemies, and a village of starving Goblins. It wasn't a kingdom yet. It was a mess.
But as I felt the collective mana of the village begin to resonate with my own core, I realized that I wasn't just a spectator anymore. I was the author.
"Alright," I said, my voice steady. "First order of business. We're going to need more than straw huts."
[Volume 1: Chapter 2 End]
Chapter 3: The Architecture of Mercy
The morning after the battle didn't bring the celebratory feast I had expected. Instead, it brought the cold, hard reality of logistics.
Victory is a fleeting high; hunger is a constant weight. As the sun crested over the jagged canopy of the Forest of Jura, I surveyed my "kingdom." It was a collection of thirty shivering Goblins, twenty-two defeated Direwolves, and one very proud Silver-Moon Wolf.
They were all looking at me.
"Archivist," I thought, my silver form resting on a stump that served as a makeshift throne. "What's the status of our food supply?"
< Answer: Current caloric reserves for the village: 48 hours. Water source: Contaminated by recent combat. Morale: High, but fading due to physical exhaustion. >
I didn't have a stomach, but if I did, it would have turned. In my old life, my biggest logistical challenge was deciding which convenience store had the freshest bento. Now, if I didn't find a way to feed fifty sentient beings, my "Legend" would end in a mass grave.
"Chief," I boomed, my voice vibrating through the morning mist. "Gather the able-bodied. We aren't just surviving today. We are building."
The first thing I had to address was the water. The stream near the village was sluggish and filled with silt. Drawing from my knowledge of environmental engineering, I spent the morning as a literal filtration system.
I didn't use a spell. I used my body. I stretched my membrane across the narrowest part of the stream, becoming a living sieve. By adjusting the molecular density of my "skin," I allowed the water molecules through while trapping the bacteria and sediment within my viscous interior.
"Archivist, initiate [Toxin Neutralization]."
< Process Started. Impurities absorbed. Mana-Laced Water Output: 100% Purity. >
The Goblins watched in awe as the murky stream turned crystal clear on the other side of my body. They began to drink, their eyes wide with the realization that they weren't just drinking water—they were drinking mana-enriched liquid. I felt their strength returning through our budding soul-link.
But water wasn't enough. We needed shelter.
In Mushoku Tensei, magic was used for construction as often as for combat. I decided to follow suit. I summoned the Direwolves—the "Fang-Pack"—who were now cowed into submission by Fenris.
"You have strong claws," I told them. "Instead of using them to rip throats, you will use them to furrow the earth."
I guided the wolves in digging deep, precise foundation trenches. Meanwhile, I worked with the Goblins to teach them the "Scientific Method" of masonry. We didn't have cement, so I created a "Slime-Binder." By secreting a highly adhesive, quick-drying resin from my own body, I allowed the Goblins to fuse stones together with the strength of modern steel.
Within hours, the first permanent structure began to rise: a storehouse built of reinforced river stone.
"Master," Fenris rumbled, his ears pricked toward the forest's edge. "The wind has changed. It carries the scent of iron and... sweat."
I paused my resin secretion. "Humans?"
"Four of them," Fenris replied, his tail lashing. "Approaching with weapons drawn. They have the smell of those who kill for coin."
The adventurers emerged from the brush ten minutes later.
They were a standard quartet: a knight in battered plate armor, a thief with a nervous twitch, a priestess clutching a wooden staff, and a mage with a tall, ridiculous hat. They stopped dead when they saw the village.
They didn't see a "village." They saw a Silver-Moon Wolf (an A-Rank threat) standing next to a High-Spirit Slime (a Rare-Rank anomaly) surrounded by a legion of Goblins and Direwolves.
"By the Gods," the thief whispered, his hand shaking on his dagger. "It's a monster outbreak. A goddamn hive."
The knight stepped forward, his sword gleaming. "Steady. Look at the structures. Those aren't Goblin huts. They're... masonry? Something is wrong here."
I slid forward, leaving the safety of the stone wall. I didn't want a fight. Adventurers were the "eyes" of the human kingdoms. If I killed them, I'd have an army at my door by next month.
"Greetings, travelers," I said, my voice resonating through the air.
The priestess shrieked, nearly dropping her staff. "The slime! It's speaking in the tongue of the Holy Kingdom!"
"I am Aris," I continued, trying to sound as non-threatening as a glowing silver blob could. "You are standing on the territory of the Silver Loop. We are not a threat to your borders, provided you respect ours."
The mage narrowed his eyes. "A sentient slime? Impossible. You must be a Demon Lord's familiar. Where is your master hiding?"
"I have no master," I said, my core glowing a deeper blue—a subtle warning. "I am the Sovereign here. You look tired and hungry. In the spirit of diplomacy, I offer you rest and clean water. In exchange, I want news of the world beyond the trees."
The knight, whose name I later learned was Kael, looked at his exhausted party. The priestess was pale, likely from mana-depletion. He looked at the clear water flowing from my filtration point and then back at me.
"You offer hospitality... to humans?" Kael asked, his voice skeptical but curious.
"I offer it to those who don't draw their steel first," I replied.
Against their better judgment, they stayed.
That evening, by a fire that I fueled with precision-engineered oxygen levels to keep it smokeless, we talked.
I learned that the world was in a state of "Unstable Peace." The Holy Kingdom of Millis was currently obsessed with a prophecy concerning a "Monster King" who would rise from the Forest of Jura.
Great, I thought. I'm already a target and I haven't even finished the plumbing.
But the most important thing I learned came from the priestess, Laina. As she drank the purified water, she looked at me with a strange, lingering gaze.
"You have the 'Aura of the Anchored'," she whispered, so low the others couldn't hear.
I froze. "What does that mean?"
"In our texts," she said, her voice trembling, "there are stories of those who cannot die. Those whose souls are tied to the 'Silver Loop' of time. They are the heralds of ruin. Every time they fall, the world resets, and the suffering begins anew."
The Archivist pulsed in my mind.
< Alert: Recognition of [Temporal Anchor] detected. > < Hazard Level: Elevated. >
"And what happens to these heralds?" I asked.
Laina looked into the fire. "They are hunted. Not because they are evil, but because the world cannot handle the weight of their shadows. To live a thousand lives is to carry a thousand ghosts."
I looked at Fenris, sleeping by the fire. I looked at the Goblins, who were finally sleeping with full bellies. I realized then that my "Reset" wasn't just a safety net. It was a beacon.
The humans left the next morning, promised to tell their Guild that we were "tame." But I knew better. I saw the look in the mage's eyes—the look of a man who had found a rare specimen to dissect.
"Fenris," I thought as they vanished into the green.
"Yes, Master?"
"We need to build faster. And we need to learn how to hide."
[Volume 1: Chapter 3 End]
Chapter 4: The Alchemist's Price
The departure of the adventurers left a lingering chill in the air that the humid Forest of Jura couldn't quite burn away. Laina's words—the Aura of the Anchored—echoed in the hollow spaces of my core. I was a scientist by nature, a man who believed in causality and observable data. But the idea that my "Reset" was a known, feared phenomenon changed the nature of the game.
I wasn't just building a village; I was building a target.
"Archivist," I thought, as I watched the Goblins begin their morning rounds. "If my presence attracts attention, we need a deterrent. Something more substantial than water lenses and wooden spikes."
< Answer: Host's current offensive capacity is 42% dependent on ambient environmental conditions. To achieve 'Sovereign-Class' defense, a stable source of high-density mana-conductive material is required. >
< Location Identified: The Veins of the Iron-Crag. Distance: 4 miles North-East. >
The Iron-Crag was a jagged scar on the landscape, a mountain that looked like it had been bitten by a god. It was where the "Black Miasma" mentioned by the Goblins was rumored to originate. If there was a resource there, it was likely guarded by something that didn't care about diplomacy.
I turned to my shadow. "Fenris, stay here. Coordinate with the Chief. If any more 'guests' arrive, hide the children in the storehouse. Do not engage unless the walls are breached."
"Master," Fenris rumbled, his head bowing low. "Your safety is the pulse of this pack. Take the Fang-Pack's second-in-command. He needs to learn the weight of your shadow."
He signaled a large, scarred Direwolf named Varg. Varg didn't have Fenris's moon-blessed fur; he was a creature of grey ash and jagged teeth. He looked at me not with the devotion of Fenris, but with a wary, predatory respect.
"Let's go, Varg," I said. "Let's see what the mountain is hiding."
The hike to the Iron-Crag was a descent into a different kind of ecology. As the elevation rose, the vibrant greens of Jura faded into sickly purples and greys. The trees here were skeletal, their bark weeping a thick, black sap that smelled like burnt sulfur.
This was the Miasma. It wasn't just a gas; it was a magical pollutant.
< Alert: Atmospheric Toxicity rising. Initiating [Filter Membrane]. >
I adjusted my exterior. I became a darker, denser silver, sealing my pores to prevent the Miasma from curdling my internal mana. Varg, however, began to stagger. His eyes, normally a dull orange, began to flicker with a manic, blood-red light.
"Varg, steady," I commanded, projecting a calming frequency through our link.
He snapped his jaws at the air, a low, guttural snarl escaping his throat. "Too much... hunger... the blood calls..."
I realized then the "Internal Betrayal" the Archivist had warned about wasn't a plot—it was biological. The Miasma was an accelerant for the "Monster" instinct. It stripped away the logic I had instilled through Naming and replaced it with primal rage.
Varg lunged.
He didn't aim for my core; he aimed to tear me apart, his instinct seeing me as a rival for dominance. I didn't want to kill him—he was a named citizen of my village—but I couldn't let him compromise the mission.
"Archivist. Calculate [Kinetic Dampening]."
As Varg's massive jaws closed on my silver form, I didn't resist. I became non-Newtonian. I turned my body into a fluid that hardened instantly upon impact, turning the "soft" target of a slime into the equivalent of a concrete block.
Crack.
Varg let out a yelp of pain as his teeth met the indestructible surface. Before he could recover, I flowed over him. I didn't suffocate him; I acted as a living straitjacket. I wrapped my silver limbs around his torso and neck, applying steady, rhythmic pressure to his carotid artery.
"Sleep," I vibrated.
As Varg slumped into unconsciousness, I felt a presence. Not a wolf. Not a monster.
"Impressive," a voice rasped from the shadows of a weeping tree. "Most slimes are content to dissolve their prey. You... you treat yours like a patient."
Out of the black fog stepped a figure that defied the logic of the forest.
He was a dwarf, but not like the ones from the stories. He was tall for his kind, covered in leather aprons stained with chemicals and metal shavings. He carried a heavy hammer on his back, but his eyes were covered by a pair of brass-rimmed goggles that glowed with a faint, internal light.
"I am Baron," the dwarf said, spitting a glob of tobacco onto a scorched root. "And you're trespassing on a very expensive funeral."
"I am Aris," I replied, releasing the sleeping Varg. "And I don't plan on dying today. You're an Alchemist?"
Baron laughed, a sound like grinding stones. "An Alchemist without a lab. A smith without a forge. I came here for the Starmetal—the only thing that can cut through the rot of this world. But the mountain has a guardian, 'Sovereign.' A beast that feeds on the Miasma."
"Starmetal," I thought. The Archivist confirmed: it was a mana-superconductor.
"Help me get the metal," I said to the dwarf. "And I'll give you a forge. I'll give you a village that doesn't care about your past."
Baron looked at me, then at the unconscious wolf, then at the black peaks above us. "You've got a silver tongue for a puddle. Fine. But the guardian... it's a Calamity-Class Chimera. It doesn't die. It just resets."
My core skipped a beat. Resets?
"Then we're well-matched," I said. "Because I don't know how to stay dead either."
The battle at the heart of the Iron-Crag was a test of everything I had learned.
The Chimera was a nightmare of biological engineering—three heads (lion, goat, snake), each wreathed in the black Miasma. It moved with a twitchy, unnatural speed, as if it were existing in two moments at once.
Baron provided the distractions, throwing vials of "Flash-Freeze" salts that slowed the beast's regeneration. But the final blow had to be mine.
I realized the Chimera's "reset" wasn't a temporal loop like mine; it was a high-speed cellular reconstruction fueled by the Starmetal veins in the cave floor. It was a closed-loop system.
"Archivist. We need to break the circuit."
I didn't attack the Chimera. I attacked the floor.
I poured my entire mana reserve into the stone, using [Thermal Manipulation] to melt the rock into a liquid state, then instantly cooling it to create a layer of non-conductive glass between the Chimera and the Starmetal.
The beast let out a discordant shriek as its "power source" was cut off. Its heads began to wither, the Miasma dissipating like smoke in a gale.
"Now, Varg!" I yelled, the wolf having woken and regained his senses as the Miasma cleared.
Varg didn't hesitate. He lunged, his jaws finding the Chimera's throat, tearing with a ferocity that was no longer madness, but channeled intent.
We returned to the village three days later.
We brought with us carts of raw Starmetal and one grumpy, brilliant Alchemist. Baron looked at the stone storehouse and the Goblins with a critical eye, then nodded.
"It's a start," he grunted. "But if you want to survive the 'Holy Purge' that's coming, we need to turn this Starmetal into a barrier that can block the eyes of the gods."
I looked at my people. We were stronger, yes. We had metal, magic, and a scientist's mind. But as I looked at the sky, I saw a single, white crow circling the village.
A messenger from the Holy Kingdom.
The "Peace" was over. The Volume was nearing its end, and the first true tragedy was beginning to take shape.
[Volume 1: Chapter 4 End]
Chapter 5: The Silent Siege
The white crow didn't fly away. It perched on the highest branch of the Great Oak, its eyes—two beads of polished sapphire—watching every movement in the village below.
"Archivist," I pulsed, my core humming with an agitation I couldn't suppress. "Analyze the avian entity."
< Answer: Familiar-Class Construct. Origin: Holy Kingdom of Millis. Property: High-Output Visual Relay. It is not watching us, Aris. It is broadcasting us. >
I felt a chill ripple through my membrane. We were being live-streamed to a council of inquisitors who likely viewed my "Architecture of Mercy" as the ultimate heresy. A monster who builds is far more dangerous than a monster who destroys; a destroyer can be understood, but a builder demands a change in the status quo.
"Baron!" I boomed. "The Starmetal. How long until the 'Veil' is ready?"
The dwarf didn't look up from his makeshift forge. Sparks of blue fire danced off his goggles. "You can't rush the stars, puddle! To weave Starmetal into a concealment field requires a lattice of pure mana. I need your focus. I need you to be the battery."
For forty-eight hours, I became a stationary generator. I sat in the center of a runic circle, funneling every drop of my essence into the Starmetal rods Baron had hammered out.
It was a test of endurance that dwarfed the cave. I felt my density thinning, my silver light flickering as I pushed through the exhaustion. In Mushoku Tensei, the protagonist spoke of the "Total Mana Capacity" growing through near-depletion. I felt that stretching now—a painful, burning expansion of my very soul.
By the dawn of the third day, the "Silver Veil" hummed to life.
A dome of invisible, shimmering energy expanded from the village center, passing through the huts and the walls. When it hit the branch where the white crow sat, the bird let out a confused squawk. To its sapphire eyes, the village had simply... vanished. It was looking at an empty forest floor.
We were invisible. We were safe.
Or so I thought.
"Master," Fenris's voice was a low vibration in my mind, tinged with a scent of ozone and old blood. "The forest is too quiet. Even the insects have stopped singing."
I stepped out of the runic circle, my body shivering from mana-fever. I looked toward the western treeline.
The Veil was working, yes. But the Holy Kingdom didn't need to see us to destroy us. They knew where the village had been.
"Everyone! To the stone storehouse! Now!" I commanded.
The Goblins moved with the discipline we had practiced. The mothers clutched their children, the warriors gripped their hardened wooden spears. Varg and the Fang-Pack took positions in the trenches.
Then, the sky turned white.
It wasn't the sun. It was a pillar of pure, concentrated solar mana—the "Judgment of the Morning Star."
"Baron! The Veil! Redirect to physical defense!"
"I'm trying!" the dwarf roared, swinging his hammer against the master-rod. "But that's not a spell, Aris! That's a miracle!"
In this world, "Miracles" didn't follow the laws of thermodynamics. They bypassed them. My scientific understanding of magic flickered as the white pillar slammed into our invisible dome.
The Veil held for a heartbeat. I felt the pressure through the soul-link—a weight that felt like a mountain was being placed on my chest. I saw the Starmetal rods begin to glow orange, then white, then liquid.
"Aris!" Laina's voice—the priestess from the adventuring party—echoed from the treeline. She wasn't there; her voice was being projected by the Inquisition. "Surrender the Core! The Silver Loop must be broken! If you die now, the world is spared the reset!"
"I'm not a herald of ruin!" I screamed back, my voice vibrating through the roar of the descending light. "I'm just a man who wants to live!"
"That is your sin!" the voice replied.
The Veil shattered.
The next few seconds moved in the slow-motion clarity of a nightmare.
The solar pillar touched the village. The straw huts didn't burn; they disintegrated. I saw the stone storehouse—my pride, my "Architecture of Mercy"—crack under the thermal expansion.
"Fenris!" I lunged toward the wolf, but I was too slow.
A knight in golden armor, wreathed in the same white light as the sky, materialized from the glare. He held a sword made of solid radiance. With a single, fluid motion, he swung.
Fenris didn't even have time to growl. The blade of light passed through his neck.
Through our soul-link, I felt it. Not pain. Just a sudden, sharp snapping of a cord. The warmth that had been in the back of my mind for months—the presence of my first friend—went cold.
"Master... run..." The thought flickered out like a candle in a gale. Fenris's body hit the dirt, his silver fur turning grey as the life left it.
"NO!"
My core erupted. I didn't care about thermodynamics. I didn't care about logic. I pulled every joule of energy from the surrounding atmosphere, creating a localized vacuum. I wanted to burn the world. I wanted to turn the Holy Knight into ash.
The knight simply raised his hand. "Abomination. Return to the dark."
The sword of light pierced my center.
It didn't hurt. It felt cold. A freezing, absolute zero that spread from my core to my pseudopods. I looked down at the golden blade buried in my silver heart. I looked past the knight at the burning ruins of my village, at the Goblins I had named, at the dwarf who lay buried under his forge.
I had failed. I had tried to build a life out of science and kindness, and the world had answered with fire and "miracles."
I'm sorry, Fenris, I thought. I'll see you in the next one.
The world shattered like a mirror.
[Volume 1: Chapter 5 End]
Chapter 6: Loop 02 - The Empty Silence
The dark started to itch.
I felt the damp stone. I felt the suffocating pressure of being in a body made of fluid.
I didn't move. I didn't try to pulse my [Magic Sense]. I just lay there in the dark, the memory of Fenris's dying thought echoing in my mind. "Master... run..."
< Logic Sequence Initiated... > < Status: Spirit Slime (Juvenile Grade). > < Current Loop: 02. > < Warning: Soul Integrity at 88%. Repeated death will lead to permanent fragmentation. >
"Archivist," I thought. My voice was different now. The "Silent Scholar" was gone. Something colder had taken its place.
< I am here, Aris. >
"The Holy Kingdom... they knew. They knew about the Silver Loop."
< Confirmed. The data gathered in Loop 01 suggests the Inquisition possesses 'Ancestral Records' regarding your existence. You are a 'Known Variable' to them. >
I pushed myself up from the cave floor. My silver body was smaller now, the mana I had spent months accumulating gone, reset to the baseline. But I had the blueprints. I had the formulas.
And I had the rage.
"They think they can break the loop by killing me," I whispered, the air in the cave beginning to vibrate with a lethal frequency. "They think they can play God because they have 'Miracles.'"
I looked toward the back of the grotto, where I knew a dying wolf was currently lying in his own blood.
"This time," I said, "we aren't building a village. We're building a fortress. And this time, I'm not stopping at the forest."
I slid toward the exit, the blue light of my core reflecting off the jagged stalactites.
"Archivist. Begin 'Project Ascension.' If the world wants a Monster King, I'll give them one they can't execute."
[Volume 1: End]