Nate exhaled a shaky breath as the embers died down around him. The moss-fire he'd lit with trembling fingers had finally reduced the acidic carcass of the Cave Slime to a smoldering patch of foul-smelling goo. His shirt had suffered—burnt and corroded from both acid and heat—but the old cloak he'd salvaged remained intact, draped over his shoulders like a mantle of survival.
His arm still stung from the minor burn, but in his heart, something stirred. A flicker of confidence. Not arrogance—he wasn't foolish—but the steady awareness that he could survive here. Maybe even thrive.
He wrapped the Slime Core carefully in some spare cloth, tucking it into the pouch at his waist. Then, using a strip of leather he'd scavenged earlier, he reinforced the worn hilt of his blade. A makeshift grip, but already it felt more secure.
"Alright," he muttered, rolling his shoulder with a wince. "Let's see what else this place wants to kill me with."
The cavern ahead twisted in on itself—narrow tunnels lit by the faint blue glow of lichen, dripping ceilings, and patches of ground that oozed with dampness. As he explored, Nate began noting patterns: the sounds of trickling water masking the shuffle of unseen creatures, certain rocks that seemed warmer than others, and walls with claw marks—or worse, bite marks.
About twenty minutes later, his slow advance came to a halt. Ahead, a clearing opened up—a wider chamber with a stone pedestal at the center. On top of it rested a half-buried chest, old and worn with age. But what caught Nate's attention wasn't the chest—it was the four Cave Slimes circling around it in perfect rhythm.
They moved like sentries. Round and round, as if performing a ritual. Occasionally, they pulsed, and a faint acidic hiss echoed each time one of them bumped too close to the chest's base.
"Strange," Nate whispered. "They're... guarding it?"
Nate crouched behind a cluster of jagged stones, eyes locked on the strange sight before him. Four cave slimes squelched around a half-buried chest, their gelatinous bodies glowing faintly green in the gloom. They weren't just wandering—they were circling. Like guardians.
Are they protecting it? Or feeding on something inside?
Each slime pulsed with slow, hypnotic rhythm, oozing around the chest with unnatural coordination. Their surfaces shimmered with acidic sheen, and occasional sparks flared as if something volatile churned within them.
Nate swallowed. A direct charge would be suicide. His sword was nearly useless—slashing only spread their bodies. And fire… that worked, but he had only so much moss left.
He ran a hand through his hair, scanning the chamber. A few damp stalagmites. A cluster of dry moss to the left. And overhead—some loose stones resting dangerously in a narrow crevice.
A plan formed.
"Let's hope you're flammable like your cousin," he muttered.
He crept left, inch by inch, using the cavern's uneven floor as cover. When he reached the moss patch, he gathered as much as he could, stuffing it into a torn strip of cloth from his burned shirt. The acrid scent still clung to it, stinging his nose.
With trembling hands, he lit a small ember using flint and steel, then tossed the flaming moss bundle toward the slimes.
Fwoosh.
It exploded into a flare of heat and smoke. Two slimes shrieked—an unearthly, gurgling noise—as they reared back. One caught fire, its membrane sizzling as it writhed violently, trying to smother the flames against the rocky floor.
Before the others could recover, Nate darted forward and hurled a stone upward into the crevice.
Crack.
The rock split. A shower of debris rained down. One slime was crushed outright, its core cracking in half beneath the jagged rubble. The others scattered in confusion, their patterns broken.
Nate didn't pause. He sprinted to the edge of the battlefield, scooped up a pointed shard, and hurled it with all his might.
Thunk.
Direct hit—right into the exposed core of the injured slime. It let out a high-pitched screech and collapsed into acidic mush, hissing as it dissolved into the ground.
Only one left.
It surged toward him, sensing vulnerability. Its gelatinous mass quivered, then launched itself in a terrifying arc.
Nate rolled aside at the last second, the slime splashing where he stood. The acid scorched the edge of his boot and singed a patch of his trousers.
Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the final bundle of moss, set it ablaze, and as the slime reformed, he shoved it directly into its center.
Boom.
The explosion of heat was immediate. The slime convulsed, flailing as it burned from the inside out. After a few agonizing seconds, it collapsed into twitching goo. Its core remained intact, glowing faintly.
Breathing heavily, Nate stumbled backward and stared at the carnage.
"Gods..." he muttered. "All that for one damn chest?"
Breathing hard, Nate stood among the bubbling remains.
He turned to the chest. Alone. Unmoving.
"Alright, mystery box," he muttered, approaching cautiously. "Let's see what you're hiding."
He brushed off the slime residue and placed his hand on the lid.
Nothing happened.
He lifted.
The mouth opened first.
Rows of jagged, blackened teeth. A wet, hissing growl. The top of the chest unhinged with a gurgling snap, revealing the mimic's maw.
"NOPE—!"
He dove back just in time as the mimic lunged, wooden frame twisting and snapping with unnatural flexibility. It skittered forward on warped pseudo-legs, dragging its chest-form behind it.
Nate barely had time to react. He hurled a fire bundle—it landed behind the mimic, doing little more than illuminating its grotesque silhouette.
"This thing's immune—" he gasped, rolling again as a toothy limb swiped at his legs.
But something did happen.
The mimic slipped slightly—right into the acid pool left by the slimes.
It screeched as its own body began to sizzle.
Nate's eyes widened.
"They weren't guarding the chest… They were trapping you."
The mimic flailed, partially melting. Nate saw his chance. He rushed forward and, with every bit of momentum he had, drove his sword into its eye.
A shriek. A crunch. Silence.
The mimic collapsed, twitching once.
Nate staggered back, coughing.
"…That was new."
He approached the carcass carefully. Inside its belly—where treasure should've been—were melted remains of other gear… but something had survived.
A small, jagged black shard. Smooth on one side, volcanic and porous on the other.
Next to it, a sticky yellow glob that had hardened on contact with air.
And a handful of metallic specks that shimmered with colorless brilliance.
He carefully collected them.
"I don't even know what half this stuff means," he muttered, rolling the ingot in his palm. "But I know I'm not throwing it away."
They felt too important to leave unprotected. Then he set to reinforcing the grip of his sword again—this time using threads peeled from the mimic's outer hide. It was disturbingly tough.
"Not pretty," he muttered, tying the last knot tight, "but at least it won't slip next time."
His sword, for all its imperfections, was beginning to feel… personal. Less a relic of survival, more a companion that evolved with each fight. Or maybe he was just losing his mind down here.