Nate groaned as he rolled onto his side, pain lancing through his ribs.
"Ugh… feels like I got hit by a cart."
He pushed himself upright, blinking slowly as his eyes adjusted to the soft glow of distant crystals embedded in the cave wall. His whole body ached—bruises bloomed across his arms, and his back was tight with soreness—but when he looked into the small pool of reflective water beside him, he saw something new in his eyes.
Determination.
He muttered to himself, "Still breathing… that's something."
Carefully, he reached into his pouch and retrieved the faintly pulsing core from yesterday's fight. It shimmered gently like a slow heartbeat. He studied it for a moment, lips tightening.
"I don't know what you are yet… but you're mine."
He wrapped it in a scrap of leather and tucked it back away. The last thing he needed was another core melting through his pack. He wasn't ready to use it yet. Not until he understood what it really did.
The room around him still smelled of scorched fur and blood. The fire had died sometime during his rest, leaving behind nothing but blackened bone and cold ashes. Nate pulled his cloak tighter—its fabric rough, worn, but still warm—and knelt near the fire's remains.
The shirt beneath it, however, was ruined.
The fabric was torn from claw marks, and the left sleeve had been seared by acid during the boss fight. He muttered a curse as he stripped it off, baring the red welt underneath.
His eyes drifted to his sword. The grip had loosened, blood from the rat fight still dried along the blade.
"Time for a little maintenance," he mumbled, pulling strips from his ruined shirt.
With deliberate hands, he wrapped the handle tighter, reinforcing the grip. It wasn't pretty, but it felt better—sturdier.
"Let's see how long you last this time," he said with a faint smirk.
Once his gear was secure, he slung his cloak over his shoulders and stepped into the next corridor.
It sloped downward—narrower, darker, veins of strange minerals glinting along the walls. The air smelled faintly of moisture and something... chemical.
He took one last glance at the corpse of the mutant rat, then turned his back to it and walked forward.
The tunnel wound tighter the deeper he went.
His boots crunched softly on stone, and every sound echoed like a whisper in a cathedral, interrupted only by the occasional drip of water from stalactites above. After an hour of cautious descent, the ground leveled out—he spotted something odd ahead.
A shimmer.
Liquid-like. Still.
Nate paused, narrowing his eyes. "Is that… water?"
He crouched, squinting at it. It was too glossy. Too deliberate.
The puddle wasn't water. It didn't reflect properly. And it moved slightly—as if breathing.
"…Slime?"
He crept closer, curiosity outweighing caution. It was translucent, pale blue with hints of green, its jelly-like mass gently wobbling in place. Strange lights pulsed within it, like flickers of a heartbeat.
"…You don't look so dangerous," he whispered.
He reached out with the tip of his sword and gave it a light prod.
The reaction was instant.
PFFFFT!
A jet of liquid hissed through the air, splashing across his chest.
"AH—damn it!"
Nate stumbled back, yanking his cloak off just in time to see steam rising from his shirt. He tore it away, eyes wide as the cloth disintegrated, revealing an angry red burn along his shoulder and chest.
His skin underneath burned—bright red, with small blisters forming.
"Okay," he hissed, backing up. "Not harmless. Definitely not harmless."
"Note to self: Don't poke mysterious goo!"
The slime didn't chase. It just sat there, pulsing.
Mocking him.
Nate gritted his teeth. "Okay, okay. You wanna play that way?"
He circled cautiously, then lashed out with his blade. It sliced through cleanly… and the slime split apart, only to wobble back into shape.No damage. No blood.
Slashing wouldn't work.
"Figures," he muttered. "Can't cut jelly."
He backed away, pacing. "Think, Nate. What hates goo? What hurts it…"
Then he remembered the dried moss he'd seen in earlier chambers. The stuff that burned with a blue flame when tossed in the firepit.
A grin touched his lips.
"Time for some marshmallow justice."
He doubled back and collected moss from the walls, stuffing handfuls into a cloth pouch. Back at the slime, he stacked a pile of bone shards and fur from the rat room, then struck his flint against stone.
Sparks flew. Smoke curled. And then—fire.
As the flames grew, he dipped a bundle of moss in old lantern oil and held it over the fire until it caught.
"Let's see how you like this, puddle-brain."
He hurled it.
WHOOSH!
The flame splashed across the slime, which convulsed instantly—its membrane rippling in agony. No sound, but the reaction was clear.
"Oh yeah," Nate said, a flicker of satisfaction in his voice. "Fire bad, huh?"
He tossed another. Then a third. Each one scorched more of the creature until it finally collapsed into a bubbling mess.
Panting, Nate stepped forward cautiously, keeping a burning moss clump in hand.
What remained of the slime quivered once—and then stilled.
At its center, nestled like a pearl inside a broken shell, was a core.
He knelt and picked it up using a cloth scrap, turning it over in the firelight.
"Another one… smaller, but still glowing. Not bad."
Then the burn on his shoulder throbbed, sharp and hot.
He winced. "Okay, yeah—very bad."
He poured a few drops of water from his flask onto the wound and hissed through gritted teeth. "This place is trying to kill me in a hundred creative ways."
He bound the burn with the cleanest cloth he had left, wincing every time it brushed raw skin. As he worked, he muttered to himself.
"No healing ingredients. No helpful tools. Just pain and whatever moss I can set on fire."
When he finally sat down, exhausted, he dug into his pack and pulled out the battered half-map he'd taken from the dead adventurer .
His eyes scanned the worn parchment.
"Symbols... spiral for the rats… ripple for the slime…"
He touched the ripple. Just beneath it was a crude sketch—flames etched next to the blob.
"Ohhh… that's what that meant," he murmured. "It was a hint…"
He grabbed a piece of charcoal from his pouch and began scribbling new notes in the margins.
Slime: Resistant to slashing. Weak to fire. Avoid direct contact—acidic.
He paused, tapping the map with the charcoal's end.
"Maybe this thing's more than a trophy. Could be my survival guide."
He added another note:
Burn moss with oil for flame bombs. Find more.
Then, he drew a small symbol of a fire next to his own notes and smiled faintly.
"Not bad, Nate. Not bad at all."
It was understanding.
Mastery, one enemy at a time.
He leaned back against the wall, exhaling.
"Okay. Rest's over. Let's keep moving."