“You’re not aware of your Aetheric Profile, Ser?” Anabeth’s voice carried genuine astonishment, as if he’d just confessed to not knowing how to breathe. “How does an all-powerful man not know his Aetheric Profile?”

Henry. You’re a resplendent fool!

I started seeing the cracks in my act now. How could I ask her to help me find my resonance while simultaneously pretending to be the strongest being alive? The contradiction felt absurd, even to me.

As it stood, I merely sat there—half in armor, half in embarrassment—wondering at what precise point my life had become this elaborate farce.

I opened my mouth, searching for something, anything, that could salvage the illusion. But she was faster.

“Oh!” she gasped. “I see it now. This must be a test,” she said, straightening with solemnity. “A trial from the All-Powerful himself! You wish to see if I, humble though I am, am capable of discerning your Aetheric Affinities unaided.”

Hold on. What?

I was too shocked at the sheer amount of mental gymnastics required to come up with such a reason to respond.

Then she folded her hands neatly before her, smiling with the satisfaction of someone who’d solved a particularly elegant riddle. “Am I correct, Ser?”

“Yes. That is exactly my intention.”

“Splendid!” she declared, springing to her feet with renewed vigor. “Then the course is clear! Since I lack the specific incantations for formal Aetheric Profiling—minor detail, really—I shall discern your affinities through empirical observation! Which is precisely why we must venture to The Slime Caverns of Auldmere at once.”

“This is about slime, isn’t it.”

Her expression didn’t waver. “Purely incidental,” she said, a little too quickly. “Now come along, All-Powerful One. Our great revelation awaits.”

----------------------------------------

Anabeth was serious when she told me I would find my Aetheric Profile in a Tier I Slime dungeon.

The Slime Caverns of Auldmere smelled exactly like their name suggested: wet, acidic, and vaguely betrayed by time. The entrance was lit with bioluminescent spores and the unpleasant squelch of some crab-like creature crawling just out of sight. If it wasn’t for the money, nobody should have any business being here.

“Believe it or not, Ser Henry,” Anabeth said, voice brimming with confidence as she adjusted her silk gloves, “I have spent two full semesters studying the principles of affinity detection. I can discern your Aetheric Profile simply by observing you channel your aether into your runesword. Let us get in now!” She briskly stepped forward.

I stared at her. Then at my sword. Then back at her.

That’s great and all, I thought, if I could actually channel aether into anything.

I still didn’t have a slightest clue what in the flaming arsehole an Aetheric Profile was, and I couldn’t risk asking and I couldn’t risk asking now, not when she was looking at me like a scholar on the brink of a great discovery. The ‘All-Powerful’ title had cornered me neatly; to confess ignorance now would be like admitting to being a particularly shiny fraud wrapped in tin.

But as I stood there, watching her eyes alight with earnest conviction, something ugly and heavy started crawling up my chest. . A knight could bluff his way through tavern brawls and border disputes, but not faith. I could not bring it to myself to mislead her about me being this sort of entity she expected me to be.

The Code demanded honesty in all dealings of honour and intent. Even in the face of ruin. Especially in the face of ruin.

I stopped in front of the cavern mouth, and Anabeth noticed almost instantly. She halted, boots sinking into the slick moss, and turned back to me with a flick of her braid over one shoulder. “What seems to be the matter, Ser Henry?”

I lowered my sword and willed myself to confess, Lady Anabeth, There is a truth I must speak. And though it may undo the illusion you so generously believe in, I cannot—

I bellowed, “BEHOLD, MORTAL. THE ALL-POWERFUL ONE SPEAKS TRUTH—TRUTH TOO VAST FOR TONGUES OF MEN.”

Her eyes widened in absolute horror.

Wait. That’s not—

“THERE IS NO ‘AETHER’ IN HIM BECAUSE AETHER ITSELF YIELDS BEFORE HIS BEING.”

Anabeth gasped, eyes wide as saucers. “By the Seven Currents . . . you transcend aetheric identity entirely!”

“HE HAS NO PROFILE, FOR HE IS THE MEASURE BY WHICH ALL PROFILES ARE DEFINED.”

I’m not even speaking truth. I’m literally lying through my teeth.

[Persuasion Successful]

She gasped and whipped out a leather-bound notebook from her satchel. She had brought an ink bottle, a quill, the whole scholar’s arsenal . . . in a slime dungeon. How she managed to keep it all dry in this humidity was, frankly, the most magical thing I’d seen all day.

Strapped along her hip and nestled inside the satchel were five more mason-like jars, each labeled and sealed for sample collection. They were clearly specialized, designed for safely storing slime cores without contaminating them, much like a geologist carefully gathers rock specimens. She wasn’t just prepared; she was over-prepared, the kind of methodical readiness that made you suspect she’d already planned for every possible slime-related eventuality. I had wanted to ask how many times she had traversed the fields to collect samples of whatever it was that she seemed to be collecting aside from slimes, but eventually clamped my mouth shut. With Ceralis interfering with every other line, I doubted I could ever steer the conversation in the direction I wanted. It would probably devolve into some weird sermon about ultimate power or a lecture on why properly layered sediment cores were somehow the key to achieving enlightenment instead. Anabeth seemed to be the kind to be into weird strata things.

Her hands flew across the page like a scribe possessed. “Transcends aetheric identity entirely,” she muttered under her breath, voice quick with reverence. “No fixed resonance, non-elemental archetype, possibly omnipotent substrate manifestation—oh, this is most extraordinary!”

“Cease—”

“Then you must resonate with so many elements!” she interrupted, eyes blazing with manic delight. “Maybe all of them. Stone, crystal, lightning, yes, yes! Maybe even raw energy itself!” She looked back at me, trembling with excitement, quill still in hand. “Ser Henry, you could very well be the reason slimes exist!”

Before I could protest, she snapped her notebook shut and pointed dramatically ahead. At that very moment, a gelatinous blorp echoed from the shadows. A wobbling, translucent slime slid out from behind a rock, leaving a trail that smelled faintly of vinegar and regret.

[Common Slime]

HP: 48/48

STR: 7

END: 1

Anabeth thrust her quill toward the creature as though commanding an army. “Ser Henry!” she declared. “Channel whichever element you please into your runesword, and I shall fervently record your Aetheric Profile!”

I noticed the floating numbers atop the slime’s head. They hadn’t been there before. This must be Ceralis’ addition.

“HP,” I murmured. “Health points.” So if it reaches zero . . . it dies?

I wasn’t sure whether the number unnerved me or fascinated me more. Either way, with Anabeth watching me like the discovery of the century depended on my next breath, I must step forward.

I raised my sword. Then, I . . . hacked at the creature, non-magically.

Damage Dealt: 9 (STR) + 12 (Roland’s Runesword) – 1 (Common Slime’s END) = 20

[Common Slime]

HP: 28/48

The slime quivered but did not perish. Instead, it jiggled indignantly, as if offended by the inconvenience of being stabbed.

Anabeth blinked. “Oh. It survived.”

I exhaled, raised my sword again, and swung.

Damage Dealt: 9 (STR) + 11 (Roland’s Runesword) – 1 (Common Slime’s END) = 19

[Common Slime]

HP: 9/48

The slime wobbled backward with a wet blorp, bits of translucent matter flinging off like badly set jelly.

Why is the number different? Same sword, same strength . . . And my STR wasn’t supposed to be 6 or 7. It was 10.

Still, not the time to care. I readied myself for one final swing. The sword cut through the slime cleanly this time. It trembled, rippled, then collapsed into a puddle that still smelled of vinegar.

Damage Dealt: 8 + 8 – 1 = 15

[Common Slime defeated]

Reward: 3 EXP

1 Slime Core (Common)

EXP: 1458/2750

I lowered my sword, chest still heaving. That was it. The grand display of my nonexistent aetheric might. I’d just hacked a jelly to death.

And in the echoing quiet that followed, it struck me how utterly exposed I was. Surely she’d know I was a fraud by now.

Then came the frantic scratching of quill against parchment. I turned to see Anabeth scribbling fervently. “No incantation. No visible aether flow. You simply willed

the creature apart. Of course! Of course! Ser Henry, surely you simply deemed these lowly slimes unworthy of your aether! That must be it!”

“That—”

“We must press onward until we find the Slime King!” she cried, eyes alight with holy purpose. “Surely then you will feel like performing!”

Performing. Saints preserve me.

She was already marching ahead, boots squelching with determination, notebook in hand.

But it was no time to stay baffled.

If Ceralis insisted on throwing numbers at my face, then by all the saints, I would understand them.

I willed Ceralis to show me exactly how it computed ‘damage dealt.’ Then lines of text appeared before me.

Damage Calculation Protocol

Base Strength (STR) + Weapon Attack (ATK) = Maximum Potential Output

Actual Damage = Randomized Output Between 0 and MAX, Adjusted for:

– Strike angle

– Depth of cut

– Target resistance

– Momentary combat performance

So it meant I’d likely never dealt the full 10 of my STR. But then how much damage could my sword deal?

I looked down at my weapon.

Sir Roland’s Runesword (Non-Resonated)

Base ATK: 15

Handling Requirement: STR 8

Status: Dormant (no aetheric channel detected)

Maintenance Level: 63% – edge dulling at lower third

For all its absurdity, the numbers did make sense.

If my strength was ten, and the blade’s attack fifteen, that made twenty-five as my maximum potential. But in reality, my strikes could never line up that cleanly because of a lack of handling finesse. This numbering system followed a clean, logical pattern, predictable in a way that combat never was.

Anabeth, meanwhile, was already halfway down the corridor, the faint light of her lantern bobbing ahead like a will-o’-the-wisp. “Come along, All-Powerful One!” she called over her shoulder. “The Slime King awaits!” The puddle of slime on the floor had mysteriously vanished, presumably going into one of the jars strapped along her hip.

I followed, bootsteps squelching in rhythm with hers, wondering whether it was still possible to die of embarrassment before the Slime King got the chance to do it for me.