My entire glorious, undignified life flashed before my eyes like an unpaid debt scroll. I hadn’t even finished memorizing Sir Roland’s ‘Twelve Noble Principles of Pious Sword Maintenance.’ I’d yet to deliver that triumphant sermon I’d been rehearsing for years just so I could shout right before smiting the Great Ox of Vanheuven, Sir Roland’s greatest enemy. I hadn’t found a worthy squire to pass on my utterly non-magical legacy. I hadn’t even polished my boots this morning.

Now I was about to be digested by a glorified puddle. Sir Roland wrestled an ox barehanded and lived to tell the tale, and I’m going to end my saga as ‘the knight who drowned in mucus.’

I cast a glance at Anabeth, still standing and scribbling primly at a distance. Perhaps I could trick her into fighting? No, no, better yet: persuade her gently, knightly, as any reasonable man staring down death by acidic sludge might.

I wanted to say, ‘Lady Anabeth, would you not honor me by demonstrating your superior aetheric technique?’

But I could already imagine what would come out of my mouth: Woman of stone and hubris! Display your violent craft before I cast your bones into the abyss! That would definitely not help.

Maybe I could try this tactful approach: ‘Perhaps, my lady, you might offer tactical support from the rear?’

But it would probably come out like this: ‘Coward! If you possess spine enough to stand, hurl your magic ere I tear the heavens asunder!’

Whatever I said, this cursed thing would turn it into the ravings of an unhinged warlord.

Just when I thought I was out of options, something glittered in the corner of the chamber—barely, like shame trying to be inconspicuous. Then I remembered the Task-Boon system: it would activate when I picked up an aetherically-resonant object. Then I remembered Anabeth’s eyes when she saw pretty rocks.

Plan, quick: make the rock the show.

‘Lady Anabeth!’ I bellowed, noble and urgent. ‘Observe! A most curious—ah—quartz, there! Promising aetheric resonance, surely of academic interest!’

What came out was, “WOMAN OF SCRIBBLES! BEHOLD THIS GLITTERING OBJECT AND PROCLAIM ITS WORTH!”

The wording had the subtlety of a battering ram, but mercifully the meaning remained. Surely this would garner Anabeth’s attention.

Anabeth’s pen stalled, and the little notebook practically vibrated. “Oh!” she chirped, then squinted. “You’re right! Quite keen eyes you have, Ser! A most fascinating inclusion of blue veining! I must inspect it!”

She hopped like a startled hare and launched herself toward the glint. Her skirts fluttered academically as she sprang.

Perfect.

The Slime King, apparently affronted by the sudden absence of my throat in its immediate vicinity, hurled another glob. I dropped into a defensive posture.

[DEFENSIVE STANCE – Swordform: Guard (Level 2)]

Convert 10% of weapon ATK into END while in defensive stance. Durability loss of weapon +100% upon impact.

It splatted a hair’s breadth from my helm. I lurched sideways, armor plates clattering, and hit the ground shoulder-first. When I regained my footing, the creature still hadn’t closed enough distance to actually reach me. Ceralis stubbornly refused to reveal its DEX, but logic and experience told me something comfortable: this thing was glorious at being large, not graceful. It probably had lower DEX than a frantic squire on market day. I only needed to stall like a nobleman delaying tax reform.

“Behold!” I bellowed again as I began my most theatrical circling. “Saint Merin upholds me! Witness how I feint and parade and protect the sanctity of academic curiosity!”

The Slime King lunged; I stepped outside of its range, dragging a lazy, wholly unhelpful swing that made the monster commit instead of me.  Each time it tried an amorphous strike, I sidestepped, walked a neat arc, and made a sound like metal being given a lecture. I kept at it for another full minute, walking around in circles, barely losing any stamina.

Stamina: 69%

[Swordform: Guard: Progress to Level 3: 7%]

Hold on. Did I gain some skill progress by using that skill?

Anabeth’s triumphant voice carried across the chamber as she returned. “Look, Ser Henry! I have found five! Five distinct quartz specimens with potential aetheric inclusions!” She was waving them like trophies.

“Give it to me!” I shouted, far too fast, far too loud.

[AMPLIFYING VOCAL OUTPUT x5]

“GIVE IT TO ME!”

The echo crashed through the chamber like a cathedral bell. The slime even paused, possibly momentarily unsure whether to attack or kneel.

Anabeth was unfazed. “Oh! But you’re fighting so valiantly, Ser! I wouldn’t wish to intrude!”

‘My lady!’ I willed myself to say, regaining as much composure as a man with 69% stamina could muster. ‘This is part of your rock-related exercise! A test of your analytical precision!’

I said, “BEHOLD, MORTAL OF MARGINAL INK! AT THIS HOUR YOUR STRATAL SKILL SHALL BE TESTED! FAIL, AND LET HEAVEN’S LIGHT SCOURGE THIS PLACE!”

“How shall I be tested, Ser?” Anabeth asked.

“YOU, SCRIVENER OF STONE! DETERMINE WHICH OF THESE FIVE QUARTZ RESONATES MOST CLOSELY WITH MY AETHERIC PROFILE! ESTABLISH MY AFFINITY, OR ANSWER TO SAINT MERIN’S JUDGMENT!” By the Saints, yes! Ceralis kept all the important buzzwords: resonate, aetheric profile, affinity. Surely this made sense to her (hopefully; I still had no idea what aetheric profile meant).

The cavern swallowed the proclamation and spat it back with ecclesiastical reverb. Anabeth’s eyes went positively pearlescent. She clasped her hands, all giddy. “To assay your affinity! What an extraordinary privilege! Hold still, Sir Henry. I will determine your resonance at once!”

Anabeth scampered closer, five glittering fragments cradled like relics of divine scholarship. “Here, Ser Henry!” she called, breathless with delight. “Let us begin the resonance assay! But you might need to retreat to safety first.”

Perfect. Just what I needed.

The Slime King gurgled, stretched another dripping limb, and I—very nobly—took the opportunity to retreat three perfectly knightly paces backward.

‘Excellent!’ I boomed, which Ceralis decided meant, “YES! APPROACH THE CRUCIBLE OF FATE, LITTLE SCHOLAR!”

Anabeth, naturally, beamed.

She held up the first shard—a cloudy bit of quartz with faint blue threads running through it. “Now, Ser Henry, if you would but hold this—”

I held it.

[TASK RECEIVED: Polite Diplomacy I]

Objective: Practice basic social interaction without immediate escalation to shouting or divine judgment

Boon: +18 EXP

“USELESS!” I immediately threw the rock away. “GIVE ME ANOTHER!”

[TASK FAILED: You shouted]

“Of course! Perhaps this one will yield clearer resonance!” she said brightly, and without hesitation pressed another glittering fragment into my gauntleted palm.

The moment my fingers closed around it, the Slime King emitted a sound like a cathedral organ gargling its last hymn. Its bulk shuddered as it spat at me again.

[DEFENSIVE STANCE: Swordform: Guard] Activated

[-3 HP]

HP: 49/55

I wasn’t fast enough to successfully parry the spit earlier, leading to it hitting my pauldron. I was rather sure if I had successfully parried the strike, I could have stacked Basic Parry and Swordform: Guard to maybe lose 1 less HP.

The ground quaked under the impact as the creature surged forward once more. Anabeth stepped back, deceptively fast.

“BACK, WOMAN OF CRYSTAL OBSESSION!” I roared, raising my sword and pivoting away to draw the slime’s attention. “THY STATION IS AMONG STONES, NOT STOMACHS!”

To my reluctant satisfaction, the Slime King redirected all its malevolent jiggling toward me. I kept retreating in the slow, dignified circle I’d perfected: one step, dainty blade flourish for show, another step, a very convincing grunt. Each time the Slime King lunged, I moved an inch further away.

Stamina: 64%

The task-boon directive for the second quartz finally showed up. I prayed it would be something useful—

[TASK RECEIVED: Chivalric Etiquette I]

Objective: Escort your ally on a dignified social outing (acceptable venues: tea salon, garden promenade, or formal dinner)

Bonus Objective: Refrain from discussing combat, theology, or digestive fluids

Boon: +75 EXP

Penalty: -10 EXP if armor is visibly soiled

“WHAT KIND OF—” I bit down on the rest before Saint Merin smote me for profanity. Surely, surely Ceralis wasn’t asking me to court Anabeth in the middle of a dungeon?

“Lady Anabeth!” I managed, blocking a pseudopod the size of a cartwheel. “Would you perhaps—care for a leisurely luncheon once we are not—AH—DISSOLVING?”

[-7 HP]

HP: 42/55

Ah! Its STR of 41 is too much for me. Even with my armor, I’m still taking damage.

“What?” She called out.

I promptly threw the rock away. “PAY IT NO HEED. GIVE ME ANOTHER ROCK!”

Anabeth jogged over to a position where the slime didn’t obstruct her vision of me. “But, Ser Henry, I have yet to observe if your aether resonates with—”

“ANOTHER ROCK, WOMAN, BEFORE THE CREATURE INVENTS NEW FORMS OF DIGESTION!”

She gave a tiny, scandalized gasp and hurriedly selected a third crystal. “This one has a high silicate purity! It should be most informative!”

“EXCELLENT!” I bellowed, and took it as another glob splattered at my feet. “THROW IT MY WAY!”

She lobbed the crystal. I caught it against my breastplate, miraculously, without fumbling.

[TASK RECEIVED: Precision in Purpose I]

Objective: Locate the Slime King’s weak point and deliver a single accurate strike.

Hint: “Center does not always mean heart.”

Boon: Skill Unlocked — [Saint’s Precision, Level I]

Effect: Perform a precisely aimed attack dealing 150% of final ATK when targeting an enemy’s identified weak point.

This . . . this is great! I can do actual damage if I manage to hit the creature just right!

I stepped back until the slime’s next slow lurch barely brushed the toe of my boot. Distance was everything right now—a noble backward pirouette, a few artillery-worthy ululations at the creature for show, and the reassuring clack of my sabaton finding purchase on stone.

Stamina: 58%

Now, where was its weak point? “Center does not always mean heart,” the hint had said.

I looked for the obvious lies: the gleam of thinner membrane, a little offbeat wobble in the inner mass, places where the smaller slimes clustered like bad tattoos. Slimes are honest in the ways ridiculous things are honest: they bulge where they’re proud and quiver where they’re vulnerable. I respected that. I also intended to exploit it immediately.

I watched its surface pulse, counting beats until my head felt like a bell: one-two-three—one-two—there. The rhythm skewed at the lower-right arc of its bulk, where the sickly green shimmer thinned and a nest of parasitic slimes twitched with disproportionate enthusiasm.

I think I’d found it.