Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Beneath a summer night sky brushed in lavender and heat, two moons hovered close together like sisters whispering secrets. One glowed a gentle red— soft and wine-colored like distant firelight— while the other shimmered green, faintly phosphorescent and haloed in pearly mist. 

The stars freckled the velvet darkness in a scattered sprawl, some flickering like distant lanterns, others steady as glass beads on a black velvet cloth. 

The air hummed with residual warmth from the day; fragrant with dry grass, campfire smoke, and the sweet bite of blooming nocturnal lilies.

Nestled within the frontier hills, the village of Riverwood lay half-asleep behind its walls— a humble scatter of thatched rooftops and oil-lit windows protected by a ring of vertically stacked logs ten feet high. 

At the village’s only gate, two men of the local militia stood in post beside a crude sign that read “No Entry After Sundown.” 

Their armor was neither intimidating nor complete: patchy sets of leather plates over simple linen shirts, scuffed boots, and helmets that looked more like upside-down cooking pots than actual protection. 

They clutched their repeaters more like bored shepherds than vigilant sentries.

"Man, I swear, Marvin," said one of them, squinting toward the horizon as if he might spot a roast pig wandering in from the hills. “Soon as I clock out, I'm hittin' Chilly’s tavern for some baby back ribs. Real sticky ones. You ever had ‘em with that smoked pear glaze? Makes your eyes roll back like you’re bein’ baptized.”

His companion, shorter and perpetually pinched-looking, blinked slowly. “Brooklyn, it’s past midnight. Chilly’s is closed.”

Brooklyn froze like a man who had just realized he’d left his bath running three towns back. “... Son of a—! Damnit! Really? Aw, c’mon, why didn’t nobody tell me? I got myself all worked up, man! I even skipped my second snack for this…” He vented, before muttering a string of half-hearted curses under his breath, and then beginning to click his tongue as he aimed his repeater into the distant trees— pretending to fire imaginary rounds. 

“Pew, pew! Pow-pow! Oof— headshot. You see that, Marv? Took out that tree like a champ.”

The stout man in question proceeded to raise an unimpressed brow at the other man. “… Are you really playing make-believe with your gun right now?”

Brooklyn, still peering down the iron sights, shook his head. “Nuh-uh. I’m performin’ tactical drills— there’s a big difference.”

Marvin let out a long sigh just as Brooklyn’s jaw slackened mid-‘pew.’ His repeater then slowly lowered, as his eyes widened— becoming fixated on something slinking from the tree line.

Emerging from the underbrush like a fantasy misplaced from a bard's erotic ballad, came a goblin girl. 

She was small with vivid green skin that shimmered faintly under the twin moons. Her long black hair draped past her waist in gentle waves, and her figure— plump, and naturally voluptuous— shifted with every exaggerated sway of her hips.

She wore nothing but a makeshift bra stitched from leather and twine, and a pair of matching panties so skimpy that barely concealed her thick patch of pubic hair that was sticking out. 

Her expression was one of exaggerated flirtation— lips puckered in a kiss, eyes half-lidded with cartoonish allure.

Brooklyn suddenly slapped his friend’s arm like he’d just spotted a celebrity. “D-Dude. Dude. DUDE!!! Goblin girl. Hot goblin girl. Over there. She’s makin’ goo-goo eyes at me, bro. She winkin’!”

“… A hot goblin girl?” Marvin echoed, while squinting back at him— visible skepticism on his face. “… You’re messing with me, right?”

“No, no-no! I swear on my cousin’s used wagon title, I ain’t bullshitin’ you, bro! Just go grab the scope and take a gander for yourself!”

With another groan, Marvin trudged over to the shared gear sack slouched near the gate, rummaging until he pulled out the brass telescope. “If this is just you screwing with me again—”

“— I’m not! I’m not! Hurry up, before she runs off into the sexy mist or somethin’!”

Grumbling, Marvin slung his repeater across his back and raised the scope— extending it with a metallic click. He lined it up, adjusting the angle. 

Then his mouth opened wordlessly.

On the other end of the lens, the goblin girl had stopped by a stone, blowing kisses directly toward him— her eyes gleamed with mischief. With one crooked finger, she curled it toward herself— beckoning him forward like a green-skinned temptress at a costume party.

Brooklyn leaned in close. “You see her, Marv?”

Marvin nodded slowly— jaw slack.

Brooklyn grinned. “I’ll take that as a ‘Hell yeaaaah!’”

With a sudden movement, Marvin tossed the telescope to the ground and straightened up. “I-I gotta go talk to her!”

Brooklyn stuck out his arm across Marvin’s chest, stopping him mid-step. “Whoa, whoa, whoa— what do you think you’re doin’?”

Marvin blinked. “What do you mean what am I doing? I’m going to say hello to her.”

“Not with a fuckin’ gun you’re not!”

“Huh?” Marvin looked down. “Oh… Right,” he murmured, as he tugged awkwardly at the leather strap over his chest— glancing back at the goblin like a high schooler debating whether to bring flowers or just wing it. “… Yeah, I guess an armed guy rushing a half-naked lady in the middle of a secluded field would be a… Bad look.”

“Gee, ya think?” Brooklyn said, deadpan.

Marvin then looked back at him— visibly a little lost. “So... What do we do?”

Brooklyn scoffed. “‘We’? What’s with this ‘we’ business? You think this is a buddy system now?”

“Well, yeah,” Marvin muttered. “I figured we’d both go say hi.”

Brooklyn cackled. “So what, we just… Walk up there, and run a train on that fat green-ass real quic—”

“— N-NO!!!” Marvin protested, as he immediately turned red in the ears. “I-I just th-thought— we could just introduce ourselves!”

Brooklyn laughed aloud, before reaching up with one finger to wipe a pretend tear from his eye. “Oh, yeah, that’s what she wants: small talk! Look at her, Marv. You think someone wearin’ that at midnight is just lookin’ for lip service? That girl came out here to play!”

Marvin tilted his head. “Okay, so what are you gonna do then?”

“I’m gonna leave my repeater right here by the gate,” Brooklyn said, puffing his chest. “And I’m gonna go over there and spit some fire while you stand here and keep watch.”

Marvin frowned. “Why?”

Brooklyn stared at him like he’d asked if water was wet. “Because in case she’s bait, someone’s gotta stand guard.”

“… So why can’t I go while you keep watch?”

Brooklyn bristled. “Dude, c’mon— she totally wants me.”

“Yeah, but… What if she wants me more?” Marvin retorted— crossing his arms.

A pause.

Brooklyn licked his lips, then muttered, “I’m just sayin’, statistically speakin’, between the two of us, I’m the hotter guy.”

“E-Excuse me!?”

“Look, buddy, you can have yourself some sloppy seconds when I’m done plowin’ her,” Brooklyn grinned, “Let me soften her up for ya, so she’ll be more open to it.”

That was the final straw, as the two launched into a flurry of light punches and shoves— hurling petty insults.

“You couldn’t soften your way out of a paper bag!”

“At least I don’t smell like cheap cologne!”

“You’re just mad ‘cause I got a better mustache!”

“Oh, you wanna go, pal?!”

They barely noticed the creeping rustle of grass between their squabbles, nor did they hear the soft padding of footsteps in a full circle around them.

When they finally did stop bickering, both men froze— they were no longer alone.

Encircling them, armed with spears and crude bows, stood at least a dozen goblins— short, stout, and wearing handmade armor from stitched bark and copper scraps. Each one had their weapons trained on the two idiots in the center.

The voluptuous goblin girl strolled forward from the shadows, that same cocky smile plastered across her face. In one hand, she twirled a long coil of rope like a practiced rancher.

Brooklyn stared at the rope, then the goblins, then back to her. “Ohhh boy… Marv, I don’t think we’ll be the ones doin’ the plowin’ tonight.”

“J-Just sh-shut up,” Marvin hissed as the goblin girl stepped up— reaching for their arms.

Brooklyn gulped. “Y-Yup… This is definitely not the kind of tying up I was hoping for.”

The silence of Riverwood shattered with a thunderous ‘CRACK’ as the village’s front gate, previously locked and considered “good enough” security by the local council, splintered open like soggy bread under a boot. 

A deluge of chaos spilled in, led not by warhorses or monsters, but by goblins mounted atop shaggy, wide-eyed donkeys— donkeys who screamed as if they were in a war. Their hooves kicked up dry dirt as their riders cackled and brandished everything from rusty pitchforks to bent fireplace pokers.

“YAAAAAHH!!! MAKE WAY, YE BALD-HEADED MILK SUCKERS!!!” Hollered a green-skinned goblin in mismatched boots— her long red hair flying as she waved a garden rake over her head like it was a sacred relic. 

Her donkey slammed straight into a stunned militia guard who barely had time to lift his wooden shield before being bucked into a nearby cabbage cart.

The rest of the guards scrambled; most of them still buttoning their tunics or trying to remember where they left their swords. 

One let out a startled yelp as a donkey plowed into him, knocking him flat before licking his face. 

Another guard attempted to sound the emergency horn— only for a goblin to leap from her donkey and swat it out of his hands with a frying pan.

“Boys, we’re havin’ COCK stew tonight!” One shouted, grabbing the man’s pants and yanking them down before pushing him into a rain barrel.

The goblins continued to pour in like an uncoordinated tidal wave— many of them yelling nonsense or war-cries that sounded suspiciously like unintelligible words. 

Some were armed with bows whose arrows had feathered ends made from molted chicken fluff. Others held clubs carved from broken chair legs or unbent fireplace pokers.

A few of the goblins had no weapons at all— just bags to loot and powerful calves for sprinting.

“Oi! Wake up, ya cunts! It’s plunderin’ time!”

They began banging on windows, scraping their claws against shutters, and tossing pebbles at rooftops. Inside the houses, panic brewed. Lights flickered to life behind curtains as villagers peeked out in horror and immediately dove back behind furniture.

“Barricade the doors!”

“They’re ridin’ donkeys!”

“What the hell is that green one doin’ with my sundress?!”

A large, muscle-bound goblin woman kicked over a flowerpot before cupping her hands around her mouth. “Oi! Any handsome boys in this dump? Mama’s lookin’ for a good time, and I’ve got me some bloody low standards!”

She licked her lips and winked toward a terrified teenager, who immediately locked himself inside a doghouse.

Nearby, a gang of goblins went to work. 

They lassoed cows, pigs, and even a stunned chicken that simply accepted its fate and sat in the cart. Stolen wagons were loaded with hoes, rakes, half-filled barrels, scarecrows, sacks of onions, and more than one confused goat. 

A pair of goblins broke into a shed and came out moments later riding a pushcart full of moldy cheese and someone’s wedding tuxedo.

“I got it! I got the loot!” Shouted one, before immediately getting smacked in the face by a wind-blown clothesline.

Inside one garden, a goblin girl tried shoving an entire pumpkin into her satchel. “Damn thing’s bigger’n me hips! Don’t care, it’s comin’!”

Elsewhere, a trio of goblins, having discovered a stash of paints and brushes, were busily defacing the side of the tavern.

“Oi, paint me like one’a yer fancy elvish girls,” said one, posing with a tankard in hand as the others scrawled lewd graffiti beside a stick figure with a suspiciously large rear end.

Inside the tavern, however, the situation escalated.

“This’n smells like me ex-husband!” Shouted one goblin, who was cradling a smoked ham like it was a newborn.

“Oi! Someone open this cask- wait, this ain’t ale, it’s... P-Pickles?!”

Their joy was short-lived, as from the shadows emerged a chef— red-faced, ladle in hand— and perched upon his shoulder, a small rat with an apron and a cleaver strapped to its back.

The rat squeaked once, then leapt. 

Chaos erupted.

Screams and tomato sauce splattered the walls as the rat and chef tag-teamed their way through the pantry. One goblin tried to fend them off with a stolen baguette. Another tripped and face-planted into a pot of lentils.

Emerging from the tavern’s cellar, several goblins sprinted out onto the streets— shrieking joyously with crates of liquor. One goblin stumbled over herself but managed to save her loot.

“DRINK FOR THE WILD!!! PISS FOR THE REST!!!”

Then came the dogs.

Someone released the village hounds— shaggy mutts, bred more for companionship than combat, but who took personal offense at being robbed. 

The moment their paws hit the ground, they were off, snarling and barking, chasing goblins up trees, over fences, and through hedges. A few goblins tried to beat them off with sticks, only to get tackled into barrels or bitten into submission.

Yet, despite the setbacks, the goblins kept at it with infectious glee.

Meanwhile, at one particularly stubborn cottage, a group of goblins shrieked in gleeful menace outside the door, rattling the handle and pounding the shutters.

“Oi, open up! We just wanna say hullo!” One female goblin cackled.

Then— BANG!!!

The door exploded open and a grizzled old man in his nightshirt stepped out, wielding a twin-barrel boomstick with murder in his eyes.

“… Git.”

The goblins in front of him froze mid-cackle.

“… Oh shite.”

They soon scattered like roaches, as he fired a warning shot into the air. He immediately gave chase— still in socks, with his beard flapping wildly. “I’ll rip and tear you all a new asshole, I will! Come back here and get your just desserts, you little thieving piles of SHIT!!!”

It might have gone on longer— had a thirty-pound cheese wheel not chosen that exact moment to roll down from the village hill, bouncing once before plowing into the man and the goblins alike. 

They all went down in a tangled heap of yells, limbs, and lactose.

Back near the village square, a group of goblin girls stalked toward the bakery, peeking in the window.

“He’s kinda cute in a doughy sorta way,” whispered one, pointing at the baker who was cowering beneath his counter. “Bet he’d look real good covered in MY icin’!”

They giggled, with one pressed her padded breasts up against the glass— letting her long tongue roll out past her bottom lip, as she grinned deviously. “C’mere, muffin boy— I got sugar you ain’t even heard of in me own ‘cups’!”

She was promptly sprayed in the face with a flour bag through the mail slot.

The invasion was a masterclass in chaotic ineptitude and gleeful vandalism. Milk jugs were emptied for no reason. Someone replaced a weather vane with a sock puppet, while one lone scarecrow was crowned the new mayor. Goblins climbed roofs just to toss shingles at each other like Frisbees.

Eventually, the ransacking tide funneled toward a quiet home at the far end of the village— a little cottage tucked behind a row of hedges, with smoke gently puffing from the chimney and soft lamplight glowing behind its windows.

The walls creaked faintly with every sharp slam of a goblin’s club, and the windows rattled in their frames beneath the echo of jeering voices just beyond the barricades. 

From the narrow slats of boarded shutters, a pair of wary auburn-brown eyes tracked the swarm outside— Vivianne crouched low, one palm pressed against the worn wood of the windowsill as her gaze flitted between shapes moving in the moonlight. Lanterns overturned in the street across from her front yard cast long, jerking shadows that danced like ghosts across her floor.

A crooked face smushed against the glass just inches from hers— a yellow-eyed goblin with rotting teeth and a wooden spoon in one hand, which he waggled threateningly in her direction.

Vivianne didn’t flinch, but her breath caught in her throat as another arrowhead tapped softly against the window frame— mockingly, rhythmically, like a child rapping on a fish tank. 

A trio of goblins raised their bows, laughing as they mimed firing— the strings left slack to emphasize the game they were playing.

“Yeh watchin’, girlie?” One sneered through a gap in the shutters. “Ain’t no prince comin’ fer ye!”

She groaned under her breath, shifting just enough to drop the curtain between them. Her hand trembled slightly as she pinched the fabric closed— heart pounding even as her expression remained tight with restrained scorn. 

Then came the hooting, the howling, and the crude chants in their slurred, singsong voices— each syllable bouncing off the walls like wine spilled across a white cloth.

“Go on, Moira! Show ‘er how we say ‘hello’!”

Vivianne blinked, confusion cutting through her dread for half a second— then watched with a grimace of dawning horror as one of the female goblins strutted into view; her short, plump form egged on by the raucous cheers of the others. 

She paused just outside the broken gate, facing the cottage with hands on her hips and a lewd grin spreading from ear to ear.

“Y’wanna peek, ya stuck-up bitch?!” The goblin woman yelled with relish.

Then, in a motion so vulgar it seemed deliberately theatrical, she hoisted her ragged tunic up over her head— baring her green-skinned breasts and shaking it mockingly in the candlelight. The mob exploded into cheer, shrieking and whooping and stamping their feet in delight.

Vivianne recoiled, face wrinkling in utter disgust. “Oh, gods,” she muttered, averting her gaze as she turned her back to the window— pulling the curtain fully shut with a sharp tug. “You filthy little beasts...”

The cheering only grew louder in response, mixed with high-pitched cackling as the goblin woman took it a step further— pressing her surprisingly endowed tits directly against the window, and smearing them obscenely with sweat and leaving streaks behind as she shimmied against the glass.

The door rattled violently.

“Wot’s wrong, then, ye prissy lil cunt?” One of the goblins called from outside, while slapping the wood with the flat of a blade. “Too dainty to party?”

Another voice chimed in, “She’s afeared, lads! Tuck yer tails— she’s shutterin’ like a lamb in a wolf’s den!”

Then came the sharp ‘crack’ of a rock smashing through one of the side windows. Glass sprayed across the floor— shards tinkling across the rug. 

The goblins howled in triumph, thumping the walls with clubs and fists, trying to jar them loose with brute noise alone.

Vivianne’s composure slipped.

She backed away, biting down hard on her trembling lip as she turned toward the center of the room. Her footfalls were quiet but fast, near frantic, as she made her way to the living room hearth. 

Kneeling swiftly, she pressed a palm against the aged wooden floor and felt around for the familiar groove near the edge of the rug. Her fingers found it— smooth, worn from use— and she hesitated only a moment before lifting the corner of the rug and brushing it aside.

Behind her, the muffled noise of something prying at the barricaded front window made her heart stop. 

Her breath hitched, as she cautiously turned her head over her shoulder.

A single wooden board had been wedged outward by just an inch— just enough for a long, clawed hand to snake its way inside.

Vivianne tensed, reaching for the fire iron beside her—

But the goblin didn’t reach for the lock.

Instead, he raised one stubby finger— and promptly flipped her off.

She blinked in stunned disbelief.

Then, without a word, the goblin adjusted the curtain from inside— fussing with the edge until it fell neatly into place once again— before slipping his arm back out through the gap and vanishing with a satisfied giggle.

Vivianne exhaled slowly, incredulously, a bitter edge curling the corners of her mouth as she muttered, “Degenerates…”

But the momentary absurdity passed like a breeze through brittle leaves.

With the wall of noise rising again— the pounding fists, the lewd songs, the shattered glass crunching under boots— Vivianne returned to the panel in the floor. Her hands hovered over the seam as she swallowed hard. The lump in her throat felt solid now, like a stone lodged behind her ribs.

She knocked gently— once, twice, then again— her voice low and tight.

“Ren...?” She whispered. “Ren, are you alright...?”

Silence.

Only the jeering of goblins and the relentless pounding of the front door.

She leaned down fully, pressing her cheek against the floor— lips brushing the grainy wood.

“Ren,” she said again, a little louder. “P-Please… Please— answer me…”

Nothing.

Her voice trembled, barely audible over the growing racket outside.

“Ren,” she begged, voice cracking, “S-Say something...”

No reply.

Only her own panicked breath against the dusty wood, and the faint moan of wind leaking in through broken glass.

“I… I-I’m opening it,” she whispered at last, more to herself than to him. “I’m opening it now, okay…? Don’t be scared…”

She scanned the room one last time— half-expecting one of those laughing little monsters to burst through the window and grab her by the hair. 

When nothing happened, she reached forward quickly, hooking her fingers beneath the hidden seam and lifting the floorboard.

Her breath caught as she tilted the panel up.

The space beneath was empty.

For a full second, she didn’t move— eyes wide, lips parted in silent shock.

Then she reached in with one arm, frantically feeling along the interior; pushing her hand through dust and old splinters in hopes of finding some hidden compartment, some crevice, some impossible little hole where he could’ve hidden himself.

But there was nothing.

Not even the faintest trace of warmth.

Vivianne sat frozen— knees on the floor, one hand still buried in the hollow beneath the cottage, the other pressed against her chest as her breathing quickened. 

The color drained from her face, her limbs turned cold, and her vision blurred faintly as the sounds around her dulled into a distant, muffled ringing.

The pounding on the walls might as well have been thunder on a faraway plain.

The jeering and taunts became formless noise, the laughter echoing in her skull like cruel bells.

Vivianne couldn’t move.

The floorboard slipped from her grip and dropped with a hollow ‘thud.’

And there, in the stillness between heartbeats, the first shudder broke from her lungs— and with it, the rising edge of a panic that had waited too long to erupt.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

The cottage’s backyard was quieter than the rest of the village— a lull in the storm, where the chorus of goblin cackles faded to murmurs behind the weathered walls of Vivianne’s home. 

Beyond the tangled trellis of vines climbing up their picket fence, a handful of goblins clawed greedily at the soil1- yanking up fistfuls of root vegetables with wild delight.

Each tug brought forth another clump of earth-drenched carrots or sun-bleached potatoes, which were unceremoniously tossed into a wobbling wooden wagon— its cracked wheels creaking beneath the growing weight of stolen produce and a rusted shovel dangling from the side.

The barn loomed at the edge of the field like an old sentinel. Its roof sagged in places, patched with moss-covered slats and bristling straw tufts that peeked out like the hair of a weary veteran. Ivy curled thick along the corners, and rust streaked the wrought hinges of its wide doors— left ajar just enough to catch the moonlight. 

Twin lunar orbs hung high in the night sky, pouring a pale silver glow through the gaps between weather-worn boards and slanted rafters. Inside, shadows stretched long across the hay-dusted floor, as quiet and still as breath held in the dark.

Whatever livestock had once called it home had long since been hauled off, the straw trampled and streaked with drag marks. 

Saddles were overturned, and empty harness hooks swayed slightly in the draft. Tools too large to pocket had been left behind, and most of the more obvious plunder— lanterns, rope, sacks of grain— had already been snatched by the less discerning hands of earlier raiders.

But not all goblins were fools with clubs and crude pitchforks.

Near the back, beneath a narrow window smeared with dirt and cobwebs, an old carpenter’s bench had been dragged partially into the moonlight. The bench was cluttered with scraps of stripped hinges, a jar of bent nails, and the disassembled remnants of wooden braces. 

Seated on the edge of a battered stool, one goblin worked with a quiet intensity that was wholly unlike his kin’s usual chaos.

A soft ‘clink’ echoed through the barn as he carefully twisted the last screw from the iron base of a broken lantern. His fingers— nimble and surprisingly clean— moved with practiced ease; gently freeing the inner coil of copper wire, before flicking it into a growing pile at his side. 

The bench held an assortment of these forgotten treasures: teeth of brass, strips of hammered tin, old lock tumblers, and bits of steel pulled from the underpinnings of broken hinges.

He didn’t waste time with things that looked valuable. He was after what was valuable.

The inner skeletons. The hidden veins of useful metal in old farm tools, yokes, and lanterns that even the sharper goblins missed in their frenzy.

A shattered hay-turner lay cracked open on the bench— its axle now exposed. He popped out the bronze bushings with the end of a flat chisel; examining each piece, before brushing the dust from it with the corner of his sleeve and setting it neatly on the growing stash.

His hips swayed slightly with the rhythm of his work— a subtle cadence in the shifting of his legs as he leaned forward. The hem of his leggings had snagged on a splinter; leaving one knee bare to the air, while a gleam of red thread danced at the cuff like a tiny flag. 

A length of his ink-black hair spilled forward over his shoulder; catching the silver light and shimmering faintly as he squinted at a rusted bucket handle he was prying loose.

He hummed as he worked— a soft, breezy tune that lilted in time with the scraping and picking of his tools. The melody didn’t belong to any bardic ballad or marching song. It was lazy and mischievous, like something half-remembered from a drunken tavern lullaby. 

Every so often, he muttered to himself, or clicked his tongue when a stubborn bolt refused to yield.

“Aye, come off it, y’daft little thing,” he whispered sweetly to a jammed hinge as he tapped it with the butt of a tiny hammer. “Ain’t no use bein’ coy…”

When the hinge finally came free, a sharp-tooth grin spread seamlessly across his darkened lips.

With a flick of his wrist, he scooped the loosened bracket into a small cloth pouch nestled between coils of wire and glinting scrap. Then he leaned back, wiping sweat and soot from his brow with the back of his hand— leaving another smudge across his cheekbone.

From a leather tool bag at his side, stitched with mismatched threads and decorated with dangling rings and a broken compass, he drew out a thin-bladed screwdriver and went to work on the rusted hinges of a collapsed gate that had been stashed beneath the bench.

The metal squealed faintly beneath his touch—years of rust giving way to the methodical twist of his wrist. Copper shavings caught in the grain of the wood beneath him— pooling like glints of treasure around his knees. He clicked his tongue at a stubborn screw, and leaned closer; lips pursed, humming softly as he coaxed it loose.

Then his ear twitched.

A faint creak.

It was barely audible over the wind whispering through the upper rafters, but something about it didn’t sit right— too deliberate, too heavy.

His body stiffened, his back straightening. One long-fingered hand hovered over his tools, while the other subtly curled toward his belt. His dusky green face tilted upward slightly; jaw tense, breath held.

The sound didn’t come again.

A long moment passed.

Then he shifted— feigning ease. His shoulders dropped; he sank back into his lazy slouch, letting out a soft, drawn-out sigh as if whatever it was had passed. “Just the old bones o’ the barn settlin’,” he murmured under his breath— giving a half-smile to no one. “Or maybe a fat rat’s had too much cheese…”

Another minute passed. Nothing moved.

He glanced over his shoulder, more out of idle curiosity than concern—

And saw the pale blur of motion descending toward him, the glint of something sharp catching the moonlight.

His eyes widened. “Oi, s-shite—!”

He then immediately dove from the stool.

Straw scattered around him in a golden spray as he rolled through the hay-covered floor, narrowly avoiding the boy’s blade.

He caught himself on one knee; twisting just in time to see the young attacker land hard atop the workbench— tools and metal bits crashing and flying in all directions. The boy barely paused, his ash-colored hair wild, dusty-rose eyes sharp, and knife already drawn back as he leapt again.

The goblin spun wide. He stepped aside, raising his foot to deliver a swift kick—

But the boy was faster.

Steel swung low, catching the leather of his corset, and slicing just deep enough to part the straps near his hip. The blade grazed his plump thigh— a shallow cut that still stung like fire.

“Ahh—! Y-Ye little prick—!” He howled, while stumbling back. His shallow wound throbbed as he backed away— panic setting in.

He tried to center himself, to reclaim that sly poise— but his confidence faltered as he leapt backward again, only to misjudge the angle and clip the edge of an overturned barrel with the side of his boot.

He tumbled awkwardly; hitting the floor with a sharp grunt as the boy rushed again— blade raised high.

His hand shot toward the dagger at his belt, instinct guiding him. But his fingers hesitated.

‘A kid,’ his mind hissed. ‘He’s just a damn kid—’

The hesitation cost him.

He had to twist his torso hard— the knife narrowly missing his ribs.

He landed on all fours, breathing hard, with the boy already turning for another strike. He then rolled— fast and desperate— hay clinging to his clothes and hair.

He hit his back with a thud, skidding slightly—just in time for the boy to leap after him again, knife poised like a predator’s claw.

“Oi, wait— WAIT!!!” He yelped.

He brought his legs up just in time to catch the boy at the waist— hooking his boots behind the boy’s back in a makeshift grapple. 

They crashed together in the straw, with the tip of the blade nearly cutting into his shoulder before being yanked away.

The goblin growled, teeth bared— not in cruelty, but in effort— as he grabbed at the boy’s wrist; struggling against the wiry strength of someone fueled by raw, terrified fury.

“Dammit! Let go, ya squirmy little—!” He snarled— breathless— as the knife trembled between them.

He twisted hard— their bodies straining against each other in the scuffle. The knife tumbled free at last— skittering across the floorboards and out of reach.

The boy lunged for it. But the goblin was faster now.

“No ya don’t!”

In one clean motion, he wrapped his thighs tight around the boy’s midsection and twisted— flipping the youth onto his back with a breathless thump. 

Straw scattered around them in the air once more, as he straddled the boy’s hips and grabbed both wrists, slamming them gently— but firmly— above the boy’s head.

The boy bucked beneath him, kicking and shouting, but the goblin tightened his hold— panting hard through his small nose. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, hair clinging to his cheek.

“Oi, oi— easy now,” he panted, his tone laced with a teasing husk despite the ache in his leg and the sting of panic still clinging to his gut. “Ain’t ya just a little firecracker?!”

The boy continued to thrash, but his arms were pinned, and the goblin’s weight was enough to hold him steady for the moment.

“Oi! L-Listen, lad,” he said through gritted teeth— shifting slightly to better control his flailing hips; doing his best to ignore the ashen-haired boy’s unintentional thrusting motions against his plush rump. “I-I dunno who stuck a blade in yer hand an’ told ye I was the bad guy— alright, maybe I am a bit of a bad guy— but I ain’t about to skewer a child. So how ‘bout ye calm yet tits, and we both breathe a bit, yeah?”

The boy didn’t answer. His eyes blazed with hatred, breath ragged from the effort.

Sweat clung to the goblin’s green brow as he stared warily past his cascading hair to keep his eyes in the ashen-haired boy’s— perspiration trailing from beneath the soot-streaked fringe of his black bangs, and slipping down his temples, across his cheekbones, then further still— cutting quiet paths over the curve of his bare collarbone, between the lines of his soft chest, and lastly along the supple length of his back where it soaked into the edges of his corset.

A few droplets dripped down from the ends of his long bangs— falling in lazy arcs until they splattered against the boy’s face below. Each time, the ashen-haired youth flinched, blinking hard as if the moisture itself were enough to stoke the embers of his fury all over again.

The goblin sniffed, eyes narrowing with something between reluctant curiosity and mild pity as he studied the boy’s expression. “Yer real mad, huh?” He muttered, with his voice husky with the weight of effort and something not quite amusement. “Tch... Figures.”

He shifted his weight, glancing toward the scattered tools still clinking on the barn floor behind him. There was a pause—a flicker of something almost reflective in his amber eyes as his tone turned quiet, less teasing now. “I s’pose I can’t really blame ye. If someone was Jackson’ my shite, I’d probably be right steamed too.”

“… Why?” The word cut through the thick barn air like a cracked bell— low, sharp, and trembling at the edges.

The goblin blinked down at him. “Mhm?”

“Why’re you doing this?” The boy snapped— his voice still restrained but boiling with heat. His dusty-rose eyes, veiled behind streaks of soot-colored bangs, locked with the goblin’s in a way that made his stomach twist. “What did we do to deserve it?”

That question struck with more weight than the blade had managed to. The goblin’s lips pressed into a thin line. He looked away for a moment, jaw working, brow furrowing slightly beneath the glint of a dangling ear cuff.

The silence stretched, then broke as he inhaled slowly through his nose— exhaled as though from somewhere deeper. Then, lifting his gaze to meet the boy’s again, he lessened his grip from around the boy’s wrists gently. “Look… Ye got it all wrong, lad. We’re not here to hurt ye. Or yer— whoever’s in that cottage. That’s not the point of this.”

The boy didn’t say anything, but his expression tightened, disbelief prickling behind his eyes.

“All the shoutin’, the scare tactics, the tossin’ around of rocks and scuffin’ the walls— it’s theatre,” the goblin admitted— lips tugging into a humorless smirk. “Make enough noise, and folks won’t dare fight back. Makes it easier to slip in, slip out. No blood. No need fer funerals.”

“… You’re lying,” the boy accused, his voice flat but his jaw clenched.

The goblin chortled, low and almost pitying. “Lyin’, eh? Look— I’m a lot o’ things. Thief. Ruffian. Bootlegger.” He began ticking them off an invisible list. “A fair actor, if I say so meself. I even dabble in a bit of drag now and then too.”

The boy squinted at him in confusion. “… Dragging what?”

“Not the point,” the goblin muttered. “Point is— I’m plenty things, but a liar? Nah. Actually—well... that might be a lie, too, come t’ think of it.” He clicked his tongue. “But I ain’t lyin’ now. Not to ye. And I ain’t plannin’ on hurtin’ ye. Or yer mum.”

“… She’s my sister,” the boy deadpanned.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever— her,” the goblin said, waving it off, though his smirk faltered. “Still not plannin’ on hurtin’ either o’ ye.”

“… How do if you’re lying?” the boy asked sharply— the words stiff and bristling with the need for clarity.

The goblin echoed it absently, “How d’ye know I’m not—” before freezing, with a flicker of clarity igniting behind his eyes. “Oh! Right! How’s this— why don’t ye come with me? I’ll take ye to yer cottage meself. Let ye see with yer own eyes that no one touched a hair on yer mum’s precious little head—”

“— I just told you that she’s my sister,” the boy repeated flatly.

“Right, right, yer sister. Sure.” The goblin rolled his eyes. “Her.”

The boy hesitated, visibly suspicious. A single drop of sweat hit his forehead, and he winced again. “… How do I know that’s not a trap?”

The goblin scoffed. “T-Trap?!” He snorted, then shrugged his shoulder with exaggerated ease. “If I wanted to kidnap ye, or stick steel in yer ribs, I’d have done it by now.” He reasoned, before nodding toward the dagger still strapped to the side of his thigh. “I mean, it’s right there. Not exactly hidden, is it?”

The boy remained silent, weighing the goblin’s words. He looked toward the collapsed bench, toward the tools scattered tools and metals around the floorboards, and then back at him again.

“… But are you still going to steal from us?” The boy finally asked— resentment simmering behind his calm voice.

The goblin flinched as though struck. His shoulders sagged slightly. “Aye... we are. ‘Course we are. Raid’s a raid, theatrics or not.” He admires, before trying for a silver lining. “But we’re not bustin’ into homes, right? Just takin’ what’s out in the open. Shops. Storage sheds. A few stray crates. Yer pantries’ll still be stocked, and the lot of ye can grow more before the frost comes in.”

“But what you’re doing is still wrong.”

“… A-Aye, it is,” the goblin admitted, wincing as he scratched behind his pointed ear. “Lad… If things were different, we wouldn’t have to steal from... From ye ‘Civians.’”

The word hung heavy in the air, foreign and wet like rain-damp bark.

“… Civians?”

The goblin didn’t explain— opting to shake his head, as the ashen-haired boy opened his mouth to speak once more.

“… What would it take for you to stop stealing?” He pressed, with his tone growing sharper again.

The goblin let out a long groan, rolling his eyes. “A bloody miracle, that’s what. We’re so far in debt, that it’d take the gods themselves playin’ favorites.”

“Oh… Can you at least leave our stuff alone?” The boy asked, while feeling confused by the response.

The goblin then opened his own mouth to say no, but stumbled over the word, before finally closing it again. He tilted his head, as he squinted slightly at the ashen-haired boy. “… What’s yer name, lad?”

The boy hesitated, then straightened with sudden defiance. “… Goblin Slayer.”

The goblin blinked, then burst into restrained laughter. “No it ain’t.”

“… How do you know it’s not?” The boy challenged.

“Because no sane mother names her kid ‘Goblin Slayer,’” he said, pointing at himself. “Just like my mum didn’t name me ‘Human Slayer,’ ‘cause it’d be daft if she did. It doesn’t even bloody sound cool.”

The barn went still, before the goblin suddenly chuckled again.

“Still— ye almost earned it,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen knife lying nearby. “Didn’t think a human brat like ye could put up a scrap like that.”

“… That’s because I’m Goblin Slayer,” the boy insisted— monotone and stubborn.

The goblin rolled his eyes. “Alright, sure— ‘Goblin Slayer,’” he said dryly. “C’mon, let’s get ye back to yer mum—”

“— Sister.”

“— Whatever!” the goblin snapped, groaning. “I’m takin’ ye home, end of discussion; so don’t try anything stupid.”

Cautiously, the goblin eased off the boy— standing up with a faint grunt, while anticipating that he’d make an immediate break for the kitchen knife. But when the boy didn’t move, the goblin took a step back— giving him space, and becoming uncertain upon realizing that he wasn’t getting up. “Oi? Up with ye. We’re the same size, so I ain’t like I can carry ye.”

“… I’m not moving,” the boy finally replied, as he crossed his arms defiantly over his chest.

The goblin exhaled hard through his nose. “And why, pray tell?”

“I’m going to cooperate with you,” the boy said evenly. “Not unless you leave our stuff alone.”

Hearing the sudden demand, the goblin dragged his hands over his face and muttered something under his breath. “How do ye even know that word— ‘cooperate..?!’” He sighed, before snapping his fingers. “Look… We got a quota to keep, alright? And it’s not like I’ve got all night to keep on with this bullshite.”

“I don’t care,” Goblin Slayer snapped, using the goblin’s own words against him. “Agree to my terms and conditions, and then maybe we’ll get somewhere.”

The goblin’s brows twitched. He narrowed his eyes. “‘Terms and conditions’—?” He repeated under his breath, as he clenched his fists and stomped once. “Fine! I’ll just leave ye here then!”

“If you do that, I’ll just start going door to door,” Goblin Slayer threatened calmly, “I’ll tell everyone that you and the other goblins all bark and no bite— that you’re just pretending to be an actual threat.”

Upon registering that, the goblin immediately froze, while Goblin Slayer met his stare with continued defiance.

“Isn’t that what you said?” he added. “It’s all for show, right?”

The goblin opened his mouth, lost the words, and instead broke into a small tantrum of his own— kicking straw as he stormed a circle around the boy.

Goblin Slayer watched him carefully— one eye on the kitchen knife.

Eventually, the goblin stopped. He then glared down at him, then muttered, “F-Fine…! We’ll leave yer bloody trinkets alone— ye little blackmailin’ bastard…!”

“And I’ll need to see them putting what they stole back for myself,” the boy added.

“Tch…! Y-Yer annoyin’,” the goblin growled, while beginning to limp over to where the knife had landed. He bent over to picked it up before turning to him— waving it lazily. “I’m keepin’ this. And the copper and steel. I ain’t walkin’ outta here empty-handed, ye little arsehole.”

Goblin Slayer eyed the busted tools across the barn floor and quietly muttered, “That’s… Fine…”

Not seeking to further argue with the ashen-haired boy, the goblin huffed as he limped over to the workbench— snagging his worn satchel and setting it down on top of it. “Give me a minute to slap some ointment on me thigh and gather me shite.”

Goblin Slayer didn’t respond. He instead leaned up into a sitting position; lowering his crossed arms as he watched the goblin closely through narrowed eyes narrowed— preparing for what came next.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

The barn doors creaked lazily on their hinges as Vikarrek stepped out beneath their weather-warped frame— his gait careful, lips pressed into an uncharacteristically tight line. His thigh throbbed beneath the makeshift bandage, and though the pain wasn’t unbearable, it did little to improve his mood. 

Outside, a small cluster of goblins were in the middle of securing a rickety wagon piled high with baskets of vegetables, sacks of grain, and a few glinting odds and ends that likely didn’t belong to them.

A pair of goats and a tired-looking cow were lazily tethered to the front of the cart; chewing cud like they’d been drafted into this scheme before and didn’t expect it to end any differently.

One of the goblins, a lanky one with a cracked tooth and knobby ears, waved as he spotted him. “Oi, Vikarrek! Ye good?”

Several others turned at the name; their work stalling as their eyes fell on his stiff gait and the dark stain around the cloth on his leg.

A shorter goblin girl with thick braids narrowed her eyes. “Ye cut yourself? What’d ye do, fall on a pitchfork?”

“Better not’ve been on somethin’ rusty,” added another, who dropped the sack he was carrying onto the end of the packed wagon. “We don’t got anything for tetanus, Vik.”

Vikarrek gave a slow blink, then flashed a crooked smile— sarcastic and dry. “Don’t worry,” he said, with his voice laced with bitter charm. “The knife was spotless. Sparkly, even. Bloody pristine, really; I couldn’t’ve asked for a cleaner blade to get sliced with.”

That made the group go still.

Brows rose. Mouths parted. A silence stretched long enough for the cow to let out a disinterested moo.

Then, as if conjured by the weight of that pause, the ashen-haired boy stepped out from the barn behind him— his pace even, his expression unreadable save for the lingering scowl that clung to his small face.

He glanced toward the goblins with sharp, dusty-rose eyes that didn’t shy away from their stares— meeting their gaze head-on like he was the one demanding answers.

A wave of unease rippled through the group.

A goblin girl swallowed visibly. “Uh… Vik? What’s with the… Lad?”

The murmurs built slowly at first— bewildered whispers among themselves— but quickly devolved into attempts at posturing. “What’s goin’ on, Vik?” One asked with a forced bark of a laugh. “Ye drag out a human brat to show ‘im what happens when ye mess with goblins?!”

Another threw out a jeer that didn’t carry quite enough conviction. “H-Hey kid! You lose yer common sense, or was it all o’ yer brains?!”

Their voices clashed awkwardly as they tried to sound rowdy— tried to scrape together whatever menace they thought they should be feeling.

But the boy just raised his voice— calm, unflinching. “You’re only pretending to be scary,” he said, tone matter-of-fact. “So that no one tries to fight back.”

The air collapsed into stillness.

The goblins stared, dumbfounded. Then slowly, all their eyes pivoted to Vikarrek.

He looked like someone who’d just been handed an entire kitchen’s worth of dishes to wash with one hand. He opened his mouth to speak— paused— and gave a defeated exhale through his nose before casting a brief glance at the side of the boy’s head, then back to his group.

“There’s… Been a change of plans,” he called out, while raising his voice just enough for the others near the garden and around the back fence to hear. “We’re movin’ on.”

A beat. Then he added, louder, “I told the lad we’d leave him and his shite alone.”

It took only half a second for the group to erupt.

“W… Wait— what?!”

“D-Did ye hit ye noggin’ Vik?!”

“What about the tribute?!”

Vikarrek then lifted an arm and waved it like he was trying to swat away a flock of crows. “Oi! Shut it!” He snapped, before reaching up with the other hand to run his fingers through his damp bangs— brushing them out of his eyes. He then let out a reluctant sigh before looking back at them— less exasperated now, more tired. “Just… Just do what I say, alright? I’ll tell ye lot later what happened…”

His shoulders sank slightly as he added, “Besides… We’ve got enough for the tribute, and for ourselves, least for the rest of the month…”

There was something raw in his tone. Not just irritation— worry. Maybe even fear. And the way the goblins exchanged glances, the way they hesitated before silently moving to unfasten the livestock and unload the produce— it wasn’t out of reluctance.

It was out of concern.

Goblin Slayer noticed, and for a moment, he just watched. They weren’t behaving like monsters. Not the way he’d always been told.

Not the way he expected.

Vikarrek, meanwhile, had gone quiet— eyes distant, lips moving as if counting under his breath. His fingers tapped the outer flap of his tool satchel, where Goblin Slayer had seen him stuff the copper and steel earlier.

The boy spoke up. “… What tribute?”

Vikarrek blinked, before slowly looking up at him with an unreadable expression on his face— grime-smeared and bruised, yet still somehow strangely delicate.

His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something— but instead, he looked away and gave his head a brisk shake.

“D… Don’t worry about it,” he muttered. “Let’s just… Get you back inside with your mu—” He caught himself. “— I mean, ‘sister.’”

Goblin Slayer gave him a sideways glance. There was no sarcasm in it— just a quiet kind of skepticism.

Confusion, even.

They then proceeded to start walking side by side— passing through the backyard garden. The remaining goblins began returning the livestock to the barn, along with whatever else they could carry from the wagon that they too were leaving behind— casting wary looks behind them, their silence heavy and uncomfortable.

More than once, the boy caught sight of the same expression on their faces— dread.

Vikarrek’s words didn’t seem so hollow anymore.

Ahead of them, the shouting from the front gate carried faintly— ugly laughter, banging fists on the cobblestone wall, voices shrill with taunts. The boy frowned.

“I’ll get ‘em to shut their traps before we sod off,” Vikarrek muttered before Goblin Slayer could speak. The goblin then glanced sideways without turning his head— catching the boy’s dusty-rose eyes.

There was a flicker of something soft in the boy’s face. His mouth relaxed— just a little.

Vikarrek offered a fleeting, warm smile in return.

“Let’s focus on gettin’ you back inside first,” he said aloud, before turning his attention to the backyard entrance to the cottage. “Did ye go in through here earlier? Or was there another way?”

Goblin Slayer nodded. “Most of the windows and all of the doors are boarded up from the inside. Except for one.”

The goblin raised a brow. “Yeah? Which one?”

The boy hesitated, before giving a short breath and turned— walking around the cottage. “Follow me.”

They soon reached the northern side of the home, where a small, horizontal window sat about eight feet off the ground, barely wide enough for a child to squeeze through.

Vikarrek squinted up at it. “Is that to the lav?”

“Yes.”

A dry chuckle escaped the goblin’s throat. “Lucky for ye we weren’t actually tryin’ to break into yer house…” He mused, before trailing off as his eyes kept towards the window. “… Though, even if we were, I doubt any of us would’ve volunteered to go head-first into a place where someone’s waitin’ with a hammer or axe.”

“I actually thought about doing that,” the boy admitted flatly. “But I figured that would take too much time— time I didn’t think I had. So, I figured I go out and hunt you all down. One at a time.”

Vikarrek gave him a wide-eyed look. “… You’re a bloody psychopath,” he muttered, before shaking off the shudder he felt crawling up his sweaty back. “Anyway… How were ye plannin’ to get back inside?”

“I told myself that I’d figure it out— eventually.”

Vikarrek rolled his eyes, but there was a faint huff of amusement there. “Whatever,” he grumbled, before stepping forward. He then ran his hands along the cottage wall— testing the uneven stone. After a moment, he turned his head and called over his shoulder. “I’ll give ye a boost. Make sure to balance yerself out with the wall.”

Goblin Slayer blinked with visible confusion across his face. “… Didn’t you say earlier that you couldn’t carry me?”

“Yer right— I did,” Vikarrek replied, while already squatting. “Doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t bloody have a go at it though.” He argued with some levity in his voice, before gestured forward with a nod. “Now hop on before I change me mind.”

There was a pause as Goblin Slayer let out a reluctant sigh before stepping forward— carefully climbing up onto Vikarrek’s shoulders. The goblin’s hands gripped his calves, and a strained grunt escaped him as he began to rise.

The boy pressed his palms against the cottage wall— balancing as he reached for the window. The pear-shaped goblin staggered slightly— his knees shaking beneath the added weight, with a new wave of sweat breaking across his brow.

Then, just as the boy popped the window open, his boot slipped.

A heel clipped Vikarrek’s nose hard enough to make him yelp. Blood spattered as he stumbled backward with a ragged groan and flopped onto the grass, dazed.

The boy didn’t look back— he vaulted through the narrow window in one clean motion; arms pressed tight to his sides, as his upper half disappeared inside with a faint grunt.

The wood-paneled wall was cold against the ashen-haired boy’s hands as he gripped its grooves; headfirst, and angled like a chimney sweep sneaking into his own home.

After repositioning himself upright, the soles of his boots felt around for purchase— the tips of his footwear finding their way against the subtle ledges in the wood grain as he lowered himself steadily— inch by careful inch— down toward the ceramic bathtub below. 

When his heel finally touched porcelain, he exhaled through his nose and let the rest of his body ease into the tub with a soft thump and a tiny grunt.

He lingered there for a beat, the night air still catching the nape of his neck through the open window above. Reaching up, he balanced himself on the tub’s edge; fingers brushing the rusted latch of the window before he gently began to close it. But he paused.

Footsteps— presumably Vikarrek’s own.

They were moving away from the house now—toward the front. And then, just as abruptly, the chorus of goblin jeers and drum-fisted taunts that had battered the front of their home like a hailstorm suddenly stopped.

His hand lingered on the windowpane. A breath fogged the glass as he listened— uncertain whether to be relieved or more afraid. Either Vikarrek had been good on his word— or something else had silenced them.

Still crouched on the rim of the bathtub, Goblin Slayer turned his head toward the door. The candlelight from the hallway beyond seeped in through its crooked opening— drawing thin gold lines across the tiles.

For a moment, he just sat in the shadow of it, his small chest slowly rising and falling, trying to digest what had happened, but his gaze soon drifted downward, and caught something off.

There, just beyond the basin’s edge, the cupboard beneath the sink hung wide open— its twin doors yawning like the mouth of a slumbering beast.

The ashen-haired boy frowned. “… I didn’t leave that open,” he muttered under his breath.

He then dropped down from the bathtub, before cautiously padding across the tile floor, and toward the cabinet.

He knelt to inspect it.

Inside, the contents were scattered— bars of handmade soap, corked jars of shampoo infused with rosemary, bundles of cloth, and a few rolls of rough paper stuffed into a basket. Some had rolled to the floor, while the faint perfume of lavender and cherry blossoms lingered.

His stomach tightened.

“Vi…”

His breath hitched, as his dusty-rose eyes widened.

It was then in his panicked state that he heard the sound of rustling fabric shifting somewhere deeper in the house.

The goblin’s promise echoed faintly in his memory, and for a flickering instant, he damned himself for entertaining even a sliver of trust in it.

Pushing his worst fears into the furthest recess possible, the ashen-haired boy then began inching closer toward the opened door.

The hallway stretched ahead of him like a tunnel— dim, narrow, and quiet. He moved away from the kitchen and living room, with his steps muffled by the hallway rug. 

The floor creaked just once beneath him— prompting him to crouch slightly and move lower to minimize the sound. Every instinct he had screamed to call out her name, yet he refrained.

The rustling came again— softer, but unmistakable.

Through the cracked door of his bedroom at the far end of the hall, golden light flickered. He crept closer, past the faded family portrait, past the vase with the cracked stem that Vivianne insisted on keeping.

He poked his head in, ready to confront a goblin.

Instead, what he saw kneeling before his closet was his none other than his older sister.

She was digging through it; moving quickly but quietly, with her face barely illuminated by the lantern she was holding in her left hand. Her free hand flitted from drawer to drawer— pulling out shirts, tunics, pants.

Toys were scattered like small casualties across the floor— his favorite figurines and even his treasured wooden sword lay discarded by the foot of the bed.

“H-Hey!” He suddenly blurted before he could stop himself— confusion and frustration bleeding into his voice. “I don’t go into your room and throw everything around when you’re not in it!”

She suddenly jerked around so fast the lantern she held nearly toppled from her grasp.

“R-Ren…?!” She gasped, while the glow of the lantern lit up her face— and it stole the breath right out of his lungs.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy— cheeks streaked with drying tears. Her lips trembled before she set the lantern carefully on his drawer. And then she was on him.

“Vi— wait, I—”

But her arms engulfed him— pulling his smaller frame into her plush breasts. She held him too tight— trembling— with one hand cupped around the back of his head, and the other still holding the lantern behind his back.

“W-Where were you…?!” She whispered shakily. “I-I was looking everywhere inside for—”

“Vi—!” He squirmed, with his eyes bulging. “I-I can’t breathe—!”

Realization struck her like a slap.

She then let him go, stepping back in a rush, both hands still on his shoulders as her eyes darted frantically across his face, his clothes,and  his arms.

“I’m sorry, I— I’m just— a-are you hurt?”

“No, no… No, I’m fine,” he said, drawing a long, grateful breath and trying to smile. “Really… I’m fine, Vi.”

But when his gaze flicked to the mess she’d made, his smile faded once more.

“I… I know I shouldn’t have left the hiding spot like that,” he said, with his voice growing quieter. “I wanted to tell you. I did. I just… Couldn’t.”

Vivianne blinked. Slowly, confusion darkened into something sterner. Her brows pulled down— jaw tightening.

“… W-Why though?” She asked, with her tender voice cracking. “Ren… Where were you? I-I thought they took you… I thought—”

“— I left while you were boarding the windows,” he suddenly admitted— his voice brittle. “I took the kitchen knife so I could kill the goblins… So I could save you.”

She froze. Her mouth opened. Shut. Then, sharply, “Ren,” she said— this time with restrained anger. “Y-You— how could you—”

“— I thought I could do it,” he said quickly. “I thought I was ready—”

“— This isn’t like your stories!” She snapped— her voice breaking despite her control. “You could have died! And I wouldn’t have known! I wouldn’t have even found you!”

“I know, I know,” he said, raising his hands in a placating gesture— trying to calm her. “But everything’s okay now— I promise.”

She stared at him as though he’d grown a second head.

“‘Okay?’” She repeated. “How is any of this ‘okay?!’”

“Well—” he paused, while tilting his head. “Are you gonna get mad if I tell you what happened?”

“I’m already mad,” she replied flatly, while crossing her arms over her ample chest. “Just tell me.”

“Okay, so… I was gonna pick ‘em off one by one— starting with the easiest one. That’s when I saw this goblin— who I thought was a girl, and I’m still not sure if she is or not— stealing copper and stuff from the barn.”

Vivianne blinked slowly. “... What?”

“Never mind that,” he said, while waving a hand. “Point is, I tried to sneak attack her— uh, him— but I missed. We got in a fight, and, well… I lost. He pinned me down.”

Her breath caught, as she lowered herself to her knees in front of him— her hands gripping his shoulders tightly.

“Did… Did they do something to you?” She asked— voice low, and trembling.

Goblin Slayer blinked at her. “… Yes, I just said we fought.”

“T-That’s not what I mean,” she stated, before uncomfortably gesturing vaguely at his groin. “Did they… Touch you down there? Did he— she—whatever—”

“— Oh.” The boy’s eyes widened slightly in realization. “N-No. He just kinda… Got sweat on me while he was on top. That’s it.”

Vivianne let out a half-sob, half-laugh of bitter relief, bowing her head as her grip loosened.

“Ah… S-So what happened then?” She asked, while still not quite looking up.

“We started talking. And it turns out their tribe’s just pretending to be terrifying, so that way we’re scared enough not to fight back.”

Vivianne’s mouth opened, and then closed. She sat back on her heels— trying to make sense of it all.

“But he didn’t— he really didn’t try—”

“— No, Vi. He didn’t touch me like that.”

“Thank the gods…” She exhaled deeply.

“That’s not important anyway. What is important is that I made them leave our house alone,” he added proudly.

She blinked. “… How?”

“I said I’d tell everyone in the village they weren’t actually dangerous, if they didn’t agree to leave our valuables and us alone. After that, I think they left.”

“Ren,” Vivianne muttered with a disapproving tone. “If you were really were attempting to coarse them, then that could’ve gone terribly for you.”

“I know,” he admitted. “But it worked.”

“So you say,” she murmured— more so to herself, as she still felt unable to fully grasp the concept that her little brother could have pulled such a stunt off by himself. “… What about our livestock? Did they take them?”

“Nope. I made sure to watch them putting the Buttercup and the goats back in the barn while Vikarrek was walking me back,” he said.

“Vik— who?”

“Vikarrek. That’s the name of the pretty goblin I tried stabbing.”

Vivianne stared. “… You think he’s pretty?”

He shrugged. “Well, I mean… If you saw him for yourself, Vi, then you’d think so too.”

There was a long pause. Vivianne’s brow furrowed— startled, possibly a little impressed.

“… How’d you even get outside?”

“Through the lavatory window. Same way I came back in. Vikarrek helped boost me up.”

That gave her pause. She stared at him again; torn between disbelief and grudging admiration

“… Well,” she muttered, standing and readjusting the lantern. “We should see if it really is safe… Stay behind me.”

Together, they crept through the hallway, their footsteps barely audible against the old rug.

Vivianne moved toward the front of the house; the flickering lantern casting wild shadows on the boarded walls. She soon approached the window with the curtain drawn with Goblin Slayer at a safe distance behind her— the broken window’s previously bottom plank pried still letting the wind to slip through.

She hesitated as she drew in a shaky breath, before reaching up and pulled the curtain aside.

Moonlight spilled in through the narrow gap and into her brown eyes, as she peeked outside.

No goblins. No movement. Only the rustle of the trees, and the chirp of distant crickets.

Nothing.

Vivianne stared for a moment longer. Her chest rose, and then slowly sank.

“I told you,” Goblin Slayer said, while beaming faintly. “Everything’s okay now.”

She then turned to him slowly— letting out a breath that trembled with fatigue and fading fear.

“… Maybe so,” she whispered. “But I think it’d be best for the both of us stay up— just to be sure.”

“That’s fine,” the boy nodded, before suddenly perking up. “Does that mean I can read while we wait?”

She blinked— surprised by the innocence of it. Then smiled, weakly. “Yes… Yes you can.”

“Great! Can you make tea too?”

“Ren— walk, don’t run—”

But he was already rushing toward his room.

She shook her head with a tired exhale. “You’ll trip and crack your skull…”

She then moved to the corner table beside the door— placing the lantern down carefully. Opening the drawer, she pulled out a small box of matches and struck one.

A gentle flame hissed to life.

One by one, she lit the candles around the kitchen and living room, until the cottage glowed softly again.

Vivianne then made her way to the hearth, with the plank of wood that had been pried off in hand. She then tossed it in with the rest before kneeling down where the box of kindling was beside the hearth’s brick foundation. She then scattered the dry bark and straw beneath the logs, lit another match, and held it there.

A few heartbeats passed.

Then warmth.

The flame spread slowly, casting flickering light across her face. She closed her eyes and leaned back, a long, shaky breath escaping her chest.

For now, the worst had passed.

Her brother was alive. They were together.

For tonight, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The morning after the goblin raid, Riverwood was quieter than usual— eerily so, as though the village itself were holding its breath. 

The barricades had come down, replaced by grim faces and weary silence as the townsfolk surveyed the remnants of what once felt safe. Homes that had stood for generations now bore scorch marks and broken beams; gardens once lush with summer vegetables had been trampled into muddy ruin.

But no building had suffered so spectacularly— nor so dramatically— as Chilly’s Tavern.

Where once warmth and bread and slightly overpriced ale flowed freely, the tavern now stood with its windows shattered and its chimney collapsed in a heap. 

Chef Lasagna, still wearing his soot-smudged apron and flour-dusted boots, had been the last to leave the kitchen. He had faced the goblins like a true culinary knight, standing his ground as they kicked down the doors, wielding a bread peel like a shield and bellowing threats while tossing half-baked loaves like grenades. 

But his bravery did little to save his career.

The moment the rat was spotted— perched nobly atop the olive barrel like a lookout with flour on its whiskers— the owner, a portly man with a comb-over and a phobia of health inspectors, had fired Lasagna on the spot. 

The revelation of rodent companionship was all the trustees needed. By midday, the Village Elder had ordered the tavern’s closure “until further notice or divine intervention,” citing sanitation and infestation.

With one less tavern and nothing left but whatever hadn’t been stolen or scorched in the night, Riverwood’s people turned their gaze inward— toward answers, toward blame, toward those charged with protecting them.

And so, with the sun rose reluctantly through streaks of gray, as the villagers gathered inside the old stone church at the hill’s crown.

The chapel bore the marks of the night just passed. Though most of the glass had been swept from the floor and the pews had been set upright again, stubborn stains still clung to the flagstones beneath the altar. 

Some windows had been boarded up in haste, letting in strips of light through crooked slats. Where once sacred art adorned the stonework, faded outlines remained— reminders of pieces stolen or defaced. The great tapestry of the Supreme God— once proud and regal behind the pulpit— was simply gone.

Candles lined the walls and hung low from the chandelier above, their flickering flames casting warm, uneasy shadows across the anxious faces below. Every pew was filled; men and women shoulder to shoulder, whispering, murmuring, fidgeting. 

Fresh wounds aired while fingers were being pointed— murmurs rising like smoke.

Vivianne sat near the front, still and composed, but her face betrayed her discomfort. Her hands lay clasped atop her lap, fingers pale with pressure, and her gaze stayed forward— refusing to meet the slow crawl of side-eyes that brushed against her.

Behind the pulpit stood the Village Elder himself, robes slightly wrinkled— expression taut with exhaustion and irritation. He cleared his throat, raised his gavel, and brought it down on the oak podium with a practiced thwack.

“Alright, everybody shut up.”

The echoes rang over the congregation, as the murmurs slowly faded.

“We’re not here to stoke outrage. This isn’t the gallows. We’re here instead to get the story, all of it, from start to finish, so we can proceed with sense and not… Whatever the hell last night was.”

He let the silence hang for a beat before nodding grimly.

“I know we’ve all lost something. Livestock. Property. Dignity. But we’ll get through this. Riverwood always has.” He declared, before banging the gavel once more. “Let’s start at the beginning. Guards. Front and center.”

From the back pew, two men exchanged a long, dreadful glance. Brooklyn adjusted the collar of his ill-fitting militia coat, mouthing, “I got this,” with the gravity of a man who had never gotten anything in his life.

His friend Marvin paled.

Together, they rose, boots clunking along the aisle until they stood beside the Elder at the podium.

“You two were assigned to guard the main gate last night,” the Elder said, his tone hardening. “The goblins breached that gate at approximately midnight. That’s two hours into your shift. What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Marvin inhaled sharply and opened his mouth.

But Brooklyn raised a hand. “With all due respect, Marv’s a great guy, but I’ll take this one.”

Marvin’s mustached lips closed with a faint pop.

Brooklyn stepped forward, clearing his throat as he addressed the room.

“The militia’s top priority is the safety of this village. We all know that. We live that. And last night’s breach? That wasn’t some… Random lapse in judgment.” He stated, before looking around the room— his voice rising. “It was a setup.”

A wave of murmurs.

The Elder squinted. “What are you insinuating, Mr. Guy?”

“I’m saying, Elder,” Brooklyn said, turning, arms wide, “we were lured. We heard the cries of a baby. A baby. Out there in the woods— cryin’ as any sensible baby would.”

The Elder blinked. “… A baby?”

“Yes, sir,” Brooklyn said, nodding solemnly. “And as men of duty, we had to respond. It’s in the handbook. Section eight, article twelve— ‘duty to protect crying infants.’ You can look it up.”

The Elder did not, in fact, look it up.

Brooklyn leaned in, lowering his voice for drama. “Now, for a tactic like that, you’d need… A baby.” He said, before turning toward the crowd; his arm slowly rising, finger drifting like a dowsing rod until it landed in the general direction of the front pew.

Vivianne’s gaze hardened.

“… You can’t be serious,” she said quietly.

Brooklyn arched an eyebrow. “Ah? You see that? She knew I was pointin’ at her before I said anything. Now, how would she know that… Unless she’s GUILTYYYY?!?”

The crowd gasped.

Vivianne buried her face in her hand.

“She’s got something to hide,” Brooklyn shouted. “Who else would you trust with your babies, other than our village’s very own TEACHER?!?”

The crowd stirred again, jeers rising.

“Isn’t it funny,” he continued, “how she’s the only one whose livestock is still alive? Her garden— untouched. Her linens— still hangin’ on the line!”

Vivianne stood suddenly, fire in her eyes. “But I already gave my harvest to you!” She shouted, motioning at the crowd. “To all of you! What possible reason would I have—”

“— Order!” the Elder barked, gavel pounding. “Order, order—”

“— She made a deal!” Brooklyn shouted. “She cut a deal with the goblins! Promised them a cut of whatever they could fence from the rest of us!”

“Enough!” The Elder roared, smacking the gavel down so hard that the head flew off and clattered against the podium. “... Well, would you look at that.”

“I… I-I’ve got it,” Marvin mumbled, before ducking down and picking up the gavel head.

“Thank you,” the Elder muttered, before taking it back and screwing it on as if none of that had happened.

He turned to Vivianne, who still stood, chest heaving, eyes swimming with shock.

“Ms. Ashta,” he began with a weighty breath, “while the notion that you lured two grown men away from their post with an acquired baby is… Far-fetched, there is one concern. Out of all the properties in Riverwood, yours sustained the least damage.”

She looked at him, stunned. “You can’t be suggesting—”

“— Your cottage did show wayward signs of minor vandalism,” he said. “But as Mr. Guy has said: your outside valuables were mostly all spared . And we’d all like to know why.”

Vivianne turned to the crowd, desperation rising in her voice. “You know why! I already told you—”

“— Because your little brother,” Brooklyn cut in, “miraculously managed to blackmail a gang of goblins into leavin’ you both alone.” He sassed, before turning back to the Elder, deadpan. “Isn’t that the biggest load of horseshit you’ve ever heard?”

“Language,” the Elder snapped. “And yes, it is hard to believe that a child managed to outwit violent criminals with… What? Blackmail?”

Vivianne nodded slowly. “I-I know how it sounds— I understand. But it’s the truth.”

“Then tell me,” he said. “What information did your brother have on them?”

Vivianne faltered. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her eyes dropped to the floorboards.

Brooklyn’s smile curled.

“Well?”

She swallowed. “I... I can’t say.”

Brooklyn barked a laugh. “HA!!! You can’t say because it didn’t happen.” He accused, before jabbing a finger toward the ceiling. “Or maybe… She can’t say because she’s workin’ with the goblins!”

The crowd erupted.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!” the Elder snapped, gaveling wildly. “Just— stop talking! All of you! Gods, you’re morons!”

Brooklyn turned to Marvin, before winking at him. “Told you I got this, buddy…”

Vivianne turned back to the Elder, her face stricken.

The Elder sighed. “Well… Since you can’t explain the preferential treatment, and have not offered any proof to disprove Mr. Guy’s accusations, we must act in the interests of the whole.”

He squared his shoulders. “Vivianne Ashta. For your safety, for the betterment of Riverwood and under due authority, I hereby order you and your brother into exile. You will relinquish your livestock to the village. Your property shall be sold to fund repairs.”

She froze, before her body suddenly trembled.

“B-But I’m the only teacher this village has,” she whispered. “Where are my brother and I even supposed to go…?!”

Brooklyn shrugged. “Sounds like a you problem, toots.”

“Mr. Guy,” the Elder hissed, “shut your goddamn mouth.”

Marvin shuddered, as the weight in his chest grew unbearable. He looked at Vivianne— frightened, humiliated— and something in him snapped.

“I-I have a spare house— it’s not in Riverwood,” he blurted. “They can have it.”

The whole room turned.

Brooklyn’s mouth fell open. “B-Buddy?! What the hell are you doin’?!”

Marvin muttered back, “I’m not letting Jeffy’s teacher become homeless.”

“Better her than us, pal,” Brooklyn whispered.

“S-Shut up,” Marvin hissed, before stepping forward.

“Marvin, wait—” Brooklyn groaned. “But that’s OUR hang out place!”

Ignoring his friend’s protests, Marvin stood before the Elder— looking him in the eye, before declaring, “I’m prepared to transfer the property to Vivianne and her brother.”

The Elder blinked. “Why this sudden act of generosity?”

“She’s been teaching my son since he was eleven. I owe her that much. We all do.”

The Elder nodded slowly, then turned to Vivianne.

“Well then, Ms. Ashta… Do you accept Mr. Wilfred’s offer?”

Three days after the sentencing, the sky had become quilted with clouds that looked like brushed silk; thin enough to let slivers of blue peek through, but thick enough to promise a day without rain. 

Sunlight filtered in at angles, soft and diffused, casting a golden sheen over the dirt road that led westward from Riverwood’s parting gates. The road was drier than expected, dotted with tracks left behind by carts, horseshoes, and boots of travelers long gone. Grass sprouted along its edges, waving lightly in the breeze, and the air was tinged with the scent of spring dust and distant lilac.

Vivianne wore a simple indigo dress that swayed with each step she took— the fabric wrinkled from packing but clean and well cared for. Her shawl hung over her shoulders, wrapped more for comfort than warmth. Beside her, Goblin Slayer walked in sturdy boots, a white tunic with long blue sleeves clinging to his small frame, and gray trousers patched near the knees. 

A duffle bag nearly as wide as his torso was strapped to his back, packed well past its limits. He gripped his wooden sword with one hand, dragging its dull point lazily through the dirt, and tracing a shallow furrow in the road behind him.

Ahead of them, Marvin led the way in his unmistakable red shirt and blue tie, sleeves rolled up and repeater rifle slung over one shoulder. He marched at a steady pace, whistling softly through his teeth, as if trying to keep the mood from dipping too low. 

The tall wooden gates behind them slowly creaked shut— pushed closed by the two guards on duty. One of them gave the mustached man a knowing look and a short nod of respect.

"Still don’t like this," grumbled the other, arms crossed over his chest. “Helping her like this… After all that?”

The first guard rolled his eyes but gave a half-hearted shrug. “She was the best teacher the village ever had. Kid deserves a chance. Good luck out there, both of you,” he added, before tipping his chin toward the boy.

Goblin Slayer blinked and offered a small nod of gratitude, while Vivianne only murmured a polite, “Thank you.”

Marvin then turned over his shoulder and gave the guards a salute. “Let’s-a go,” he said, almost cheerfully.

And just like that, Riverwood disappeared behind them.

They walked for a long while with only the quiet crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the occasional chirp of a meadowlark overhead. 

The plains stretched wide and gentle around them— rolling hills of soft green, flecked with the occasional blossom of wildflowers swaying in the breeze. Butterflies fluttered along the edges of the tall grass, and dandelion fluff rode the wind in lazy spirals.

Vivianne kept close to her brother, her hands clutching the luggage she carried by her sides, as she stole glances over her shoulder. Each time she looked back, the village grew smaller— first a smudge between trees, then a silhouette against the horizon. 

A home reduced to memory. 

She sighed quietly, then shifted her gaze downward to the ashen-haired boy at her side.

Unlike her, Goblin Slayer was walking with his chin up; his dusty-rose eyes glittering with something she hadn’t seen since before the raid— wonder. Curiosity— maybe even joy. The weight of his bag didn’t seem to bother him, as he hummed softly under his breath— oblivious to the ache in Vivianne’s chest.

Eventually the road sloped downward; merging with the wider highway where merchant carts rolled in and out of sight along the packed earth. 

Deep wagon ruts and horseshoe prints scarred the edges, and rows of wooden signposts marked distances to towns Vivianne had only ever heard of in passing.

They kept to the far right, careful not to get in the way of passing caravans. 

Riders thundered by now and again, most of them soldiers wearing light munition-grade armor— breastplates with embossed insignias, dark sashes and high leather boots. They carried lever-action rifles strapped across their backs and rode in disciplined formations of twos and threes. 

Some raised their brows at the little party on foot, with one even saluted Marvin as they passed.

"Looks like the patrols’ve doubled since the raid," Marvin muttered under his breath.

Goblin Slayer’s head turned sharply as a cluster of men and women on horseback approached from the East— half a dozen of them clad in mismatched armor and enchanted cloaks, one of them wearing an ornate deer skull as a helmet, another with twin falcons perched on his shoulders. 

The boy’s mouth opened slightly in awe; even as he turned to his sister to ask, “They’re adventurers, aren’t they?”

“Probably,” Vivianne said softly, as she followed his gaze and, for a moment, smiled— because her brother’s happiness, however fleeting, warmed something cold inside her.

Another group rode by later— two women in lavender cloaks sharing one saddle, laughing as they passed, their hair catching the sunlight like thread spun from gold. The ashen-haired boy turned to his older sister and pointed, then stopped himself, realizing she hadn’t said much at all.

“… Are you doing okay, Vi?” He asked, peering up.

“I’ll manage,” Vivianne nodded. “I’m just tired,” she said.

They continued walking in silence until the highway split at a mossy marker stone. Marvin slowed his pace and gestured down a side trail, where a narrow path broke away into the woods.

“This way,” he said. “This place is called ‘The Great Jura Forest’— it’s really quiet.”

And quiet, it was.

The air shifted as they passed under the canopy of the Great Jura Forest’s outer rim; like slipping into a page from another world. 

The light dimmed gently, falling through the dense weave of oak and elm in golden strands. Beneath their feet, the forest path softened into a trail of moss, pine needles, and faded leaves. Ferns flanked the winding creek that whispered nearby, ducking in and out of view.

There, the air was cooler— thick with the scent of damp bark and loamy earth, touched faintly by wild mint.

The wind rustled gently above them. Birdsong echoed in bursts between the branches. Nearby, a squirrel dashed across the trail and scolded them as it vanished into the trees.

Then the woods began to thin.

They climbed a slow rise, their boots muffled on the spongy trail, and as they reached the hill’s crest, the trees parted— like curtains drawn back on a stage.

Vivianne halted.

The lake stretched wide below, still and dark as ink— fringed with reeds and lily pads that barely stirred. 

The setting sun caught its surface in sweeping hues of amber and pale rose; painting the water in delicate brushstrokes that shimmered with every subtle ripple. 

The far bank gave way to distant slopes, and beyond them rose a spine of northern mountains— tall, stark, and blue-gray against the sky. A bank of clouds loomed just above their peaks, slow-moving and heavy with promise; like ships drifting toward shore.

Vivianne’s breath caught in her throat.

Beside her, the boy’s dusty-rose eyes lit up with open wonder. He clutched his wooden sword tighter in one hand, the other balancing the strap of his duffle bag across his shoulder.

“I… I-Is this really it…?!” He asked, his voice nearly lost to the breeze. “Our new home…?!”

Marvin paused, turning back toward them. His eyes flicked briefly from the lake to their faces, as he smiled.

“… It sure is,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

They then followed him down the path, which broadened into a gravel drive, recently weeded and cleared. 

No wheel ruts, nor any footprints. Just the crunch of their own steps. 

Wildflowers brushed against the edges— bluebells, clover, a few tall sprigs of Queen Anne’s lace. The scent of the forest faded, replaced by fresh grass and distant water.

Then the house came into view.

It stood neat and untouched, like someone had folded it into the hillside with great care but hadn’t yet stepped inside. Three stories, with pale mocha-colored wooden siding and a sloped terracotta roof that still bore a thin dusting of pine needles. 

The wide front windows gleamed faintly in the last sunlight. The wraparound porch was empty save for a single wind chime hanging still in the quiet. The double-footed garage rested neatly at the end of the drive— its doors closed, a small path of flagstones leading toward it.

The lawn had been trimmed, the flowerbeds along the porch simple but tidy— freshly planted with modest stalks of lavender and sage. A young tree swayed lightly in the breeze near the corner of the yard— its branches thin but growing. 

Across the lake, the mountains mirrored their reflection in the darkening water.

Marvin then stopped at the edge of the front yard and stepped aside to let them take it in.

“Well,” he said, giving a small, sheepish shrug, “you both deserve far better than what this, but… Hopefully it’ll be enough. A fresh start, maybe.”

Vivianne stared at the house. Her lips parted as though to speak, but she hesitated.

Goblin Slayer didn’t. His boots thudded lightly in place as he fidgeted with energy; trying to be polite but visibly ready to bolt for the door.

Vivianne finally found her voice. “I… Still can’t believe you’re handing this over to us,” she said. “It’s…! I-It’s beautiful…!”

Marvin looked away— stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Marvin stepped into the yard and looked back over his shoulder, a little red in the face as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I wasn’t using it much anyway,” he said. “It was my dad’s before me. He built it when I was still a kid— taught me how to patch a roof, hang a door. I used to come up here every summer, then life got busy. Between Jeffy and the shop… Well… It just sat empty for most of the year. With what happened, now seems like a better time than ever for someone else to wake the place up again.”

Goblin Slayer glanced up at Vivianne, then turned to Marvin.

“Mr. Wilfred? Can I go look inside now?”

Marvin gave a little laugh through his nose. “Why are you asking me?” He asked, before playfully jerking his head toward the boy’s older sister. “Ask your landlord.”

Vivianne chuckled softly as she reached into the pocket of her dress; pulling out a single brass key that glinted dully in the amber light.

She handed it to her brother. “Don’t run, okay?”

He nodded once, then immediately did exactly that— rushing up the porch steps with a clatter of boots and a shout of joy. The door opened with a low creak, and his voice echoed faintly from inside.

“There’s a giant living room, Vi! And a staircase! Vi, there’s a real staircase!”

Vivianne smiled after him and slowly lowered her duffle to the ground. She rolled her shoulders, stretching the stiffness out of her back before turning to the mustached man again.

“I… I don’t know how we’re ever going to repay you,” she said. Her tone wasn’t apologetic— just honest.

Marvin gave a quiet shrug. “You don’t owe me anything.”

She glanced back at the lake— at the house, and her brother’s footprints now stamped on the clean wooden porch— and then looked down.

“… You didn’t have to do this.”

“… Maybe not,” Marvin replied; hesitating only briefly, before sighing and giving her a reassuring look. “But it’s the right thing. Your family has always looked out for that village more than half the people in it ever did.”

There was a long pause between them.

From within the house, something knocked over. Goblin Slayer called out, “It was already like that!”

Vivianne laughed under her breath.

Marvin offered a tired smile. “He’s gonna love it here.”

Vivianne nodded. “I think he already does.”

She hesitated, then stepped forward and hugged him.

Marvin stiffened just slightly, then relaxed into it.

“… I’m going to miss you, Mr. Wilfred,” she said.

“Heh… You say that, but I think Jeffy and all the kids in Riverwood are gonna miss you more than I will,” he muttered, only half-joking.

She stepped back and grinned at him. “Then tell him and the rest of the children that they he’d better write.”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

Vivianne turned toward the porch, the sun dipping now behind the northern mountains— casting long golden streaks across the water, stretching toward the quiet house and its waiting rooms.

She picked up her bags again, lighter now somehow, before making way across the front yard, and climbing up the stairs of the porch toward the sound of her brother’s voice.

Behind her, Marvin stood with his hands on his hips, looking out across the lake. The sky above had become streaked with soft pastels, and the first cricket of the evening began to sing.

He smiled to himself, before turning to walk back to the Riverwood— feeling the guilt lightening even more.

Chapter Text

The lake stretched like a sheet of polished glass beneath the warm breath of morning, with its waters vast and unmoving save for the gentlest whisper of wind tracing lazy patterns across its mirrored surface. 

The far edge of the lake vanished into haze and horizon, where the Eastern mountain range jutted like a sawblade from the distant mist— their snowcaps still tinged with twilight’s cold breath. Soft gold streaked through the pale blue of morning as the sun rose above, with each peak glowing at its tip like a struck bell. 

On the near side, just beyond the sloping grass of the shore, the house stood like a quietly waiting companion, framed on one side by the towering silhouettes of the Great Jura Forest, and on the other by the long wooden pier that reached out into the water like a hand extended in reverence.

Behind the house, the forest loomed— its ancient canopy layered in greens and shadow, breathing in the light with slow solemnity. Dew clung to the wildflowers that dotted the backyard, glittering like droplets of glass along the fenceposts and under the clothesline that stretched between two iron stakes in the grass. From it hung yesterday’s clothes, swaying gently in the cool breeze— Goblin Slayer’s long-sleeved shirt and gray trousers clipped neatly beside Vivianne’s simple cotton dress.

Out on the pier, her bare legs dangling over the edge and toes skimming the surface of the water, Vivianne sat beneath the shade of an old straw sunhat. It was slightly too big and flopped at the brim, but it suited her— borrowed from the upper closet of the bedroom she’d claimed the first night. 

Her white sundress caught the morning light in delicate folds, and a faint blush of warmth danced on her arms and shoulders. In both hands, she held a softbound romance novel, its spine cracked and well-loved. 

The book tilted now and then as her brown eyes flicked from the page to the lake; narrowing it to watch the bobber she’d cast far out into the still water.

The fishing rod— a simple vintage setup she’d found in a wooden rack in the garage— rested securely in a built-in rod holder attached to the edge of the pier. 

She’d wedged it between the planks with the kind of practiced improvisation that came from years of making do with less. A hand-crafted bookmark, made from an old grocery list folded into an origami bird, peeked from the top of her book as she turned a page and adjusted her posture.

She read quietly, lips moving just enough to betray her investment in the story. The breeze rolled in from the lake, cool and refreshing, tousling the ends of her hair and lifting the hem of her sundress just enough to tickle her knees. 

Every so often, her gaze darted to the bobber— still. Then again. A twitch. A ripple. The telltale movement of something curious nibbling below.

Vivianne’s breath suddenly hitched, as she set the book down beside her— marking her place. Her fingers wrapped around the fishing pole’s worn wooden handle, waiting. The bobber danced again, and this time sank sharply into the water.

She stood up.

Planting her feet shoulder-width apart, the young woman braced her knees and began to reel. The pole bent hard, and her arms trembled with the strain.

“Come on…!” She whispered, while pulling back and winding in short, controlled bursts. The drag shrieked with tension as the fish fought below the surface, cutting fast, looping wide. She broke into a light sweat as she leaned her weight backward— letting the rod absorb the resistance.

The pole jerked again. “Oh no you don’t—!”

She began to step back carefully— reeling in bursts, angling the rod upward to keep the line taut. She shifted her grip to her left hand and used her right to adjust the tension. 

The fish zigzagged, stirring waves beneath the pier, and for a moment she nearly lost her balance. The line whined with pressure.

Vivianne grit her teeth. Her wrists were sore, but she wasn’t letting it go.

With one last coordinated pull, she reeled hard and took two steps back— and the fish burst from the water, arcing wildly before slapping hard against the pier’s surface.

It was huge.

She stared, stunned, as the creature flopped and thrashed. Pale silver scales shimmered in the sun, its body thick, almost prehistoric in its proportions.

“A sturgeon…?!” She breathed in disbelief.

The fish wriggled violently, smacking its broad tail against the wood in a bid for freedom.

“Oh— hey! No! Stop that—!”

In her scramble to contain the chaos, Vivianne’s sunhat blew off her head and into the water. At the same time, her bucket of smaller perch— her entire morning’s catch— tumbled over the edge of the pier, plopping uselessly into the lake.

“Son of a—!”

The sturgeon twisted again, and in a moment of panicked instinct, she jumped— landing belly-first on top of the slippery fish in a tangle of arms and legs.

Water splashed everywhere.

She coughed and gagged as lake water filled her mouth, as she struggled to get her legs wrapped around the sturgeon’s midsection. Her sundress clung to her like seaweed, and the ends of her hair stuck to her cheeks. “You— are not— getting away now!”

The fish’s strength was fading. With each thrash, its movements grew sluggish, and eventually, it stilled beneath her weight.

Panting, soaking wet, and smelling distinctly like muck, Vivianne groaned into the planks of the dock.

But her brown eyes were alight with victory.

She rolled off the fish and sat upright— pushing wet bangs out of her face. With a soft huff, she picked up the sturgeon with both hands— barely managing to balance its full weight— before staggering back toward the house. 

Her feet slapped against the dock, and she slipped into her slippers with practiced ease; her soles damp and pale and a little muddy from the lake shore, toes curling against the worn cotton lining as she adjusted her grip on the fish.

“R-Ren!” She called, her voice half-laugh, half-sigh. “Ren, come look at this!”

A few dozen feet away, crouched near the water’s edge with his wooden sword lying across his lap and a well-loved book open in his hand, the boy looked up. His silver hair fell slightly over one eye as he turned.

He blinked at her.

His dusty-rose eyes widened.

“… What the heck is that?”

“It’s a sturgeon,” Vivianne said, while walking up the slope of the yard; beaming, despite the state of her appearance. “I was reading, and then the bobber started twitching, and then— well—” She shifted her grip. “I’ll spare you the rest. Point is, this beauty’s dinner. Maybe dinner for the week.”

The ashen-haired boy set his book aside, before shifting his sword off his legs. “You caught that with a normal fishing pole?”

Vivianne nodded, with water dripping from her chin.

“I’m gonna go gut it and clean it in the kitchen. And then…” She trailed off as she glanced down at herself. “… A long bath. I’ll need you to take a break from your practice in about twenty minutes and bring me my clothes, alright?”

The boy’s mouth turned into a thin line. “But I’m about to practice disarming techniques…”

“I’m not saying stop forever,” she replied sweetly, “just long enough to help your favorite sister out.”

He sighed. “That’s fine… Which bathroom are you going to be in?”

“The first-floor lavatory, near the living room,” Vivianne said, while turning to head toward the porch. “Still can’t believe we have more than one…! Let alone more than one on each floor…!”

He then followed her with his eyes as she walked off, murmuring as he picked up his sword again, “Marvin’s dad must’ve had a lot of people living here back then.”

“Yeah; you’d think we would have seen more of Mr. Wilfred’s family in Riverwood, if that was the name,” Vivianne mused aloud over her shoulder. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Keep your wits about you, little knight.”

“Will do,” Goblin Slayer answered dutifully.

He proceeded to wait until she was gone; her footsteps pattering up the porch stairs and into the house, before flipping his book back open. He then went back to re-reading the last sentence to catch up, but then paused before closing the book halfway.

The shoreline stretched quietly around him, a gentle slope of golden sand speckled with lake pebbles. He walked to the edge and stabbed his wooden sword into the damp earth, freeing his hands to flex and crack his knuckles.

He positioned himself with his feet planted wide on the sand, and began a slow, deliberate routine of intermediate kenjutsu forms. 

He mixed classical movements with flourishes he’d read about in stories— rolling his shoulders in tight arcs, pivoting, turning on the balls of his feet. At one point he drew his imaginary knife from behind his boot and flicked it forward, pretending to pin an invisible goblin to a tree. 

Another step— he crouched low and drew a phantom pistol, firing from the hip with a whispering breath of “bang…”

He continued, precise but playful, and executed a textbook hip throw against a phantom opponent and followed through with a forward stab.

Then— pause.

From the corner of his eye, something unusual floated gently past the edge of the dock.

He blinked.

A floppy sunhat. And beside it, an upturned bucket.

Both bobbed lazily across the lake’s shimmering blue surface, drifting further out with each second.

“…Vi?” he muttered, before instantly turning to glance back toward the house.

The tall, timber-framed home stood quietly beneath the early light, its third story tucked just beneath the swaying upper boughs of the forest behind it. 

The windows glinted gold in the sun’s climb over the eastern mountains, but the glass panes offered no silhouettes, no flicker of motion from within— only the gentle, silent proof that his sister was already inside.

The ashen-haired boy furrowed his brow; glancing once more at the lake, where the straw sunhat bobbed in a lazy rhythm— drifting further from the pier with each gentle roll of water. The metal pail it had come from clinked softly against the surface; slowly spinning in place, and then drifting apart from the hat as though unwilling to share its fate.

He hesitated. His bare feet shifted in the cool sand beneath him, still damp from where the waves had licked the shoreline. His eyes— dusty rose, dimmed in their usual calculation— lingered on the slow-moving items. 

That hat, and that bucket.

He reflected on the way Vivianne had laughed more in the past day than she had in the past five. Their new home had softened the weight of exile— had made something gentle out of the bitterness they'd carried from Riverwood.

He didn’t want that mood undone by something so stupid as a lost hat and bucket.

With a quiet groan of resolve, he stepped further up the shore, before setting his book down atop a dry patch of grass well beyond the splash range of the tide. He placed his wooden sword beside it with care— adjusting it until it lay parallel with the spine of the book. He took one more look around. 

Still alone.

Swiftly, he stripped off his shirt, then tugged down his trousers and underwear in a single motion, leaving only the fine, sun-warmed air against his skin. Socks were peeled off last, and he folded his clothing neatly and placed them on the book like a makeshift pedestal— then sprinted headlong into the lake.

The first touch of water seized his lungs and sent his whole bare body rigid.

He hissed through clenched teeth— muscles tightened, as his shoulders locked against the shock of the cold. The lake bit him— like tiny needles pricking every inch of him at once— but he forced himself forward by letting momentum and stubbornness carry him past the initial agony.

The boy’s small, lean frame pushed through the chill with determined strokes. He fluttered his legs behind him in practiced rhythm, with his arms carving arcs through the water as he reached the side of the dock. 

There, he hooked the floating bucket with one hand and let the water drain through the top opening. The hat was trickier— it kept folding on itself— but he managed to press it over his wet, clinging hair and paddle awkwardly with his knees toward the shallows.

He had barely kicked past the second piling when a flicker of movement at the shore snagged his gaze.

Standing at the water’s edge, with toes planted square in the soft grass and hands thumbing through the pages of a book he hadn’t earned, stood what he almost thought was a girl.

He was entirely unclothed, his pale skin smeared here and there with dirt and smudges of forest moss; his small member dangling over what the ashen-haired boy could see were obviously testes. 

His sky-blue hair hung damp and unruly across his forehead and curled at the edges like he had just come out of a tree hollow. He looked around Goblin Slayer’s age, maybe younger by a month— though something about the shape of his yellow-gold eyes suggested neither youth nor age applied neatly to him.

The boy flipped through the book absently, holding it upside down as if that were perfectly normal.

Goblin Slayer’s mouth opened, before closing. A shiver traveled down his spine as he tried to figure out what he was even looking at.

He considered turning around, swimming back out to circle wide and sneak inside for a weapon, but— he paused. The boy looked harmless. Maybe a little off, but not dangerous, and they were clearly the same age. 

If this was a trespasser, it was a clueless one.

Moving toward the pier again, Goblin Slayer gently pushed the hat and bucket up onto the planks— setting them near the fishing rod’s metal holder. He proceeded to wade carefully into the shallows— rising slowly once the water reached just above his thighs. 

He then squared his small shoulders, planted his feet in the sand, and cleared his throat. “Hey,” he called out; voice firm, and almost too formal for someone his size.

The other figure— who still hadn’t moved from his place near the wooden sword— lifted his head. 

The androgynous boy’s posture was still relaxed, almost languid, with bare feet sunk into the cool sand and a messy tangle of pale blue hair tousled by the wind, as he blinked back at Goblin Slayer with his sharp yellow eyes, and tilted his head like a curious cat. “… Huh?”

“That book you’re holding,” the ashen-haired boy said, while gesturing with one hand toward the now slightly bent paperback. “That’s mine.”

The other boy’s eyes drifted back down. The book was upside down in his hands, pages slightly fanned from the breeze. He lifted it and turned it right-side up— squinting at the front cover.

“… What’s it about?” He asked— grinning with innocent curiosity.

Goblin Slayer hesitated. “… Can you read the title?”

The boy looked up again, with his eyes wide. “Books have titles?”

The ashen-haired boy furrowed his brow slightly. “All of them do.”

“Oh,” the blue-haired child hummed, while peering at the cover as if trying to find something hidden. “Then does this one go by king or queen?”

That threw the ashen-haired off. 

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, his words jamming together in his brain like misfiring gears. He gave the boy a long stare, unsure if he was being mocked.

“T-That’s… That’s not how books work…”

The boy blinked at him innocently.

“Titles tell you the name of the book,” Goblin Slayer explained, arms folded over his chest. “Like what it’s about. King and queen are… Something else.”

The strange child’s face lit up with the sort of wonder a toddler might show after learning how spoons worked. “Ooh… So it’s a naming thing! Like when someone’s called Mister, or uh… Captain?”

“Sort of,” Goblin Slayer replied, tightening his arms around himself to keep the cold from setting too deep into his chest. “But it’s for objects, not people.”

“Cool!” The boy chirped, as he played with the edges of the pages; flipping them gently between his fingers, and then fanning them out in a rush of rustling paper before snapping them shut again.

“Please don’t do that,” Goblin Slayer said, with his tone still polite, but more clipped now. “You’ll damage the spine if you keep bending it like that.”

The boy blinked, as though surprised by the reprimand. “Huh?” He held the book like he was afraid he’d broken it. “Oh. Sorry,” he said with a small laugh, before crouching down and placing it in the sand beside him. “Didn’t mean to break your queen.”

Goblin Slayer let out a breath through his nose. 

His gaze then flicked up in time to catch the boy’s bare rump and the underside of his balls squarely in view, and he groaned— averting his eyes with a flush creeping over his cheeks. “… Could you— maybe— not do that while you’re naked?”

The boy plopped back down without a care. “What do you mean?”

“N… Nevermind.”

Goblin Slayer waited a moment, then slowly looked back— only to see the boy now gripping his wooden sword, examining the dents in the wood like a craftsman admiring a relic.

“Hey! That’s mine too,” Goblin Slayer called, that time a little louder than before.

“Oh?” The boy said, while tilting it. He then gave it a practice swing, then another— making soft whooshing noises as he did. “It’s fun! Kinda like a toy, huh?”

Goblin Slayer’s expression stiffened. “It’s a training weapon. Not a toy.”

“Still looks like a toy,” he replied, before giving it a theatrical spin that made the ashen-haired boy wince.

Goblin Slayer then began wading forward; water lapping at his knees, frustration beginning to crack the calm of his voice. “Why are you even here? Who are you?”

The boy stopped mid-swing, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Me?” He asked, as he tilted his head again, then turned to glance over his shoulder toward the tree line. “I live in the Great Jura Forest.”

Goblin Slayer paused. “You live… In the forest?”

The boy nodded proudly. “Yep! Been there for about eleven years now? I was born in this nice cave, you see; until a badger moved in, and then I had to move out cause it stunk.” He chuckled while stretching his arms— still holding the sword in one hand. “Why’re you and that other human staying at Jura’s temple?”

“… Jura’s what?”

The boy raised a brow, almost like Goblin Slayer was the one asking something strange. “The temple. You know, that structure that you and that other human were sleeping in… It’s literally right over there.”

“That’s… That’s not a temple though,” Goblin Slayer said. “It’s a house.”

The boy squinted at him. “Weird. Everyone I know just calls it Jura’s Temple. Only Jura’s descendants are allowed to live there. Unless they’re like, chosen or something.”

Goblin Slayer stared, silent for a moment. “We were given it, after my sister and I were exiled,” he said simply. “From Riverwood.”

The blue-haired boy blinked.

“There was a goblin raid five days ago. A bad one. Some people thought my sister and I were responsible. They were wrong, obviously, but they didn’t seem to think so.” He said, as his voice didn’t quaver. “A family friend— Mr. Wilfred— he used to know our dad. He gave us the house. Said we could have it.”

The boy echoed, “Goblins?” softly.

The ashen-haired boy nodded. “I don’t know if they were in a tribe or something, but one of them was named Vikarrek. Some of the others called him Vik.”

The boy scrunched up his nose thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

There was a beat of silence before he raised the sword again and asked, “So, wait— this random guy named “Mr. Wilfred” just gave you the key to Jura’s temple?”

“Why do you keep calling it that?” Goblin Slayer asked, exasperated.

“Because that’s what it is,” the boy said, matter-of-factly. “Jura built it.”

Goblin Slayer stared at him. “Who even IS Jura?”

The boy huffed and crossed his arms, a sly look creeping across his face. “Answer my question first, and then maybe I’ll tell you.”

Goblin Slayer groaned. 

The chill of the water had begun to dig its way deeper into his spine, and his arms were crossed tight now, trying to generate warmth through pressure. “Mr. Wilfred— Marvin Wilfred— gave it to us so my sister and I would have somewhere to go,” he repeated. “He didn’t say anything about it being a temple.”

That made the other boy pause. He looked genuinely curious now, gaze trailing off in thought. “Wait… Marvin gave it to you?”

Goblin Slayer nodded. “That’s what I said.”

The boy lowered the sword slowly, eyes narrowing— not suspiciously, but like someone connecting a distant thread. “Huh. That’s… Weird.”

Goblin Slayer tilted his head. “You know Mr. Wilfred?”

“I know of him, but I didn’t know that he went by “Mr. Wilfred” though,” the boy replied thoughtfully. “You see, The Great Sage says he’s the only one of Jura’s descendants who ever comes back to the temple. He never stays for long when he does, though.”

Goblin Slayer’s brows furrowed. “… Who’s the Great Sage?”

The other boy nodded. “She tells me and some of the others when to clean the place. Keep the windows from rotting, make sure there’s no mold, all that stuff. It’s part of temple upkeep.”

That caught the ashen-haired teen off-guard. “I… I don’t remember Mr. Wilfred ever mentioning anything like that,” he muttered.

The boy grinned. “We’re not supposed to talk to guests when they’re staying there. Great Sage says it’s rude.”

“Then I guess it wasn’t very courteous of you to mess with my stuff,” Goblin Slayer replied dryly, before motioning toward the discarded book and sword.

The boy gave an innocent shrug. “I thought it was junk that washed up.”

Goblin Slayer stared. “… Do you make a habit of rummaging through junk?”

“Only if it looks interesting,” the boy said brightly. “I was gonna kick you guys out, actually. I assumed you two were trespassers— we get those sometimes.”

“Well… We’re not,” Goblin Slayer said curtly. “So you can leave now.”

“Fair enough.” The boy replied, before turning on his heel; casually strolling up the grassy slope, each step light as though he didn’t feel the earth beneath his feet. 

Goblin Slayer soon became flushed again; grimacing at the way the breeze shifted the boy’s unkempt hair— revealing once again his round buttcheeks, and the backside of his balls.

Before he disappeared over the slope, the boy paused and looked back over his shoulder. “Hey, by the way,” he called, “what’s your name?”

Goblin Slayer opened his mouth to say ‘Ren,’ but then paused. His eyes narrowed slightly, attempting to sound dark and brooding, as he uttered back, “… Goblin Slayer.”

The boy laughed. “That’s a weird name!”

The ashen-haired boy’s face twitched with irritation— his posture deflating, as he let out a huff. “… Thanks.”

The boy turned fully and pointed to himself. “Well, I’m Rimuru Tempest!”

Goblin Slayer stared.

Rimuru raised a hand in farewell. “Nice meeting ya, Goblin Slayer. Tell your sister to make extra sturgeon for tonight, okay? I’m bringing the Great Sage. Maybe a few others too. We’ll all bring dishes; think of it as a party, or something like that!”

“Wait— what?!” Goblin Slayer choked out. “Y-You’re not seriously coming back—”

But before he could finish, Rimuru’s figure shimmered— his body rippling like a disturbed reflection. In one fluid motion, his limbs collapsed into themselves, the structure of his human body dissolving. 

Within seconds, a translucent, jellylike slime— no larger than a backpack— wobbled where he had stood, pulsing with faint cyan light.

Goblin Slayer froze.

The slime rolled forward with surprising speed; vanishing over the crest of the slope and down toward the forest beyond.

The ashen-haired boy stood still, drops of water sliding from his pale skin, mouth slightly parted.

“… What the hell just happened,” he muttered.

Chapter Text

The long wooden table in the dining hall ran nearly the length of the room, resting on thick-carved legs and lacquered smooth with a gentle sheen. A lace runner embroidered with tiny yellow flowers stretched down its middle, pinned in place at even intervals by heavy brass candelabras shaped like blooming lilies. 

The flames had yet to be lit, but the polished stems gleamed faintly with the soft amber light leaking in from the high windows. 

On one wall stood an ornate hutch carved with dancing cherubs and grapevine scrollwork; its glass doors fogged faintly with age, and housing delicate porcelain sets in ivory and blue.

In the far corner of the room, nestled unobtrusively beneath a framed painting of reeds swaying over water, sat a wheeled tea cart— its upper tray covered with tins, all of which were labeled in smudged calligraphy, save for one that bore a wrinkled label reading, 'EXPIRED.'

Two doorways framed the room— one opening to the kitchen, and the other to a modest pantry near the cart, with its door left slightly ajar with the scent of dried rosemary and oats drifting faintly outward.

Goblin Slayer stood on tiptoes at the far end of the table— straightening the last of the linen napkins. 

He had taken his time, not out of perfectionism, but because the work allowed his thoughts to wander. Particularly, to the strange events from earlier; such as when Rimuru had turned, inexplicably, into a blue slime, before sloshing away with a cheerful promise to return. 

The ashen-haired boy remembered that he had said something about “the Great Sage” and others. He’d never explained who they were, or even what they were, but gladly insisted that they would bring dishes of their own food.

Goblin Slayer had presented all of this to his sister earlier that afternoon with his usual dry precision; standing outside the lavatory, while she lathered her body with soap in the ceramic tub full of water. 

To his mild surprise— but not quite disbelief— Vivianne had not so much as raised her voice in alarm. 

Instead, she had frowned slightly and asked if the boy had seemed friendly. Goblin Slayer had said yes, as he told her that he was friendly as he was naked.

But rather than being upset about the sudden prospect of uninvited guests, his older sister had seemed nervous, yes— but not in the way he had expected. 

She didn’t appear worried about safety or scarcity. What she worried about, oddly, was making a good impression.

“If they’re technically our neighbors,” she had said, more to herself than to him, “then we ought to start off on the right foot. Even if they’re not like us.”

The boy still wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but the smell of seasoned sturgeon steaks was drifting in from the kitchen now, and the last cup had been placed precisely where it should go. 

Each of the twelve seats around the table had its own neatly arranged setting: a plate, a clean napkin folded into a simple triangle, cutlery aligned with care, and a glass polished until it shone. 

“Vi,” Goblin Slayer called out toward the open kitchen doorway. “Table’s done.”

He then proceeded to step through the arch into the kitchen; brushing his sleeve unconsciously against the wooden doorframe as he entered. The scent of fresh dill and lemon hung in the air. 

The room was warm, not only from the scent of cooked fish, but from the gentle heat lingering around the L-shaped hearth stove in the corner. Its fire had been reduced to a low smolder, tucked behind a hinged iron door. 

A hanging rack above the stove swayed faintly as Vivianne moved beneath it; sliding browned sturgeon steaks from a heavy iron pan onto a ceramic platter glazed with sky-blue whorls.

The stone counters were speckled with herbs, flour, and the telltale glisten of steam droplets. Above the copper sink, a hand-pump basin creaked softly— dripping with residual water from earlier use. 

Bundles of drying herbs she had brought from Riverwood— lavender, thyme, chamomile— dangled from a thin line stretched beneath the ceiling beams, which gave the whole kitchen a faint apothecary fragrance.

A prep table stood squarely in the middle, stacked with sliced root vegetables and spare twine, while a pair of wooden bins— one for carrots, one for potatoes— sat underneath. 

The back window, above a small nook with two chairs and a squat round table, showed a view of the fading evening sky beyond the trees.

Vivianne was focused, carefully stacking the steaks with tongs, and trying her best to keep the flaky meat intact. Her light brunette hair was tied in a braid that brushed past the base of her neck; though several strands had escaped and clung to her cheek. 

When she saw him, she smiled, warm but faintly frazzled.

“Thanks for finishing the table, Ren,” she said, her voice soft from concentration.

She then turned and reached for the platter lid— a matching ceramic dome with a braided handle— and eased it down over the fish, sealing in the aroma. Then, still holding the platter with both hands, she turned toward her brother and crouched slightly, extending it toward his chest.

“Would you mind setting this down near the center?” She asked. “Just don’t knock the candelabra.”

“That’s fine,” he replied, while already lifting his arms.

He then braced the bottom of the platter with both hands. 

Vivianne waited a moment, watching his small hands grip the weight carefully before releasing it, standing up straight again as he turned.

“You got it?” She asked.

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes on the hallway, already walking. “I got it.”

Back in the dining hall, Goblin Slayer stepped around the chairs and eased the platter into place near the table’s center; adjusting it slightly so that it nestled comfortably between two brass candleholders. None of the plates had shifted. 

He nodded once, satisfied.

Back in the kitchen, Vivianne let out a slow breath, before walking over to the sink and picked up a small bar of yellow soap from a tin dish on the ledge. 

She turned the pump handle with a practiced motion, and cold water gushed into the basin. She scrubbed thoroughly— palms, between fingers, under her nails— then rinsed and shook her hands, with water splattering softly into the copper bowl.

And as she reached for the linen towel draped near the stove, something outside caught her eye.

The sky beyond the window was deepening from blue to violet, and the stars had just begun to emerge like distant lanterns behind thin gauze. 

Out across the slope of their yard, past the overgrown wildflowers and the short wooden fence, Vivianne caught movement— a group descending the forest trail.

Her breath caught, her hand freezing mid-reach.

At the front walked a tall woman who carried herself with poised authority. Her white cloak shimmered faintly with woven golden runes that looked to be similar to constellations, and her pale hair fell to her waist like silver thread. 

Her face was ageless and serene, her gaze cool and unblinking, with something precise and knowing in the curve of her brow. 

She was followed closely by a small, barefooted figure who she thought at first was a girl. 

Appearing around her brother’s age, it was hard for Vivianne to tell from the way he was wrapped in a rough brown blanket like a makeshift cloak. His silver-blue hair, still wet in places, clung to his cheeks, and his expression was bright with excitement; scanning the home like someone about to arrive at a long-awaited festival.

To their side padded a creature that looked something between a wolf pup and a mountain shadow. Jet-black fur shimmered in the low light, broken only by the white maw and dark-blue star patch across its forehead.

One horn curved slightly from its brow, and its yellow eyes surveyed the home like it had already memorized every inch. The boy with messy silver-blue hair in the blanket reached out and scratched its flank affectionately.

On the taller woman’s other side walked someone even stranger— a tall, green-skinned woman wrapped in robes woven from vine and leaf, with long hair like a weeping willow in midsummer. 

Her eyes were amber, sharp with mischief but softened by something kinder. She gazed curiously at the cottage, as though trying to remember if she’d ever been there before.

Behind them trailed a teenage girl in white and crimson shrine robes. Her hair, long and pastel pink, fluttered with each step. A single horn curled subtly from her forehead. 

Despite the formal outfit, she looked anxious and shy, her fingers fidgeting against the edges of the platter she carried— a round wooden dish bearing neatly arranged dumplings.

Further back, a short, scruffy goblin trudged behind with a nervous frown. He had green skin, lanky limbs, and a purple bulbous nose. His armor was more patchwork than planned— fur, hide, and leather straps held together by luck and rope. 

His hair was white and disorderly, giving him the appearance of someone who had sprinted out of bed only to run directly into battle. He held his platter with both hands, as if expecting it to shatter at any moment.

And at the tail of the group, striding with theatrical confidence, came a young lizardman with indigo scales, markings on his cheeks, and a long tail flicking behind him. His dark spines along his head were swept back like a crest, and his leather armor gleamed from recent oiling. 

He had the easy swagger of someone used to admiration, until his eyes darted to the wolf beside the blue-haired boy, and his cocky smile twitched nervously; nearly causing him to drop the wooden platter that he was balancing single-handedly on his shoulder.

Vivianne blinked, with her heart skipping.

“T-They’re here!” Vivianne called out, with her voice hushed yet urgent as she turned from the window in a flurry of fabric. “Ren, quickly— light the fireplace!”

She didn’t wait for a reply, as her bare feet crossed the polished wooden floor with quiet swiftness as she moved through the dining hall and into the entry hall— her braid bouncing gently behind her. 

In the soft light that filtered through the high windows above, the room looked solemn and reverent, like a quiet cathedral waiting for a service. The centerpiece was the wide vanity table by the curved staircase; a carved wooden heirloom that bore a silver-framed mirror and a shallow bowl of dried lavender.

Vivianne stopped before it, brushing a few loose strands of her brown hair behind her ear. Her braid had slipped to her back during the rush; she caught it and swept it forward over her shoulder, smoothing it quickly with her fingertips. 

Her sundress— blue with tiny yellow flowers— was ruffled at the hem, so she tugged it straight with both hands; pressing out the wrinkles with the sides of her palms.

A glance downward reminded her that the red and gold woven rug before the main door had bunched slightly in one corner. 

She knelt swiftly, fingers flattening the woolen edge with the same care she might use for a napkin on a guest’s lap. Behind her, the polished coat rack stood slightly askew beside the umbrella stand. She adjusted both with a quiet push, stepping back to examine the symmetry.

Vivianne paused there, standing straight. A quick breath left her lips in a puff— meant to clear the nerves from her chest more than to exhale any air. She rolled her shoulders back, touched the sides of her face, then cleared her throat and gave a bright, composed smile.

Her hand gripped the wrought black handle. She turned it and pulled the door open with both grace and purpose.

Outside, the gathering of forest dwellers stood huddled together in the waning evening light. There were seven of them in total— each holding a rustic platter of food, each draped in the fading gold of the sun. 

At their front stood the white-haired woman in flowing robes of brilliant silver and deep sea-blue; her yellow eyes set beneath a high forehead and an expression of practiced calm.

Vivianne stepped forward with a warm smile; folding her hands in front of her, as the last breeze of daylight stirred the hem of her dress.

“Good evening,” she greeted, while dipping into a gentle bow at the waist. “My name is Vivianne Ashta— though most just call me Vi. I’d be honored if you did too.”

Her voice held a clear lilt, polite but carrying the weight of honest warmth. She rose slowly, letting her gaze move over each of the figures huddled around the silver-robed woman; not with suspicion but curiosity, her smile lingering just long enough to be felt.

“Welcome to our home,” she added softly. “And thank you all for coming.”

The white-haired woman returned the gesture with a graceful nod. Her long sleeves stirred faintly in the breeze, and the yellow of her eyes caught a glimmer of firelight from within the hall.

“You honor us, Miss Vi,” she said in a slow, measured voice that felt like still water— calm, deep, and just a little cool. “And thank you for receiving us. Your hospitality is not taken lightly.”

Vivianne tilted her head slightly, amused by how formal the woman sounded— and by how still the rest of them were. 

Not one had stepped past the threshold. 

The young boy who matched the description of the boy her brother told her about— still very much naked, beneath his ratted brown blanket— bounced lightly on his heels, holding his dish with one hand, eyes bright with anticipation. 

But the rest remained rooted to where they were standing on her porch; glancing between each other like hesitant birds on a wire.

“Oh— please, don’t just stand out there,” Vivianne said with a soft laugh, raising one arm in a welcoming sweep toward the warmly lit dining hall beyond the grand staircase. “You’re welcome to come in and set your plates on the table. I promise no one’s going to bite.”

The silver-robed woman blinked slowly. Her expression remained calm, but her throat moved faintly as she swallowed.

“We mean no offense,” she said gently. “It’s simply… Complicated. You see, I taught— rather, raised— those of the forest to keep our distance from this place. It is not hesitation but reverence that holds us back.”

Vivianne blinked at her. “… Reverence?”

The woman inclined her head solemnly. “Yes. This home… We refer to it as Jura’s Temple. We… Consider it sacred ground.”

Vivianne blinked. “Jura’s… Temple?” Her eyes narrowed slightly, puzzled. “My brother mentioned something about one of you calling it that.” She murmured, before glancing down at the fidgeting boy, who perked up.

“That was me!” He chirped, beaming. “I’m Rimuru Tempest!”

“Pleasure to finally meet you, Rimuru,” Vivianne replied back; giving him a gentle laugh, before looking back toward the woman. “If I may ask— why do you call it Jura’s Temple?”

The woman’s yellow eyes softened as she looked past Vivianne and into the heart of the home. “Because it was built by the man who brought this forest back from ruin,” she replied gently. “After the fires swept through and left everything ash and bones, it was he who sowed the seeds of new life. His name was Jura.”

Vivianne’s lips parted slightly at that. A somber breath passed between them. Then, almost absently, she murmured, “Is Jura the name of Marvin’s father?”

This seemed to touch something in the woman. Her reserved face lifted slightly with a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve known Marvin since the day he first walked outside these walls. He was born within this very house, forty-five years ago.”

That gave Vivianne pause. 

Her gaze drifted over the woman’s youthful features, unlined and porcelain-pale, and the softness of her voice suddenly felt layered with something old— something quiet.

“But… Marvin’s the same age my father would’ve been if he were still alive,” Vivianne said slowly, while blinking in visible confusion. “You… You don’t look a day over thirty. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

The woman did not answer at first. She simply closed her eyes and inhaled, as though collecting her thoughts from a deeper place. Then she exhaled softly and replied, “I was twenty-two when my illness claimed me.”

Vivianne’s eyes widened. 

She took half a step back, surprised not by the content but the calmness with which it was spoken.

The woman gently bowed her head, and then said, “My name is Ciel. Since my death, I’ve remained here— as the Great Sage of the Great Jura Forest.”

A beat of silence followed. Vivianne’s mouth opened slightly.

“Are you… A ghost?”

That, unexpectedly, drew laughter from the group behind Ciel. 

The short goblin with the wild white hair snorted, while Rimuru giggled. Even the stern elf-like woman with leafy green locks showed a faint trace of amusement.

Ciel’s lips curled in a small, entertained smile.

“No,” she said, her tone now almost fond. “Not quite. Think of me more as a spirit— an echo of myself that chose to stay behind. I watch over the forest, and keep Jura’s memory alive by passing on his wisdom to the people who call this place home.”

Vivianne’s brows pinched, the gears still turning in her head. She tried to speak, but the words tangled. 

That’s when Ciel gently touched a hand to her chest.

“It’s alright,” she said with a light chuckle. “You don’t have to understand it all now. I believe dinner will answer a great many questions— if, of course, we’re still welcome within the temple.” She said, before glancing down briefly. “According to what Rimuru has told me, Marvin left this all to you.”

At the sound of his name, Rimuru perked up like a delighted cat. That’s when he started bouncing toward Vivianne. “Goblin Slayer’s sister! Is your brother inside?”

Vivianne blinked at the title, confused— then her eyes narrowed with recognition. “Oh,” she sighed. “So that’s what he told you?”

Rimuru grinned sheepishly.

“My brother’s name is actually ‘Ren,’” she said, arms crossing as her smile returned. “Not ‘Goblin Slayer.’”

Rimuru’s jaw dropped slightly. “… It’s not?”

“Nope,” she replied with amusement.

“Thank Earth Mother,” the goblin muttered, with his shoulders visibly relaxing.

“But— wait—” Rimuru squinted. “Then why did he tell me that was his name?”

Vivianne stepped aside with a smirk and gestured inside again. “Why don’t you go ask him?”

Rimuru grinned, tightened the blanket he wore like a cloak, and took off. “Ren!” He cried, “Ren, why’d you give me a fake name?!”

Vivianne called after him, “Living room’s to your right past the kitchen!”

“Thanks!” Rimuru shouted back, with his voice already fading as he marched into the other room.

The echo of the slime’s cheerful scolding filtered down the hallway; his volume comically out of sync with the ashen-haired boy’s soft-spoken replies, and inquiries as to why he doesn’t own any clothes.

In the stillness that followed, Ciel and Vivianne shared a quiet laugh— the edge of formality finally melting between them.

“You’re all welcome,” Vivianne said again, stepping aside fully and bowing one last time. “This home is yours as much as it is mine.”

That struck the group. Even those with hardened faces shifted visibly— eyes softening, stances loosening, the weight of her sincerity settling warmly in their chests.

“I believe I owe each of you thanks,” Vivianne added, glancing at the house and then back. “Ren told me it was Rimuru and his friends—” she gestured gently at them “—who tended the yard and kept the house so beautifully. It’s because of all of you that my brother and I have a lovely place to rest. It’s far too big for just the two of us… So please, share it as you need.”

Ciel stared at her for a long moment, then finally exhaled.

“You’re too kind,” she said, truly smiling now. “Thank you.”

With that, the rest of the group began to trickle in.

The great black beast with glowing blue eyes stepped lightly across the threshold, brushing against Vivianne’s thigh like a large dog. The brunette stiffened slightly, but smiled when he wagged his tail.

“This is Ranga,” said the lizardman behind him, while balancing his platter on one shoulder. “He doesn’t speak— obviously— but he understands everything. I’m Gabiru, by the way; I renovated the whole exterior myself.”

“Using the supplies I gathered,” added a tall green-haired woman following behind— her tone dry.

“Ah— yes, yes,” Gabiru coughed, deflating slightly. “S-She did.”

“I’m Treyni,” the dryad said, before turning to Vivianne with a sincere nod. “Thank you for welcoming us, Vi.”

“You’re welcome, Treyni,” the brunette replied, while nodding back.

Next came a pink-haired girl in a soft robe, who was still holding her modest wooden platter with dumplings.

“I’m Shuna,” she said shyly. “You’re very pretty, Miss Vi…”

Vivianne smiled. “Thank you, sweetheart. You’re lovely yourself.”

Shuna blushed and held up her platter. “I-I brought these— would you like one?”

“I’d be honored,” Vivianne replied politely, before taking one gently, and, without hesitation, popped it into her mouth.

“W… W-Well?” Shuna asked nervously. “A-Are they okay, Miss Vi?”

Vivianne made a show of savoring it. “Not just okay,” she said warmly. “They’re spectacular.”

Shuna turned crimson. “T-Thank you, ma’am…!”

The last to enter was the smaller goblin, clutching his platter with both hands. He stopped beside Vivianne, looking up at her cautiously.

“Um… Miss Vi?” He mumbled.

“Hm?” She hummed, while glancing down at him.

He lowered his voice. “Just… So I know for sure… Your brother, he… He doesn’t really go out slaying goblins… D-Does he?”

Vivianne chuckled, then knelt down and waved him closer.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispered. “Goblin Slayer is just a character he made up when he was four. He reads too many adventure books. He’s only ever fought one goblin—and that one was stealing from our barn.”

The goblin let out a long breath. “Phew… That makes sense. I, uh… heard about what happened in your village. I’m really sorry you both got exiled.”

Vivianne nodded, smiling faintly. “Thank you. But rest assured that you’re safe here. All of you are.”

The goblin nodded, visibly relieved. “I’m Gobuta, by the way.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Gobuta,” she said warmly.

And as he scampered into the dining hall, he glanced once over his shoulder to awkwardly salute her with his platter— giving Vivianne a quiet laugh.

“Not all goblins are bad, y’know,” he added.

“I know,” she replied softly.

Then, with everyone inside— save for Rimuru and Goblin Slayer, whose arguing echoed faintly from the living room— Vivianne turned and closed the door with a gentle click. 

She paused a moment with her hand on the knob— her gaze growing soft.

The home was full now. Of warmth, of voices, of something new.

She then locked the door, before turning on her heel to begin to make her way toward the living room to retrieve the last two. 

Dinner, it seemed, was just getting started.

Chapter Text

The scent of seared sturgeon, roasted root vegetables, and fresh thyme hung in the air like a garland of comfort.

Vivianne sat at the head of the table, with her soft brown hair still braided loosely past her shoulder, with the kitchen door at her back. Her posture was relaxed but purposeful, and the smile on her lips was warm enough to soften any formality the evening might have otherwise carried.

To her right sat Ciel, upright and dignified in her white starry robes; her hands folded neatly over her lap as her yellow eyes studied the table with subtle curiosity. 

To Vivianne’s left sat Goblin Slayer, his dusty-rose eyes glancing now and then at the utensils as if rechecking their proper place; a soft wrinkle between his brows that suggested he was thinking far more than he was saying.

Beside the ashen-haired boy, Rimuru was hunched slightly forward with his elbows on the edge of the table; the beaten brown blanket still draped around his shoulders like a shawl stolen from a storm. 

He paid no mind to the plateware arranged in front of him, and preferred to instead tear into his piece of sturgeon steak with both hands; chewing happily, and humming now and then in satisfaction as juices ran down his fingertips.

Gobuta sat beyond Rimuru’s right side, humming quietly between mouthfuls, with his legs swinging beneath his chair in a rhythm only he seemed to understand. 

Across from them, nestled between Ciel and Treyni, Shuna sat with her hands in her lap; her cheeks tinged with a soft pink that deepened each time she noticed the ashen-haired teen looking her way. 

She peeked up from beneath her soft pink bangs once, then again, finally catching his gaze before lowering hers quickly with a flustered smile.

“Hey Ren, how many books have you read?” Rimuru asked suddenly, while licking a bit of fish oil from his thumb before leaning closer— his voice low, but eager.

The ashen-haired teen blinked, his fork paused midair. He glanced sideways at the slime, with an eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. “Like… In total?”

“Mm-hmm!” Rimuru nodded quickly— his eyes wide and round. A sliver of grilled sturgeon clung to the corner of his mouth like an afterthought. “I mean, you seem really smart! Way smarter than me; you probably read— like— a hundred books in your life!”

“Maybe? I’ve never counted,” Goblin Slayer replied after a moment, while shrugging one shoulder. “But I’ve read ten this month so far.”

Rimuru’s jaw fell open with a theatrical gasp; nearly knocking over his cup as he leaned forward in disbelief. “T-Ten?! In a month?!”

The slime then threw both hands in the air before dropping back against the seat cushion with a groan. “I haven’t even read ten words this year…!”

Vivianne turned slightly at that; her brown eyes catching the gleam of candlelight as curiosity warmed her voice. “Have you ever learned how to read, Rimuru?”

The slime gave an embarrassed little laugh and scratched his cheek. “Well, I can read… Kind of. Like, I know a few symbols? Ciel’s tried teaching me, but I kept getting distracted.”

Ciel exhaled softly through her nose— her yellow eyes closing with faint resignation. “There’s still some… Resistance to structured education in parts of the forest,” she said. “Old traditions, local taboos; the unfortunate fact that reading isn’t essential to living in the woods. It’s difficult to change the minds of those who’re steeped in their ways.”

Vivianne gave a thoughtful hum and folded her hands over the lace runner. “I understand,” she said. “But sometimes all it takes is patience. I actually hold a degree in early childhood education. I majored in elemental science and language arts, and minored in arithmetic and Common.”

“You… What?” Rimuru blinked, incredulous. “You’re like… A scholar-ninja-teacher?”

The brunette laughed softly. “Something like that!”

Ciel’s gaze sharpened slightly with new interest. “You’re formally certified then?”

“Yes! In fact, I used to run the village school back in Riverwood,” Vivianne explained. “Until… Well, until we were exiled, that is.”

The dryad’s expression darkened with a flicker of understanding. “I see now. Educating the youth— that explains your eloquence… And your compassion.”

They fell into conversation then, with the rhythm between them effortless. 

Vivianne described her approach to phonics and numeracy, how she used games to teach arithmetic and storytelling to encourage comprehension. 

Ciel, in turn, outlined her methods for introducing arcane theory— breaking complex formulae into shapes and syllables that mirrored the forest’s natural language. 

Their voices, quiet and warm, created a thread of hope running across the long wooden table.

Goblin Slayer, meanwhile, had fallen quiet again. His gaze drifted from his empty plate to the girl sitting just across from him.

Shuna was watching him— openly, though shyly— and when their eyes met, she flinched, her cheeks coloring. 

She looked down quickly again— same as before— while brushing her hands over her lap, as though smoothing out a wrinkle that wasn’t there.

“Ren… Did you… Like the dumplings?” She asked gently; her voice a silken thread, almost drowned by the hum of voices around them.

Goblin Slayer glanced down at the cleared space where they’d once been— nothing left but a bit of sauce and a solitary chunk of glazed turnip. 

“… Yeah, I did,” he said with a single nod, before lifting his fork to gesture where they had been. “They were really good,” he added, honest and plain. “I’ve never had anything like them before. I wouldn’t mind having them again.”

A bashful smile bloomed across the onii’s face, before she ducked her head slightly. “I could… Make more for you sometime,” she whispered, while half-hiding behind her porcelain plate, with a sound that resembled a squeak of joy.

“Yeah, she’s amazing at cooking, Ren!” Rimuru declared proudly; wiping his fingers clean with a napkin that had already lost most of its usefulness. “Seriously, if she had a real kitchen instead of a firepit and a stone slab, she’d be unstoppable!”

Goblin Slayer looked over at him, tilting his head slightly. “She can use ours,” he said simply.

The boy beside him blinked. “You think so?”

“Of course,” Goblin Slayer replied, while spearing a wedge of roasted squash with his fork. “It’s better than letting it sit cold.”

Shuna’s eyes sparkled faintly as she nodded; watching him pop a roasted carrot into his mouth and reach for his cup— only to realize it was empty. 

Before he could say anything, a hand moved beside him. 

“I’ve got it,” came Treyni’s soft voice from beside the onii.

The dryad reached gracefully across the table, lifting the chilled pitcher from near the nearest brass candelabra. The crystal-clear water caught the candlelight in a gentle shimmer as she poured.

“Thank you,” the boy murmured, while tilting his cup forward.

She nodded once, then shifted to refill another nearby glass— only to feel a sudden pat on her shoulder.

“Me too, please!” Gabiru announced, while holding his cup aloft like a man parched from battle. “I bravely challenged the ice water, and it fought back…”

Treyni poured while rolling her eyes with an amused grin across her lips. 

The lizardman took it with a grin, sipped— and then hunched slightly, hissing in pain.

“Ack— hhhrg— right between the eyes…!”

“You drank too fast,” Gobuta said around a mouthful of bread— blinking blankly at him.

“I-It was meant to be a t-tactical hydration,” Gabiru insisted, while rubbing his temple with one hand.

Behind them, the enormous black wolf had slunk beneath the table. Ranga’s broad nose poked out between Vivianne’s bare feet— sniffing at fallen breadcrumbs and the odd sliver of carrot. 

He huffed once, then gently rested his head on his paws.

Rimuru suddenly clapped his hands together— his excited eyes still on the ashen-haired boy. “Do you think your sister’ll be cool if I use the kitchen too?”

Goblin Slayer nodded, while already reaching for another wedge of roasted carrot. “I don’t see why she wouldn’t be.”

“Okay, cool— just wanted to make sure!” Rimuru declared, slapping his palm against the table with excitement. “Cause it would have been kinda weird if Shuna was the only one allowed to use it! Since, y’know, your sister said we could live here with you!”

The boy nearly choked on his water.

“S-She said what…?!” He rasped out— pounding his chest with a fist.

Vivianne lifted her eyebrows and gave a quick little shrug, as if this were perfectly ordinary. “They’re our friends now,” she said cheerfully. “And housemates too, if they want!”

Shuna smiled softly. “It’ll be easier to tend the grounds if we’re living here,” she said, while brushing an invisible thread from the hem of her sleeve. “And safer, with everyone together.”

“And easier for me to begin teaching lessons!” Vivianne added. “We’ll need a schedule, of course, and I’ll have to see how many textbooks survived the move.” She said, as she looked across the table. “So! Who wants to be homeschooled?”

Rimuru’s hand shot up instantly— then he seemed to remember he had no sleeves and let it fall sheepishly. “ME!!!” He shouted anyway, with a grin tugging at his mouth. “I wanna read everything! Stories, spells, weird recipes— whatever!”

Vivianne smiled back at the slime, before exchanging a look with Ciel. Hers was lit with excitement, the dryad’s calmer but still bright.

The Great Sage picked up smoothly. “And for those inclined, I’ll teach the magic Jura entrusted to me. Arcane principles, alchemy, astral translation. With Miss Vi’s help, perhaps more will listen.”

That’s when Goblin Slayer’s eyes flicked toward her. “Great Sage,” he said, his voice low and serious. “… What kind of magic can you teach to someone like me?”

Ciel regarded him for a long, still moment. Then she leaned forward, her pale golden gaze gleaming like moonlight across deep water.

“Enough to shield the innocent,” she said softly. “Enough to protect those you love.”

That’s when his breath caught.

Vivianne giggled, as she brushed a loose strand of hair behind one ear. “If you master both swordsmanship and spellcraft,” she teased, “maybe then I’ll consider letting you go on real quests someday!”

“I wanna go on quests too!” Rimuru blurted out, shooting to his feet. “I can lead the party! If Ren’s gonna go by ‘Goblin Slayer,’ then I wanna go by something cool! Something like ‘Demon Slayer’—”

“— Rimuru,” Ciel said patiently. “Please… Sit down.”

The boy laughed sheepishly and dropped back into his chair, shoulders hunched with good-natured shame. “Right…! I got a little too excited there…!”

Gobuta raised his hand halfway. “If we’re doing school,” he said, “can I learn metallurgy too? And how to read first. Then magic. Then… Smithing?”

Vivianne’s laugh rang like wind chimes. “That’s ambitious,” she said. “But I like the plan.” She then tapped a finger to her chin. “Truth be told, I don’t know much about metallurgy, but I could send for some primers from the capital. Maybe even learn it alongside you.”

Gabiru raised an eyebrow. “You make it sound so easy,” he said, while sipping his water with skeptical elegance.

Goblin Slayer glanced sideways at him. “She’s really smart,” he said simply. “Vi graduated from private school when she was my age, and then got a full scholarship to the University of Shinzuhara.”

Ciel’s lips parted faintly. “Shinzuhara…?” She echoed, before leaning toward the brunette— gaze inquisitive. “You studied abroad in the Shinzuhara Shogunate?”

Vivianne flushed modestly. “I did.”

“For how long?”

“Five years,” she replied, setting down her fork. “I was working on my Master’s in applied pedagogy when I had to return home.”

Ciel’s gaze grew solemn. “Was it because of what happened to your father?”

Vivianne paused. Her smile waned—not gone, just gentler. “It was because of what happened when a storm hit our home,” she said. “There was a fire caused by lightning… The militia found Ren alive inside the wreckage— he was five at the time. And… As for my parents…”

Silence settled over the table as the brunette tailed off— the tension heavy as snow.

Goblin Slayer stared down at the remains of his meal, his fork resting idle atop a half-eaten carrot.

Shuna bowed her head in prayer, murmuring words only the Earth Mother would hear.

Rimuru reached over and patted the boy’s back lightly. “Sorry, Ren,” he said. His voice lacked its usual brightness— soft and sincere.

Gobuta nodded. “I’m sorry too. I know what it’s like… Not having family around.”

Gabiru cleared his throat. “Yeah. That’s rough. For what it’s worth… I’m glad you’re both still standing.”

Treyni, always the stillest presence at the table, murmured, “You have my condolences.”

Vivianne took a long breath. She then looked up and smiled— not forced, but filled with quiet resilience. “But it all worked out in the end,” she said gently. “I got to open a school. Taught every child in Riverwood how to write their names— even the ones who ate crayons.”

The ashen-haired boy’s mouth twitched into a smirk at that.

“I still plan on writing to their parents,” she continued. “So I can see about keeping the lessons going for their children. Even if it needs to be remotely, I’ll do what I can to ensure they’re better prepared for this world.”

Ciel looked at her as one might gaze upon a lantern during a long night. “… Miss Vi,” she said with a hushed awe. “Your dedication is truly inspiring.”

Vivianne laughed softly, brushing her hair behind her ear again. “I… I just want what’s best for everyone, is all!”

There was a beat of silence— then Rimuru shot up again. “Oh yeah!” he declared, raising both arms. “We’re all gonna be super smart, magical, awesome warriors now!”

“Rimuru,” Ciel chided again gently— not looking up from her cup of revitalized tea. “Please sit down before you trip over your enthusiasm.”

He laughed sheepishly and plopped back into his seat.

Vivianne chuckled at the slime’s expressive behavior, as she lifted her fork delicately; spearing the last tender bite of her pan-seared sturgeon steak— its golden-brown surface glistening in the soft candlelight. 

She brought it to her mouth with practiced grace, chewing slowly as the lemon-thyme butter melted on her tongue. A hum of quiet satisfaction fluttered in her throat. 

She then reached for the soft linen napkin folded on her lap, dabbing at the corners of her mouth before folding it neatly again— its edges aligned with a quiet sort of fastidiousness that reflected her upbringing.

After a sip of water, she set her glass down, and tilted her head as she looked around the long table.

“All this talk of the future,” she began lightly, her tone conversational yet thoughtful, “and everything we’re going to build together… I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me curious.”

She then turned slightly, her sunlit-brown gaze shifting toward the silver-haired woman seated across from her.

“About this place, I mean—” she added; resting her hands on the table, with her fingers laced— “About who this house was named after.”

Ciel’s expression didn’t change, but there was a quiet gleam of understanding in her eyes— a stillness in her smile that suggested she’d been waiting for this question.

Vivianne offered a quiet chuckle. “I know Marvin isn’t exactly the sentimental type, but… I get the sense he inherited more than just property before he graciously handed it to us. So, who was his father? And what did he do to earn a house… And an entire forest named after him?”

Goblin Slayer’s dusty-rose gaze shifted between the two women. He straightened slightly in his seat, placing his fork down with care beside his plate. 

“I was wondering the same,” he said softly, directing his words toward Ciel. “Who was Jura? And why’s he so important to all of you?”

Ciel exhaled gently, her eyelids lowering as she gave a small, reverent nod.

“It’s only right you ask,” she murmured. “You’ll be living in his temple, after all.”

At that, the quiet of the room deepened.

Rimuru, Gabiru, Treyni, Shuna, Gobuta— even Ranga beneath the table— each grew still in subtle ways. 

Not out of disinterest, but respect. 

The air shifted as Ciel drew herself upright, her teacup untouched now, fingers folded gently before her.

She then proceeded to turn first to Vivianne.

“Do you know of the Great War, Miss Vi?”

The brunette’s brow furrowed slightly— her tone steady. “Yes— I studied history, of course, but… It was something we all knew about, growing up.”

The Great Sage gave a slow nod, then turned her pale gaze to the boy beside her.

“And you, young one?”

Goblin Slayer’s fingers brushed the rim of his water glass.

“I… I don’t know everything about it,” he admitted. “But I know it was terrible. Everyone says so.”

“You’re both correct,” Ciel said, and there was something in her voice now— something almost brittle beneath the velvet. 

“It was a terrible thing. The worst kind of thing. And what sickens me most—” she began, while pausing briefly to look past them all— as if staring through the candlelight, “— Is how the innocent suffer for the ambitions of men who will never see a battlefield. They wage wars from towers, from stone keeps and council halls, and their hands are always clean.”

A hush fell over the room, broken only by the slow crackle of the fire across the room and the faint creak of the wind outside.

Ciel’s lashes fell like drawn curtains.

“… I was born here,” she said softly, her voice distant. “In Eldrosvale, but I couldn’t tell you where, exactly. That memory is gone. All I know… Is that I was among the refugees.”

Vivianne sat still, her spine straightened. Goblin Slayer leaned forward; elbows on the table, and chin just above his folded hands.

“My family was part of a caravan, you see,” Ciel continued. “Displaced by one of the invading armies— I don’t know which. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Our home was lost. Burned. Trampled. My mother tried to keep me from seeing the worst of it, but…”

She inhaled.

“… We were ambushed— all of us. Just up the Darrinworth Road— the one that connects to the Blackbridge Highway.”

“That’s the one we took from Riverwood,” Vivianne said quietly, before leaning in slightly toward the Great Sage— signaling that she still had her full attention. 

“Soldiers intercepted our wagons,” Ciel proceeded; her brows furrowing slightly, as she tried to envision that day through her mind’s eye. “I… I don’t remember their banners, or their language… But I remember the weapons. Crossbows. Spears. Pikes. They killed everyone who couldn’t flee, and finished off the wounded.”

She paused.

Ranga, who’d remained motionless at her feet, rose up quietly. He padded over with heavy, deliberate steps, and laid his massive, lupine head gently across her lap.

The Great Sage’s hand came to rest between his ears; her fingers stroking his fur in slow circles, and careful not to graze the delicate spiral of his horn.

Her voice, when she spoke again, was calm— but low, nearly whispered.

“… My mother ran. She carried me into the forest. I don’t remember how far. I only know she found a rocky outcrop,” she spoke, with a soft somber tone in her voice. “She placed me behind the stones within a fissure. She told me not to make a sound.”

Vivianne’s hand lifted to her lips, her eyes wide and wet.

“I was four then,” Ciel said simply. “She… Didn’t make it far after that.”

Goblin Slayer’s face was pale. His mouth moved slightly, but no words came.

“I saw her fall,” she added, while still petting Ranga’s head. “I didn’t know what bleeding out meant back then… I… I just know that I kept crying out for her— asking why she wasn't getting up.”

The room was silent. Even the wind outside had quieted, as though the forest itself was listening.

Vivianne released a shaking breath. She reached across the table— slowly, reverently— and placed her hand atop Ciel’s. Her touch trembled, her voice caught.

“Oh god…” she whispered. “Ciel, I… I’m so, so sorry. No child should ever—” she swallowed, with her amber eyes glistening “— ever have to go through something like that.”

The silver-haired woman looked down at their joined hands. Her smile came slowly, but it was warm— soft.

“… Thank you,” she said quietly, as she curled her fingers gently around Vivianne’s while meeting her gaze. “But… I don’t tell you this as a story of tragedy,” Ciel assured, before turning back toward the rest of the table— her eyes alight.

“… This is a story of love.”

There was silence again— but now, something in it felt different. 

Warmer.

“So I stayed in that cave,” Ciel continued. “Smoke drifted in. Breathing became harder. I coughed for what felt like days. Later, I’d learn I’d inhaled so much soot it scarred my lungs. When the sky finally cleared… I crawled out.”

She then proceeded to look onward to the windows behind them, where the shadows of the forest loomed beyond the lakeside.

“… The trees were gone. The whole stretch of woods had burned. I could see the lake— Lake Virelda— from where I stood. It was the only thing left.”

Vivianne’s hand tightened on hers.

“I drank from the lake,” Ciel said with a small shake of her head. “I didn’t know any better, and inevitably fell ill. My coughing grew worse— my scarred lungs became infected, I’m sure. I’d developed a fever. It got to the point that I couldn’t even cry properly.”

Then, she smiled again. And this time, her eyes gleamed.

“… But that’s when he found me.”

Rimuru leaned in slightly, captivated.

“Jura?” Vivianne echoed.

“Yes. He was a young scholar at the time,” Ciel reminisced with a nod. “He’d given up his studies at the capital to volunteer in restoring the natural world— forests, rivers, mountains— all damaged by the war. That day… He was walking the shores of Virelda.”

Her smile grew, as did the light in her voice.

“He didn’t look the part though,” she said fondly. “He was short, stocky, with a bit of a belly. Red shirt, blue overalls… A thick mustache and messy head of chestnut hair that made him look like a prepubescent dwarf, honestly.”

The image made Vivianne’s lips twitch, even through her tears.

“He took me in. Nursed me back. Raised me. Taught me magic, science, languages. And more than anything… He restored this land to lengths far beyond its former glory.”

Ciel leaned back, her fingers still threaded through Ranga’s fur.

“Not for himself. Not even for me. But for the refugees.”

Vivianne blinked. “Like your family?”

“Yes, but specifically for those who couldn’t even turn to the King for support,” Ciel said. “You see, most of the refugees weren’t human. While civilians were certainly caught in the crossfire, it was the non-human clans who suffered the most. Entire populations evicted, hunted, enslaved. Monsters displaced from ancestral lands under the guise of ‘border security.’”

“… Why?” Goblin Slayer asked quietly.

Ciel looked at him.

“Expansion,” she said plainly. “Military staging grounds. Settlements. Resources. Forests were seen as wasted potential. The fact that people— monsters— lived in them didn’t matter to those with power.”

She then looked to the others.

“And whenever those monsters fought back, even in self-defense, armies were sent in. Mercenaries. Adventurers. They were told it was honorable— necessary. But they were fed lies.”

Vivianne’s brows knitted. Her breath came shallow.

“And Jura?” she asked. “He just… Helped them?”

Ciel nodded, a small, serene smile blooming on her lips.

“Yes. He helped them— all who had came seeking peace and a safety. He restored the trees, purified the lake. Built shelters. Shared food. Used his magic to conjure wells, gardens, even stone walls for defense. He never asked for anything in return.”

Vivianne lowered her head, lips trembling.

“I see… That’s why you revere him,” she murmured. “… This is why this place matters so much.”

“Yes,” Ciel said. “Jura was more than a man. He was a sanctuary made flesh. And we— those of us who remain, and who came after— live to honor the world he tried to build.”

The scent of lemon balm and seared fish still lingered faintly in the house, though most of the plates had already been cleared. 

The soft clink of porcelain and the hushed hiss of magical cleansing filled the warm kitchen as the Great Sage stood with one palm raised and eyes half-lidded in casual focus, the sleeves of her constellation-patterned robes folded neatly past her elbows. 

With slow, graceful motions guided by invisible hands, plates hovered into the sink basin, were scrubbed mid-air with soapy spheres of water, then passed through a glimmering veil of wind magic that dried and stacked them gently in a nearby hutch.

Vivianne stood beside the sink; her arms loosely crossed as she watched with a small smile, and her cheeks still touched faintly with pink. She took occasional glances out the window above the basin. 

Beyond it, the last threads of moonlight silvered the vast, still surface of Lake Virelda.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of watching you do that,” Vivianne murmured, with her brown eyes trailing one of the plates as it hovered, spun clean, and clicked into its place with a light musical chime.

Ciel’s golden eyes twinkled without needing to look. “A few decades of refining alteration spells, and I can finally do the dishes properly,” she quipped dryly.

Vivianne chuckled, while reaching over to wipe the counter beside her with a damp cloth. “So that’s the secret to your wisdom— housework.”

“And a great deal of reading,” Ciel added, with a smile flickering on her lips as she dismissed another soapy orb into the compost bin beneath the counter. “Though I suppose it helps that Jura talked constantly about his knowledge of magecraft while building this place.”

Vivianne tilted her head. “Marvin mentioned that— about his father building this house.”

“From the ground up, with his own two hands,” Ciel confirmed, while leaning a little against the counter; her tone fond, and her voice soft as if the memory itself was a tender flame. “Every stone, every beam, enchanted and aligned according to old druidic principles. He’d always call it a temple, never a home— though it was both. He built it for us initially, but expanded upon it once he met the woman who’d later become his wife: Elizabeth. She was… Like a mother to me.”

Vivianne listened intently, resting her arms on the edge of the counter, fingers laced loosely. “He sounded like a remarkable man.”

“He was a fool,” Ciel playfully mused; pausing long enough to dry her hands with a whisper of wind. “But the best kind of fool. He’d get splinters he refused to heal magically— he said they built character. Once spent a week chiseling a rain-spout only to realize he’d carved it facing the wrong direction.”

Vivianne laughed, covering her mouth with the back of her wrist. “No…!”

“Oh yes,” Ciel said, raising her brow. “Then he tried to convince me it was intentional, that it would ‘water the birds.’ I watched that gutter flood half the wall in a single storm.”

“You didn’t fix it for him?”

“Of course I did,” Ciel said with mock indignation. “After two weeks of watching him pretend it wasn’t a problem.”

The brunette then leaned against the counter again; smiling quietly, content to let the laughter fade into a warm silence.

The Great Sage then picked up another plate and floated it toward the compost bin. “He loved this place before it existed. Would sit on the hillside, back when it was just scorched land, and point at imaginary walls. ‘That’ll be the library,’ he’d say. ‘And there’s where we’ll plant the moonberries. And that,’”— she gestured broadly with a faint smile— “‘will be the music room, even if no one ever plays in it.’”

Vivianne glanced upward, thoughtful. “There’s a music room?”

“Used to be one. On the third story,” Ciel said. “Currently housing dust and a forgotten harp. But the acoustics are still lovely as ever, I imagine.”

Outside, the summer wind danced gently through the tall grass and bent the slender reeds that lined the shore. 

The twin moons had risen fully; one faintly green, and the other a pearly-crimson— both casting soft light upon the glimmering dark waters of Lake Virelda.

On the back porch, the soft creaking of two rocking chairs set a rhythm against the distant lap of water on wood. 

Treyni sat with one leg crossed over the other, her long moss-colored hair drifting slightly with the breeze, sipping from a tall glass of water. Her bare feet pressed lightly against the warm wooden planks.

Across from her right side, Gabiru lounged comfortably in his own chair; half-armored, arms draped along the wooden armrests. His violet eyes were fixed upward, watching the stars with a rare softness.

“… So, are you going to pick a room inside?” Treyni asked at length, while swirling her water lazily in the glass. Her tone was casual, but her smile betrayed curiosity.

Gabiru gave a thoughtful hum. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Hmm,” Treyni rocked gently forward, giving him a sideways glance. “Why not? We were invited, you know. It’d be rude to refuse without a reason.”

The lizardman chuckled and tilted his head back. “It’s not like that. It’s just... It doesn’t feel like it’s in the cards for me.”

Treyni scoffed, amused. “You make it sound like fate has a beef with you and furniture.”

Gabiru grinned lazily, while flicking his tail across the porch planks. “More like I’m not cut out for domesticated life. I never have been.”

Treyni then lifted an eyebrow towards him. “Oh? Enlighten me, then.”

With a grin still stretching his face, Gabiru raised one hand toward the vast, starlit sky—his fingers spread as if trying to grab the stars themselves. “You see that?” he asked.

Treyni followed his gesture— her green eyes narrowing slightly. “… The sky?”

“The world,” he said, while bringing his hand back and tapping his armored chest. “That’s where I belong. Kicking ass, and carving legends behind me like footprints in the earth.”

She snorted into her glass and shook her head. “Pffft…! You’re insufferable sometimes…!”

Gabiru gave her a sidelong look. “What’s so funny about wanting to be an adventurer?”

Treyni took a sip before answering. “You don’t need to shank your enemies with a trident to become a legend, Gabiru.”

He raised an amused brow. “No?”

“Look at Ciel. Look at Vivianne,” Treyni said, her tone gentler now. “They probably haven’t raised a weapon once in their lives, but their names— the positive impacts they’ve had on the lives of others— it’s more lasting than whatever glory you think you’ll find on some battlefield, or dungeon.”

Gabiru paused, quiet for a moment. Then he smiled again, but smaller that time. “… Maybe you’re right.”

“I usually am.”

They both fell into a quiet stretch of rocking and listening, the soft chirp of crickets rising and falling around them. 

Out on the pier, Ranga lay with his muzzle lifted toward the sky, his eyes glowing faintly under the light of the twin moons. He let out a long, contented howl that echoed over the lake— startling a few resting birds into flight.

Gabiru then tilted his head toward Treyni again. “What about you? Do you plan on staying here at Jura’s Temple?”

Treyni chuckled, with her voice lilting like wind through leaves. “Not with the King’s army and the Demon Lord’s Dark Sect breathing down our canopy.”

Gabiru frowned slightly. “Still on edge, huh?”

“Dryads are guardians,” she said simply. “We’re born that way. We cannot forget what happened seventy years ago.”

“… Right.” Gabiru murmured, as he looked out over the waters— his voice dropping. 

She nodded. “The war reached our roots. The flames, the smoke... We still carry it through our ancestors. In our bark, in the soil, in the bones of the trees that grew back.”

Gabiru tapped a claw on the armrest. “You really think it could happen again?”

Treyni didn’t answer right away. Soon however, she broke the silence by finally replying back, “Anything can happen. Especially when people forget what they lost.”

The lizardman let out a quiet breath, then turned to her with a wry grin. “Alright. Hypothetically speaking though: if you didn’t have to worry about armies or cults or flaming warbands— would you stay? Would you learn from Vi? Read books, do math... All that nerdy stuff?”

Treyni raised a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Nerdy stuff?”

“Y-You know what I mean,” he teased.

She looked out across the lake again; the water still and glistening under moonlight. “… Maybe,” she said softly, smiling as Ranga howled again from the end of the pier. “Maybe I would.”

Satisfied, Gabiru began leaning back in his seat; folding his arms behind his head with a small, satisfied smile. “Yeah... Maybe then I would too.”

Chapter Text

At first, he thought it was a dream— just the distant sensation of something brushing his face. A fingertip, maybe. Warm and persistent, pressing lightly against his cheek again and again. Then came the whispering, threaded with the faint scent of lakewater and pine-sweet soap.

“Ren,” came the voice— soft, boyish, and urgent. “Ren. Hey. Reeeen…”

A third prod to his cheek stirred him.

Goblin Slayer stirred with a groggy exhale; his dusty rose eyes fluttering open beneath long, pale lashes. 

He didn’t move at first. 

His head remained against the worn pillow with his pale arm curled limply beneath it. His gaze drifted, blurry and dazed, toward the edge of the bed where the source of the whispering stood— half silhouetted in blue-white moonlight that seeped between the curtains drawn over the bayside window.

There, illuminated like some impish spirit in a storybook, stood Rimuru. Entirely, utterly naked— which he was growing accustomed to expecting. The soft curve of the slime’s bare shoulders shimmered faintly in the dark; his grin wide and delighted, with his glowing yellow eyes locked onto Goblin Slayer’s face like a cat waiting for its toy to move.

Still lying down, the ashen-haired boy stared blankly at him, expression unreadable— caught in that strange half-conscious fog that blurred dreams and reality. His eyes lazily flicked from Rimuru’s face to the trio standing behind him. 

Shuna, delicate and pink-haired, held a tiny brass candleholder with a short burning wick. Gobuta stood beside her, shifting his weight anxiously from foot to foot. And Ranga, much to Goblin Slayer’s quiet surprise, was inside the room— his great furry head framed in the doorway, tail wagging silently as if sharing in Rimuru’s excitement.

Goblin Slayer’s brow twitched as he spoke, voice dry and hoarse.

“… What time is it?”

He then rolled in his blanket, before nestling one cheek against the pillow as he squinted past Rimuru toward the window; seeing the edge of the dark water of the bay glistened silver outside from the angle he was looking.

Gobuta then proceeded to rub the back of his head; smiling apologetically, as he replied, “It’s still pretty early. Sorry for waking you up.”

The boy turned back slowly, with his expression now deadpan as he stared at the white-haired goblin with droopy, unimpressed eyes.

“No. Like—” he rasped, “— what’s the actual time?”

Hearing that, Rimuru giggled as he tilted his head at him. “Didn’t you hear ‘em? It’s still early outside!”

Goblin Slayer stared up at the glowing boy blankly, then exhaled a slow, groaning breath as he began to sit up. “That’s… Not a real answer.”

He then rubbed at his eyes with one hand; letting the other drag the blanket down from his chest. “I meant like… Is it three in the morning? Midnight? .” The ashen-haired boy then dropped his hand and peered at the slime through the messy veil of his bangs. “… That’s what I was asking.”

Rimuru shrugged innocently, his grin unabated. “Oh. I dunno what any of that means.”

Goblin Slayer blinked at him; his lips parting as if to say something, only for the thought to leave him before it reached his tongue. 

Instead, he let his hands fall into his lap and mumbled tiredly, “Whatever… Why did you wake me up anyway?”

“So!” Rimuru perked up like someone had asked his favorite question. He then spread his hands as he explained, gesturing with animated energy. “We wanted to do something nice for Vi! Y’know, ‘cause of last night!”

Goblin Slayer blinked slowly, his brain still sluggish. His shoulders slumped slightly as he processed the slime’s answer. “I… See,” he said at length— voice still scratchy. “So what did you have in mind?”

Shuna then spoke quietly; her voice gentle and apologetic as she stepped forward with the candle. “I was hoping to make all of us breakfast in the morning. Something big for everyone. But when I checked the kitchen, we didn’t have any eggs… Or flour… Or anything I’d need to make it work.”

The ashen-haired boy nodded; running a hand through his tousled bangs as he yawned and stretched his arms.

“… Well, that makes sense,” he murmured. “We haven’t gone to a market yet. and honestly…” He let his arms drop. “I’m not even sure how we’re going to afford anything when it comes time for that. We’re kind of out in the middle of nowhere, and it’s not like we have savings.”

Gobuta piped up, raising a hand with hesitant excitement. “Oh, uh— we thought of that already.”

The ashen-haired turned his gaze toward him again, squinting curiously. The goblin grew a bit sheepish under the boy’s flat stare.

“Well… Technically the Great Sage thought of it. She’s helping us with this.”

“… The Great Sage?” Goblin Slayer echoed slowly, interest beginning to replace the weariness in his voice. “You asked her…” He paused, with his lips pressing together. “You asked her for guidance… On breakfast?”

Rimuru grinned and waved a finger. “Not just breakfast for today,” he said confidently. “Breakfast for years to come!”

With a long sigh, Goblin Slayer threw off the blanket and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

“… I still don’t know why figuring out breakfast involves waking me up,” he muttered.

The pink-haired onii flinched slightly at that— her soft eyes lowering. “I’m sorry, Ren… We only woke you because you’re the only one who can go into town to barter on our behalf.”

Goblin Slayer then turned to look at her; regret already forming behind his tired expression.

“You’re the only civian other than Miss Vi,” Shuna added quietly. “We wouldn’t be welcomed in any settlement.”

Her voice was heavy with a kind of sadness the ashen-haired boy hadn’t expected. 

Ranga, sensing her discomfort, padded over and pressed his large head gently against her side. She blinked at him, surprised, before smiling faintly and running her fingers along his fur— careful not to touch the horn jutting from his forehead.

Gobuta chuckled beside her. “Well, maybe not Ranga. I mean, everyone loves dogs, right? Even civians.”

Goblin Slayer tilted his head slightly. “That word again,” he murmured, before looking over at the white-haired goblin. “‘Civian’… I’ve heard it before. What does it mean?”

Gobuta blinked, rubbing his head with a sheepish grin. “Ah… Yeah, I guess it makes sense you wouldn’t know what it means…”

Goblin Slayer frowned faintly. “… Why wouldn’t I?”

Gobuta gestured lightly at Rimuru, Shuna, and himself. “It’s what we call people like you. Civians. You know— humans, elves, dwarves… Centaurs, beastfolk. All the ones who get to live in towns— anyone who can pass for human.”

Goblin Slayer narrowed his eyes. “So, is it like how humans refer to goblins and orcs as ‘monsters’?”

Gobuta nodded. “Pretty much. It’s just a general term. It doesn’t always mean anything bad, like how ‘monster’ isn’t always a bad thing either… But it can be bad, depending on how it’s used.”

Shuna’s voice joined gently, “Most of the time… We’re called monsters for all the wrong reasons… That’s why we don’t try to avoid civians.”

The boy sat in silence for a moment, brows furrowed. His eyes slowly drifted back to Rimuru— and for the first time that night, he remembered with a start that he was completely, unapologetically naked.

He flinched slightly, then immediately looked up at the ceiling with a soft groan— his cheeks coloring.

“Tch… Rimuru, you’d pass for human,” he muttered dryly, “if you’d just wear some damn clothes already…!”

To his confusion, the slime lit up like he’d just won a prize.

“I told you!” He exclaimed, before spinning around in excitement—  accidentally mooning the ashen-haired boy with his pale backside.

Goblin Slayer twitched and looked away sharply.

“I told you he’d be okay with it!” Rimuru beamed over his shoulder.

Gobuta laughed awkwardly, eyes wide. “I— yeah… I guess he is okay with it after all…!”

Goblin Slayer blinked. “… Okay with what?”

His words fell short; his throat tightening in surprise as he watched the slime walk confidently over to the small bedside drawer. With absolutely no hesitation, Rimuru pulled it open, retrieved a fresh pair of the ashen-haired boy’s underwear, and slid them on— backwards.

Goblin Slayer stared, mouth slightly ajar, silent.

“Ciel said I should come with you to the market,” Rimuru explained, completely unfazed, as he unrolled a pair of socks and sat beside the stunned boy. “She said I’d be helpful, but said I’d have to ask to borrow clothes from you first. But you beat me to it!”

Goblin Slayer made a faint choking noise, while still watching in mute disbelief as Rimuru began clumsily putting on the socks— his heels slipping and hopping as he struggled with the fit.

Shuna, still smiling, stepped closer and stroked Ranga’s head gently. “It’ll also be safer if Rimuru goes with you. And Ranga can carry both of you— there’s more than enough room on his back.”

Gobuta then gave a thumbs up— his voice perking up again. “And I’ll be heading back to my village in the meantime! I’m gonna ask my clan to help build a chicken coop and a fence near the temple. And don’t worry— we’ll be quiet so we don’t wake Miss Vi up.”

Shuna nodded in agreement. “And I’ll go look for roots and greens to feed the chickens, and soft weeds for their nests.”

After sliding on a pair of black pants and taking a beige colored scarf woven with fuzzy fur from the sock drawer, Rimuru began bouncing up and down on one foot, pulling on a boot— one of Goblin Slayer’s only other pairs. Then, beaming excitedly, he looked up at the overwhelmed boy. “So?” He asked brightly. “What do you think of our plan? Pretty good, right?”

Goblin Slayer stared at him, then slowly blinked. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled, and muttered, “… Yeah, sure.”

A soft glow bloomed above their heads— an ethereal, cyan-white halo that hovered gently in the crisp morning air like the faint light of some forgotten moon. 

The shimmer pulsed outward in slow, serene waves; catching the dew clinging to the grass beneath them, casting long, pale shadows beneath the canopy.

Goblin Slayer tilted his chin up toward the light; squinting faintly against the halo’s radiance as he sat straddled atop Ranga’s broad, furred shoulders. 

The adolescent wolf’s mane shifted slightly with each breath— like grass swaying in a breeze. Behind Goblin Slayer, Rimuru sat lower on Ranga’s back, with his arms wrapped securely around the other boy’s hips.

To their left, Ciel stood calmly with her golden eyes glowing faintly beneath the twin moons’ descending light. Her long blue-silvery hair spilled like water down her back; undisturbed by the pre-dawn wind that rustled through the trees surrounding Jura’s temple.

She moved one hand slowly above the boys’ heads, her palm trailing lazy circles in the air as the luminous halo solidified above them— casting a safe perimeter of protective energy.

“This light cantrip,” she said softly, “will do more than brighten your path. It’ll act as a ward— shielding you from demonic interference and the dark arts alike.”

Goblin Slayer glanced back down at the map in his lap, its aged parchment aglow in the magical light. His brows furrowed as he traced a route with one fingertip; speaking aloud with a thoughtful tone that still carried the grogginess of sleep.

“So… First we take Darrinworth Road, and follow it through the woods,” he murmured, while pointing to the meandering line etched into the map. “Then… We eventually merge north onto the Blackbridge Highway, and take that for… Seventy-six kilometers?”

Ciel gave a nod.

“Then we exit onto Rossenburg Street,” he continued, while trailing his finger along the faded ink, “and keep going until we reach…” He squinted. “Erelan’s Steppe.”

Another quiet nod from the Great Sage.

The soft golden rune on the map pulsed once, then again, with a steady rhythm not unlike a heartbeat. It glowed brighter where Ciel’s fingertip had touched— etching threads of energy that wove around the city names and paths like starlight spilled over parchment. 

The air around them buzzed faintly with arcane static; a whisper of enchantment still lingering as she pulled her hand back, with the sleeves of her robe fluttering faintly as she did.

“… There,” she murmured. “This enchantment will keep your heading true. If you drift from the road, the map will gently guide you back. But be mindful— this charm is not absolute. It can point the way, but it cannot clear it.”

Goblin Slayer nodded slowly, as he folded the map with careful precision before slipping it into the inside pocket of his tunic. “Understood.”

He then felt Rimuru shift behind him; the slime’s arms tightening slightly around his middle as he leaned forward, while resting his chin on the boy’s shoulder.

“So,” Rimuru chirped, “we’re really going to a civian city, or something?”

Ciel tilted her head slightly, lips curling into a faint smile. “Not quite a city— more of a steppe-town. A sprawling trade plateau, fortified and sprawling. If it’s anything like how it used to be, it’ll first feel like walking through a maze of tents, wooden stalls, canvas-covered awnings and old stone storefronts all packed together like a puzzle someone kept trying to rearrange.”

Rimuru blinked. “Sounds… Busy.”

“Chances are that is still is, yes,” she said wistfully, her tone shaded with a note of fondness. “You used to be able to find iron hinges beside silk veils, goat cheese beside a potted basilisk fang. Jura used to go there often. Always came back with his pockets lighter and his eyes brighter.”

Goblin Slayer looked over his shoulder, brow knitting. “Do you think it’s still like that?”

“Oh, certainly; if not expanded beyond the memories I have of it,” Ciel replied, with her voice laced with subtle irony. “If the current king is anything like his predecessor, Erelan’s Steppe likely has more armed soldiers protecting its merchant warehouses than most towns do guarding their outer walls. Not out of generosity, of course. Just good business.”

Goblin Slayer exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yeah… Sounds about right.”

Rimuru chuckled and rocked slightly in place with his chest pressed up against the other boy’s upper back; excited energy coursing through him like a spring current. “So we’ll be fine, then!”

“Fine,” Ciel repeated, then turned her attention fully to Goblin Slayer. “But only if you’re clever. Do not linger where you don’t belong. Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered. And whatever you do, don’t try to out-haggle an old woman selling apple tarts. You’ll lose. Spectacularly.”

A quiet laugh escaped Rimuru’s lips. “Wait, you tried to haggle someone?”

“I did more than try,” she said, feigning a grimace. “I lost the tart and half a loaf of bread. To this day, I’m not sure how she did it.”

Even Goblin Slayer cracked a small, dry smile at that. “Duly noted.”

Ciel then stepped closer and laid her hand softly on the ashen-haired boy’s shoulder. Her touch was light, but her eyes— those piercing, thoughtful golden eyes— held weight behind them.

“Do not wait for the main gates to open,” she said. “You’ll find what you need with the early merchants outside. Farmers, laborers, scrap-sellers… They’ll barter before dawn breaks.”

Goblin Slayer gave a small nod, and her hand remained there just a moment longer, grounding him.

“But…” Rimuru began, shifting behind him again, “do you really think someone will give us coins or whatever for these magicule crystals?”

He then turned just slightly to pat the bottom of his pack; the soft clink of crystalline shards tapping against glass echoing within.

“Absolutely,” Ciel said, but then paused. A flicker of hesitation passed through her features. “At least… They used to fetch a silver piece per thirty grams. But that was forty-five years ago.”

Goblin Slayer glanced downward thoughtfully. “You think the value changed?”

“Undoubtedly,” she admitted. “Inflation, scarcity, hoarding, fear— all these things move markets. But rare is rare, and you’ll have leverage. If the merchant’s clever, they’ll take the offer.”

Goblin Slayer nodded again, then exhaled as he adjusted his grip on Ranga’s thick fur. “All right… So long as we find someone outside the gates willing to trade, we’ll at least have a shot at working our way up to buying a hen or two.”

“That’s the plan,” Ciel said. “It may take trial and error, but I believe in your judgment.”

Rimuru made a small celebratory sound and hugged Goblin Slayer tighter. “And even if we can’t get a hen, we’ll get enough eggs and flour for Shuna to work her magic, right? I mean, we’ll need to get some anyway!”

“Observant as always,” Ciel replied. “And I expect you to stay close to him, Rimuru.”

The slime then straightened. “I’ll go wherever he goes!” He declared, before lowering his hands down to the ashen-haired boy’s hips— grabbing them firmly, before scooting close enough to press his crotch close against his backside.

Goblin Slayer turned slightly to glance at the slime. “I… I don’t she meant that close.”

“I dunno— I kinda like it!” Rimuru beamed.

Ciel chuckled, then quieted. “That’s good. Continue to watch over him, Rimuru.”

The air shifted with quiet weight as Ciel took a step closer to Goblin Slayer. Her voice softened, the cadence lowering like a lullaby half-lost in time.

“… Ren,” she said, as he looked up at her— surprised by the gentleness in her tone. “I know you want to grow strong,” she murmured; her gaze never leaving his. “Strong enough to protect your sister. Strong enough to never feel afraid again.”

His breath caught slightly. 

The words hit deeper than he expected. He didn’t speak, but something flickered in his expression— recognition, maybe. Or vulnerability.

“… One day,” Ciel continued, “you will be. You’ll do things so wondrous they’ll fill stories long after you’re gone. You’ll inspire others, save lives, leave your mark in the world.”

She smiled faintly, then reached out and brushed a few strands of his silver bangs away from his eyes.

“… But today isn’t that day. So please— know your limits.”

He stiffened a little, wanting to argue. To tell her that he could do more than she thought. But the weight of her gaze kept him still.

“… Rimuru,” she said, while glancing over Goblin Slayer’s shoulder. “He may seem silly at times, but he is capable. And Ranga—” She continued, before looking down at the wolf pup, who responded with a quiet bark. “He’ll protect you both. As will I, in the ways I can.”

Ranga then wagged his tail; the gentle whump of it brushing against trimmed grass. The sparks of energy around his horn flared briefly; casting golden arcs through the dark forest like fireflies in a storm.

Goblin Slayer then breathed in through his nose, then let the tension out slowly. “I… I understand.”

Ciel nodded, her eyes softening. “Good. Then go, little adventurers. Let us present to Miss Vi just a fracture of kindness that this world owes to her.”

She then took several long paces back, and glanced then toward the horizon, where the twin moons dipped low beyond the forest’s dark boughs. “… You’ll have just under four hours. Do not rush yourselves, but do stay vigilant of time.”

Then, as if recalling something mundane yet vital, she looked back over her shoulder.

“Oh— coffee beans,” she added. “If you see any, bring some back. The good ones.”

Rimuru raised a hand in a dramatic salute, grinning. “Don’t worry Ciel! We’ll hook you up!”

It was then that the halo above them pulsed brighter as Ranga lowered his front half into a crouch. 

Sparks of gold and violet snapped off his horn, gathering into a thin, translucent field stretching before them like a tunnel of light. 

Goblin Slayer, perched at the front, squinted into it— realizing in a slow ripple of awe that it wasn’t just illumination.

The energy bent the air around them; like water funneling through a channel, folding sound and pressure alike behind a veil. Even before Ranga took off, the world felt lighter. The moment the great wolf kicked off the ground—

— Gravity vanished.

Not in the sense of flying, but as if the drag of the world had respectfully stepped aside.

Wind should’ve howled in their ears, but instead it curled around them like a gentle current— slipping off the barrier ahead. Goblin Slayer’s gray hair streamed behind him, unbothered by resistance. Rimuru continued to hold on tightly to him, all while giggling with excitement.

And then came motion— real motion.

The forest peeled away, not in a blur, but in crystalline bursts of color and motion. 

Every bounding leap of Ranga’s limbs pushed the underbrush backward in swells of displaced energy. The grass along the path shimmered in the wake of the protective ward— flattened but unbroken, kissed by the trailing light of Ciel’s spell.

“Whoaaa!” Rimuru crowed. “Ranga’s never run this fast with someone new before!”

Goblin Slayer said nothing at first. His jaw was set, knuckles white against the large pup’s fur. But his dusty rose eyes were wide— tracking every motion, every flicker of tree and fern and gleaming mushroom bulb as they raced past.

“You alright up there?” Rimuru asked, a little softer this time.

Goblin Slayer nodded once. “Yeah,” he said. His voice was a bit hoarse, as though spoken through wind that wasn’t really there. “I… I didn’t know riding could feel like this.”

“You mean awesome?!” Rimuru grinned, as turned his head to lightly begin laying his cheek against Goblin Slayer’s shoulder; unintentionally making the ashen-haired boy feel warm on the inside, while the slime got more comfortable. “Because this is, like, probably the best part of any quest.”

Goblin Slayer’s lips quirked at that, as they dipped beneath a woven archway of vines— naturally formed, but near perfect in symmetry. 

Fireflies as big as coins zipped just overhead, each trailing a soft luminescent tail, their motions like dancing stars. 

Below them, curious eyes flickered from the underbrush: a pair of antlered stags paused mid-drink beside a mirror-clear stream, watching with unreadable calm. 

Further ahead, in the crook of a hollowed-out stump, a cluster of raccoon-like creatures with mossy fur stood on hind legs to observe them; eyes blinking, as if in reverent recognition.

“They’re watching him,” Rimuru murmured into the boy’s ear.

Goblin Slayer glanced down. “Ranga?”

“Yeah. He’s pretty popular around these parts.”

The wolf pup in question then began to slow his pace ever so slightly— not from fatigue, but to swerve wide past a family of armored tortoises trudging across a sun-dappled clearing. 

Ranga’s body then continued to move with a rhythmic grace— like a river finding the path of least resistance. His claws never scraped stone, as his breath remained steady.

Goblin Slayer risked looking back over his shoulder, and when he did, he was rewarded with the slime’s beaming yellow eyes. “… Is it always like this when you travel?”

Rimuru blinked back at him— his smile ever present. “With Ranga? Sort of, yeah.”

The ashen-haired boy looked thoughtful. “And you’re used to it?”

Rimuru tightened his hold on Goblin Slayer just enough to make it reassuring. “It’s always amazing,” he said honestly, “but it’s better when you’ve got someone to share it with.”

Goblin Slayer didn’t reply to that right away. He instead looked up. 

Through the halo and warding, the canopy split wide like the parting of a great green curtain, revealing the fractured sky beyond— washed in the hushed palette of pre-dawn silver. 

The twin moons had begun their slow descent westward, brushing the distant treetops with their final beams of light. It was the kind of stillness that could only exist just before the world decided to wake.

“… How far do you think we’ve gone?” Goblin Slayer then asked— softly, like he wasn’t sure if the question was meant for the slime or just to give shape to the quiet humming in his chest.

Behind him, Rimuru shifted slightly, the tail ends of his fur-woven scary flapping, as he leaned into the curve of Goblin Slayer’s back; arms reaching up to comfortably wrap them around the boy’s middle. “I don’t know,” he replied truthfully. “I don’t usually think about distance when I travel.”

Goblin Slayer furrowed his brow. “Why not?”

“Because…” Rimuru’s voice trailed for a second, as if chasing the right words. “… I guess I always felt like it’s not really about how far you’ve gone. It’s more about what the road felt like while you were on it.”

Goblin Slayer turned his head slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder. His expression was caught somewhere between confusion and curiosity. “That doesn’t… Make a lot of sense.”

“But it does, though.” Rimuru countered, as he lifted one hand from the boy’s middle; extending it past Goblin Slayer’s side, and waving it lazily in front of him through the air, as the trees rushed by— streaks of emerald, deep mahogany, and patches of moonlight flashing between leaves. 

“Think about it. A boring walk through nowhere feels endless. But this? This feels like something that belongs in a storybook.”

Goblin Slayer’s lips parted, but nothing came out. His eyes shifted forward again— studying the path ahead. 

Bluebell clusters blinked like starfields beneath the trees, their glow reflected in the halos of tiny insects crawling through the underbrush. 

“… Maybe you’re right,” he murmured, after a long pause.

Rimuru’s smile quietly grew behind him in a way that didn’t need to be seen to be known. “I think that’s the first time you’ve agreed with something that I came up with on my own!”

“Now I know for certain that’s not correct,” Goblin Slayer muttered defensively. “I’m certain that I’ve agreed with you before.”

“Mm-hmm. Name two times you actually did— wholeheartedly.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful; then, he relaxed. “… I’ll get back to you on that.”

That earned a soft laugh. Not mocking. Just amused.

They soon passed under a low-hanging branch carved with faded runes— weather-worn and moss-bitten, a forgotten ward from a forgotten age. 

A pale-furred hare the size of a small deer lifted its ears from the hollow of a tree trunk as they passed, unafraid. 

In the branches above, a cluster of batlike birds blinked luminous red eyes before folding their wings tighter and going still again.

Ranga continued to move like water through a streambed— fluid, confident, soundless. 

Every time Goblin Slayer adjusted his grip on the wolf’s mane, he could feel the pulse of life beneath the fur. The heartbeat was strong, tireless, like a war drum pacing their momentum.

“You feel it too, right?” Rimuru asked gently, nudging the ashen-haired boy’s ribs with the side of his hand. “Ranga’s heartbeat?”

Goblin Slayer nodded. “Yeah… It’s like a rhythm.”

“It’s nice,” Rimuru said. “It lets you know he’s there— that he, nor I, are gonna let you fall.”

There was something in the way the slime said that; simple words with something deeper underneath, and that left Goblin Slayer sitting contemplatively.

A warm hush fell between them— not silence, but something richer. They soared through a stretch of dew-lit glade where jackalopes grazed, their antlers glistened with morning dew.

An owl with pale eyes and plumage like falling snow then glided overhead on soundless wings— vanishing into the high canopy. 

Further on, a suspension village of lizardfolk stirred in their treetop homes— rope ladders swaying gently as a pair of children paused on a balcony to stare at the glowing streak of light flashing through the trees below.

And still, Ranga ran, as the next fork came quickly. 

Goblin Slayer then leaned forward and pointed toward the high road. “Right,” he said with quiet certainty. “That’ll keep us along the rise. This bends into Darrinworth.”

Ranga obeyed without hesitation; veering right as the ward’s shimmering veil rippled ahead of them, bending branches and ferns without breaking a single leaf.

“Hey, Ren?”

“Hm?”

“You’re really good at this!”

Goblin Slayer slowly turned to look over his shoulder to blink back at him. “… At what?”

“Pathfinding,” Rimuru said. “You’re a natural!”

The ashen-haired boy blinked, before looking down at the map still unfolded in one hand. “… I’m just reading what Ciel has marked on it.”

“Yeah,” Rimuru said, “but you’re reading it like someone other people could follow.”

Goblin Slayer let out a skeptical, yet light scoff. “I doubt that.”

“Nah, I mean it! I’ve seen adults who couldn’t point north if the sun was right above their heads,” Rimuru said with a chuckle. “It’s not about age, Ren— it’s about how reliable you are!”

Goblin Slayer hesitated. His voice, when it came, was quieter. “I don’t… Always feel that reliable.”

He didn’t mean to say it— not exactly— but the way it slipped out, like something long carried and finally too heavy to keep hidden, made the slime pause behind him.

It was then that Rimuru said, very gently, “But you agreed to help us even though you were half-asleep. You got up, got dressed, agreed to lead the way, and did it all without really thinking about yourself.”

Goblin Slayer felt momentarily stunned by the praise he was getting; causing him to absentmindedly swallow back the lump in his throat. “… I didn't have much of a choice though, did I?”

“But that’s the thing, Ren: you did have a choice,” Rimuru said softly. “And you still chose to help us.” 

Closing his eyes and unable to see the way the ashen-haired boy’s cheeks had suddenly grown shaded, the slime went back to resting his head on the back of his shoulder; leaning in a little more, before asking in almost a whisper, “Now isn’t that something someone who’s reliable would do…?”

Goblin Slayer’s shoulders tensed for a breath. Then dropped, just slightly, as he quietly responded back with, “… Perhaps.”

Rimuru smiled again. “And you’re modest about it too— just like your sister. Some people would be bragging right now— but not you.”

Goblin Slayer frowned only slightly, but not out of any sense of bitterness towards the slime who was pressed up behind him. “… I don’t really have much to brag about though.”

“I disagree,” Rimuru countered, before his voice grew playful as he said, “But okay. You can be the quiet type— I’ll brag for both of us.”

Goblin Slayer gave the tiniest snort through his nose.

They didn’t speak for a while after that. But they didn’t need to. The hush that followed wasn’t filled with tension— it was something comfortable, something warm. 

Rimuru’s fingers, still looped around Goblin Slayer’s hips, relaxed a little; the grip steady, but gentle. 

Amidst occasionally giving relaying directions to the wolf pup, the ashen-haired soon broke the warm silence between him and the slime to ask, “Do you think this’ll make her happy?”

“I think she already is,” Rimuru reassured in a relaxed tone.

Goblin Slayer reflected on that response, before nodding once— more so to himself, than to the slime. “Yeah… I think so too.”

At last, the forest began to thin.

The trees peeled back into gentler slopes. The road widened— hardening into compacted dirt over ancient paving stones. 

Fences appeared, then fell away again. Smoke rose from distant chimneys. Ahead, beyond a winding ridge, came the steady hum of morning life.

They had reached the first stretch of the northern highway.

A merchant caravan rumbled by on the left— drawn by two great deer with curled antlers, with their hooves clicking like wooden bells. 

Ranga bobbed and weaved between carts and cloaked riders— his pace never faltering. 

A pair of armed patrolmen astride horses shouted in surprise as the glowing wolf zipped past them; a blur of white fur, blue, and golden light.

Rimuru laughed gleefully. “Did you see their faces?”

“I saw,” Goblin Slayer murmured, with eyes narrowed in focus. “We’re merging onto Blackbridge.”

“Aye aye, captain!” The slime cheered, as he momentarily reached up from the ashen-haired boy’s hips to give a mock salute.

The city guards, mounted in formation at the highway’s edge, glanced over in alarm but lowered their halberds as the wolf pup respectfully darted around their line. 

No warning was given. No challenge sounded. 

The halo of Ciel’s cantrip shimmered visibly around the trio— and even the most seasoned traveler recognized a divine protection when they saw it.

Beyond the guards, adventurers in mismatched armor walked the outer lanes with packs on their backs and bedrolls over their shoulders. 

A dwarven couple pushing a wheelbarrow full of copper ingots paused to gawk. One child pointed and shouted, "Look, Ma! A flying puppy!"

Catching that through the reverberation caused by Ranga’s air-resistant ward, Goblin Slayer furrowed his brows slightly as he murmured, “We’re not even flying…”

“We might as well be though,” Rimuru said brightly. “We might as well be.”

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

Ranga’s paws padded soundlessly along the wide stone-paved artery that curved gently through the grasslands— Rossenburg Street— his body moving in fluid, tireless rhythm. 

The road was far older than it looked, with cracks spidering across the pavement, dulled by generations of traffic. 

But now it gleamed faintly beneath the rising sun; warmed by the dawn and the pressure of hundreds of steel-rimmed wagon wheels.

Goblin Slayer sat upright near the base of Ranga’s neck; gripping his thick white fur with one hand, the other resting calmly on his lap. His dusty-rose eyes stayed fixed ahead, alert, taking in everything: the distant silhouettes of mounted towers, the fluttering banners of the King’s Army, the low thunder of hooves and wheels all around them.

Behind him, Rimuru clung with both arms, chin resting against Goblin Slayer’s shoulder. The slime’s legs kicked slightly with every jolt and bob of Ranga’s step.

“I’ve never seen this many civians in one place,” Rimuru breathed finally, with his voice laced with awe. “There must be thousands of people where we’re going…!”

To either side of Rossenburg Street, waves of stone-paved shoulder stretched outward into vast caravan lanes. 

Horses, draft oxen, and even trundling tortoises bore cargo-laden wagons, each bearing crisp paint along their flanks— company names inked in curling gold or stenciled in hard block letters: ‘Craven & Moor Exports,’ ‘Red Wyrm Logistics,’ and ‘Kadalin Holdings.’

Steam drifted from kettle-stoked chimneys attached to the covered carts. A brass bell rang somewhere ahead as a signal tower announced an incoming shipment to the soldiers posted above.

Ranga weaved through it all like a stream moving around stones— graceful, fast, untouchable. His horn pulsed with a shimmering translucent ward, casting soft-edged sigils through the air. 

The halo above the trio glowed gently in the lifting light, Ciel’s protective cantrip diffusing a steady aura that made even the most hurried drivers turn and glance.

Some pointed. A few of the tower-sentinels saluted them out of instinct, though confusion followed quickly. No banner flew above them, and no rank or station was called. Yet they passed unhindered; the currents of traffic opening just enough to let the wolf-pup dart between rows of wagons and marching infantry.

Beyond the pavement, the world stretched wide— rolling grasslands with sea-like movement, each gust of wind curling through the fields in silent waves. 

Here and there, shepherds on long-legged deer tended flocks of sheep; their bleats echoing faintly across the land. Smoke from cookfires spiraled up from distant roadside camps.

But all that openness was dwarfed now by the looming presence of ‘Erelan’s Steppe.’

It rose ahead like a wall of iron teeth biting into the horizon— monolithic and gray, ancient yet constantly expanding. 

The outer perimeter was flanked by wide lots of paved stone, where wagons now slowed to a crawl, locking wheels in tight formation as merchant voices called orders over the din. Shouting, hammering, clattering. 

The sounds were constant. Orders barked in dwarven, elvish, common tongue. The scent of iron and pitch clung to the wind, mingling with the earthy aroma of turned soil.

Goblin Slayer narrowed his eyes as they neared. 

The walls themselves stood easily six stories high; constructed of pale stone and dark mortar, reinforced with layered steel plates and sigil-etched pylons. 

Along the top, long-barreled cannons rested on mobile tripods. Gatling guns, mounted on rotating turrets, stood like angular sentinels along each parapet. Snipers with scope-lensed rifles stood with their backs to the rising sun— watching everything.

“… They’re guarding the warehouses more than the walls,” the ashen-haired boy murmured— mostly to himself.

Rimuru nodded. “Just like how Ciel said.”

It wasn’t just a trading hub.

Erelan’s Steppe was a living organism— a churning machine of trade and industry. Its outer ring had already overflowed. 

Beyond the main walls, a sprawling tent city had bloomed across the surrounding flats. Merchant caravans had unfurled their canvas shelters in regimented rows— each marked with flags, painted sigils, or hand-chalked boards naming their stock.

Smoke rose from clay ovens and portable kilns. Cooks shouted prices to guards. Artificers demonstrated enchanted lanterns to interested buyers. Children played with tin toy wagons, and were chased by ferret-like hounds on fraying ropes.

Goblin Slayer inhaled, the scents and sounds washing over him like a tide: sweat and oil, spice and soot, baked bread and bitter pitch.

Ranga slowed as they passed through the outer rows of merchant stalls. A group of dwarven traders paused to stare, one of them raising a brow beneath his soot-darkened helmet.

“Oi,” he muttered to his partner. “That a spectral ward on that pup?”

His partner shrugged. “Must be some noble’s errand boy.”

They soon turned back to their crates.

Meanwhile, Goblin Slayer leaned forward slightly, while keeping his grip steady. “… I think the southern path leads to the livestock exchange.”

“Yeah?” Rimuru asked. “How can you tell?”

“Follow the smell.”

Rimuru sniffed, then winced. “Ugh… Yeah. Found it.”

And despite the chaos, Ranga remained calm. 

He trotted on, ears flicking left and right; slipping between merchant carts and guards on patrol as naturally as if the road belonged to him. 

Civians parted instinctively, drawn not only by the wolf’s presence, but by the shimmering ward that moved ahead of him like a living breath— parting the dust, softening the thunder of hooves and wheels. 

The light from Ciel’s cantrip still floated faintly above, now dimmed in the stronger sun, but still noticeable— like a fading star that hadn’t quite let go of the sky.

The morning sun had barely risen past the horizon when Goblin Slayer and Rimuru dismounted near the southern ridge of the farmers’ market. 

Golden light spread across the wide, beaten stones of the outer grounds, warming the chilled air and casting long shadows across the waking bustle of stalls and wagons. 

Just beyond, Ranga’s claws clicked softly against the paving as the wolf pup came to a smooth halt, lowering himself instinctively to let the boys down.

Rimuru swung one leg over and hopped down first, adjusting the straps of the heavy backpack he wore with a cheerful grunt. The weight didn’t seem to bother him. “Hey,” he called over his shoulder, brushing his tunic flat, “can you check the goods?”

“Yeah,” Goblin Slayer replied, his voice still slightly hoarse from the wind earlier, but more alert now as he climbed down after him. 

He then landed lightly on the stone road, brushing off his trousers, and turned toward the slime, who obediently turned his back to him with both arms held slightly out.

Ranga sat beside them, tail sweeping across the dusted ground in long, slow arcs, tongue out and panting cheerfully as though he too had enjoyed the ride.

Goblin Slayer began a brief inspection; patting down the leather base of the canvas pack with practiced fingers. “Straps are still tight,” he murmured. “No fraying... Seams are intact. No tears.”

Rimuru grinned over one shoulder. “Perfect! That’s what I like to hear!”

The ashen-haired boy gave the slime a nod, as he undid the top flap; unlatching the double buckles with care. He then lifted it just enough to peek inside— his dusty rose eyes narrowing as the inner glow spilled out across his face.

Inside, nestled in cloth folds and padded with linen, were dozens of polished crystals— quartz-like in texture, but softly luminescent. 

Their pale blue cores flickered with a gentle cyan light, pulsing like a slow heartbeat. They shimmered in the morning sun like enchanted riverstones— humming with latent magical power.

“… They’re all still here,” Goblin Slayer said, his voice touched with quiet relief. “No cracks either.” 

“Cool,” Rimuru chimed, while rocking on his heels; his arms stretching above his head with a satisfied sigh. “Now all we gotta do is sell ’em and find out how much they’re worth nowadays.”

But as he said it, his eyes lifted slowly skyward. His smile faded slightly. The halo.

The luminous cantrip that had floated over them since Ciel cast it was still there— but its glow had changed. It had expanded. Grown dimmer, thinner, more fragile at the edges. The clarity was waning— like moonlight trying to reach through fog.

“… Hey,” Rimuru murmured, nudging Goblin Slayer gently. “Check it out.”

The ashen-haired boy then looked up too, and saw how the light circled them faintly— its edges flickering as though testing its own reach. 

Ranga noticed it as well, his ears perking as he tilted his head. 

Rimuru then took a few slow paces forward— out into the thinning crowd of early shoppers, ducking between wagons of crates filled with hay and burlap sacks.

The halo stretched after him, then hesitated— its form thinned, the core dimmed. Transparency crept in like frost around the edges. 

Rimuru paused.

Then, just as calmly, he turned and walked back toward the others.

The moment he returned to within a few feet of Goblin Slayer and Ranga, the cantrip regained its shape; brightened just enough to be seen clearly once more— stable, though less powerful than before.

Goblin Slayer watched it, then shifted his gaze toward Rimuru’s. “It’s like a tether,” he said quietly, almost thinking aloud. “It… Must get weaker, depending on how far we can be from each other.”

Rimuru considered that, tapping his lower lip with one finger. “That makes sense; we could probably use that,” he said, glancing around at the milling crowds beyond the livestock pens. “Speaking of which… I’m used to all kinds of creatures being around back in the forest— but this is a lot of civians. Wouldn’t be hard to lose each other if it gets more packed later.”

A group of centaur merchants brushed past behind them, the thump of their hooves sending a soft vibration through the stone. The smell of fresh hay, sweat, and damp iron hung in the air. 

Someone was haggling over piglets a few stalls down. 

Overhead, gulls screamed somewhere high above the outer towers of Erelan’s Steppe.

Goblin Slayer folded the flap of the backpack closed and buckled it again. “Then we shouldn’t risk it. We stay together. I’ll stay within… Two or three feet of you at all times. If we end up in single file, we rotate who’s in front so someone always has eyes—”

He stopped.

Mid-sentence, without warning, Rimuru had stepped forward and gently slid his right hand into Goblin Slayer’s left— intertwining their fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The ashen-haired boy froze.

He looked down at their joined hands, wide-eyed, then slowly up at the slime— his cheeks burning red, ears going pink.

Rimuru, unfazed, was smiling at him. 

Not smugly, nor teasingly. Just content. 

His expression softened further as the cantrip glowed softly above them; the sunlight refracting through it and catching the silvery-blue sheen of his hair.

Goblin Slayer swallowed a knot in his throat, his voice just a whisper. “W-What are you doing…?”

Rimuru squeezed his hand gently. “I told Ciel I’d go wherever you go.”

The market faded into the background for a moment. Just a blur of noise and motion and color. 

Goblin Slayer’s breath caught as he saw a faint pink rising in Rimuru’s cheeks— just enough to notice, especially against his pale skin.

And the smile stayed.

Goblin Slayer glanced down again, their hands still connected. His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out. His fingers twitched in Rimuru’s grip. 

When he finally spoke, it was soft and unsure, lost somewhere between embarrassment and confusion.

“… D-Don’t you think that’s… Kind of… A lot?”

“Not at all,” Rimuru shrugged, beaming again. “Besides, I think I like being close to you! So I don’t mind it, really!”

That did it.

Goblin Slayer’s eyes darted away; his lips parting but failing to form any coherent reply. He could feel his heartbeat rising, not just in his chest, but in his ears, his fingers. 

He wasn’t sure if it was the embarrassment, the flattery, or the strange fluttering warmth blooming in his stomach.

Before he could say anything else, Ranga casually padded forward and nudged his nose into Goblin Slayer’s lower back with a soft huff.

The boy staggered forward— his boot scuffing against the stone, stumbling close enough to Rimuru that they were now chest to chest. 

Goblin Slayer blinked, wide-eyed again, face completely flushed.

The wolf pup gave a very innocent wag of his tail, as though unaware of any wrongdoing.

Rimuru burst out laughing. “He’s just helping! C’mon— we’re wasting daylight!”

Still holding Goblin Slayer’s hand, the slime then spun on his heel and began pulling him toward the merchant rows— the tail ends of his scarf fluttering like a streamer behind him, as he led them through the fringe of the livestock sector. 

Ranga trotted cheerfully beside them, his tail swishing, the light cantrip glowing proudly overhead.

“Let’s make some money moves, Ren!” Rimuru called with a grin.

Goblin Slayer stumbled behind, still pink, still clutching Rimuru’s hand in stunned silence— but not letting go.

They eventually stepped into the true heart of the farmers’ market— where the scent of roasted barley and fresh citrus filled the air, where sheep bleated in pens beside cows yoked for trade, and where merchants hawked everything from salted fish to embroidered tunics. 

A couple argued lovingly in front of a cider cart, and a rhea boy practiced juggling knives near the blacksmith tents. A stall nearby sold live poultry— hens clucking noisily in stacked wooden cages— while a long-bearded elf debated the fatness of a goat with its seller.

Rimuru walked a pace ahead— navigating the narrow aisle between stalls with light steps and a bright expression. He hummed under his breath, while occasionally tugging Goblin Slayer forward by their still-joined hands. 

The ashen-haired boy followed close behind, his eyes flicking from face to face in the crowd with vague unease— not from suspicion, but from a growing, unfamiliar warmth in his chest. 

His hand still curled around Rimuru’s, and although he could feel the heat rising to his ears every time someone glanced their way, he didn’t let go. 

He glanced up once at the cantrip halo still encircling them, glowing faintly as ever— its light reassuring in the noisy morning.

Ranga continued to pad beside them; his big paws making hardly any sound against the cobblestones. He didn’t stray more than a foot from the boys, occasionally nosing one or the other when the crowd thickened.

It was Rimuru who spotted a potential buyer first.

“Whoa— check that out,” he said suddenly, pausing at the edge of a canopy tent set up just beside a sleek black wagon. “That’s got to be a high-end seller, right?”

Goblin Slayer followed his gaze. 

Beneath the tent, several long wooden tables were neatly arranged with glass jars and carefully labeled pouches— dried herbs, ground reagents, powders, pickled roots and polished seeds. Metal canisters sat in even rows, some marked with wax sigils. 

Everything gleamed. 

The merchant himself stood beside the wagon’s open door— tall, golden-skinned, with fine silver hair braided neatly behind his pointed ears. His clothes were dark and pressed, embroidered with gold stitching at the cuffs and collar. 

He was speaking with a man in a velvet doublet—black with purple trim— who held a scroll in one hand and a feather pen in the other. They weren’t exchanging goods or coin. It looked like a contract signing. The elf pointed toward various parts of the parchment paper— indicating where the man should sign.

Rimuru tilted his head, while squinting at the golden-painted logo on the wagon’s side. “I can’t read the whole thing,” he admitted, “but I recognize some of those runes.”

Goblin Slayer stepped beside him, while eyeing the pentagram at the center of the lettering. “It says ‘Ahnea & Vale, Alchemical Provisioners,’” he read aloud.

The slime turned, flashing an eager grin. “So, does that mean he’ll buy from us?”

Goblin Slayer considered it, squinting toward the elf and the merchant rep. “I can’t say for certain.”

Rimuru raised a curious brow. “What makes you say that?”

The boy narrowed his eyes slightly, tone thoughtful. “If he’s signing contracts with people who dress like that, he probably sells in bulk. That means he’s used to moving large amounts of product.”

“… Okay?” Rimuru prompted, brow furrowing.

Goblin Slayer glanced sideways at him. “Think about it. Let’s say you had an entire cave full of diamonds.”

Rimuru snorted. “If I had a whole cave of diamonds, we wouldn’t be here selling magic crystals for chickens!”

“That’s not the point.”

“It should be,” Rimuru muttered under his breath, while putting one hand on his hip.

Goblin Slayer exhaled lightly through his nose. “If you had that diamond cave— and you built a whole business around it— then two random kids showed up with a bag of diamonds, would you pay them a fair price?”

Rimuru blinked. “Well… Yeah?”

“Or—” Goblin Slayer went on, “— would you lowball them, take advantage of the fact that you know diamonds better than they do… Or just turn them away, because it’s not worth your time?”

That made the slime pause.

He blinked again, glancing at the merchant wagon. “I mean…” He frowned slightly, really thinking about it. “I’d still do the right thing. I’d buy it at a rate that gave me a profit— but something that’s fair for the kids too.”

Goblin Slayer let out a quiet chuckle. Not mocking, but dry.

Rimuru caught it instantly. His brows furrowed. “What?”

“Nothing,” the boy said quickly.

“Don’t give me that,” Rimuru press d, as he turned toward him— their hands still linked. “What was so funny about what I said?”

Goblin Slayer hesitated, then sighed. “Sorry. It’s not you. It’s just…” He trailed off, as he looked toward the merchant again. “… That’s not how it works in the real world.”

Rimuru tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“In business,” Goblin Slayer said slowly, “kindness gets exploited. The world’s built around profit— not fairness.”

“But… How do you even know that?” Rimuru asked.

“I read an economic study last year,” Goblin Slayer replied calmly. “It was called ‘Art of the Deal.’”

Rimuru groaned. “That sounds like a boring book.”

“It was,” Goblin Slayer admitted. “But it explained how people think when they run businesses. They don’t see kids. They see leverage. If they sense inexperience, they push for the best possible outcome— for them. You can’t go into these things expecting fairness. You assume the worst and negotiate from there.”

“That’s… Awful,” Rimuru said flatly. “Why would anyone want to live like that?”

“They don’t want to. They have to.” Goblin Slayer shrugged. “Especially when money’s involved. Everything comes down to supply and demand. Whoever has more power wins. And power doesn’t reward compassion.”

Rimuru chewed on the inside of his cheek— his expression darkening. “So basically,” he said, “they’ll screw you over because they can.”

“Exactly.”

There was a long pause.

Then Rimuru scowled and shook his head. “That’s stupid.”

Goblin Slayer raised a brow. “Stupid?”

“Yeah,” the slime muttered, visibly frustrated now— not at the ashen-haired boy, but at the concept. “If I were in charge of my own business— if I ran my own place— I wouldn’t let anyone get screwed over like that. Not by me. Not by anyone. I’d make sure people got what they deserved, not just what they could haggle for.”

Goblin Slayer gave a quiet nod. “… I see.” He then looked thoughtful for a moment, before carefully choosing his next words. “Well… That’d be admirable of you, and I think the world could use more people like that.”

Rimuru softened slightly at that.

“But,” Goblin Slayer added, “not everyone thinks like that. So we should go in with an open mind… So like the Great Sage said: let’s stay wary.”

“… Alrighty then,” Rimuru said with a small huff. “But if this guy tries anything shady, I’m not afraid to do something about it.”

“That’s fine,” Goblin Slayer replied.

They started walking again— Rimuru still leading, Goblin Slayer a half-step behind. Their hands remained joined, though neither of them seemed to notice anymore. 

Ranga trailed behind them patiently, ears flicking now and then as he kept pace.

Ahead, the sun elf and the suited man had finished their exchange. The scroll was rolled, the pen tucked away, and the man stepped off toward a different part of the market— already flipping open his ledger again.

The elf turned back to his booth, alone once more, adjusting the alignment of some jars as the wind picked up slightly and rustled the canopy.

Rimuru and Goblin Slayer were almost there.

“Think he’ll try to undercut us?” Rimuru asked quietly.

“Maybe,” Goblin Slayer murmured. “Or maybe he’ll just pretend he’s not interested. Or say it’s not the right season.”

Rimuru rolled his eyes. “… Not the right season for crystals?”

“You’d be surprised how creative people get when they don’t want to pay.”

“Well, only one way to find out,” Rimuru said, straightening his back. “Let’s see what kind of world we’re living in.”

Goblin Slayer gave a quiet nod.

The glimmer of the warding halo caught in the corner of the sun elf’s vision first— not the children, not even the massive black wolf padding silently beside them, but the unmistakable shimmer of arcane threading. 

The sun elf turned his chin slightly, brows arching with interest as he beheld the spellcraft spinning gently above their heads like the orbit of some tamed moon.

“Hah…” he murmured aloud, folding his arms as they approached. “That’s no mere spell, is it?”

The elf straightened to his full height— taller than most civians in the market. His eyes then trailed upward as he lifted one finger and began tracing slow, invisible circles in the air.

“… A curious mixture,” he said aloud, mostly to himself, though he didn’t mind an audience. “Illusion woven through alteration, reinforced by restoration’s gentle touch. It spins like a ward… But hums far too delicately to hold its form unaided.”

Goblin Slayer took half a step forward, unsure whether the man was speaking to him or not. “Uh…”

“It’s a cantrip,” Rimuru corrected— cutting in with casual cheer. He grinned up at the merchant as they halted in front of the booth, the wolf-pup settling loyally beside them.

“A cantrip?” The sun elf repeated, blinking once. “Good gods. That level of refinement? From a simple cantrip?”

“It was cast by the Great Sage,” Rimuru added helpfully. “Of the Great Jura Forest.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed slightly, though not in hostility. “A Great Sage… From the Great Forest… Performing great spells.” A glint of humor touched his voice. “I sense a pattern.”

“What can I say,” Rimuru replied, shrugging one shoulder with a smirk. “She’s grrr-reat!”

The elf chuckled softly, though his eyes turned calculating. “She must be indeed, if such an elegantly structured enchantment is but a casual flick of her fingers.” His eyes then flicked down to the wolf and then back to Rimuru; momentarily glimpsing at the star-designs embroidered on the bag’s straps, before looking back at the slime’s yellow gaze. “Is she in need of arcane product?”

Before Rimuru could answer, Goblin Slayer stepped forward— voice even. “We’re actually here to represent her. We’re selling some of her goods.”

“… Ah,” the merchant said lightly, though a twitch in his brow betrayed a hint of disappointment. “So the wondrous Great Sage is in the import game now. This should prove interesting.” He mused, as he folded his arms again— leaning ever so slightly toward the pair. “And which company are you all here under? A business card, perhaps?”

Rimuru shook his head. “We don’t have any cards. But—” He said, as he slipped his backpack off one shoulder and let it swing around to his front. “We’ve got something better.”

Goblin Slayer stiffened slightly, watching the elf’s expression shift the moment the slime reached for the buckles.

“I take it you’re in the market for some high-quality, freshly-unearthed magicule crystals?” Rimuru asked as he popped the flap open.

The elf’s smile curled like ribboning smoke— present, polite, but cold at its edges. He gave a practiced shrug, tilting his head slightly as his amber eyes returned to the boys before him.

“I’m afraid my company— Ahnea & Vale, Alchemical Provisioners— already cultivates its own magicule crystals. Lab-grown. Regulated mana-flow. Pristine. Reliable. Traceable.” He bowed faintly, voice like syrup. “As such, I’ve no need of more. But thank you.”

Rimuru’s grin wilted a little, but he recovered quickly. “Oh! Yeah, of course. Totally understandable. That’s—”

“— However,” the elf interjected, eyes dropping subtly from their faces to the pack in the slime’s arms, “that bag you’re carrying…”

Goblin Slayer’s spine straightened.

The sun elf didn’t even point. His gesture was lazy, a barely perceptible nod of his chin toward the item in question.

“... Appears to be a rather old make. Sellsword-quality, perhaps. Double-buckled, wide straps— likely provincial issue. Well-kept for its age, I’ll give you that.” He speculated, before stepping forward just enough for his words to feel personal— as though imparting advice. “But I wouldn’t expect much for it, if you’re hoping to pawn it off.”

Rimuru blinked. “I… Wasn’t?”

The sun elf smiled wider. “Ah. But you’re here for business, aren’t you? It’s what you told me, at least.”

Goblin Slayer tilted his head, slow and sharp, then stared at the elf’s hands— specifically the way his fingers now drummed, not nervously, but in cadence. 

Controlled, as they were calculating.

Rimuru’s mouth opened to respond, but Goblin Slayer was faster— stepping in front of him, and raising a hand and placing it calmly over the slime’s mouth.

“… It’s a vintage Succhi,” the ashen-haired boy said flatly.

Altherien blinked once, the faintest stutter in his smooth performance. “... Pardon?”

“Classic weave,” Goblin Slayer continued— voice unchanging. “Star-stamped straps. Cross-grained leather base. Probably pre-war era too.”

Rimuru stood blinking behind Goblin Slayer’s hand, his brows rising higher with every word.

“One-hundred gold pieces,” Goblin Slayer said. “Flat.”

The sun elf chuckled once, like the distant chime of crystal. “One-hundred?” He echoed, with his tone bemused now— indulgent— as though humoring a toddler who’d offered him a pebble in exchange for a crown. “Dear boy, I could purchase a new one for that in any proper city.”

“Not in Eldrosvale, you can’t,” Goblin Slayer countered. “There isn’t a Succhi stockist anywhere east of Lorvagane.”

The elf’s brows twitched faintly. “I could wait. Return west, and pick one up brand new.”

“You could,” Goblin Slayer said, voice still even. “But I hear travel through Lorvagne’s capital isn’t ideal these days.”

Rimuru tilted his head. “What’s wrong with—?”

“— Civil unrest,” Goblin Slayer said quickly, while not taking his eyes off the elf. “The entire fashion district’s under martial lockdown. You might be able to walk into Parroux… But you won’t be walking out of it alive.”

The sun elf let out a soft exhale. He was smiling, but it was a brittle thing now. “You seem remarkably well-informed for someone who still shops in the junior department.”

“My sister,” Goblin Slayer replied evenly. “She brought back fashion week magazines from the Shinzuhara Shogunate. Studied there for five years, and followed the fashion industry closely.”

There was no emotion in his voice— just calm fact as far as the sun elf was aware of.

Rimuru’s eyes flitted between them, understanding none of it— but clearly trying to. He then leaned forward slightly; nodding with the exaggerated confidence of someone who didn’t want to admit he was bluffing. “Y-Yeah. And— and those magazines were, uh… Really helpful!”

The elf slowly turned his attention to the slime— narrows his eyes at him. “Yes… I’m quite certain they were.”

Rimuru beamed; encouraged by what he thought was validation.

The elf then stepped closer behind the front counter. “You’re asking me to pay one-hundred gold pieces for a dusty backpack from two dirty children.”

“We bathed last night,” Goblin Slayer corrected flatly.

“Irrelevant,” the sun elf retorted, with his smile strained. “You understand how absurd it sounds, yes?”

Rimuru nodded slowly, brow scrunched. “Yep. So absurd you probably couldn’t resist, right?” He shot back, before turning to Goblin Slayer— voice too loud. “That’s what you’re going for, right?”

The ashen-haired boy gave a tiny sigh, before dragging a hand down his face.

The sun elf pressed on— oozing faux concern. “I only ask because it seems a bit unfair of me to take advantage of your… Inexperience in bartering. So I’ll offer you a kind gesture instead. Five gold pieces, and you can even keep the little crystals.”

“That’s generous,” Rimuru said, blinking. “Wait— Ren, is that good?”

“It’s insulting,” Goblin Slayer replied, crossing his arms now. “He’s lowballing us.”

The sun elf tsked. “Now, now. No need for hostility. I’m simply offering what I can, given the—”

“— You’re trying to con us,” Goblin Slayer said plainly. “You’re expecting us to hand you the crystals, after you buy our bag for a tiny fraction of what it’s worth. No one in their right mind would agree to carrying those around without a bag.”

Rimuru looked at him. “Wait… So he was trying to con us?”

Goblin Slayer didn’t answer.

The sun elf’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. “I don’t con children.”

“No,” Goblin Slayer said. “But you tried to.”

The elf’s tone dipped. “Watch yourself.”

Rimuru tilted his head again, brow furrowed. “So, wait. Are we selling the bag, or not?”

The elf’s tone turned honey-sweet again— bending low. “I’m offering you five gold pieces out of pity. You clearly need the coin— I’m giving you a hand.”

Goblin Slayer’s eyes narrowed. “Then why not just donate us the coin, if you’re feeling so generous?”

The sun elf blinked once at that— just once.

Rimuru, still playing catch-up, scratched his cheek. “Okay, so let me get this straight— you don’t need the bag, but you want to help us out, but you also think it’s not worth much?”

The sun elf’s fingers twitched. “Correct.”

“Then,” the slime said slowly, thoughtfully, eyes narrowing slightly, “If you’re just helping us out… Why’re you trying to haggle?”

Silence.

The sun elf’s expression didn’t crack— but it stalled. Like glass flexing under heat.

Rimuru blinked. “Wait— do you not have enough gold to pay for it?”

There was a ripple.

Not from the elf.

But from the space around them.

The cider couple glanced over. A rhea merchant froze mid-juggle. A woman glanced up from her clipboard and arched a brow. 

Across the aisle, a guild representative— distinguished by his red neck-sash— narrowed his eyes over his glasses.

The sun elf stood still.

Goblin Slayer winced, almost imperceptibly.

Rimuru’s voice had been louder than he realized.

The merchant’s mask had cracked.

A beat passed.

Then two.

And the elf’s voice returned— flat and cold.

“… I’m going to give you one chance,” he whispered through his teeth. “Twenty gold pieces… Take it, and fuck off, you little shits… Or I’ll flag down the nearest guard and report that two unaccompanied minors have been harassing me.”

Rimuru stiffened, as Goblin Slayer tilted his head ever so slightly.

“… Twenty,” the ashen-haired boy repeated— tasting the word like it might turn to ash. “And thirty silver,” he added slowly. “And you get the crystals for free.”

The sun elf stared at him. Jaw clenched, with one vein twitching in his temple.

“That’s our final offer.”

The words fell like a guillotine.

The elf said nothing. He only turned, before walking into his wagon through its sleek metal doors.

Unsure of what was going on, Rimuru then leaned toward Goblin Slayer. “So… Was that a yes?”

“Definitely a yes.”

They then heard a trunk open, followed by coins shuffling and a drawer slamming.

The sun self then returned moments later with a leather purse and a dead look in his eyes.

Without hesitation, he then proceeded to hurl it at them.

It struck Goblin Slayer in the collarbone and bounced into Rimuru’s shoulder; scattering coins across the ground in a jingle.

“Enjoy your little victory,” the sun elf spat.

Goblin Slayer then dropped to one knee with a quiet grunt— fingers sweeping across the trampled grass to collect the scattered coins. They were still warm from the elf’s hand— slick with sweat and coppery-smelling, with their clinks sharp against the tension hanging in the air. 

The purse lay half-split beside him— its silver clasps agape like a broken jaw. He gathered each coin mechanically, jaw set, with one eye on Rimuru.

The slime hadn’t moved.

Not a muscle.

He stood in front of the merchant’s table, staring straight at the sun elf— no longer beaming, no longer playing the fool. 

His expression had twisted into something unreadable. Cold, and slightly mischievous. And then— like a storm front breaking behind his eyes— it shifted again.

A slow grin crawled across his face.

Goblin Slayer’s stomach dropped.

“… Don’t,” he muttered under his breath.

Rimuru raised his brow at him, while sliding one arm free from the bag’s strap— then the other.

The sun elf, still fuming, hadn’t noticed the change. He was too busy brushing the front of his vest with disgust, and trying to wipe off where the coin purse had accidentally struck him. Muttering curses, and fixing his hair, he did his best to ignore the tension of the crowd’s shifting stares.

“… Here,” Rimuru said— voice honey-sweet.

The slime then swung the bag from his shoulders and, with a single fluid motion, upended it entirely over the booth’s polished counter.

Hundreds of lights burst across the display.

The magicule crystals spilled like starlight— bright blue, quartz-like, and softly humming with raw energy. 

They clattered and bounced, rolled between tightly packed jars of pickled flameberries and powdered mana kelp; some slipping from the edge and vanishing into the grass with soft thuds. 

The glow painted the booth with shifting halos— like moonlight flickering across water.

Rimuru hopped once in place, caught the now-empty pack by one of its straps, and spun it in a lazy arc.

It hit the sun elf square in the face with a padded ‘fwump.’

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Rimuru sang.

For half a second, silence reigned.

Then the merchant’s golden face turned the color of sun-scorched wine.

“You little—!” He bellowed, with his voice cracking like a warhorn. “GUARDS!!! Guards— THESE TWO— THEY’RE MONSTERS!!! ASSAULTERS!!! SABOTEURS!!!”

Dozens of heads turned instantly. 

A flock of chickens burst into terrified squawking in their coop. A rhea boy dropped the three knives he’d been juggling. Somewhere in the back, someone blew a whistle— sharp and shrill.

Goblin Slayer’s eyes snapped up.

Five soldiers in munition armor were already rounding the cider cart, with their plated boots stomping through hay-strewn dirt like a percussion line. 

Rifles slung tight, and their batons drawn with armor  stamped with the copper wolf of Erelan’s Steppe. They were coming in hard from the north end of the market— and they looked ready to maim.

“Rimuru—”

“— Already on it!” The slime whooped.

Rimuru then leapt sideways and vaulted onto Ranga’s back— his body bending effortlessly as he landed with a bounce. 

The great wolf crouched slightly, tail high— horn aglow with protective light.

“Grab the coin! Let’s go!”

Goblin Slayer then jammed the last of the scattered coins into his coat pocket— still breathless, still stunned. 

Behind him, a jar of powdered echoroot exploded as the sun elf— red-faced and snarling— slapped it aside while continuing to yell. Crystals still covered his booth— gleaming defiantly.

A rooster, inexplicably freed from its cage, strutted across the chaos like a survivor of war.

“Map!” Goblin Slayer barked, while scrambling up behind Rimuru as Ranga began to tense. He then unfurled the parchment with one hand and pointed east. “We can cut through the cobbled terrace, loop back onto Rossenburg Street—!”

“— Negative, my good sir!” Rimuru cheered, with laughter spilling from his mouth as he leaned into the rush. “We haven’t even started shopping around yet!”

“… What?”

“Yeah! We still need breakfast stuff for Shuna! Chickens! Coffee beans! Flour and eggs and—!”

“— Rimuru, they’re armed. They might shoot us.”

“Then we better not get shot then!” The slime replied, while kicking lightly against Ranga’s side. Not a blow— just a signal.

The wolf responded instantly.

With a thunderous bark, Ranga reared, then surged forward.

His translucent ward pulsed outward from his horn like a bubble of warped glass. Wind folded harmlessly around it. Stray twigs and fruit skins bounced off the surface and tumbled aside. The halo above them— Ciel’s ever-spinning cantrip— flared brilliantly, and drew even more attention as they burst into motion.

“HALT!!!” Barked one of the guards.

Whistles blared. Civians scattered.

Boots pounded stone behind them.

But Ranga didn’t slow.

The wolf-pup threaded through the chaos of the market’s southern ridge with fluid precision; each pawfall kicking up dust and linen as he weaved past startled shoppers and crates of oranges. 

His mane flared outward— wind slicing across his shoulders but never touching the two boys clinging to his back.

Rimuru leaned low into the motion, gripping the scruff of Ranga’s fur, with his yellow eyes glittering with glee. “We are so banned from here!”

Goblin Slayer gritted his teeth. “What gave it away?!”

“Might’ve been the screaming elf!”

“Or the guards with guns!”

Behind them, the clatter of repeating rifles loaded into chambers echoed like popping corn. 

Shouts bounced off the stonework as soldiers shoved their way through an overturned herb stand. 

Apples rolled into the dust, as a lone sheep broke free of its pen and darted across a cobbled lane.

“I love this place!” Rimuru shouted, who’s voice nearly drowned out by wind and madness.

“You’re insane!”

“MAKING MONEY MOVES, BABY!!!”

They tore under an arch strung with prayer bells— the silken cords slapping against Ranga’s ward and twanging like chimes. A group of vendors ducked, as a toddler cried out in alarm. 

Rimuru’s laughter— gleeful, fearless, half-maniacal— rang out behind him as he threw up one hand in victory.

A crate of lettuce exploded as the wolf-pup bounded through a garden stall— his hind paws narrowly missing a stack of eggs. Chickens flapped wildly, while a mule brayed in outrage.

“Hard left!” Goblin Slayer barked, holding the map sideways now, watching as the path ahead forked.

“Copy that!”

Rimuru yanked Ranga’s mane like reins— not that the wolf needed guidance. He pivoted so sharply it sent a burst of wind out like a shockwave. 

A stack of woven rugs toppled behind them.

Guards still chased, but were falling behind now— bogged down by startled shoppers, scattered produce, and the ever-growing chaos.

And still, the glowing halo above them spun— burning brighter with every second.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

The ground vibrated in subtle bursts beneath the rattling wheels of departing wagons. All along the southwestern ridge of the farmers’ market, shopkeepers were yanking tarps down; stuffing crates, toppling stalls in the frenzy to clear out. 

Boots pounded the stone-paved walkways. Sirens whined in the distance— sharp, warbling pulses that didn’t so much travel through the air as slice it apart. The pop of rifles echoed off warehouse walls like firecrackers hurled at stone.

And in the middle of it all, nestled like a sandbagged toddler behind a heavy oak counter, was a very flustered, very anxious mammoth therian named Gazpacho.

He wore a teal apron that barely fit over his paunch and had his elephant stump of a hand pressed against his temples, like that alone might silence the chaos swelling around him. His small eyes scanned the crowds; trunk twitching nervously, with sweat trickling down the sides of his brown furry cheeks like syrup down the rim of a bowl.

“Any second now,” he muttered, “somebody’s gonna panic so hard they’ll crash their cart into mine… And then I’ll have to explain to Mother why the bananas are bruised again.”

He then peeked directly across the walkway. On the other side of the stone path, stood his eternal rival.

The man wasn’t big— not by Gazpacho’s standards. Mid-thirties maybe. Wiry arms, farmer’s tan, scar beneath one eye that hadn’t been there last season. A hard-set mouth beneath a sun-beaten mustache, and a shirt was buttoned halfway up; dust was already clinging to his sleeves, and he sat too still on that folding stool to not be watching.

Behind him, a girl darted around the hooves of nervously shuffling livestock, ushering pigs into their crate with practiced taps of a stick. Long red hair trailed in a hurried braid down her back, her turquoise overalls catching loose feathers as she jogged. 

Chickens squawked indignantly as she nudged them into the wagon. The sheep weren’t happy either, though at least they moved in predictable circles.

Her uncle didn’t move. He watched Gazpacho like a man watching a storm— not frightened of it, but deeply annoyed by its timing.

The mammoth squinted, then stood a little taller behind his counter.

“Well, look who’s still here!” He called, waving both stubby arms and his trunk for good measure. “Shouldn’t you be halfway home by now, trailing after your little niece, like the second-rate frontier shepherd you are?”

The man didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head, eyes still narrow beneath the shade of his tarp. “… Those are some mighty bold words,” he said, raising his voice just enough to carry across the street. “Coming from a man who still lives with his mother.”

“I do NOT live with her,” Gazpacho said, while jabbing one thick stump upward. “We cohabitate. There’s a difference. Price of living in Crossbell is criminal, not that you’d understand that— what with you living out in, what was it, again? Brookfall County? Yeesh!”

The man just rolled his eyes. “Keep talking, mama’s boy. Every word you say makes me wish I’d gone deaf back during the hornet season.”

“Oh, look, everybody!” Gazpacho swung his trunk dramatically to the side. “It’s Mister Prairie Homestead! Let’s all give him a round of applause for affording a patch of dirt that he pollutes with cow manure!”

Nobody clapped. Nobody even looked up. The crowd just kept scrambling past in chaotic rivulets of noise and panic.

Gazpacho deflated a little.

“… You’re pathetic,” the man called, adjusting the pump-action shotgun resting across his lap.

Gazpacho’s eyes widened. “Nuh-uh!”

“Uh-huh.”

“You—!” He stammered, with sweat misting the bridge of his trunk. “You listen here, Bauer!”

“Already am,” the man called— not looking away.

“I might be a… A pathetic mama’s boy,” Gazpacho admitted, while slapping his hand to his belly with a sniff, “but Mother didn’t raise no quitter! You think you’re gonna outlast me? You’ve got another thing cumming on you!”

The man squinted. “… You mean ‘coming to you.’”

“I said what I said,” Gazpacho huffed, turning pink around his tiny ears.

“You really didn’t. And you should never say it again in public.”

Gazpacho snorted; trumpeting angrily through his trunk like a furious accordion.

“You know what?!” He bellowed, while pointing across the walkway. “You should just go back to your little barn in the middle of nowhere, because this is my street, my steppe, and most importantly— my customers!”

The man raised a brow, calm as smoke curling from a burnt log. “If those are your customers, they’ve got worse taste than the women who dated my cousin… And he was homosexual.”

Gazpacho’s whole face went slack. Then sour. Then red. “Okay… Alright… You wanna play hardball, tough guy?”

He then proceeded to roll up the sleeves of his blue shirt, though it only revealed more fur. He raised his arms into a boxer's stance, shadow-boxing the air like a dizzy moose, and puffing through his snout with a vengeance.

“You’re pushing it, Bauer! Keep that up, and I’m gonna have to bring the HEAT!!!”

The man stood without a word.

His left boot knocked the stool aside. With a lazy flick of his foot, he kicked the shotgun off his lap and caught it mid-air with practiced ease. 

It never pointed at Gazpacho— but the barrel rose smoothly until it was aimed directly at the canopy above his own head.

He rested his hand on the fore-end— hardwood worn smooth from years of pumping— and narrowed his eyes like a man who didn’t need to posture.

“I ain’t no city slicker,” he said low, almost conversational. “I don’t call for help when someone steps in my yard.”

Gazpacho froze.

The man tightened his grip, thumb brushing the trigger guard. “And out here, we got a saying: if you try to bite a man’s hand while he’s feeding pigs, don’t expect him to use the other hand to pet you. You keep to your half of the walk, Gazpacho. Otherwise, I’m mailing your hide back to your mama. Might be the only time she gets something worth keeping.”

Gazpacho trembled. “O… O-Oh— that’s IT!!!”

He turned his trunk upward; let out an earsplitting trumpet that echoed against the market walls, and screamed, “GUARDS! GUARDS, HELP!!! HE’S GOT A GUN!!!”

The man immediately ducked and slipped the shotgun behind a barrel.

“Matthew Bauer! Age thirty-seven! Lives at 12 Prairie Dusk Way, Lot 3, outside of the township of Pebble Glen, Brookfall County! He’s armed, and deadly! Did I mention his name was Matthew Bauer?!”

Bauer grit his teeth so hard they clicked. “You FATASS tattle-TALE!!!”

The surrounding stalls quieted just enough for both men to hear the sound— a high-pitched screech of energy tearing through the chaos like a blade through silk. The scent of scorched air bloomed across the street. And then—

Dust exploded outward.

Claws raked across the stone; carving lines into the market walkway as the air pulsed with arcane pressure. The wind whipped outward from the epicenter, sending Gazpacho’s grocery display tumbling into the dirt. 

The canopies buckled, and chickens screeched.

Right between their stalls, a wolf pup the size of a horse skidded into view— his horn radiating golden and violet magic. Above his head spun a brilliant halo of white-blue light, casting dancing rays across the shattered produce and scattering crates.

On his back rode two children— one grinning wide, hair bouncing with the motion, and the other gripping the pup’s white mane.

The mammoth gawked. “What in the name of Mother’s roast BEEF casserole is that?!”

Bauer raised his eyebrows. “The hell…?”

Rimuru hit the ground first, after hopping off Ranga’s back. Goblin Slayer followed a heartbeat later; landing with a quick thump beside the wolf pup, one hand already digging into the pocket of his trousers. He fished out the purse— its stitched mouth bulging with uneven weight— and shoved it into the slime’s waiting hands.

“Get a rooster,” the ashen-haired boy ordered, “and as many hens as you can carry. I’ll handle groceries for Shuna.”

Rimuru nodded with a grin. “Easy peasy.”

His expression flickered, though, as he glanced overhead— watching the cantrip begin to fizzle at its edges, as the ashen-haired boy began to move away from him. The magic broke up like petals in the wind, fragments of light dissolving against the warm, rippling air.

Goblin Slayer didn’t bother to observe the cantrip weakening, as he turned on his heel and sprinted across the dusty lane; heading straight for the cluttered awning where the woolly grocer stood blinking through the panic. 

The grocery stall was surprisingly intact, nestled between overturned carts and a collapsed pickle vendor stand. The woolly figure behind the counter loomed tall, even hunched, with his thick trunk curled nervously in front of his apron.

Despite the carnage echoing nearby— soldiers yelling, metal boots stamping, someone screaming about sabotage— the mammoth was determined to maintain some semblance of order.

He hummed to himself with deep-belly tones, swaying slightly as if unsure whether to duck or smile.

Goblin Slayer skidded to a stop, tossing his voice over the counter. “Five dozen eggs. Two bags of coffee beans. Four loaves of bread. Butter. Two bags of flour. Baking soda. Yeast.”

Gazpacho blinked, his thick ears twitching. “Hoo boy,” he muttered, voice higher than expected. “That’s quite the order, friend. Feels like breakfast for twenty!”

He started pulling open bins and yanking out burlap sacks. “Coming right up, just—give me a second, okay? Now where did I put my yeast tote...”

“Hurry,” Goblin Slayer urged, glancing over his shoulder. “I don’t have much time.”

“Oh, I can tell,” Gazpacho mumbled, still humming. “You boys caused quite the ruckus. Reminds me of that time my cousin married a banshee. Lot of shrieking. Oop—wait, you bring your own bags?”

Goblin Slayer blinked. “What?”

“I don’t do plastic. Or paper. Bad for the environment. Nylon only. Two silvers per tote.”

Goblin Slayer sighed. “Fine.”

As Gazpacho began stuffing groceries into a netted tote that read ‘I’M VEGGIE-DEPENDENT,’ while Goblin Slayer turned to check on Rimuru.

Meanwhile, across the stone-paved lane, the slime was already strutting up to the livestock vendor’s stall, radiating confidence. He gave the table a light tap with the back of his hand and flashed his best disarming grin at the mustached man behind it.

“Yo!” Rimuru announced brightly, as he planted his elbows on the wooden table. “You selling chickens?”

Bauer didn’t blink, as he glanced slowly down at the blue-haired child leaning against his stall. “… Are you and your friend the ones causing all the ruckus?”

Rimuru chuckled. “Define ruckus.”

“That… Dog,” the man said, gesturing vaguely toward Ranga. “And then the sirens, the other merchants packing up, and then the gunshots—”

“— Oh, that’s what you meant.” Rimuru chuckled, as he waved a hand lazily. “I mean, sure, that was technically us. But it’s not like we hurt anybody. Well… Not really.”

The mustached man stared flatly.

“And no offense,” Rimuru added, winking. “Civians always overreact— authority figures especially. You give ‘em one little panic, and bam! They’re up in arms.”

“… Right,” Bauer muttered.

Rimuru clapped his hands together. “So, anyway! Chickens! I need at least one rooster and however many hens you’re willing to part with.”

The man leaned back slightly and crossed his arms. “How do you plan to carry them?”

He nodded toward Ranga.

“That pup won’t haul more than two birds without a harness. You don’t have a hitch. Don’t have a cart. Don’t have a wagon. That’s a problem.”

A distant voice echoed through the market.

“I saw them! They’re this way!”

The color drained from Rimuru’s face for just a second— but he recovered quickly, lips curving into a lopsided smile.

“You know what?” The slime chimed cheerfully, before immediately opening his coin purse directly onto the man’s table.

Gold and silver clinked and spilled over the wood in messy heaps. A couple of pieces bounced onto the floor.

The mustached man’s brow lifted slowly, as though unsure if what he was seeing was real. “… Where the hell did you get all this—?”

Rimuru didn’t answer— he was already moving around the stall.

The slime’s heels skidded across the stone, as he made a beeline for the wagon packed tight with noisy, feathered bodies. The pigs squealed, spooked by the sudden movement. The sheep clustered at the edge— their hooves shifting anxiously.

“H-HEY!!!” Bauer barked, while already scrambling up and reaching for the pump-action shotgun resting against the side of his stool. “What do you think you’re doing!?”

The redhead girl, startled, turned from the sheep just as the slime reached the hitch. Her pink eyes widened at the sight of him— lean, small, grinning— and dragging the wagon as if it were tied to nothing heavier than a sack of flour.

“W-Wait! What’re you—?”

“— Beth! Get back from that crazy girl!” Baruer shouted, as he leveled the shotgun up to take aim. “You! Step away, right now!”

Rimuru didn’t even flinch. “… I’m not a girl though,” he muttered, as he raised his free hand.

It turned blue.

Cyan slime flashed, extending like a whip— grabbing the barrel of the shotgun and yanking it clean from the man’s grip before he could squeeze the trigger. The wood creaked, while the metal clattered.

The red-haired girl gasped.

The Bauer froze.

Rimuru then slung the shotgun over his shoulder with one hand; the wagon’s hitch in the other, and began power-walking toward Ranga, as though this were nothing more than a casual errand.

“G-GUARDS!!!” The mustached man screamed behind him. “There’s a monster! It just stole my goods! He took my gun! SOMEBODY STOP HIM!!!”

The redhead didn’t move.

She just stood— stunned— and watching the boy with the playful smirk walk away like the laws of the world meant nothing to him. Something glittered in her eyes— something between awe and disbelief.

“H-Hey,” she called, while taking a few small steps after him. “How’d you do that…?”

Rimuru glanced back once, grinning wide. “A good magician,” he said with a wink, “never reveals his secrets.”

He soon reached Ranga in three more strides, before tossing the stolen shotgun into the wagon with a loud thunk— just as Goblin Slayer emerged from Gazpacho’s stand with three full tote bags hanging from his shoulders. The magical halo reignited— brighter than before.

“What took you so long?” Rimuru called out.

The moment Goblin Slayer opened his mouth to answer, the shotgun went off.

BLAM!!!

Feathers exploded.

The unfortunate chicken who had been pecking at the tip of the forearm didn’t even have time to squawk.

Gazpacho shouted, “That’s why Mother never let me have a gun!”

Goblin Slayer grimaced as he crouched beside the wagon; tucking the totes in beside a wholly unbothered sheep. “How did you even afford all of this…?”

Rimuru sat proudly atop Ranga’s back, stretching his arms behind his head. “The ‘Art of the Deal,’ baby!”

Goblin Slayer paused, frowning. “… You didn’t even know what that was until—”

— The sound of a bullet zipping past his cheek immediately made him drop the topic.

Another hit Rimuru square in the shoulder, as his body lurched slightly. “GAH—” the slime groaned. “Ugh… Seriously?”

Thick translucent slime began to ooze from the wound; bubbling slightly, while congealing into a patch as a trail of white gentle light from Ciel’s cantrip found its way to mend his injury.

Goblin Slayer scrambled onto Ranga’s back, before gripping Rimuru’s waist. “Are you okay?!”

“I’m fine,” Rimuru muttered. “But maybe let’s not wait for round two…!”

Another volley came whistling through the air.

The slime raised a hand to his forehead— scanning the crowd. “… We should get somewhere less open. You know, ideally not full of bullets.”

Goblin Slayer nodded and pulled the enchanted map from inside his tunic. His dusty rose eyes scanned the glyphs— Ciel’s enchantment pulsing faintly beneath the parchment— and then blinked as a single glowing light circled a location west of their position.

“There!” He barked, while raising a finger in the direction. “Go that way!”

The wolf pup roared— his horn flashing with renewed warding magic. A barrier sprang up in front of them— catching three more bullets with a flash of blue and gold. The reflected shots then proceeded to ricochet off nearby crates, before cracking the pavement beneath a soldier’s boots.

The guards stumbled, shouting for cover.

Ranga didn’t wait.

He launched forward, with his paws tearing into stone with each bound. The wagon lurched behind him, but his barrier held steady. 

Goblin Slayer squinted ahead— then froze.

In the distance, near the livestock stall, the red-haired girl stood beside the mustached man who had a hand in alerting the guards. The man was yelling at her, while ushering her toward the carriage. But she wasn’t looking at him.

She was staring at Goblin Slayer.

Their eyes locked.

His breath caught.

“B… Bethany,” he whispered.

The girl didn’t hear him, but seemed to catch a glimpse of his lips moving before the door of the carriage was closed on her.

A sudden tug on his sleeve snapped the ashen-haired boy back to the present.

“You remembered to get coffee for Ciel, right?” Rimuru asked casually, while blinking up at him.

Goblin Slayer swallowed the lump in his throat and looked away.

“Y… Yeah. I got it.”

Vivianne fluttered her eyelids open, not abruptly— but gently, the way someone did when they had nowhere to be. 

The softest seams of sunlight had managed to thread their way in through the slatted blinds and the slight part in the velvet curtains— casting golden ribbons across the faintly rumpled sheets. 

She let out a quiet exhale, eyes still half-lidded, and nestled her cheek a little deeper into the warm pocket of the pillow beside her.

‘It’s been a while since I had a real day off…’ She thought to herself, with her lips tugging in the barest curve of a smile. ‘Between the school, and taking care of Ren… There was always something that needed me.’

Still tucked beneath the cottony layers of her comforter, she reached one arm up and over her head in a slow, sleepy stretch; feeling her spine pull and joints lightly crack, as her body remembered its own shape. 

The warmth of the bed clung to her skin like morning honey. When she finally shifted under the quilt and drew it back, the soft fabric folded down over her lap, revealing the modest silhouette of her white nightgown— thin-strapped, hemmed just past her knees, and trimmed with delicate lace at the collar.

With her lower back settled against the plumped pillows and her shoulders against the cushioned headboard, Vivianne slowly took in the view of the room. Her brown eyes scanned the walls with the vague attention of someone who still hadn’t quite left her dream entirely.

The fireplace across from the bed— unlit but regal— sat in its familiar quiet, with its marble mantle flanked by antique sconces and brass-framed paintings of blooming hills and riverboats. 

Near it stood a pair of velvet armchairs and a coffee table, forming a little lounging alcove in front of a tall, glass-doored bookcase. Beside that, her writing desk remained just as the room’s previous owner had left it— with a fountain pen tucked beside the inkwell, and a volume of regional herbology lying open and underlined in the margins.

‘Honestly, what is all this…?’ She mused with quiet disbelief, ‘Some kind of divine reward? A blessing in disguise?’

She gave a short, breathy chuckle and brought a hand to her temple as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. 

The frame creaked faintly beneath her weight— soft and springy, like the mattress was letting out a sigh of its own. Her bare feet then touched the hardwood floor— cool and smooth— her toes curling and rubbing against the floor’s smooth surface.

‘Strange for me to wonder that,’ She thought to herself as she pushed upward; standing with one hand lightly pressing into her lower back. ‘We’re not religious people really, but yet our father was a priest.’

She smiled wryly at the irony; rolling her shoulders as her arms stretched high toward the ceiling. Her joints made gentle, satisfying pops as she rotated her shoulders, then leaned forward— bending at the hips and spreading her legs just enough to properly stretch her calves and lower back. 

Her hands brushed the floor, and she held the position; arching her spine slightly and letting out a slow, contented sigh. 

After straightening up, she smoothed down her nightgown and padded across the room, her footsteps soft against the rug. 

She proceeded to make over to the tall window overlooking the lake— reaching for the drawstrings and tugging the curtains open. Warm, soft sunlight bathed the room in golden hues; catching on the polished furniture and fluttering lightly against the sheer inner drapes.

She then flipped the latch and pushed the glass window outward on its brass hinges. A gentle breeze spilled inward, cool and floral— carrying the faint scent of pine needles and lake water. 

Vivianne leaned forward and stuck her head outside, with her chestnut hair falling forward over one shoulder as she basked in the warm sunlight across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

Below, Lake Viredla shimmered in soft ripples— its waters glassy and pale-blue, curling gently toward the rocky shores. Wisps of mist drifted lazily down from the far-off mountains; rolling low over the horizon like silver breath spilled from the gods themselves. Birds wheeled in the air, their cries distant and comforting.

Vivianne sighed again, though this one was quieter, steadier— more thoughtful. 

She leaned more into the sill with both elbows, before pulling gently at the neckline of her gown to loosen it just enough that the breeze could flow onto the tops of her breasts, and down between her warm cleavage. Her hand then returned to rest beside the other, while her fingers curled gently against the windowsill.

‘… Maybe I’ll ask Ciel to help me gather wild herbs and fruit today,’ she thought, furrowing her brow slightly. ‘But what would I even make with just that?’

She began tapping her chin with a forefinger, with her brows drawing together slightly; unaware of what was unfolding beyond the bounds of the estate lawn, on the other side of the three-story tall house.

Just a little ways downhill— past the gently sloped garden beds and the cobbled walkway flanked by low ferns and mossy stones— hundreds of goblins were swarming the far side of the hill, laboring with surprising efficiency.

Dozens of them were hammering posts into the earth; working together in squadrons to raise a brand-new chicken coop— complete with slatted shutters, nesting boxes, and a shaded overhang. 

A fence line was already halfway done, with wood beams being fastened with rawhide and scavenged nails. Goblins passed buckets of water and wheelbarrows of hay from one to the next in a long, grumbling chain. 

Others, less clear on the original scope of the project, had decided to go further.

Farther up the hill, a half-constructed barn now loomed— complete with a skeleton frame of polished spruce and a plank roof that was already three-quarters finished. A pair of goblins bickered loudly as they tried to mount a weather vane shaped like a duck.

Treyni, graceful as ever, stood a little apart from the hustle— her leaf-woven robe brushing the grass as she calmly raised a hand toward the earth. 

With each flick of her wrist, a sapling burst upward from the soil— its bark thickening and limbs stretching skyward. 

A trio of dryads also stood beside her, singing softly in their native tongue, with their magic harmonizing with the forest’s will.

For every tree raised and chopped, the goblins were instructed to replant two in its place— using the scattered seeds gathered from the forest edge.

It was an ecosystem of activity— controlled chaos.

Vivianne, high above and none the wiser, was still staring out toward the lake— brown eyes scanning the glittering waves with a dreamy, distracted look.

‘I could make a fruit compote… Maybe serve it over toasted bread with honey? Or no— what about hand pies? But I’d need flour… Eggs… Oh— we don’t have anything for that.’

She blinked once, before narrowing her eyes thoughtfully.

“… Wait.”

Still leaning against the windowsill, she tilted her head slowly. 

A faint sound of what she thought was distant hammering carried to her ears. 

Vivianne lifted her brows, sniffed the air once, and pulled her head back in. She walked toward her wardrobe, already sliding the nightgown’s sleeves off her shoulders.

Still, no alarms rang in her mind. ‘Maybe someone’s working on the roof?’ She wondered absently.

Outside, Gobuta barked orders while gesturing with a stick like a tiny general. A goblin with a wheelbarrow full of nails nearly tipped over, then was caught by a dryad’s outstretched root.

Vivianne— thankfully— was too far away to hear that outburst, and was still focused on what to cook— and maybe asking the others for help later.

Wrapping a robe over her bare shoulders and sliding her arms through the sleeves, she then reached for her slippers.

She figured that it was going to be a productive day in the Great Jura Forest— she was simply made to be oblivious of just how productive it already was.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

The distant cries of hawks echoed across the rolling hills, their shadows slanting low over the uneven grasses that swayed like restless ocean currents. The golden hue of morning had long crested the edge of the sky; bathing the plateau in a brilliant sheen that shimmered off dew-slick stones and highlighted every jagged incline. 

It was the sort of light that made everything glint— beautiful, but unforgiving. Especially to the dozen mounted soldiers now weaving their way across the more rugged reaches of Erelan’s outer steppe.

The grassy terrain, once tame and shallow near the city’s boundary, had grown unpredictable— its slopes rising and falling in steep, misaligned rhythms that slowed even the hardiest of horses. 

Every decline felt steeper than the last. 

The air was already warming, dry and breathless; the sunlight burning across the silver trim of dark breastplates, and steaming off the coats of the exhausted animals beneath them.

At the head of the narrow formation, a rider raised one fist.

The entire platoon came to a gradual stop— some of the horses stamping uneasily, their breath hitching in thick, rhythmic pants. 

The commanding officer’s mount, a dapple-gray mare with a scar along her shoulder, shivered beneath his legs. He clicked his tongue softly, patting her neck.

“You did good, girl,” he murmured under his breath; frowning as he felt the heat radiating off her through his gloved palm.

With a practiced motion, he swung one leg over the saddle and dismounted— his boots crunching into the bent grass below. Dust clung to the edges of his greaves, as without delay, he unfastened the leather loop on his belt and withdrew a long, brass-cased telescope— worn at the hinges, but oiled and smooth.

The officer extended it with a flick, as he raised it to his eye as he turned his gaze eastward— toward the direction the wolf pup had fled. Or, more accurately, where it should have fled. 

But the sun was an unforgiving tyrant that morning, and the radiance of it— glaring from just above the horizon line— rendered Ciel’s glowing cantrip near impossible to distinguish from the light itself. 

The officer clicked his tongue again— not in praise.

Squinting, he lowered the telescope slightly and tilted it to avoid the worst of the flare.

Nothing but hills, for as far as he could see, while the afterimage of the cantrip’s halo only burned into his vision.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, before folding the scope with a metallic snap and glancing sideways at his second-in-command— a younger, clean-shaven lieutenant already shifting restlessly in his saddle nearby.

“Pass it down,” the officer said coolly. “We’ll water the steeds and return to Erelan.”

The second blinked, confused. “Sir… What about the fugitives?”

“They’re gone,” the officer replied, his voice mild but final. “We’ll inform the captain that they were found, and that no stolen goods were found on their persons.”

The lieutenant furrowed his brow. “But… Sir—”

“— We’ll gather testimonies,” the officer continued, while brushing a finger along his mare’s muzzle. “Witness statements, if any. Record who among the merchants claimed victimization. They’ll be directed to file compensation claims through the Merchant League’s bond insurance registry.”

There was a pause.

Then the second-in-command slowly reached for the small, leather-bound notepad at his hip, and tugged a graphite pencil from behind his ear before scribbling notes against the saddle pommel.

“Testimonies, insurance bond… Compensation forms…” He muttered under his breath.

The officer then holstered his telescope and turned back toward the ridgeline they’d come from; the dry wind brushing against the edges of his cloak. 

His voice drifted lazily behind him.

“… If the captain asks what we did with the suspects…” He added, before pausing and then glancing back over his shoulder. “… Tell him they were dead. Picked clean by wildlife— that was nothing left.”

The pencil stilled mid-word. The lieutenant blinked again. “… You want me to say that we found them dead, sir?”

The officer gave a thin smile. “There'll be less questions that way, and more of a focus on covering it up from the other merchants.”

There was a long pause— just the distant sound of horse hooves shifting in the grass. Then, finally, the second-in-command straightened in his saddle and gave a half-salute, pencil still tucked behind his fingers.

“… Understood, sir,” he murmured, before turning in the saddle and raising his voice sharply. “Order to the rear— dismount and water your steeds! We ride back to Erelan on the quarter hour!”

A chorus of tired acknowledgments rolled through the line. One of the younger cavalrymen nearly slid off his horse from exhaustion, while another rubbed his mount’s neck with a heavy, apologetic hand.

The officer didn’t wait. He adjusted his cloak, pulled the reins to his mare’s bridle, and began walking her down the far side of the hill— taking his time.

Within the pastures before the front yard of Jura’s Temple, the rhythmic clang of hammers against timber had grown into a muffled symphony— softened by distance and thick walls, yet ever-present beneath the floorboards.

Gobuta, the self-proclaimed foreman of the sprawling goblin-led construction project, had taken up post atop a mossy tree stump near the barn's skeletal framework— an addition that, according to blueprints no one remembered sketching, had somehow sprouted from the original chicken coop plans.

He stood proudly— shoulders back, arms folded, with one foot planted firmly on a discarded plank as if it lent him additional height. His voice, however, barely rose above a strained whisper. “No, no, not that beam! That’s a support post, Gop! I said wedge the brace there— not under your armpit, idiot!” He hissed. “And Gaji, those nails go in wood, not your nostrils! Come on, people— we’re on a tight schedule!”

Behind him, a goblin with wide eyes and muddy knees tripped over a half-buried sapling stump and collapsed face-first into a bucket of gravel. The resulting clatter drew a sharp wince from Gobuta, who whipped around in a panic and flailed his arms like a cornered squirrel.

“Quietly! I said quietly! This is supposed to be a surprise, remember?!” He shouted, before his voice cracked on the last word— pitched somewhere between a chirp and a yelp— prompting him to clap both hands over his mouth and glance sheepishly toward the house.

Just across the trimmed lawn that separated the temple from the nearly completed worksite, the new chicken coop stood tall and handsomely crafted. 

Its warm, brown terracotta roof sloped in clean, gentle angles— matching the tiles of the three-story house beyond it. Carved lattice vents near the top had been shaped like stars and moons.

Shuna stood near the coop’s hinged door, with a wooden bucket of dried forest floor clippings nestled against her hip. The weeds and fronds had been handpicked at dawn, combed delicately from the scattered foliage just along the border of the Great Jura Forest where sunbeams trickled through leaves like liquid gold. 

She shifted her weight and opened the coop door with a soft creak, before testing the hinges by swinging it gently back and forth. 

It moved smoothly— no sticking, and no catching.

Her rose-colored eyes scanned the threshold with quiet approval before drifting toward the hammering figure nearby.

“Haruna,” Shuna said softly, with her voice laced with that gentle timbre she often carried in the mornings. “You did a lovely job with the joints. It feels solid.”

The goblin girl— short, with lavender hair tied up in a messy knot— paused mid-swing. Her green cheeks darkened faintly, and she gave a bashful smile, brushing a strand of sawdust from her brow. “Ah— thank you, Princess! That means a lot!” 

Haruna then dropped the hammer lightly against her knee, before looking up at the pink-haired oni with a sheepish squint. “But, um… Do you think maybe we overdid it? I mean, Gobuta said not to expect much. He said Rimuru and Ranga probably wouldn’t bring more than two chickens…”

Shuna let out a light chuckle; her expression kind as she stepped past the doorframe and entered the spacious coop interior. 

The sunlight poured in through the slightly cracked windows— dust motes drifting through the air like lazy dancers. “Over-preparing is rarely a fault, Haruna,” the onii said. “If Miss Vi and Ren are going to be staying here for the foreseeable future, then chances are the chicken coop will be full before long. Don’t you think?”

Haruna blinked, as if the idea were entirely new and delightful. “Oh… You really think so?” She asked, with her voice shrinking with hopeful hesitation.

“I do.” Shuna nodded. “And besides,” she continued, while stooping down to test the floorboards with the back of her knuckles, “you all built this with such care. That kind of intention always finds a purpose.”

Haruna’s eyes sparkled for just a second before she glanced back toward the larger structure taking shape to the side. Her voice lowered. “Umm… About the barn… I don’t think Gobuta wanted us to build it, exactly…”

Shuna followed her gaze, then turned back with a knowing smile. “I’m sure Rimuru and Ren will bring home a cow eventually,” she said calmly. “Maybe even a few sheep and swine. Rimuru is… Quite the go-getter, after all.”

“True to that,” Haruna agreed with a soft giggle— puffing up her small chest a bit with pride. “Well, I better get back to making sure all the nails are actually where they’re supposed to be. Some of the guys get ‘creative’ with their definition of ‘secure.’”

Shuna then gave her a nod of approval. “I’ll try to save you a plate later on.”

“Thanks, Princess!”

As Haruna turned and jogged back to the coop’s exterior, her braid bouncing with every step, Shuna turned her attention inward. With both hands, she reached into the wooden bucket and gently scattered a fistful of dried weeds and ferns across the floor. 

They fell in a soft rustle, coating the smooth planks with a rustic, cushiony layer. She walked slowly in a winding pattern— one hand tossing, then the other— stepping in and out of dappled sunlight as she moved beneath the rafters.

She hummed faintly to herself, something low and nostalgic, as she imagined the coop not as empty, but full— brimming with white-feathered hens, clucking and bustling in their little straw nests. 

She could almost smell the warm hay, feel the heat of fresh-laid eggs in her palms. In her mind’s eye, her hands cracked them open into a smooth ceramic bowl, yolks golden and thick, perfect for the sweet tamago-yaki her mother used to make on quiet festival mornings.

‘Mother’s recipe used dashi powder, she recalled. But maybe… I could try infusing kelp into the water next time, and whip the eggs just a bit longer. Let the sugar rest overnight in mirin…’

Shuna let the final handful of dried weeds drift from her fingers; the brittle stems catching briefly in the warm morning air before settling to the floor in a scatter of ochre and green. 

The light falling in through the chicken coop’s wide, latched windows cut across the interior in long, painterly beams— spilling over the straw-lined boards in pale gold. Dust motes danced in the air like tiny flecks of pollen; turning slowly as if reluctant to land.

The scent of pine, dry grass, and warm hay lingered thick in the sun-warmed air— earthy and comforting. The new coop still held the faint perfume of freshly cut lumber and the resinous tang of sealed wood, but already the place was beginning to feel lived-in.

For a brief moment, Shuna simply stood there in the quiet; brushing her hands together gently to rid them of the last tufts of straw. 

Her palms felt warm and dry, as her breathing became slow. Her expression was still soft, with a faint smile tugging at her lips as she surveyed the space. 

Her thoughts drifted—toward possibilities. Hens roosting comfortably in the corners. Eggs nestled beneath bundles of straw. Maybe even a little herb shelf by the window— chives, shiso leaves, or spring onions growing in ceramic pots. She could almost smell the tamagoyaki already.

Then the stillness broke.

A burst of movement outside. Footsteps— dozens of them— patting against the earth in fast, scattered rhythm. The low thud of hurried goblin boots. Muffled exclamations, followed by whispers that were just loud enough to leak through the walls.

Shuna blinked, head tilting. Her eyes flicked toward the nearest window, with the gentle curve of her brows lifting.

Then, her heart leapt.

She turned on her heel, silk sleeves fluttering, and made for the window. 

In one smooth motion, she leaned forward; bracing her hands against the frame as her pink hair swayed across her shoulders, catching briefly in the breeze.

And her breath hitched.

Out past the gently sloping hill— where the Great Jura Forest spilled into open pasture— a familiar figure surged over the rise like a windblown banner of white.

Ranga.

The direwolf pup’s thick fur rippled like snow stirred by a storm, and atop his back, the riders were unmistakable.

Rimuru, sitting frontward and alert, his right arm awkwardly stretched back to hold tight to a wooden wagon hitch that clattered along behind them. 

And nestled behind him, arms wrapped loosely around the slime’s waist and feet braced against Ranga’s flank, was Goblin Slayer— composed, but visibly bewildered by the scene erupting in their path.

Behind them came the wagon. And what a wagon it was.

Shuna’s brown eyes went wide.

Packed under a swaying net of rope and straw was what could only be described as a mobile farm. Chickens— at least twenty— clucked and fluttered in contained chaos beside a trio of proud roosters. 

Four broad-backed pigs jostled for space, snorting in indignation, while six wooly sheep blinked dumbly over the side rails.

Her jaw dropped.

“That’s… That’s not one or two chickens,” she whispered.

With a half-suppressed squeal of disbelief, she gently set her empty bucket beside the coop’s outer wall, gripped the red hakama of her shrine maiden dress, and lifted the hems above her knees. 

The morning air swept up against her calves as she bolted out the door. Her bare feet touched the grass with a soft ‘paf;’ the cool greenery folding and springing beneath her steps. 

The lawn, wet with dew and sunlight, kissed her soles as she ran— light on her toes, laughter rising in her throat. Her arms, still slightly outstretched from lifting her robes, fluttered behind her like wings.

Up ahead, the goblins were already beginning to swarm. Dozens of them— green, squat, nimble— shouted excitedly in hushed tones as they jogged down the slope to meet their unexpected caravan. 

Their gestures were animated but careful; voices lowered just enough to avoid drawing the attention of those still inside the house.

“Rimuru! You’re back!” One called out.

“Did you raid a village or something?!”

“Where’d you even get that wagon?!”

The slime’s groan could be heard above the chatter as he released the wagon hitch, before stretching his arm out as if letting go of a ten-ton weight. “Finally,” he muttered, while rolling his shoulder. “My arm feels like jelly…”

And then— without warning— he let himself fall.

Goblin Slayer had just begun dismounting, with one leg sliding off Ranga’s back when Rimuru abruptly collapsed backward into him like a sack of potatoes.

“Wait— Rimuru—!”

Too late.

The slime landed directly atop him— knocking the breath out of the smaller boy. Goblin Slayer let out a startled yelp, with his arms flailing as both of them hit the grassy earth with a solid ‘whump.’

Rimuru, ever dramatic, flopped over him like a blanket.

“G-Get off me,” Goblin Slayer muttered into the grass.

“Just… Just a few minutes…” Rimuru mumbled, face-down.

Overhead, the soft ring of magic fizzled out. 

Ciel’s protective cantrip, which had encircled them during their journey, shimmered faintly before vanishing altogether— as though sensing their return and deciding it had done its job.

From the treeline, a rustle of leaves signaled another arrival.

Treyni, gliding like a drifting breeze, stepped into view with her three dryad sisters close behind. Their movements were impossibly light, the hem of their dresses never quite brushing the ground.

Treyni said nothing at first, as her emerald-eyed gaze went to the prone wolf.

Ranga’s ears perked up the moment he saw her. He lifted his head slightly, then thudded his tail against the earth— once, twice, rhythmically.

That’s when the dryad’s face softened. “You’ve done well, little one,” she murmured, kneeling beside him.

Her fingers moved gently through the thick mane at his neck, parting the fur in slow strokes. The wolf-pup closed his eyes— his breathing steady and full of pride.

“You brought them back safely and…”

Her green eyes rose to the wagon.

Then rose wider.

She stared for a moment. A chicken clucked. A pig sneezed. A sheep blinked.

“… And you brought back a whole farm, it would seem.” Treyni mused, before chuckling quietly, and then leaning closer to scratch behind Ranga’s ear. 

The direwolf-pup thumped his hind leg in bliss.

Gobuta was already wrestling with one of the larger canvas tote bags, before hoisting it over his shoulder as he waddled toward the group. “They brought groceries for Miss Vi!” He called out, triumphant.

“Flour, coffee beans, eggs— look at this haul!” He announced, grinning, while waving the bag like a banner. “Hey, Treyni! Think you can grow more coffee from these? The Great Sage would love it!”

Treyni arched one delicate brow, bemused. “Only if you build me a greenhouse. And that’s it.”

Gobuta’s mouth opened, then closed. He gave a sheepish nod. “Right, right… Not anything else. Got it. I’ll be more specific in my instructions next time.”

He then passed one of the smaller totes to Haruna, who had just jogged up beside the wagon. The goblin girl accepted it with a pleased nod and turned, carefully making her way toward the house.

In her path, Shuna skidded to a halt, breathless but glowing.

Treyni cast her a sidelong smile. “Next time you boys are out running errands,” she mused aloud, folding her arms, “bring back a cow, and some sugarcane. We’re just missing sugar and creamer now.”

Rimuru chuckled wearily as he pushed himself off of Goblin Slayer; one hand rubbing his sore shoulder, the other brushing dirt from his cheek. “Might need to find a new supplier first,” he muttered, with a half-hearted grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Treyni’s smile vanished, as she pivoted towards him— her green eyes narrowing like blades. “… What does that mean, Tempest?”

Rimuru blinked. “Eh, long story.”

“What does that mean, Tempest?” She asked again, sharper now— her voice cutting through the laughter and light chatter like a snapped branch.

The slime hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “Okay, okay. So… There was this merchant who didn’t want to buy any magicule crystals, but he tried conning us with an offer to buy our backpack. Ren wasn’t having any of it, and used his book-smarts to get him to buy the crystals and bag for a bunch of gold— a bunch of gold that he threw at us, cause he was pissed, and then— um…” 

Rimuru then turned his glance over to Goblin Slayer, before slowly looking back at Trent to offer her a sheepish grin. “… I got mad and dumped the crystals on his display; ended up breaking a lot of his jarred stuff before throwing Ciel’s bag in his face.”

Everything stopped.

A breeze rustled through the grass. One of the roosters in the wagon let out a confused crow, as if echoing the stunned silence.

Treyni stared at him, lips parting just slightly. “Y… You…” Her voice had gone low. “You sold her bag…?”

Ranga’s ears drooped. Even the sheep in the wagon turned awkwardly to one another.

Goblin Slayer stood up fully, brushing grass from his sleeve. His expression remained unreadable, but there was a subtle tension in his jaw. “Was there… Something sentimental about it?”

Treyni folded her arms and exhaled sharply. “Nothing sentimental about it; not unless you count the fact that Jura was the one who gave it to her when she turned sixteen. She’s had it for over fifty years.”

Rimuru’s pupils dilated. “S-She never told us that!”

“She didn’t have to!” Treyni snapped. “She probably never imagined anyone would sell it!”

Another beat of silence followed— heavier this time. 

The sounds of chickens shuffling, pigs snorting, and goblins trying not to breathe too loudly filled the space where laughter had been moments earlier.

Rimuru hunched his shoulders. “I… I feel really bad now.”

It was then that Gobuta cleared his throat. “Sooo… Uh… Did you guys actually buy any of this stuff?”

Rimuru turned toward him. “I gave the guy a big sack of coins for the wagon, and Ren bought the groceries from the mammoth across the way!”

“Okay… But did they agree to sell any of it to you?”

Rimuru hesitated. “I mean… We have a receipt, I think, somewhere in one of the bags for the food?”

Gobuta arched a brow, as he turned toward the wagon. With a grunt, he reached inside and lifted a pump-action shotgun— one that shimmered ominously in the sun. 

“And this?” The white-haired goblin asked flatly. “Was this YOUR receipt, Rimuru?”

The slime pointed to it quickly. “Okay, so the guy who I bought all that crap from was gonna shoot me with that, so— technically— I just took it from him before he could!”

“So,” Gobuta said, slowly, “you stole from him.”

Rimuru threw up his arms. “Fine! Yes! We sold Ciel’s prized Succhi bag, got banned from Erelan’s Steppe, and accidentally committed a crime— I guess!” He shouted, while looking around wildly at everyone— the goblins, Treyni, Shuna, even the sheep. “Look, we tried to do everything right! The guards would’ve shot at us no matter what! Maybe we should’ve just stolen from the beginning and saved ourselves the trouble!”

His voice cracked slightly at the end, and his arms dropped as he let out a frustrated exhale. “And… I-I know that I was the one who… Messed it up for us, so… I-I’m sorry everyone…”

He stood there a moment longer, waiting for judgment. Condemnation. Maybe even exile.

But it never came.

Instead, Shuna stepped forward— soft-footed and serene. She gently placed her palm against Rimuru’s shoulder, with her eyes expressing warmth and sympathy.

“… You did what you thought was right,” she said quietly.

The slime looked up at her— blinking. “B… But I didn’t. I mean, I kinda did, but—”

“— It wasn’t perfect,” she said, interrupting gently. “But you tried. You brought Ren home safe, and regardless of how you obtained it, you brought back more than what was asked of you— that means something.”

Goblin Slayer joined her, standing just behind the slime. He nodded once, firmly. “Mistakes happen. But look around,” he said, as he lifted one hand and gestured to the scene around them— the raised barn, the brand-new chicken coop, the wagon full of animals, and the large group of goblins who were staring at it all with wide eyes and careful hands. “Look at what we had a hand in making— what you had a hand in creating.”

The ashen haired boy then turned toward Shuna, with his voice softening just slightly. “… And none of it would’ve happened without you.”

The onii’s rose-colored eyes widened slightly, as her lips parted but for a moment— no words to be spoken.

“You initiated this all from selfless intention,” Goblin Slayer continued. “This progress— this step towards something far more meaningful than just wanting to ensure we all had breakfast— this was all because of you.”

Treyni stepped forward too, resting a hand on Shuna’s shoulder with a proud, knowing smile. “Whether it was intentional or not, Princess, you’re following in your mother’s steps. She’d be proud of you, you know.”

Even Gobuta, usually too sarcastic for sentiment, gave a low whistle and nodded. “Honestly? I probably wouldn’t have even thought to ask the Great Sage if she’d let us do any of this; so kudos to you for getting the ball rolling on this one, Shuna!”

Rimuru turned to look at her again, a sheepish but deeply grateful smile forming on his lips. “Yeah Shuna, you’re pretty cool!”

The pink-haired onii flushed, as her cheeks bloomed with color. Her lashes fluttered as she turned to scan the scene unfolding around her through a different perspective— goblins speaking amongst each with optimistic smiles, dryads giggling as a rooster attempted to climb out of the wagon, and the house’s chimney puffing faintly as the morning heat caught hold.

It was something. And it was theirs.

“I… I just wanted to do something nice for everyone,” she said quietly.

“You’ve done far more than that,” Treyni replied. “And you’ll keep doing more. We all will— I can feel it.”

A chorus of approving murmurs followed— goblins nodding, one giving a thumbs-up, another whispering excitedly about “what else they’ll get to build next.”

Shuna took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and let her hands rest at her sides with quiet dignity.

“Well then,” she said, lifting her chin with gentle pride. “This has all been quite the journey, but… I have breakfast to make.”

The goblins erupted in cheers. “QUIEEEET!!!” Gobuta roared, while clutching his temples. “This is all still supposed to be surprise for Miss Vi, remember?! So hush up before she hears you all!”

Laughter broke out among them again.

“And,” the white-haired goblin added, while jerking a thumb toward the livestock, “until our animals start making babies, it’s roots and fish for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the rest of us!”

Shuna giggled and patted his arm sympathetically. “If we all keep working together,” she said sweetly, “then I know we’ll have more than enough.”

She then looked toward the coop and barn, with her gaze softening with a growing vision. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll get to grow our own food. Build more homes, and nice things like shops, and fancy machines! If we work hard enough, we’ll be able to take care of everyone. Travelers, families, those who’ve lost everything— carry on Jura’s legacy, like the Great Sage!”

Treyni’s and the rest of the dryads’ eyes glittered at the words, as she stepped beside the pinked-haired onii. “Your mother would be proud of you, Princess.”

Rimuru nodded, with his exhaustion melting a little more. “Not gonna lie: it’d be pretty awesome to turn Jura’s Temple into something waaaaay bigger than it is!” 

Goblin Slayer watched the goblins hustle to begin unloading the livestock, with his sharp gaze scanning each careful movement. “We’ll need to have a strong structure, and means to defend ourselves,” he added. “Having those commodities and expansions would paint ourselves as a target. The last thing this place needs is to be raided.”

Contrary to the discussions and celebrations being held beyond the front yard, it was quite the opposition within the study room on the first floor. 

The air was warm, faintly scented with sandalwood and citrus; courtesy of the softly crackling fireplace against the far wall. Shelves of polished oak stretched from floor to ceiling, their books ancient and new alike— many leather-bound, their titles etched in forgotten languages. A built-in swivel ladder rested against the shelf rail; waiting for a quiet mind in search of knowledge.

A thick-cushioned reading chair sat in profile to the hearth, with its fabric patterned with gold thread. Nearby, a sprawling, inviting sofa faced inward, draped in a linen throw. 

There, Vivianne and Ciel sat shoulder to shoulder.

Vivianne still had on her long cream-colored robe tied gently at her waist, with her soft slippers adorning her feet. Her long brown hair was lightly tied loosely braided down past her collar; her eyes brown still touched with sleep, and a pale blush warmed her cheeks from the tea’s heat.

Across from her, Ciel rested with the eternal poise of a saint. Her long silver-blue hair draped over her shoulder in soft waves— catching the firelight like woven moonlight. 

She wore her usual vestment— white with flowing sleeves and embroidered constellations in gold. Despite the formal appearance, she was relaxed; her legs folded neatly beneath her, with the faintest smile curving her lips.

Vivianne held her cup outward, watching with wide brown eyes as her tea— earl grey with a hint of honey— tilted forward in mid-air. The floating porcelain gently poured from one cup into the other, as if guided by invisible hands.

“… If only we had some scones to go with this,” the brunette murmured playfully— her smile crooked with wistful humor.

Ciel chuckled quietly, with her yellow eyes glinting. “Or perhaps a glass of iced coffee.”

As the refill was completed with a graceful swirl, Vivianne gave a pleased nod. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Ciel replied, before returning the cup with precision to the tea platter. Her movements were effortless; guided not by her hands, but by the seamless command of her mind.

Vivianne then brought the cup near her lips and breathed in gently— her eyes falling half-lidded. “I remember when I used to be practically addicted to coffee while I was in university,” she admitted with a soft laugh. “One every morning before my classes— no exceptions.”

Ciel tilted her head. “Truly? And what about afterwards?”

Vivianne made a quiet hum as she sipped. “With the monopoly tea has within Eldrosvale, I don’t think I had any choice but to quit cold-turkey.” She explained with a soft chuckle, though her gaze softened further. “I still think about my life in Shinzuhara; I’d be lying if I were to say I don’t miss it— just a little.”

Ciel smiled faintly, with her small cup of tea neatly resting on the small plate that was in her lap. “I can only imagine what that must have been like for you, Miss Vi. Truth be told as well: since I was a little girl, I’ve always wanted to visit the Shinzuhara Shogunate… Specifically the capital of Kyokuto,” she mused aloud, saying the name with reverence. “Jura had a friend who sent back a painted fan from there. Even to this day, I can recall the aroma of cherry bark and ink.”

Vivianne’s eyes brightened with memory. “I’ve only heard good things about Kyouto. You see Ciel, I mostly stayed on the east coast. My university was in Tokinawa, so that’s where I spent most of my time.”

Ciel leaned forward, visibly intrigued. “What was it like there when you were there?”

Vivianne settled back— thinking briefly. “Busy. Overwhelming at times. Imagine rows of towers taller than trees— each filled with people, lights, and machines. At night, the streets glowed with more colors than a gemstone bazaar. Everywhere you turned, there was music— buzzing pop stores, cafes, street performers with enchanted instruments.”

Ciel’s eyes widened. “That sounds like magic.”

Vivianne laughed softly. “It felt like it, yes! Why, there were these machines on the streets that automatically sold just about everything. Coffee, soup, clothes— everything except common sense. The trains floated magnetically on skyward rails, they had these things called ‘toilets’ that talked, and don’t get me started on the mascots. Every district had one! One of mine was a small cat-like girl that had big red eyes, and scruffy blond hair; she’d talk, and would go ‘buryanu’ and ‘nyaa’.”

Ciel gave an incredulous blink. “… Nyaa?”

“Nyaa,” Vivianne confirmed with an amused grin, while setting her tea down to gesture. “She had a white turtleneck sweater and a blue skirt on with black leggings and boots. She was Tokinawa’s mascot.”

Ciel let out a soft, rare laugh— a gentle sound like glass bells. “She sounds ridiculous. I love it.”

“There was also the media,” Vivianne went on. “That had games that you’d plug into these things called ‘televisions’, paperback books with pictures called ‘manga,’ and spectacular music. They’d release novels that were more emotional than half the poetry I’ve read here in Eldrosvale. I used to have a collection of light novels in my dorm room.” She paused. “… I was planning on bringing that all back to Riverwood with me one day to Ren— after I graduated. Though, I’m certain the dormitory staff tossed it all when I left.”

Ciel, sensing the shift in her tone, reached out and touched her hand gently. “I’m sorry you couldn’t have stayed longer, Miss Vi.”

Vivianne gave a little shrug. “It’s… It’s alright. I don’t regret my decision.”

“Indubitably so, I expect,” Ciel mused with a faintly admiring expression, before leaning with a curious look in her eyes. “Even so, would you… Ever consider traveling back to Tokinawa? To finish your education?”

Vivianne chuckled. “If you asked me that same question before Mr. Wilfred brought Ren and I here, I would have told you no.”

Ciel blinked. “Why is that?”

“Because between the obligation I had to my students, and being Ren’s sole caretaker,” the brunette began thoughtfully— her gentle smile never leaving her lips, “I had already accepted that such a chance wouldn’t be possible for years to come.”

“Ah… So I see,” Ciel replied, while tilting her head in thought. “And may I ask what your answer is now; under these newfound circumstances for you and your brother?”

Vivianne glanced sideways at the Great Sage— a twinkle of optimism flickering behind her brown-eyed gaze. “I should be asking you that question as well, huh?”

Ciel paused, as her smile faded into something deeper. “Might I ask what it is you’re insinuating, Miss—”

“— We should plan a trip,” the brunette suddenly interrupted— her grin growing wider, as the Great Sage’s yellow eyes widened ever so slightly in an incredulous manner.

“… A trip?”

“Yes— to Kyokuto and Tokinawa,” Vivianne said. “You and me— we could save money for it. It’ll be just the two of us, and I’ll get to show you the exact buildings I studied in, take you to my favorite ramen spot, even the observatory. You’d love that!” 

Ciel sat stunned for a moment, as her astonished eyes began softening. “That… Would be quite the experience. You’d be fulfilling my childhood dreams, even. But…” She hesitated.

Vivianne tilted her head. “But?”

Ciel sighed and glanced toward the ceiling; then the bookshelves, then the walls. “My soul is tethered here, to the Great Jura Forest.”

Vivianne furrowed her brow. “… Tethered?”

“The love I had… The love I gave… It left an impression. An impression that was strong enough that, when I died, part of my soul remained- but only here.” She elaborated, with her fingers softly rubbing against the ceramic surfaces of her tea cup and its small accompanying dish. “Beyond the forest’s bounds, the world grows foggy. I’m not sure if I’d find my way back to this world— if I were to go beyond those boundaries.”

Vivianne grew quiet, as she set her cup down and leaned forward; placing her hand under her chin, the other crossing her chest to hold her elbow. Her brown eyes flickered side to side, deep in thought.

Ciel watched her with quiet interest.

Then, Vivianne broke the silence. “If I can’t bring you to Shinzuhara…” She began, while then leaning forward— determination rising behind her eyes. “Then I’ll bring Shinzuhara to you.”

Hearing that, the Great Sage blinked slowly. Her hands, still wrapped neatly around her teacup, gave the faintest tremble at the brunette’s declaration. 

Steam wreathed the fine porcelain like incense— trailing up in delicate tendrils that caught the light pouring through the lace-curtained window.

“… Bring it to me?” She echoed, with her head tilting slightly. “I’m… Not sure I fully understand.”

Vivianne smiled softly; not out of condescension, but with the warmth of someone forming an idea so rapidly it hadn’t even reached her lips yet. 

She leaned even more forward toward the other woman; her hands resting against the Great Sage’s covered knees, with her fingers loosely grasping at her vestment. “I mean exactly that. Everything I saw in Shinzuhara? All the modern wonders and gorgeous art? We can bring it all here to our house, Ciel— make it ourselves, if we need to!”

Ciel’s brows drew together, with a flicker of cautious curiosity growing behind her golden eyes. “… You speak your proposal as though your memories are paint, and this temple is your canvas.”

“It’s not my canvas, Ciel; it’s yours— that’s why I need your permission first,” Vivianne reassured with a soft laugh. “I know it wouldn’t be exact, but I could show you the festivals while we bring that dream of yours into a reality. I could draw you the skyline, the signs, and the little ramen shop under the overpass near my dorm while we paint this masterpiece together. I could teach you the music, play you the games. Maybe even show you anime, if I can jury-rig a crystal projector and get a set up going in the attic.”

Ciel smiled— subtly, quietly. Her face held that faint, unreadable softness of someone not used to being surprised. “… And the coffee?” She asked after a pause, the corners of her mouth tugging up further. “Just like the ones you used to have every morning?”

Vivianne chuckled. “I’ll make them even better than that; all for you, Ciel.”

That earned a faint exhale from the Great Sage— nearly a laugh, nearly something else too, some half-dimmed warmth reaching her expression. She set her teacup back on the floating saucer with a minute gesture, letting it drift with a gentle click to the table. “Then… You have my permission to proceed with this masterpiece you say will be ours. Though, I suppose I’ll be relying on your memory for the entire reconstruction, as well as your execution and your funding.”

“Oh no,” Vivianne said with a playful glance, “we’ll be fundraising.”

Ciel looked almost scandalized. “Fundraising?”

“Gotta build a replica of Shinzuhara somehow,” the brunette quipped, reaching lazily for the last bit of her tea. “We’ll have to get creative with our ambitions. But I’m sure if we’ll manage to get by, if we use our combined talents to teach everyone to do all of the hard work.”

That did it. 

Ciel let out a quiet, musical breath— a laugh entirely her own. Not sharp or loud or spontaneous, but warm and smooth and quietly delighted. She looked down at her lap, and then back up at Vivianne. “You’re serious then?”

“Dead serious,” Vivianne answered without a beat— smiling over the rim of her cup. “You deserve the world.”

The Great Sage’s expression faltered for just a heartbeat. “… Even if that means you’ll have to bring the world here, for that to happen?” She asked softly.

Vivianne nodded once. “I’d find a way to bring you a little piece of heaven, Ciel; all you need to do is ask.”

The fire gave a gentle pop in the hearth. Shadows shifted softly against the bookcases and the edge of the rug, weaving themselves between the shelves and bindings as if even they leaned closer to listen. 

Ciel turned slightly to look toward the flames; her lashes low, with thoughts heavy behind her eyes.

“I… Never really let myself dream about those things,” she admitted, with her voice growing softer than it had been. “When I was alive, I was… Too sick to travel; the scars in my lungs made it impossible for Jura to take me any further than this temple. And when I came back, I had only his dreams to call my own. But now…”

She lifted her hand, twirling it lightly through the air— graceful, controlled— before letting it fall to the cushion beside her, close to brunette’s hand once again.

“… I’m beginning to feel for the first time in forever that those chapters aren’t closed to me after all.”

Vivianne— with the same quiet confidence she always held when helping a child tie their shoes— gently interlocked her fingers with Ciel’s.

“… For you,” she said. “I’d write a million chapters before I let your dreams come to a close.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full— brimming with that unspoken current between them, fragile as paper, deep as the lake outside. 

Ciel stared at their joined hands, as if seeing something new for the first time.

“… I suppose I’ll have to trust you then,” she whispered.

Vivianne gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “I wouldn’t ask you to do anything else.”

Then slowly Ciel, seemingly composed once more, smoothed her robes and murmured, “Well, if we’re truly intent on building the Shinzuhara Shogunate from the living room outward, we’re need something more than what’s available to us at the moment.”

“Like I said, this’ll be our masterpiece together,” Vivianne said, releasing her hand only to rise from the sofa and stretch her arms. “Anything you can think of, we’ll use.”

Ciel tilted her head, amused. “We’re going to need blueprints, and outside talent to ensure that we can bring the most authentic Shirazuharian experience to not just myself, but for all those living within the Great Jura Forest. And above all— we’re going to need solid goals and communication. None of this half-measure nostalgia.”

Vivianne rested one hand on her hip, as she smiled down at her friend. “From a perfectionist like you, I’d expect nothing less than a comprehensive plan.”

Their laughter mingled again, warm and easy.

But after a pause, the brunette leaned on the side of the sofa and gave a faint sigh, brushing a hand through her sleep-tousled hair. “Now only if I could apply that same drive toward making breakfast…”

“Is that so?” Ciel asked, with her lips curving knowingly.

The brunette nodded wearily. “I swear, we’re going to drown in fish fillets at the rate we’re going. If we don't start growing something else soon, I’ll have to start pickling berries and frying weeds.”

“An, I’m sure Ren would be thrilled,” Ciel replied— her tone amused.

“I love that boy, but he’ll eat a pine cone before he complains,” Vivianne mused half-jokingly.

Ciel’s smile widened ever so slightly, with a wry gleam hidden behind her half-lidded eyes. “Well, let’s just say you nor anyone else may have to rely on fillets much longer.”

Vivianne straightened, blinking. “Oh?”

“I’ve been told,” Ciel said mysteriously, “that there are those who still believe in breakfast miracles.”

The brunette narrowed her eyes playfully. “You and that cryptic tone…”

“It’s how I normally speak,” the Great Sage said lightly, while settling deeper into her cushion.

Vivianne chortled, as she bent over to set her empty teacup on the nearby end table— unknowingly revealing the plump valley of ivory flesh that was her ample cleavage to the Great Sage.

“Let’s talk more about bringing Shinzuhara here to our side of the lake later tonight in my room,” the brunette playfully said— her eyelids closed while she flashed the wide-eyed woman a wide grin. “For now, we should discuss our lesson plans for tomorrow morning.”

“… I’ll be looking forward to it, Miss Vi,” Ciel said gently, with her enamored gaze lingering just a little too long on the young woman’s breasts, even after Vivianne had nonchalantly turned away.

The moment passed like smoke above the rim of a cup. A silence folded between them again— not heavy this time, but comfortable. Then, faintly from outside the study room, came a soft thud— a muffled door closing.

Vivianne turned her head toward the door. “Did you hear that?”

The floor creaked again— barely audible. Then, the front door began to open.

Having long since sensed the familiar energies of those who were part of Shuna’s plan entering the house, Ciel rose to her feet with preternatural grace.

Setting her own cup and plate down on the table, she straightened her back while her eyes flicked toward the brunette. “It would seem as though the first of our many prayers are about to be answered, Miss Vi,” she said with quiet amusement. “So let us proceed onward.”

Chapter Text

The long dining table stretched through the heart of Jura’s Temple’s greatroom; bathed in soft morning light that slanted through the open kitchen doorway and the foyer beyond. 

The sun had just crested the wooded ridge east of the lake, slipping through the small window above the kitchen sink. Golden rays caught on the white porcelain teacups and gleamed faintly along the neatly arranged forks and spoons at each place setting.

The air was rich with the scent of roasted coffee and baked wild rice bread, mingling with the savory aromas of seared fish, sautéed mountain greens, and a gentle undercurrent of warm root-vegetable hash.

Each plate had been carefully filled— balanced and colorful. 

Steamed chestnut rice mounded beside tender lake trout fillets, miso-seared and wrapped around charred scallions. Halved soft-boiled eggs dusted with sea salt nestled next to a thick vegetable stew, dense with wild leeks and flour. Modest by noble standards, perhaps— but nothing had been spared in its preparation.

At the center of the table sat a wide ceramic bowl of hearth-warmed bread, thick-sliced, with a pat of golden butter and a jar of plum jam set beside it like a quiet invitation.

Twelve chairs circled the table, though only nine were filled. 

At the head, Ciel sat tall and composed— her spine straight as a ruler’s edge. To her right, Vivianne sat with her hair braided in its usual manner, with fingers resting lightly beside her plate.

Treyni occupied the seat to Ciel’s left; her evergreen hair tucked behind one ear, and her eyes already closed in quiet meditation. Beside her, Gabiru lounged with little care for posture— his silk scarf crooked, tunic collar undone, and spoon tapping out an impatient rhythm on the edge of his plate.

Gobuta sat to the lizardman’s right; legs bouncing and fork clenched upside-down in his dominant hand, while wielding it like an ill-placed dagger.

Across from them, Goblin Slayer sat beside his sister, his small hands folded properly in front of him. His dusty rose eyes flicked quietly across the table, tracking the colors and textures of the meal.

Rimuru had claimed the spot beside him, with his elbow just brushing the boy’s sleeve as he absentmindedly toyed with the edge of the tablecloth. 

On the slime’s other side sat Shuna; straight-backed in her crimson hakama, hands folded neatly in her lap and sleeves rolled just high enough to avoid trailing through the jam.

Beneath the table, Ranga had nestled under Rimuru’s chair. His broad head rested between the boy’s boots, with his tail swaying slowly against the floor like the pulse of some drowsing heart.

Once everyone had settled, they joined hands.

Treyni’s fingers were long and warm in Gabiru’s, her grip steady and sure. The lizardman’s own hand, though calloused from years of weapon drills, was unexpectedly gentle.

Gobuta’s fingers twitched as restlessly as his knees, jittering with unreleased energy. On his other side, Rimuru reached out and caught Goblin Slayer’s hand with a practiced familiarity— fingers laced, grip soft, reassuring.

The ashen-haired boy gave a subtle glance, before muttering under his breath, “Quit fidgeting.”

Rimuru grinned back at him, while wiggling his fingers. “Just making use of the calm while we’ve got it.”

Vivianne exhaled through her nose— not quite a sigh, but close. She wasn’t especially religious, and neither was her brother; but her hand in Ciel’s was regardless steady, and it content to be there in hers.

The Great Sage didn’t look down, but let her thumb brush gently across the brunette’s knuckle. The motion was quiet and protective— an unspoken reassurance passed between women who understood things without needing to say them.

Shuna inhaled slowly; her breath lingering in her chest before she spoke, voice soft but clear, warm as broth.

“… Earth Mother, we give thanks for this meal.”

She paused just long enough for the quiet to settle.

“For the fish drawn from the lake, the roots pulled from deep soil, and for the green things that grow because you willed them to grow.”

Treyni bowed her head deeper— murmuring a reverent affirmation. Around her, the air seemed to grow still, as if listening.

“For the hands that prepared this meal,” Shuna went on, “and the hearts gathered here to share it. Thank you for waking us with the sun, and letting us wake one another with kindness.”

Gabiru cracked open one eye toward his trout, stomach issuing a quiet growl. Treyni, without lifting her head, opened one eye in return— a bemused, motherly scolding glinting in her gaze.

He cleared his throat and resumed the pose of solemnity, adjusting his grip on the white-haired goblin’s small hand.

“For the strength to carry burdens,” the onii continued, “and the peace to lay them down when needed. For full bellies, for warm hands, and for the courage to try again, even when we fall short.”

Gobuta mouthed the words behind her, half-whispered, but lost track partway through. 

Across the table, Rimuru had resumed his quiet mischief— gently tracing circles with his thumb over Goblin Slayer’s knuckles. The ashen-haired boy gave a short huff and tightened his grip slightly.

“… Keep doing that and I’m going to elbow you,” he murmured.

“… You sure can try,” Rimuru whispered back— his tone light with amusement.

Vivianne’s eyes stayed closed, but the faintest smile touched her lips. She didn’t correct either of them. Instead, she adjusted her hold on Ciel’s hand as if to say: yes, I’m here, and yes, this strange little moment is real.

Shuna’s prayer reached its end.

“May this food give us strength— to care for each other, to endure what’s ahead, and to meet this day with our heads held high.”

She opened her eyes— rose-colored and quietly radiant.

“In your precious name we pray… Amen.”

“Amen,” Treyni echoed softly.

A moment of silence passed before Ciel nodded.

“Eat, children. You’ll need your wits about you on your first day.”

Gabiru lunged like a man rescued from starvation. “Finally,” he muttered, stabbing into his fish without shame. 

The dryad stared at him in disbelief. “You really have no patience, do you?” she asked dryly.

“A warrior must keep up his strength,” he replied between mouthfuls. “Besides, I’ll be training them soon. I need to be sharp.”

“Training them?” Treyni’s brow rose. “Dear spirits help those students.”

While they bickered, Rimuru leaned over his plate and speared a chunk of vegetable hash. “Mmm… I can’t wait to learn how to read like you, Ren,” he said, while chewing thoughtfully. “One day I’ll sit around sipping coffee and reading those— what do you call ‘em— black and white paper-things?”

“Newspapers,” Goblin Slayer replied, while slicing his fish with quiet focus. “They’re called newspapers.”

The pink-haired onii reached for the jam, before spreading a thick layer onto warm bread with practiced grace. “I’d like to learn how to write down recipes,” she said. “My mother never got to write hers down, and I want to make sure I can pass them on.”

Vivianne smiled, her voice light but sincere. “And when you’re ready, I’ll help you publish them. It’d be a crime to keep her brilliance locked in this kitchen.”

Shuna’s cheeks flushed, her smile bashful. “I-I’d love that, Miss Vi! R-Really!”

Across from her, Gobuta shoved an entire roll into his mouth and gave her a crumb-dusted thumbs-up. “Thish’s amazhing,” he garbled.

Treyni took a slow sip of coffee, while raising a brow. “Let’s… Focus on table manners before we launch a cookbook.”

Laughter rippled around the table as plates were passed and first bites taken.

The backyard of Jura’s Temple rolled out in gentle green waves behind the building; stretching from its stone foundation all the way to the long wooden pier that reached into the shimmering waters of Lake Virelda. 

The morning sun, now fully risen above the eastern ridge, painted the lake in bands of silver and pale blue. The peaks beyond were still kissed by dawnlight, veiled in mist and lit like marble— tall and otherworldly.

Out on the first few planks of the pier stood Vivianne; her sunhat resting at her back by its ribbon, her hands cupped around her mouth as she called out across the field behind her.

“Good morning, everyone!”

Her voice carried clear over the soft lapping of water and rustle of forest wind. The yard was full— truly full— with students gathered across the grass in loose, comfortable clusters. 

Some sat on worn woven blankets, others shared coats or sat crossed-legged in the dew-flecked grass— all of which came in all shapes and sizes.

Goblin Slayer was seated cross-legged up front beside Rimuru, who was leaning lazily on one hand; Shuna not far behind, her posture perfect; Gobuta squatting beside a cluster of grinning goblin youths from his home village. 

A dozen or more lizardfolk children— still gangly and half-grown— sat together in a sun-dappled patch, flicking their tails in anticipation. Dryads in soft moss-toned tunics leaned on each other, and a wide scattering of therian youth— furred, feathered, horned, and scaled— sprawled in clumps with gleaming eyes and perked ears.

Vivianne, standing against the vast lake and rising mountains, grinned like it was the best morning of her life.

“I want to welcome each and every one of you to the very first day of your education!” She called out, while sweeping her arms open as though to hug the entire field. “Whether you’re here to master spellcraft, learn your letters, or figure out how numbers actually work— this is the first step of something amazing!”

She then stepped lightly back and forth along the edge of the pier as she spoke; too animated to stay still, with her expression bright and earnest.

“My name is Vivianne Ashta— but you can all call me Miss Vi, alright? That’s what my friends call me, and they all have great tastes!”

Goblin Slayer shifted slightly where he sat— taking a moment to see how Shuna beamed at the compliment. Rimuru then leaned closer and whispered into his ear, “Your sister’s good at this whole public speaking thing,” which earned the slime a tiny smile from the ashen-haired boy in return.

“I have a degree in children’s education,” Vivianne went on, while twirling once on the pier before steadying herself with theatrical flair. “That means I’ve studied— a lot— to make sure I can give you the best, safest, most exciting and real education possible— you all deserve that much!”

She then paused for a moment— letting her words settle. Then, with a spark of conspiratorial energy in her tone, she added, “Now, I know we don’t have proper classrooms yet. But don’t worry! I’ve already been talking with the Great Sage about building a real school building— a proper one, with walls, a roof, and even indoor plumbing.”

There was a wave of confused murmurs.

“Yes, plumbing!” She declared, throwing her hands into the air. “That means water that comes out of pipes! Once you get used to it, it’s really— and I mean really— hard to go back!”

A collective ooohh swept through the students. Gobuta gasped audibly.

“There’ll be classrooms— one room for each subject, so you’ll always know where to go. And a cafeteria, which is a place that serves food just for students like you, all under one roof! There’ll be a gymnasium for exercise, a library full of books and magic scrolls, and of course… Actual bathrooms so you won’t have to wander off into the woods anymore!”

The dryads, who had until then been perfectly serene, suddenly perked up at the idea of not having to “commune” with nature for once.

“And,” Vivianne added, with her voice lowering like she was sharing a secret, “there’s talk of building a dormitory. That’s a big building with bedrooms just for students. No walking through the rain or snow to get home. You’ll have a place to stay near your classes, with friends, snacks, and your own cozy little beds.”

A murmur of excitement rippled through the yard. Rimuru leaned closer to Goblin Slayer again. “Think that means we’ll have to move into those too?”

The brunette then raised her voice gently again to bring the crowd back to focus; clasping her hands as she walked to the center of the pier.

“Now, we don’t have all that just yet— but we will. Not this season, not this semester, but before the year’s done, you’ll have real classrooms, and real teachers. Until then? We’re gonna make this temple lawn the best learning place in all the forest.”

She gestured grandly to the wide open space around them. The children murmured in awe.

“Now, as for our schedule— don’t worry. It’ll all make sense by the end of the day. Today, you’re going to learn what time is, how we keep track of it using sundials and calendars, and how to be on time for class.”

A few older therian teens nodded sagely. Others blinked in open confusion.

“Starting tomorrow, we meet here every Monday through Friday at eight o’clock sharp. That means it’s best to wake up by six, get dressed, have your breakfast, and be out the door by seven. Simple, really.”

She let her smile drop just enough to imply she wasn’t joking.

“Eventually, we’ll have a rooster to keep track of who’s here. But until we get more grown-ups willing to help teach, it’ll be simple: if you want to learn— you’ll be here. Come as you are. But come on time. Got it?”

The nods were hesitant but enthusiastic. Rimuru raised a thumbs-up, which Goblin Slayer mirrored in a subtler, more serious way.

“Now then— let me tell you how the day will go.” She held up a hand, ticking off with her fingers. “First up: ‘Literature and Reading Comprehension’ with me, followed by ‘Introductory Arithmetic’ at nine. Then you’ll have a fifteen-minute break— stretch your legs, get some water. At ten, we dive into ‘Intro to Science,’ and at eleven, we have ‘Home Education.’ That includes life skills like cooking, sewing, hygiene, and basic first aid.”

There were nods and low chatter of excitement now.

“Then comes lunch and recess! Recess is when you go outside and play. Yes, I said play. With your bodies. With your minds. On purpose!”

The goblin children squealed, and several dryads laughed softly.

“But don’t overeat or get too tired!” Vivianne said theatrically, while holding up a finger. “Because after lunch, you’ll be trained in physical education by none other than—”

Her voice lifted with almost musical flourish.

“—The Great Jura Forest’s very own Gabiruuuu!”

With a sudden gust of wind, the aforementioned lizardman soared from the rooftop above— wings spread in perfect form. He spiraled once midair— just for flair— and landed on the pier beside the brunette in a crouch, with his tail whipping dramatically behind him.

“BEHOLD, young learners!” He declared, while straightening and flexing both arms. “Your hero has arrived!”

The lizardfolk children leapt to their feet in raucous applause. Even Gobuta whooped and hollered, while others clapped in awe.

“I am the one and only Gabiru!” He said proudly, wings spreading wide. “And I will mold you into nearly the kind of warriors I am. Through sparring, kata, physical conditioning, and strength training— you will become strong. Agile. Disciplined. And above all— cool.”

Vi clapped along with the students, grinning wide. “Thank you, Gabiru! And remember— he’s here to train you, not babysit. Listen to him, and you’ll be stronger than ever.”

She paused for a beat, then held up her hand theatrically once more.

“But wait! There’s more!”

A burst of light flashed to her right as a glowing white sigil bloomed midair. 

A pulse of magic swept across the field— and Ciel appeared beside Vivianne in a soft shimmer of radiant light, robes fluttering gently in the breeze.

Gasps and cries of amazement rose from the students. Goblin Slayer’s jaw parted, with his dusty rose eyes lighting up with anticipation.

Ciel lifted her hand, while a soft glow emerged from her fingertips— then suddenly, lights of all colors danced across the surface of the lake behind her. 

Cascading fans of blue and violet water rose and shimmered in spirals, refracting light like stained glass.

The students erupted into cheers. Rimuru grabbed Goblin Slayer’s shoulders and shook him with glee. “Did you see that?! Did you SEE THAT?!?”

Gabiru crossed his arms, muttering playfully beneath his breath, “Showoff…”

Ciel arched a brow and offered him a faint smirk. “Oh? Should I have left the applause solely to you?”

The waterlight display rose higher; finishing with a final burst of white that rained softly onto the surface of the lake like scattered pearls.

The children roared in delight.

Then Ciel stepped forward, hands folded neatly in front of her. “As you know, I am the Great Sage— Ciel,” she said calmly. “And at two o’clock each day, I will be teaching you the fundamentals of the arcane arts.”

The yard went quiet again.

“You will learn the basics of thaumaturgical theory, how magic works, how to cast spells, enchant objects, and even how to make potions through the science of alchemy.”

There were audible gasps. Some dryads straightened eagerly, and more than a few therian kids nearly leapt to their feet.

“But,” Ciel added, with a nod toward the young woman standing beside her, “you will not succeed in my class unless you learn to read, write, and understand math and science. Miss Vi’s classes are not optional. They are essential. Show her the respect she deserves.”

A roar of applause rose again— this time for Vivianne. 

She blinked once, then grinned like someone trying not to cry from joy.

Goblin Slayer clapped slowly, then faster. Rimuru followed with loud whoops, and the rest of the students joined in like a rising wave.

“And so,” Ciel concluded, “let the first of many lessons begin.”

And in that lakeside clearing, beneath the eastern peaks and a sky the color of promise, a new generation’s first school day bloomed into life.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun poured golden light through the tall, multi-paned windows of the observatory nook, a small turret perched on the third floor of the lakeside house. 

The room was shaped like a lantern above the forest, glass on every wall, affording a sweeping view of the tree canopy, the mirror-still waters of Lake Virelda stretching out to the east, and beyond that, the blue-gray spires of the eastern mountains— rising like old teeth from the morning mists. 

There, the horizon felt close enough to touch; the shifting clouds above the peaks turning soft pink as dusk approached.

Two hand-carved wooden chairs sat facing each other in the heart of the turret, worn cushions tucked neatly atop them. 

The floor was a map of organized chaos: piles of thick tomes in archaic Shinzuharese lettering, with their pages marked with colorful scraps of ribbon; a large corkboard propped against one curved wall, cluttered with Vivianne’s hand-drawn sketches of buildings, roads, and magical schematics; a scattering of mechanical pencils, compasses, and folded sheets of graph paper spread out like fallen leaves. 

The air smelled faintly of old paper and cedar, tinged with a sharper note of ink.

Vivianne stood at the window’s edge with a blueprint unfurled in her hands, and the paper catching the light as she tilted it for a better view. Her voice rose over the hush of the forest winds outside, carrying with it the weight of determination.

“… First thing’s first,” she said, with her eyes sweeping across the sprawling layout she and Ciel had painstakingly plotted together. “We can’t even begin thinking about developing a school campus if we don’t lay the groundwork for a livable space. We need clean water, safe waste disposal, and reliable power.”

She shifted her gaze toward the Great Sage, who lounged in one of the chairs with a feline elegance; her white robe pooling like mist around her feet as she traced a rune in the air, eyes thoughtful.

“Back in Tokinawa,” Vivianne continued, her tone measured but animated, “There’s brilliant labyrinths of tunnels underneath the streets and buildings . Sewer tunnels moving waste from homes to treatment plants, where contaminants were removed before the water was released back into rivers or lakes.”

She then gestured to a thick volume on the floor beside her; its spine labeled with looping characters denoting civil engineering principles.

“If we don’t want to poison Lake Virelda, we’ll need our own filtration system; one that can handle the sewage, and leave the water as clean as when it entered.”

Ciel proceeded to then raise her eyes, with the faint light of her rune reflecting off the window. “What if,” she began slowly, voice like silk sliding across marble, “we carved restoration runes into the conduits? The runes could cycle purification spells, cleansing the sewage on a molecular level without needing to dispose of it physically.”

Vivianne’s eyes lit up, followed by an audible intake of breath punctuating her excitement. “That would be perfect! It would be sustainable and we could build the conduits alongside the foundations— integrating the magic from the start.”

The brunette then rolled up the blueprint and set it aside before picking up a different diagram. She tapped it twice with her finger. “Then there’s power. In Shinzuhara, electricity was everything. Power plants generated electricity by burning fuel or harnessing water or wind, which was then distributed through underground cables and overhead lines in a grid.”

Ciel’s gaze sharpened with curiosity, her chin tilting as she considered the design. “So you’re saying we’d need to recreate a circuit— nodes connected in a network— to carry the energy where it’s needed?”

Vivianne nodded, while flipping to a page depicting transformers, junction boxes, and breaker panels. “Exactly. And if we don’t plan it right, surges could fry the lines or leave entire sectors powerless.”

Ciel’s lips curved into a small, pleased smile. “Why not harness the magicule crystals we have here? They could absorb sunlight by day and then channel it into a lightning relay to produce the current we need. I can enchant the crystals to focus the energy— create an arcane photovoltaic system.”

Vivianne nearly dropped her pencil. “That’s… Brilliant, Ciel.” She praised, before rummaging through a pile, until she retrieved a thick, copper-banded tome with a bookmarked chapter on energy storage. “But we’ll need batteries to store the power generated during the day for nighttime use. Batteries hold an electrical charge chemically until it’s drawn, so we can power lights, pumps, and tools after dark.”

Ciel’s gaze narrowed as she tapped her index finger against the chair’s armrest. “I can extract gel from lesser slimes to store mana, which behaves similarly to your batteries’ chemical charge. The gel can hold magical energy for indefinite periods without degradation.”

Vivianne’s eyes widened. “A living battery,” she breathed. “And if we pair that with a node system, we can safely dispel excess energy and avoid overload.”

The Great Sage gave a slow, approving nod, with a glint of ambition lighting her yellow eyes. “With you drawing the blueprints, I’ll handle constructing the enchantments and conduit arrays. But we’ll still need raw materials— stone for roads and buildings, metals for conduits and fasteners.”

Vivianne then pointed out a series of sketches pinned to the corkboard showing roads, sidewalks, and foundations. “We’ll also have to expand the farm. The children will need food year-round, and that means large-scale agriculture, cold storage to keep perishables frozen, and an environmental program to protect the lake and forest.”

Ciel’s expression softened with earnest approval. “Absolutely; the forest must remain healthy. We can hire willing denizens of the Great Jura Temple to work the farm— raising livestock, tending fields. The dryads could cultivate food in greenhouses, accelerating growth cycles with their magic and maintaining the ecosystem.”

Vivianne clapped the edge of the blueprint against her thigh, her voice bright with agreement. “Yes. And the goblins could manage the livestock— no one organizes like they do. They’d keep the barns and fields running like clockwork. But they’ll need safe, comfortable homes close by, with everything they need for their families.”

Ciel’s eyes glowed faintly as she traced a geometric pattern in the air. “If you guide me, I can handle large-scale construction— walls, rooftops, even towers if we need them. But we’ll need a surplus of lumber, stone, and metals to start.”

Vivianne leaned over, scanning the horizon through the tall windows before glancing down at the sprawling canopy of the Jura Forest. “Harvesting wood shouldn’t be an issue with the dryads’ assistance. But where can we get the metal and rock from? I don’t want to strip resources from the forest itself.”

Ciel’s gaze drifted eastward, to where the jagged mountains stood etched against the sky. “Those mountains— the Tempest Mountains— were formed by ancient volcanic eruptions. The rock there is mineral-rich, untouched for ages. Jura used to sail there on a boat of his own making, — quarrying stone from hidden cliffs.”

Vivianne’s brow furrowed with intrigue. “You know where this quarry is?”

Ciel’s expression fell, with a small frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. “No. Jura never showed me. The mountains were too treacherous for someone in my condition, back when I was alive. The terrain shifts, storms roll in without warning— it’s still dangerous, even for someone like Gabiru.”

She looked out the window, pale hair catching the dying light, before gesturing with one hand toward the pier below. “But if we find Jura’s quarry, then we can use the old pier to dock a cargo vessel— something large enough to carry stone back to the temple.”

Vivianne exhaled, rolling her shoulders as if feeling the weight of a plan coming together. “But where do we get a boat?”

Ciel lifted her chin, eyes dancing with memory. “Jura left books in the study detailing every step of his boatbuilding process. All we need is strong, flexible fabric for the sails— plenty of timber and gel for waterproofing— and enough nails to finish the hull.”

Vivianne’s gaze dropped thoughtfully to the scattered books on the floor. “Buying fabric in bulk would be ideal. But we can’t afford to sell magicule crystals again. The market’s unstable, and—”

Ciel gave a low hum of agreement, the memory of Rimuru and Goblin Slayer unwittingly selling her favorite bag flickering across her face with a shadow of exasperation.

Vivianne then tapped her lip with the tip of her pencil, words slow and deliberate. “Is there anyone in the forest who can produce silk? Spiders, maybe. Or silk moths. If we can find them, we can make sails ourselves.”

Ciel’s eyes lit with a dangerous, intrigued glimmer. “Spider silk would be best. Stronger than steel by weight. There is… One person I can think of.”

She paused, smirking with an incredulous twist of her lips as though doubting her own idea. “She’s a bit of a recluse. But if anyone can spin enough silk for a boat’s sails— and anything else we might dream up— it’s her.”

Vivianne stepped to the corkboard, before pinning the blueprint in place beside their other sketches; her eyes blazing with determination, as the first stars began to twinkle above the canopy.

The forest had fallen into twilight’s hush by the time Ranga carried them beneath the ancient boughs of the Great Jura Forest— his paws padding in near-silence over the leaf litter. 

The sky’s last light barely slipped through the thick canopy overhead, and what little did came filtered in ribbons of dusky blue. 

Yet their way was bright as noon beneath the halo of Ciel’s cantrip; a glowing circle floating above them, casting warm, brilliant light across gnarled roots, emerald ferns, and mossy trunks. 

Fireflies danced in the shimmering radiance, tiny stars blinking lazily through the air, and winged shapes— batfolk with leathery pinions— flitted between branches, their eyes gleaming like scattered amber.

Ranga kept them steady, with his stride long and impossibly smooth. A shimmering ward shimmered over them, a spherical ripple that negated drag and cut the wind resistance to nothing, letting the direwolf pup slip through the dark like a phantom. 

Rimuru perched forward on the wolf-pup’s shoulders; his hands buried in the thick, moon-white mane, and his small frame nearly vibrating with excitement. 

Behind him sat Goblin Slayer, legs hooked firmly with the slime’s so neither would be thrown off when Ranga leaped or banked. 

Both of the ashen-haired boy’s hands held his enchanted map, while the pale line of Ciel’s clairvoyance spell snaked across the parchment— one thicker trail showing the path they’d taken from the Jura Temple, and a thinner one extending ahead toward their destination. A single bright dot pulsed where they were now— flickering whenever they shifted direction.

“Left, Ranga,” Goblin Slayer murmured— his eyes never leaving the map.

The wolf-pup barked once in acknowledgment; his haunches tensing as he bounded onto a leaning log, before then pushed off with a powerful kick— twisting mid-air before landing sure-footed and continuing down a narrow animal trail. 

The world swayed, but Ranga’s steps absorbed every shock.

Around them, the forest stirred with quiet life: strange lemur-like creatures peered out with wide, reflective eyes; shimmering frogs croaked softly from hidden pools; spiraling, glistening moths with wings like stained glass drifted lazily under the halo light.

Rimuru twisted at the waist; his grin sharp and mischievous, as he looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Ren,” he called, with his yellow eyes glinting impishly in the magical glow. “You’re not scared of spiders, are you?”

Goblin Slayer didn’t glance up— his dusty rose eyes still locked on the glowing map lines. “No,” he said evenly, with the soft rustle of parchment punctuating his words. “I’ve dealt with them all my life.” He added, before his gaze flicked back to the white dot, then to the trail. “Ranga— veer right.”

The direwolf pup gave a low whuff and pivoted sharply; claws gripping a mossy boulder as he ricocheted off it, sending leaves spiraling in their wake before they sped along a new path.

Rimuru kept his head turned, with his eyes still gleaming with playful challenge. “Ohhh, but Lady Kumoemi isn’t like the little ones hiding in your ceiling corners,” he teased, teeth flashing in a toothy grin. “She’s this big—” he said, as he spread his hands wide— nearly smacking the ashen-haired boy in the face in demonstration, “— and she’ll suck your insides out like a juice box!”

Goblin Slayer hummed quietly at that— his brow unmoving. “Then I’ll just throw you at her first,” he retorted, eyes never leaving the map. “Use you as a distraction.”

Rimuru chortled, leaning back against the ashen-boy’s chest as Ranga shifted. “Nuh-uh,” he said smugly. “Arachnes can’t digest slime, and slime’s actually can’t be digested at all! I’d be fine even if you chucked me right into her fangs!”

“Bear left, Ranga,” Goblin Slayer ordered— tone clipped. The wolf-pup barked sharply, then lunged sideways— his claws digging into a fallen trunk before vaulting off it into a new direction.

“And even if Lady Kumoemi attacks,” Goblin Slayer continued coolly, “it’ll be three against one. I doubt it’ll come to that anyway— she’ll probably calm down once she hears we’re representing the Great Sage.”

Rimuru let out a half-smug, half-dubious snort. “You say that now,” he countered, with his yellow eyes glittering as he tapped the ashen-haired boy’s nose lightly with one finger, “but remember: everyone here might coexist, but carnivores still have to eat. And you might be the next something on her menu.”

Goblin Slayer rolled his eyes— the movement barely perceptible in the shifting light. “Right, Ranga— up ahead, then down into the ravine,” he instructed. 

Ranga’s ears twitched as he gathered himself, then twisted through a gap between ancient tree trunks— dropping low into a gully filled with silver mist.

Goblin Slayer’s voice dropped to a flat murmur. “If she tries anything, it’s not like we don’t have reinforcements waiting by the entrance.”

Rimuru snorted, teeth glinting. “You think Gabiru’s fast enough to get there before she’s got her fangs in you? Arachnes can move like lightning! You’ll just hear a scuttle—” he snapped his fingers dramatically, “— and then BAM, you’re already dinner!”

Goblin Slayer looked up from the map, his gaze meeting the slime’s narrowed eyes for a heartbeat before dropping back down. “… Then you’ll just have to tell Vi that she doesn’t have a brother anymore,” he said evenly.

Rimuru’s face suddenly froze— a small crack appearing in his smug mask. He opened his mouth, ready with a retort, but the words fell flat as he slumped, groaning. “Ugh— Ren, that’s…That’s too far,” he complained, while crossing his arms tightly and hunching forward on the wolf-pup’s furry nape. “Why’d you have to go and say something like that?”

Goblin Slayer hesitated; his eyes softened as he looked up to the back of the slime’s head, and noticed the way his shoulders hunched and his posture folded inward. “… You were the one saying I’d be eaten,” he said flatly, but not unkindly.

Rimuru scoffed, voice rising with defensive frustration. “I was just messing with you to spook you a little— not make you actually think about actually dying!”

Silence fell between them for a few beats, broken only by the soft pad of Ranga’s steps and the rustle of leaves passing overhead.

“… I’m sorry,” Goblin Slayer finally said, voice low, the words coming slowly but with deliberate weight. “I shouldn’t have said that then.”

Rimuru breathed in sharply, then let it out in a long, ragged exhale. His shoulders loosened, head drooping. “Yeah… I’m sorry too,” he admitted begrudgingly— his voice smaller than before. “For starting it, I mean.”

“It’s fine,” Goblin Slayer said, shifting his legs to steady himself. “Ranga— halt.”

The wolf-pup then immediately eased to a stop at the edge of a ravine, where the forest floor yawned into a shadowed gash in the earth. At its center, a cavern entrance yawned wide, low and round, draped in thick white webs that glowed eerily in the halo’s light. 

Around the cavern, a small camp had been set up: lanterns flickered among low tents, a bright fire crackled at the center, and Gabiru stood with his arms folded, flanked by half a dozen lizardfolk warriors armed with spears and swords. 

Their eyes turned to the arriving trio with guarded but respectful curiosity.

Goblin Slayer lowered the map, eyes lingering on the dark entrance ahead. “Well,” he said dryly, voice edged with a wry challenge, “guess we’ll see which of us is more right about Lady Kumoemi.”

Rimuru dropped lightly from Ranga’s back; his boots thudding on the soft earth, while his grin returned faintly. “Mhm,” he agreed with a playful lilt. “Just try not to scream too loud when you see her.”

The descent stretched endlessly— a slow spiral into the earth’s forgotten depths. Time seemed to lose meaning as they went, the faint twilight far above swallowed long ago by the oppressive dark. 

Only the gentle, unwavering glow of Ciel’s cantrip— still faithfully circling above— kept the shadows at bay, its golden light catching on the strands of silk that choked the tunnel like the spun remnants of ancient dreams. 

The air turned colder with every step, thick with the scent of stone worn smooth by water and the bitter tang of webbing dissolved by Rimuru’s touch.

Each time the slime’s outstretched hand met those pale barriers, the silk hissed and curled— smoke rising in languid tendrils as the path ahead opened. The sound was soft, almost polite, but it left the boys’ ears straining for what lay beyond the veil of quiet. 

Ranga moved behind them with care, with his claws clicking against stone slick with condensation, his breath misting in the chill, and his silver fur brushed with the cantrip’s light— turning him into a ghostly guardian. His ears flattened to his skull as he sniffed at the musky air, with every fiber of him alert.

The tunnel itself was no simple burrow. It was a gullet carved by time and water, ribbed with roots thicker than a man’s arm, their ancient forms petrified into the rock. 

The walls wept in places, rivulets of cold water threading down into cracks that disappeared beneath carpets of moss and silk. At intervals, the passage widened into hollows where smaller tunnels branched away— dark mouths yawning into deeper night. 

Some of the side paths exhaled drafts of air so cold it burned— carrying scents of minerals, damp rot, and something older still. The boys passed one, then another, and another— each one like a beckoning whisper of the unknown. 

The cantrip’s glow glinted off mineral veins in the walls— casting strange shapes and shadows. Once, the light fell on the gleam of clustered crystals, their edges sharp as broken glass, glistening in pale rainbow hues. 

Somewhere deeper, the faintest drip of water echoed— a slow, patient music of a world untouched by the sun.

Rimuru broke the silence at last, his voice low, bouncing off stone and silk. “This tunnel,” he muttered, glancing back at the ashen-haired boy, “it just keeps going… And going… And freakin’ going! I swear, anytime now we’re gonna come out the other side of the planet and fall into space or something.”

Goblin Slayer, hunched slightly as he kept his eyes on the map glowing softly in his hands, managed a quiet reply. “Feels that way,” he admitted, with his voice steady, but with a thread of unease that hadn’t been there at the start. 

His fingers traced the thin white line of clairvoyant magic that marked their path, the bright dot of their location inching ever downward.

They kept moving, the incline steepening further. Every step seemed to pull them deeper into the bones of the world. 

The air grew colder still, enough that the boys’ breath fogged in front of their faces. Ranga’s warm exhale joined theirs in soft puffs that hung in the glow of the cantrip like tiny clouds before fading.

It must have been more than an hour since they first set foot beneath the earth. Maybe longer— time felt strange down here, bent and blurred by darkness and cold. 

The tunnel narrowed and widened by turns, and always more side tunnels appeared— some barely larger than rabbit holes, others gaping wide enough for a dozen to walk abreast with their black throats swallowing the light.

They passed one vast chamber where the cantrip’s light revealed a fairy pool cradled in a hollow of stone. Its surface glowed faintly, touched by some unseen magic; the water so clear it seemed as if they peered into the heart of a star. 

Thin cascades trickled from the walls, feeding the pool’s gentle ripples, and silver fish no longer than a finger darted through the light before vanishing into cracks. Pale lichen climbed the stone like frost, and the smell of clean water and earth filled their lungs.

“Wow…” Rimuru breathed, pausing for a heartbeat to take it in. “Kinda pretty for a deathtrap.”

Goblin Slayer only nodded, eyes flicking between the wonder before him and the map in his hands. “We’re still on the path. Keep moving.”

The tunnel tightened again beyond that chamber— the silk thicker, the scent of webbing stronger. 

Rimuru continued to lead— his hands burning away the barriers as they came. He barely hesitated now, as his form flickered between solid boy and fluid slime as needed to press through the tightest places.

It was when they came upon what appeared to be just another wall of webbing that things changed.

Rimuru reached out without thinking, his fingers flexing as he prepared to dissolve it as he had done a hundred times before. But the instant his palm touched the silk, it gave way beneath him like paper over a pit.

“Wha— OH S-SHIT!!!” Rimuru yelped, as his boots slipped from the edge as the false web-door collapsed under his weight. His arms flailed wildly, fingers scrabbling for purchase in the air. Instinct overrode thought, and his hand caught the first solid thing he found— Goblin Slayer’s tunic.

The ashen-haired boy had time for half a startled breath before the slime’s grip dragged him forward— the ground vanishing beneath their feet.

They fell, as their world became a rush of cold air and spinning shadows. 

Stone blurred past in the cantrip’s light. Rimuru, thinking fast even as he panicked, shifted his body mid-plunge— his slime form softening and stretching. The impact came hard but forgiving— a wet, squelching thud as Goblin Slayer landed atop him.

Rimuru groaned, his voice muffled by the stone. “Gwuah…! Damn, Ren…! You’re built like a sack of bricks…!”

Goblin Slayer gasped, coughing as he rolled off— his ribs aching. “You’re the one who grabbed me!”

Above them, Ranga’s worried bark echoed faintly, the wolf-pup’s voice distorted by the depths and the stone. 

The cantrip, loyal as ever, followed them down, with its light now floating high above their heads, casting the new chamber in soft brilliance. 

The direwolf pup’s barking faded as his paws retreated up the tunnel— swift, purposeful.

Goblin Slayer sat up, dusting his sleeves, breath still ragged. “… Think he’s going for help?”

Rimuru groaned again, finally lifting his face from the cold stone. His grin was crooked, his eyes tired but glinting with mischief. “Nah. He probably went back to raid the pantry while we rot down here.”

The cantrip’s glow pushed back the dark, revealing the cavern around them.

It was vast— a cathedral of stone hidden far below the forest. The walls arched high, their surfaces veined with minerals that caught the light and glimmered like trapped starlight. Water seeped from cracks in slow streams— feeding slender pools that gleamed like mirrors. 

Along the far edges, more fairy pools glowed with soft blues and greens, with their waters alive with faint motes of magic. The floor was uneven, a natural mosaic of stone, moss, and root, while stalactites and stalagmites met in frozen kisses of rock.

The air was cold, but not dead— alive with the soft, patient sounds of dripping water and the whisper of unseen currents.

Goblin Slayer pulled himself fully to his feet, with his eyes wide as he took it in. “… We’re deep,” he said quietly, awed despite himself.

“Yeah…” Rimuru breathed, standing and stretching, slime body crackling softly as it settled. “Real deep. Like, ‘if we die down here no one’s ever finding us’ deep.”

Goblin Slayer smirked faintly, adjusting his map. “Don’t jinx it.”

The words faded into the hushed drip of distant water, as Rimuru’s eyes scanned the tunnels, before he then clapped his hands together with a sharp crack that echoed through the cavern— startling a few bats into fluttering deeper into the darkness above. 

He spun on a heel, fixing Goblin Slayer with an impish grin. “Well, we’re not gonna find Lady Kumoemi standing around here gawping at the pretty rocks, are we?” He announced with playful bravado. “C’mon, Ren— we’d better get a move on!”

He proceeded to then turn and begin strutting toward the closest tunnel— his boots clicking lightly on the stone.

Goblin Slayer frowned, as his eyes darted warily between the tunnels and his retreating friend. “Wait,” he called out— voice low but firm, “shouldn’t we wait for Ranga to come back with Gabiru and the others?”

Rimuru looked over his shoulder with a dismissive smirk, waving a hand lazily. “Nah,” he drawled, voice echoing with a faintly mischievous lilt as he slowed his steps. “Think about it: it took us over an hour just to get this far down— and that was on a downward slope. How long d’you think it’ll take for Ranga to reach those guys, and then for them to climb down? By the time they actually get here, we’ll have lost hours.”

Goblin Slayer lifted a brow, his gaze skeptical. “And why does that matter, exactly?”

Rimuru turned fully back to face him, arms folded. “Because,” he began, with his tone taking on a matter-of-fact crispness, “if Lady Kumoemi was hungry, she’d have been waiting in this chamber, ready to pounce on her next meal— which, by the way, would’ve been you.” He said half-playfully, as he gave the ashen-haired boy’s shoulder a playful nudge. 

“And since she’s not here waiting to wrap us up, it means she’s not hunting right now. Which means—” he jabbed a thumb at his chest with a crooked grin, “— this is our chance to go bother her before she gets peckish.”

Goblin Slayer blinked, taken aback. “… Okay?” He replied incredulously, while gesturing at the empty chamber with a wide sweep of his hand. “But by that logic… Wouldn’t she just web us up to save for later? Like how spiders do?”

Rimuru’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “Normally, sure,” he agreed as he skipped a step closer to the ashen-haired boy— then suddenly lunged forward, with his hands raised like claws and his teeth bared in a playful snarl. 

“But tarantulas are ambush predators— RAWR!!!” He exclaimed, hopping back with a cackle as the boy scowled for the fake scare.

Goblin Slayer began folding the map carefully in his hands while giving the slime a confused look. “… I thought you said she’s an Arachne.”

Rimuru nodded brightly, completely unbothered. “Yeah, she is,” he chirped, eyes dancing. “But that’s like saying that there’s not more than one kind of elf— high elves, wood elves, dark elves. You know, variety!” He said, before flicking a finger against the other boy’s forehead— earning a reluctant grunt.

Goblin Slayer’s expression soon softened, as he pocketed the map he’d finished folding onto squares. “Hmph.. Fair point,” he allowed, as his frown eased into a thoughtful look as he fell into step beside the slime.

Rimuru then flashed him an approving grin. “Just don’t try sneaking up on her,” he warned lightly as he turned his eyes ahead into the dark tunnel— the cantrip light gliding forward with them. 

Silk shimmered like spun glass across the walls and ceiling, reflecting pale golden hues.

“Why not?” Goblin Slayer asked, while shifting the dagger he’d drawn from his boot as they began walking side by side.

Rimuru’s voice dropped low, eyes narrowing with a sly edge. “Rumor says Lady Kumoemi can shoot her hair out like javelins,” he explained, while gesturing dramatically, “and that she’s dead-accurate. Her hair’s sharp as giant needles— strong enough to pierce solid rock and shatter it.”

Goblin Slayer grimaced. “… And why are we the ones searching for her, again?”

Rimuru shot him a playful side-eye. “Because if we came down here with Gabiru’s squad of heavily armed adults, Lady Kumoemi might think we were here to kill her,” he pointed out, smirking. “Ciel’s not dumb. She sent us because we’re kids— and less threatening.”

Goblin Slayer let out a long, reluctant sigh. “Guess that… Makes sense.”

They then entered the tunnel, with its rocky walls split with jagged cracks where silk had been torn loose. 

The light of the cantrip spilled across small streams trickling along the floor— shimmering off cyan-blue clusters of magicule crystals growing like crystalline roses in sheltered nooks. Bioluminescent flowers bloomed near fairy pools, with their pale petals drifting like tiny stars above dark water, while strange fungi clung to the stalagmites— pulsing faintly with emerald and indigo glows. 

The air continues to hum with the soft whisper of flowing water, accompanied by the quiet pop of droplets falling into unseen pools.

Goblin Slayer’s voice cut through the quiet. “Hey… If we actually did need Gabiru and his friends to step in, do you think they could actually do anything against Lady Kumoemi?”

Rimuru started to answer, but they rounded a bend— and froze.

Ahead, half a dozen twisted green impish creatures stood bickering in harsh, hissing screeches. They were vile, green-gray skin slick with filth, eyes small and gleaming red, and with their limbs knotted with wiry muscle. Their snarling faces split into jagged-toothed grins as they caught sight of the boys, their eyes lighting with cruel hunger.

The ashen-haired boy’s heart suddenly thudded. “Are those… Goblins?” He asked cautiously, while quietly dropping into a defensive stance with his dagger at the ready.

The goblins jeered, laughing in their guttural tongue. One pointed a rusted spear at Goblin Slayer’s head.

Rimuru, by contrast, stood straight and loose— his brow furrowing thoughtfully as he watched them. “Hmm…” He tapped his chin. “Y’know… I can’t really tell, to be honest…”

Goblin Slayer’s eyes suddenly widened, just as the first goblin lunged for the slime with a guttural shriek. 

The spear streaked through the air— only for Rimuru to sidestep fluidly, and catch the goblin by the throat with one hand, before lifting him off the ground. 

A heartbeat later, he slammed the creature down with bone-cracking force— smashing its skull like a melon against the stone floor. 

Blood fanned across the tunnel, the goblin’s head rolling lifelessly toward his shrieking kin.

Rimuru’s eyes turned dark, his right hand glowing with swirling shadows— black and purple energy like living smoke, and roiling up his arm in twisting tendrils that shimmered like oil under the cantrip’s light. 

“Might not know what they are, but I know one thing…” He murmured— his voice low and cold. He curled his fingers into a fist, punching the ground.

“… They don’t belong here.”

From the impact point, jagged spikes of shadow shot out in every direction— sharp as spears. They then slammed into the goblins, and lifted them before pinning them to the ceiling with brutal precision. 

The tendrils writhed for a moment before dissipating in a cloud of black and violet mist— leaving mangled corpses wedged into the holes they’d carved in the rock.

Goblin Slayer stared, eyes wide with awe. “I…! I didn’t know you could do that…!”

Suddenly, Rimuru’s expression brightened immediately. He then spun around with a cocky grin. “I mean, I may not be able to read yet, but I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve still,” he quipped, while gesturing at the tattered sleeve of his blue coat. “But I guess technically they’d be your sleeves, since I never gave this back to you.” He chuckled, before relaxing his posture. “Point is— there’s a reason Ciel sent me with you, and it’s not just because we’re friends, Ren!”

Goblin Slayer’s face lit up, awe giving way to excitement. “Did the Great Sage teach you how to do that?!”

“Duh,” Rimuru snorted, rolling his eyes. “Who else would? But…” He trailed off while tapping his chin, before smirking. “That’s ‘Shadow Spike,’ and I’m pretty sure she’s not gonna teach that to a bunch of kids. It’s too dangerous, obviously.” He said, before eyes twinkled. “But I could teach you!”

Goblin Slayer’s breath caught. “Really?”

Rimuru’s grin widened. “Really! But not now—” he popped his lips for emphasis, “— we’ve got work to do.” He declared, while cracking his knuckles and stretching his arms forward, before dropping them at his sides. “Especially now that Lady Kumoemi’s got… Guests over.”

The two boys then proceeded to move on— hugging the cavern wall to avoid the dripping entrails gathering in a dark, reeking pool below the goblins’ remains. 

Goblin Slayer stared up at the gore-streaked ceiling, with morbid fascination clear in his eyes, before looking over to the slime. “Do you think Lady Kumoemi’s the reason why those… Things… Are here?”

Rimuru shrugged, his eyes glinting with challenge as they pushed deeper into the dark. “Can’t say,” he replied, a daring smile tugging at his lips. “Guess we’ll just have to ask her ourselves, won’t we?”

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

Ciel’s cantrip hovered above them like a pale sentinel, its cool white glow chasing back the shadows of the cavern. The remainder of the corridor stretched on before them— uneven, slick, the walls and ceiling swallowed in layers of thick, glistening web. Beneath the silk, veins of magicule crystal pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of the deep earth.

Rimuru’s gaze locked on a cluster of crystal hidden behind a veil of webbing. Without a word, he raised a hand. The slime-flesh of his fingers hissed as it melted through the sticky strands; revealing a hollow in the rock lined with cyan quartz. 

Goblin Slayer watched, dagger ready, eyes sharp. “… What’re you doing?”

“Just a quick mana recharge.” Rimuru replied, as he reached in and cracked a chunk of crystal free. He held it out, with the blue glow spilling between his fingers. “Check it,” he said, while smirking as he clenched the crystal. 

Goblin Slayer watched as the light drained into his hand— the crystal fading to dull glass. “… Does that work better than a potion?” He asked curiously— brow raised.

The slime shrugged as he tossed the spent shard aside. “Nah. But if you’re outta potions, it beats nothing.”

Goblin Slayer hesitated, before asking, “Could you show me that too? On top of Shadow Spike?”

The slime chuckled. “Yeah, sure thing,” he replied, before reaching back into the crevice to snap off another crystal “Catch,” he said while tossing it to him, “We might need it later.”

The ashen-haired boy then caught it, with a small, genuine grin flickering across his face. “… Thanks.”

They pressed on; weaving around crumbled stone and shimmering webs, with the cantrip’s light dancing over the damp, jagged floor. 

The air began growing thicker; heavy with the stink of copper, and a rotting smell that the ashen-haired boy found similar to spoiled eggs. 

Their on-going conversation soon cut off as shrill, guttural shrieks echoed ahead. Scampering shadows swept across the webs, as Goblin Slayer’s head snapped up. “… They’re close.”

The noisy horde then rounded the corner— misshapen, foul creatures, faces twisted into snarls, eyes burning red. Some were missing limbs, others trailing blood. Their shrieks tore at the silence as they flinched from the cantrip’s light but charged anyway— blinded, and frenzied.

Rimuru’s arm immediately lashed out— morphing into a thick cyan tendril that swept across the corridor like a scythe. 

The impact cracked bone and snapped spines. Six goblins were smashed into the webs; they sizzled where his slime-flesh touched them, collapsing in twitching heaps as he yanked his arm back into human shape.

“Strike ‘em now!” Rimuru shouted, while already sprinting for a dropped pickaxe.

Goblin Slayer then lunged into the fray; slamming his knee into a goblin’s chest and knocking it flat. 

He then raised his dagger and drove it down— once, twice, three times— each strike met with a wet crunch. 

Another goblin then tackled him from the side; slashing his shoulder with a jagged blade, and drawing a sharp gasp from him. 

Blood trickled down his sleeve.

Rimuru buried the pickaxe into a goblin’s skull— wrenching it free with a spray of gore. 

A spear tip then grazed his side— tearing his coat and leaving a shallow gash that oozed slime. He gritted his teeth, eyes blazing, before hastily slamming the spear-wielder into the wall with crushing force.

Meanwhile, Goblin Slayer ducked as a club swung at his head. The blow glanced off his arm, numbing it, but he powered through— twisting and ramming his dagger into the goblin’s throat. 

He tore it free and spun, just in time to sidestep another attacker. His boot then caught on uneven ground— he stumbled, felt claws rake his leg, and lashed out, kicking the goblin in the snout.

Near him, Rimuru caught a rusted sword on his forearm— the blade biting into his skin. He hissed, but managed to grab the goblin’s wrist, and shattered it with a twist. 

Shadow energy coiled around his other hand, and he punched the ground. Spikes of black and purple shadow burst up like a forest of spears; skewering the closest goblins, and splattering the walls with gore.

One goblin shrieked as it sank its teeth into Goblin Slayer’s ankle. The ashen-haired boy slanted to stiffen a scream as he drove his dagger into its eye, and limped back from it— heart pounding. 

Another arrow sliced past his ear— nicking his cheek.

“Rimuru!” He barked, blood dripping from his face. “Help!”

“On it!” Rimuru roared, as he turned and caught the goblin archer’s gaze, before hurling a shadow spike through its chest. 

The creature collapsed mid-draw— its bow clattering to the stone.

A hatchet suddenly crashed into the back of Rimuru’s head. The slime then staggered, cursing, then whirled, before grabbing the goblin who’d struck him to hurl it into the ceiling with bone-breaking force.

White mana from Ciel’s cantrip coiled around them, closing cuts and knitting torn flesh. The pain ebbed— but exhaustion set in, with their breathing heavy, and their limbs leaden.

Goblin Slayer, bloodied but defiant, disarmed a goblin with a swift kick and caught its short sword mid-air. With a fierce grunt, he drove the blade down— cleaving through its skull. 

Another goblin lunged from behind. The ashen-haired boy countered the vile creature with one spin; slicing its belly open, before kicking it back as its entrails spilled onto the ground.

Rimuru finished the last of them with a burst of shadow spikes; the tendrils ripping through torsos and pinning bodies to the walls. 

The two stood amid the ruin— their ragged breathing loud in the cavern’s hushed silence. Ciel’s cantrip floated above them, casting its pale glow over the carnage— blood pooling in cracks of the uneven stone, glinting wetly on jagged webs. 

The slime then glanced down at his arm, which was coated in a black-crimson muck that steamed faintly in the cold air. 

He lifted a finger, hesitated, then dabbed it on his tongue. His face immediately contorted in disgust. “Ugh— definitely not blood,” he spat, before wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Goblin Slayer stared, eyes wide with exhausted disbelief. “W… Why would you taste that?!” He demanded, with his voice pitched somewhere between incredulity and anger. “T-That’s disgusting!”

“I wanted to know if it was blood or not!” Rimuru snapped back, gagging a second time. “How else was I supposed to tell what it was?”

“Maybe by looking at it?” Goblin Slayer shot back; breath ragged, as he wiped his own face with a shaking hand. “We both saw it didn’t look like normal blood.”

Rimuru scoffed, while rolling his eyes. “Yeah, well, it seemed like a good idea.” He then stepped over a limp body; his boots crunching against scattered quartz shards and splattered gore. “Look, I’m just saying that I don’t think these things are goblins.”

Goblin Slayer looked down at the nearest corpse, its twisted face frozen in a rictus snarl. He frowned deeply. “They look like goblins… I mean, at least they look like how I used to imagine them appearing,” he said thoughtfully, before shaking his head and saying, “But the goblins in the woods, and even the ones who raided Riverwood? They don’t look like this— These things are… I don’t know… Wrong.”

Rimuru nodded, with his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer to one of the mangled bodies. “Exactly… These things though? They’re feral— almost like beasts.”

Goblin Slayer grunted, before crouching beside one of the corpses. He then pried open its eyelid, revealing a thin, rectangular pupil like a goat’s. 

He shuddered faintly, before letting the eyelid snap shut. “… Even their eyes are off. What kind of goblin has eyes like a goat?”

Rimuru sighed heavily, before rolling his tired shoulders with a wet squelch, as his slime finished mending small cuts across his chest. “Maybe they’re from outside the forest? Or maybe something corrupted them?” He speculated, with his eyes flicking to Goblin Slayer’s— a hint of unease beneath the irritation. “… Could these things just be different species of goblins?”

The ashen-haired boy shook his head, with his small chest still heaving. “I… I don’t know. There’s too many possibilities: curses, demons, maybe even something like a chimera.”

Rimuru gave a tired chuckle, shaking his head. “Great. So we either just fought some mutant goblins, or there’s more to it than that.” He then paused; his eyes going distant for a moment as he caught his breath. “… I wish we could bring one back for Ciel to study. But…” He trailed off, while gesturing at the mashed, mangled bodies around them with a helpless shrug. 

The slime sighed before tugging the hatchet free from where it had lodged in the back of its head— grimacing as the last of the wound knitted closed beneath his slime’s healing.

He then offered the weapon to the ashen-haired boy, with his brow raised. “Anyways… Wanna trade?”

Goblin Slayer glanced at the cyan-stained blade like the hatchet, before hesitantly reaching out grabbing hold of its wooden handle. “… Yeah, I’ll take it. And also, could you help me carry the useful stuff back to the temple, once we find Lady Kumoemi? Like that pickaxe— if we ever find Jura’s quarry, it could be handy.”

Rimuru cracked a small smile as he took the short sword from the ashen-haired boy; fatigue showing in his slouched posture. “That’s actually a good idea. Yeah— of course I’ll help you. And between the two of us, and whenever Ranga and Gabiru’s guys finally bring their sorry butts down here, I think we’ll be able to haul back home a lot of gear.”

Goblin Slayer nodded once, eyes scanning the corridor as Ciel’s light drifted overhead. “… Regardless of what happens with Lady Kumoemi, I still think we should help figure out what these things are. If they’re wandering this deep, they could find their way to the temple.”

Rimuru grunted in agreement— a flicker of determination returning to his tired face. “We’ll find answers. But let’s find her first, and hope she’s not the one behind these things.”

The two boys pressed on, every step sending little ripples of pain through their battered limbs. Their breaths misted faintly in the cool, stagnant air, and the light of Ciel’s cantrip bobbed steadily above them— casting their long shadows across the glistening webs stretched along the cavern walls.

A sudden crack of stone shattering echoed through the dark, followed by a chorus of vile, high-pitched shrieks that bounced off the tunnel walls. 

Both boys froze— instincts prickling. 

The shrieks grew louder, punctuated by the crunch of bodies slamming into rock, and the distinct, wet sound of tearing flesh.

Rimuru lifted his head, sniffed the stale air— and immediately gagged. “It smells like that black gunk from those things’ blood,” he rasped, with his eyes watering.

Goblin Slayer’s expression tightened. “At least from the sounds of it… Something’s slaughtering them. The ones we fought must have been the ones that escaped— explains why so many of them were wounded and desperate.”

Rimuru considered that— his brows furrowing, as he glanced around the web-choked walls. “Guess that means Lady Kumoemi’s probably not behind it then, maybe,” he muttered, “either way— the last thing we want is to waltz into the open with a bright cantrip hovering over our heads like a bullseye.” He warned, while gesturing upward to the halo of light circling them.

Goblin Slayer’s eyes darted between the cantrip and the slime’s face. “… What if I stay behind while you scout ahead? The light will weaken if we separate, maybe even fade.”

Rimuru’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully before he shook his head. “No… Wait a minute. Remember how those things reacted to the light? It blinded them, I think. If they can scuttle around down here with no torches or crystals of their own, they must hate the light. I guess it’s more of our advantage than it is our disadvantage— especially if they and Lady Kumoemi can probably all see in the dark anyway.”

Goblin Slayer blinked, then gave a small, impressed nod. “That’s… A good point,” he admitted quietly. “So… We shouldn’t split up then?”

Rimuru let out a low chuckle, a hint of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth despite their ragged state. “Yeah. Plus, Ciel’s light has been healing us all this time.” He said, while pointing at the boy’s torn tunic and pants. “You’ve got holes and bloodstains, but no cuts.”

Goblin Slayer glanced down, realization dawning as he touched a tear in his sleeve; feeling only smooth, unbroken skin beneath. His dusty rose eyes then  lifted back to the slime. “… Can you cast it too? I’d like to learn it.”

Rimuru’s smile faded to a frown. “Ciel tried to teach me, but I didn’t get it. It’s like… It needs you to know a lot of complicated stuff first.”

The ashen-haired boy hummed at that, while tapping the hatchet’s handle against his palm. “… Maybe once you learn to read better, you’ll understand how to cast it? The Great Sage did mention how we won’t really understand her teachings if we don’t learn what my sister has to teach us.”

Rimuru sighed, shoulders slumping for a moment. “Yeah… That’s what I was thinking, too. The spell needs a bunch of… Well, nerd stuff.” He said, while sticking his tongue out slightly at the word.

Goblin Slayer echoed softly, almost to himself, “Nerd stuff…”

They both fell quiet, with only the distant echoes of shrieking filling the silence. 

Goblin Slayer’s gaze then sharpened as he lifted his eyes back to Rimuru. “We need a plan. What about waiting here for Ranga to come back with Gabiru and the others?”

Rimuru shook his head firmly, blue hair catching the light. “Hear me out though: what if Lady Kumoemi’s in trouble, and needs us right now?” He countered, voice low and urgent. “We can’t get silk from her if she’s mauled to death!”

Goblin Slayer hesitated, gripping the hatchet tighter. “… Do you think we can handle ourselves to do something like that?”

Rimuru’s eyes glittered with fierce confidence. “Tch! Have we not handled ourselves just fine so far?” He shot back, smirking. “C’mon— how much more trouble could we possibly get into?”

The boy looked unconvinced at first, his gaze flicking back toward the dark tunnel. But then he firmed his jaw. “We did handle twenty of those things. And… You’re quite the formidable foe to them,” he admitted grudgingly.

Rimuru’s grin widened, his eyes flashing with excitement as he skillfully twirled the short sword in his hand. “Then let’s do it, but be smart about it,” he declared, voice low and fierce. “Time to show whatever those things are why they should fear the Great Jura Forest.”

They then charged down the corridor; their boots striking stone in sync as the tunnel curved and widened into a yawning cavern. 

The webbing along the ceiling and walls thickened, sagging in heavy, silk-draped sheets that glowed faintly in the cantrip’s light. The air grew stifling with the metallic tang of copper and the acrid burn of brimstone.

And then they saw it— a massive den spread out before them, walls and floors coated with sticky webs and littered with goblin corpses. 

Hundreds of the vile creatures were splattered across the cavern, their bodies twisted and broken. The stench of blood and rot filled the space— forcing both boys to recoil, but they kept their footing, eyes fixed ahead.

The light revealed her: a towering, three-meter-tall arachne woman with striking orange and black fur along her spider legs— eight of them propelling her with eerie grace. 

Her head was crowned with a voluminous mane of wavy black hair that framed her fierce face. Her eyes glowed with fury as she danced across the cavern, moving with impossible speed— leaping high, smashing goblins into paste, and firing her hair like black javelins that skewered heads with pinpoint accuracy. 

More and more goblins poured from a ragged opening in the cave wall, only to be shredded the instant they approached.

Rimuru and Goblin Slayer stared, breathless and awed. 

The battlefield was a nightmare of gore and grace, the furious arachne’s movements a deadly ballet— her every motion filled with wrath and terrifying beauty.

Rimuru’s arm shot out, palm open, signaling Goblin Slayer to stop. The ashen-haired boy obeyed instantly by pressing his back against the tunnel wall. The sticky webbing clung to his torn tunic and sleeves as he flattened himself, while still holding the hatchet tight in both hands. 

Rimuru followed suit; lowering himself slightly and squishing against the opposite side— his sharp yellow eyes never leaving the carnage unfolding beyond their cover.

Lady Kumoemi moved like a storm made flesh— her long black hair whipping and weaving through the air as she fought.

Watching alongside him, Rimuru slowly leaned closer to Goblin Slayer before whispering, “Remember what I said about not startling her…?”

Goblin Slayer swallowed hard and nodded— daring a glance past the edge of the tunnel. His wide eyes followed Lady Kumoemi, as she blurred through the cavern— an orange and black streak of fury. 

A goblin tried to flee; its wretched shrieks echoing, as it stumbled toward where the boys hid.

Before it could cover half the distance, Lady Kumoemi was there. 

With frightening ease, she caught it in her arms and tore it clean in half, flesh, bone, and sinew snapping like twigs. She flung the halves at a knot of its kin, showering them in blood. 

The blinded goblins reeled, too slow to react as the arachne vaulted into an aerial backflip— unleashing a deadly rain of razor-sharp hairs. The volley tore them apart— ripping through muscle, shattering bone, reducing them to pulped gore that splattered across the walls and floor in grisly fans of black ichor.

Goblin Slayer breathed out, voice low and stunned. “I… I don’t think she needs our help, Rimuru…”

Before the slime could reply, Lady Kumoemi dropped to the ground— her eight legs splaying out wide as she spun in a vicious circle. 

Rimuru’s then arm shot up; pushing Goblin Slayer harder against the wall while he pressed himself into the stone— both of them shielding their faces as hairs shot outward like spears in every direction. 

The cavern shook with the force, while bits of stone and webbing were raining down around them.

And then— silence. Deathly, complete silence.

Rimuru lowered his arm slowly, smirking faintly. “… Yeah, I think she’s good too,” he muttered, his tone dry. He then reached out, gripping the ashen-haired boy’s shoulder and tugging him free of the clinging webs, before then waving a hand to dissolve the strands behind him. 

Both of them stumbled forward, before brushing strands of silk from their hair and faces.

But then both froze as a voice floated through the cavern— smooth, darkly melodic, carrying a subtle, rolling cadence that lingered on her vowels like a whispered song. 

“… There is no need for you to try to remain hidden from me, pequeños.” 

The words drifted like silk, soft yet sharp— their gentle echo crawling across the den’s walls and into their bones.

From the shadows emerged Lady Kumoemi herself— stepping forward with the poised confidence of a monarch and the lethal grace of a huntress. 

The blackened blood of her prey streaked across her orange and black fur— glistening wet under the cantrip’s pale light. Her voluminous black hair fell in waves that framed a face both fierce and beautiful, set with two large, humanlike eyes— each pale white against the black sclera— above which sat two smaller, crystalline eyes glinting like dark gems. 

A subtle, sinister smile played on her lips— revealing daggerlike fangs peeking from beneath.

“… I sensed you the moment your feet touched my web,” she continued, voice soft but edged with command as her gaze swept over the dark tunnel entrance. “And the one who did not fall into my lair… They have brought friends with them, sí?”

Goblin Slayer’s pulse thudded in his ears as Lady Kumoemi loomed above the tunnel’s mouth— shadow falling over them. 

She then leaned closer, with her head tilting slightly; her voice dropping to a silkier, more dangerous tone. “So, tell me, pequeños… Have you come to invade my home as well?”

Rimuru forced a laugh, with his hands shooting up in a gesture of harmlessness. “Haha— n-no invading here! We’re not THAT stupid! Y’see, w-we were sent by the Great Sage. She asked us to find you and ask for your help.”

Lady Kumoemi’s expression shifted; the coiled tension in her shoulders eased just enough for her to murmur, almost to herself, “La Gran Sabia me manda a sus hijos…” Her eyes then flicked between them— glinting with curiosity. “… What could she possibly desire of me? I was certain even the wisest creatures of this forest knew better than to disturb my web.”

Goblin Slayer licked his lips, voice steadying as he answered, “W… We’re sorry for coming unannounced. But… We’re trying to help the Great Sage and my sister. We need silk— enough to make sails for a boat.” He explained, before pausing; measuring her expression before continuing, “We’ve made our home in the Jura Temple, but to finish expanding it to build a school campus for everyone living here. We need resources that lie far away in the Tempest Mountains, and we can only reach them by water— and without silk for sails, we won’t be able to help grow our community as successfully.”

Lady Kumoemi’s eyes narrowed— one brow rising elegantly. “Silk… For sails?” She echoed, while tapping a hooked claw slowly against one of her legs— the faint click echoing through the cavern as she considered. “Such trivial concerns… Boats, temples, expansion…” She sighed— the sound low and dismissive. “I find it difficult to care for such frivolities, if I’m being completely honest.”

Rimuru’s breath caught. “S-So… Is that a no on the silk?” He asked, with his voice trembling between hope and dread.

Lady Kumoemi’s lips twitched into a small, knowing smile. “Forgive me for answering your question with another… But the four-footed one who has returned with seven pairs of feet… Who are they?”

Rimuru glanced sharply over his shoulder, then back to her. “That’s Ranga; he’s our friend who’s a wolf-pup. He’s the one who went to fetch our friends— just in case something happened to us… Like how we fell down from that trap door of yours.”

A rich laugh, almost a purr, bubbled up from Lady Kumoemi’s chest. “Ahh… So the Great Sage planned for every outcome, I see. More clever than I expected— sending two niños, but having reinforcements waiting in the wings.”

Goblin Slayer took a step forward, gripping his hatchet tighter. “The Great Sage wouldn’t have sent us here if she knew we’d find goblins in your cav—” He then caught her sudden, sharp stare, and quickly corrected himself— his voice dipping respectfully, “Y-Your lair, I mean…”

Her eyes flared, but her voice was steady. “Those creatures? They are not goblins.”

Rimuru’s eyes glinted with wry humor. “Yeah, we thought so… But if they’re not goblins, then what are they?”

Lady Kumoemi lifted a tuft of her bloodied fur; flicking a finger through the sticky black liquid clinging to it. Her eyes gleamed as she examined it. “Black blood means demon ichor. Red is mortal blood. White is divine ichor. And these… They bleed black.” She dropped the tuft, her voice colder now. “So they are demons of some kind.”

Goblin Slayer’s gaze locked on hers; a thousand questions flickering behind his dusty rose eyes. “How do you know that? About ichor, blood… All of it?”

A proud, almost imperious smile spread across Lady Kumoemi’s lips. “Because I come from a noble warrior bloodline who’ve protected our kingdom back home from such evils. My family taught me such truths from the day I hatched.”

Rimuru’s brow rose high. “So… You weren’t born here, in the Great Jura Forest then?”

She lifted her chin— her black eyes glittering in the cantrip’s light. “I was. But mi abuela traveled from the Amazon— far across the world. She brought our people’s knowledge with her, upon sailing to the shores of Feyrun— over a century ago.”

“… The Amazon?” Rimuru echoed, while leaning forward with open curiosity. “I never heard of it… Where’s that at?”

She smiled indulgently— her voice like velvet, as she replied, “The Amazon lies beyond the Neptunium Ocean— far from this kingdom. A place you may never see, pequeño.”

Goblin Slayer cleared his throat, eyes sharp. “So then… With all due respect, Lady Kumoemi: will you help us?”

The arachne’s eyes then flicked from Rimuru to Goblin Slayer, then back to the tunnel behind them. Her voice softened, but retained a dangerous edge. “… Assuming your friends come to aid you and not attack me… Perhaps we can come to an agreement.”

Goblin Slayer tightened his jaw, nodding. “What is it you want?”

Lady Kumoemi tilted her head— her white fangs catching the cantrip’s glow as she gestured elegantly with one of her spidery arms. “Step forward, pequeños. It is safe; for if I wished you dead… You would already be corpses.”

A heavy, cold shiver ran through them at her casual certainty. The slime then forced a crooked grin— shrugging like it was all a joke. “C-Can’t argue with that logic!” He said, before glancing back at Goblin Slayer. “C’mon, let's do as the nice spider-lady asks!”

They emerged fully into the den— and Goblin Slayer stumbled to a halt— his breath catching violently at the sight. Lady Kumoemi’s true form unfolded before them: her massive arachne legs arched around her like an iron crown— easily spanning five meters across the cavern floor.

However, her legs were not the only part of her that were especially endowed.

Her swelled chest sagged gracefully with age, and was partially hidden by the gentle puff of fu that moved visibly when she shifted— swaying under its own weight.

Beneath her ample orange breasts, Lady Kumoemi’s belly was round and plush beneath the layers of fine, sensitive hairs that shimmered slightly in the light; giving the arachne an enticingly fluffy appearance— inviting to be squeezed and caressed.

Her orange fur thinned slightly around her navel, revealing the delicate shape of the hollow beneath— a hidden dip that seemed oddly inviting to the ashen-haired boy, though he couldn’t understand why.

His face became flushed— his dusty rose eyes darting helplessly over her imposing frame. 

Noticing the way he was reacting to the sight of her, Lady Kumoemi’s grin widened— her sharp fangs flashing as she purred, “Sí— soy muy hermosa,” she cooed, as her voice dripped playful, suddenly seductive pride. “But my beauty is not what I wish to show you, pequenõ.”

Rimuru suddenly elbowed Goblin Slayer lightly— smirking knowingly, as he waggled his eyebrows at him. “Eyes up, ‘Goblin Slayer.’ Focus.”

The arachne then turned gracefully; her eight legs carrying her with effortless majesty deeper into the cavern— forcing the two boys to break into a quick jog to keep pace. 

The air grew more rank with the stench of copper and brimstone as they stepped through pools of black ichor and past piles of unrecognizable gore— demon limbs, shattered skulls, viscera mashed beyond recognition.

Finally, Lady Kumoemi stopped at a gaping hole in the stone, large enough for a man or boy, but too narrow for her massive form. The ground before it was littered with mangled demon corpses— their twisted bodies still oozing dark ichor.

“This,” she said softly, voice low and ominous, “is where the trouble lies.”

Rimuru and Goblin Slayer stood at the ragged mouth of the ichor-flooded tunnel— the stench so thick it felt like it clung to their skin. 

Both gagged once more, before turning their heads aside to retch dryly, as they tried to force themselves to breathe through their mouths instead of their noses.

Rimuru then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing at the reek. “Is… Is that where those demons— or whatever they are— came from?”

Lady Kumoemi stepped up behind them, her presence towering and calm even as her eyes narrowed at the jagged hole. Her arms folded gracefully across her plump breasts— orange-furred limbs glinting faintly as she regarded the opening with disdain. 

“Sí. That is where those vile, wretched things dared to crawl into my home. Normally,” she continued with a frustrated sigh, “only small creatures— moles, insects— creep through that fissure. Occasionally, I am blessed with a foolish rock eater who believes it has stumbled upon an easy meal… Only to realize far too late that it has become mine.”

Rimuru, emboldened by her honesty, risked a glance over his shoulder— his eyes lingering a moment too long on her plush, rounded belly before he snapped his gaze forward again. “So… Food’s a little scarce for you, huh?” He teased— unable to hide his cheeky grin.

Lady Kumoemi’s laugh was low, confident, and proud. “Scarce? Jamás. I am a huntress of unmatched skill. My lair is designed to ensnare creatures of all shapes and sizes— I rarely need to leave these tunnels to find sustenance.” 

Her voice then softened as her gaze fell to the piled gore at her feet— annoyance seeping back into her tone. “… Though it seems my web is equally capable of luring abominations whose black blood I cannot even digest.”

Goblin Slayer swallowed thickly. “When did these… Goblins—” He stopped when Rimuru shot him a look, before correcting himself with a muttered, “demon goblins,” and then continued, “start tunneling into your lair?”

Lady Kumoemi’s lips tightened— her eyes becoming distant, as she tapped a claw against her arm thoughtfully. “Ah… One drawback of living in solitude, pequeños, is that time begins to slip through your fingers like water. I no longer know what day it is— one of many prices for embracing isolation in darkness.”

For a moment, the slime almost forgot the rancid air around them as his eyes lit up with excitement. “Then why don’t you come join us at the Jura Temple?!” He blurted, while practically bouncing in place. “You could help us expand, maybe teach us how to fish better, weave blankets, make armor from silk— so many things you could do with us!”

Lady Kumoemi arched a brow, with a flicker of amusement warming her sharp features. “You persist, pequeño. But again, I find none of these things… Compelling.”

Rimuru’s grin only widened stubbornly. “But… Don’t you get lonely down here? Don’t you want more out of life than just sitting in the dark, waiting for prey?”

Goblin Slayer’s eyes went wide, with panic flashing across his face as he hissed, “Rimuru, don’t—”

However; the slime cut him off with a raised hand— voice unwavering as he looked straight into Lady Kumoemi’s eyes. “You said it yourself: you’re descended from noble warriors who fought evil. Wouldn’t you be wasting your ancestors’ legacy by hiding underground? Jura Temple is becoming something more— maybe even a real village, or even a city someday. And both of those things need defenders; you could be one of them!”

Goblin Slayer’s lips parted, a surge of quiet pride rising in his chest as he remembered their conversation days ago— he, Rimuru, Shuna, Gobuta, Treyni, Treyni’s sisters, and the goblins from Gobuta’s village, all debating Jura Temple’s future. 

He felt strangely touched that the slime had remembered.

The cavern then fell silent. Only the distant drip of ichor and distant sound of underground flowing water punctuated the heavy stillness, as Lady Kumoemi regarded the slime without blinking— her eerie, yet gorgeous face unreadable.

Finally, a low chortle rumbled from her throat. 

Her eyes glinted— amused as they were deadly. “Valiente… Brave little one. If I were not the graceful lady mi madre raised me to be, I would have torn you apart for daring to challenge me in my own web.”

Rimuru’s laugh suddenly came out weak and shaky. “Y-Yeah… I was, uh, really hoping you wouldn’t do that, heh…!”

She shook her head— her predatory smile softening into something almost fond. “You are a fool, pequeño… But a fool with a golden heart.”

Her gaze then drifted back to the ichor-soaked tunnel entrance, as her smile faded into a weary sigh. “I will consider your offer— but only after we see what lies beyond that hole. This is the first time, as far as I know, that these demon creatures have entered my lair. I cannot move on from it, until I know it is secure.”

Goblin Slayer stepped closer, with determination growing in his eyes. “So then… You want us to find out what’s in there, and put an end to it?”

Lady Kumoemi looked him over, with a smile of quiet disapproval curving her lips. “You? No.” She said, as she swept an arm toward the tunnel leading back to the atrium cavern above— the one with the hidden trapdoor they had entered through earlier. “Your reinforcements— larger, stronger than you two niños? They are the ones I will send.”

Rimuru blinked. “Wait— why not us though?”

The arachne’s face turned somber as her eyes softened. “Because while I threatened to kill you— should you prove my enemies— I am not so dishonorable as to send children to face horrors alone.” She stated, as her voice grew firm— her tone carrying the weight of heritage. “It would disgrace the memory of mi abuelos to show such cowardice.”

Goblin Slayer and Rimuru exchanged startled looks before the slime then cleared his throat awkwardly. “So… We just wait until Ranga brings Gabiru and his team to do all the work?”

“Sí,” Lady Kumoemi said while nodding once— her hair shifting like a dark veil. “Gabiru and his team… Are they the ones trailing your… Pet?”

Rimuru’s eyes narrowed defensively. “Ranga isn’t a pet— he’s family.”

Goblin Slayer quickly added, “But yes, that’s them. They’re lizardfolk.”

Lady Kumoemi’s eyes gleamed approvingly. “Then they will see in the dark, and fight well underground. Good.” She then paused— standing tall as her legs shifted, while beginning to frame the boys protectively. 

“So it is decided: we will wait for your allies. Once they arrive, I shall direct them to purge the source of these demons. Only then will I join you in Jura Temple… And make my pact with the Great Sage official.”

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

Ranga’s claws clicked against the tunnel floor as he led the way— his horn casting cold blue light that cut through the oppressive darkness. The faint glow glinted off the drawn short swords of Gabiru and his six lizardman companions as they followed close; their eyes darting nervously between shadows. 

The air stank of damp stone, rot, and something acrid, foul, and foreign.

The direwolf pup suddenly froze mid-stride— hackles lifting as his nose wrinkled at the oily black pools seeping from shredded, twisted corpses strewn along the path.

Gabiru stopped beside him— narrowing his eyes as he crouched to sniff one of the dark puddles. His frilled crest flicked as he pulled back. “… Demon ichor,” he hissed in a low, gravely voice.

One of the lizardmen— hand shaking on his sword hilt— whispered what they were all thinking. “Demons…? Here…?”

Gabiru’s claws tightened around his sword. “Stay sharp,” he cautioned, before rising up to his feet. “Rimuru?! Ren?! Where are you?!” He called out— his voice reverberating down the tunnel.

For a moment, only silence and the drip of viscous liquid answered. 

Then, suddenly— “Yo, Gabiru! We’re fine! We’re over here with Lady Kumoemi!” Rimuru’s voice called back; casual, but echoing weirdly off the stone— making it sound both close and far.

Ranga’s ears twitched as a wave of relief rolled through the group. 

But Gabiru’s eyes narrowed further— sharp and wary. One of his companions glanced sideways and noticed their leader’s expression.  “… Captain? Is there… Something wrong?”

Gabiru’s tail flicked tensely as he spoke. “What if this is a trap?” He proposed, as his eyes glinted with a hardened edge. “Long ago, I once took a rescue quest in the obsidian dungeons of Arak-Mora; back when I was with the Adventurers’ Guild. The quest giver insisted on coming along to find his lost son. We heard the boy’s voice calling out from the dark, and the man rushed forward— believing that we had stumbled upon his boy. By the time we reached him, it was too late— his upper half was already within the maw of a mimic—”

“— Oi, Gabiru!” Rimuru’s voice suddenly cut through the tale— sharp with impatience. “Are you gonna come, or are ya just gonna keep yapping about some made-up crap?!”

Gabiru’s frill drooped slightly as his companions snorted in hushed laughter. He rolled his eyes with a long-suffering groan. “… Nevermind. That’s definitely Rimuru; no mimic in existence could be that obnoxious— no one’s that good.”

They then pressed forward; their swords gleaming, as Gabiru shouted out, “Are there any more demons skulking in here?” 

“… Kinda!” Rimuru reluctantly answered back.

Gabiru’s eye twitched as they advanced— the cavern air growing thicker with every step. “… Kind of?! What the hell does that even mean?!”

A pause— then the slime’s voice drifted back with a sheepish note. “Like… We know where they’re coming from, but that’s it!”

Gabiru slapped his tail against the floor in frustration— growling, “Tch…! Just wait for me!”

At last they stepped out of the narrow tunnel into a massive cavern, gasping as they took in the sight: the stone walls shrouded in thick, silvery spiderwebs; javelin-like hairs pinning pulped goblin-like corpses to every surface; pools of black demon ichor congealing in grotesque puddles. 

The stench was suffocating, and their boots stuck to the gore-caked floor.

Gabiru and the lizardmen froze— eyes wide, and swords half-raised in horror. 

Ranga lowered his head; ears back, with every muscle tense, as he padded forward toward the faint halo of Ciel’s cantrip circling Rimuru and Goblin Slayer. 

Towering behind the two boys loomed Lady Kumoemi; her massive, furred legs arching elegantly as her four onyx-black eyes glimmered.

“Ranga! Over here!” Rimuru called brightly, while bending over and patting his knees like he was calling a puppy. 

His voice was edged with relief, but his eyes flicked nervously toward the arachne at his side. Straightening, he shot her an uneasy look. “Uh… Lady Kumoemi, you’re… Still not gonna eat them, right?”

Her lips then pulled into a languid smile— two long fangs peeking out as she looked down at him with faint amusement. “As I’ve said: so long as they do not force my hand, pequeño, your friends have nothing to fear from me.”

Rimuru then let out a sigh— visibly relaxing as he faced the approaching group. “See? She won’t hurt you guys,” he called. “Unless you give her a reason, obviously— so don’t.”

Gabiru slowed his steps; his eyes fixed warily on Lady Kumoemi’s towering form, with the spider hairs embedded like lances around her. “Is… Is that really Lady Kumoemi?” He called out— his voice bouncing eerily around the cavern.

Rimuru threw his arms wide with a grin. “The one and only!”

One of Gabiru’s companions whispered hoarsely, “Ancestors’ BONES…!!! She’s…! S-She’s enormous…!”

Ranga then slunk forward— eyes wary but trusting Rimuru’s words. 

The lizardmen followed their captain; weapons lowered but still at the ready, with their gazes flicking between the carnage, the imposing arachne, and the two boys who stood calmly before her.

Lady Kumoemi’s voice then rolled out— smooth and cool as night air. “Welcome, visitantes. You arrive at a… Most delicate time.”

Gabiru glanced around at the gore-soaked stone. “That’s… One way to put it,” he muttered, while pinching his snout shut against the reek.

Rimuru then slapped the wolf-pup’s broad shoulder. “C’mon, buddy. Don’t worry— she’s not gonna bite ya.”

Lady Kumoemi’s eyes glinted as she smirked faintly down at the slime. “So long as no one gives me a reason,” she repeated with a musical purr; her words sending shivers down spines despite her relaxed posture.

Gabiru straightened— planting his feet and puffing out his chest, and forcing down the unease crawling up his throat as he looked up into the arachne’s four eyes. 

“We shall not give you reason to retialiate— so long as the presence of these demonic creatures are not of your doing,” he countered, with his voice strong but edged with a wary rasp.

Lady Kumoemi’s grin spread slowly— gracefully— like a moonflower blooming under midnight sky. “I am just as perplexed as you, lagarto,” she purred, with her black sclera eyes briefly flicking down to the boys bathed in the soft glow of their cantrip. 

She turned her gaze back to Gabiru. “It all began when a disturbance rippled through my web— awakening me from slumber.”

Lady Kumoemi then gestured a clawed hand toward the black ichor-coated hole belching its vile fluids across the cavern floor. “That accursed hole— these wretched things crawled through it into my lair. I sensed them the moment they disrupted my domain— long before they took their first step out of that darkness.”

She proceeded to then lean in— her smile curving with a dangerous glint. “I waited, coiled and patient, ready to pounce. The first wave never knew what befell them,” she added, while audibly savoring the memory. “But though they were easy to slaughter, they were… Persistent. Some fled—” she gestured sharply to the tunnel they had entered through, “— and it seems those cowardly stragglers met their end at the hands of these pequeños.”

She pointed back again at Rimuru and Goblin Slayer, before lifting her chin proudly. “They came to me as envoys of the Great Sage. They told me that I was needed in order to provide silk; silk for sails  to build a boat capable of ferrying resources from the Tempest Mountains.”

Gabiru’s eyes then darted down to meet the slime’s sheepish grin, before snapping back up to the arachne’s enigmatic gaze. “So… You’ve already been told of what’s going on— up in Jura’s Temple,” he said carefully.

“Sí, así es,” she replied, with a note of amusement warming her tone. 

Gabiru hesitated; swallowing visibly before forcing the question out, “So then… What was your answer?”

Lady Kumoemi’s grin widened— teeth flashing. “I have already given my answer,” she said, before gesturing grandly at the two boys. “Negotiations are done. All that remains before I leave my lair to seal our pact is for you—” she circled her finger at Gabiru and his companions, “— to complete your side of the bargain.”

The six lizardmen shifted uncomfortably— eyes darting from their leader, then to the blackened hole. 

Gabiru raised a brow; his voice becoming low and skeptical, as he echoed with an incredulous look, “Our…? Side of the bargain…?”

Suddenly, Rimuru let out a weak, uneasy laugh; hands waving as if to deflect the glare suddenly focused on him. “L-Look, I might’ve sorta… Maybe… Agreed on your behalf to send you into the demon-infested— uh— whatever’s down there… Y’know, to help get Lady Kumoemi on board.”

Gabiru’s jaw dropped— his mouth working silently before any words came. “… You what?”

The slime then shrugged with an exaggeratedly apologetic grin. “S-Sorry? Not sorry?” He added with a shrug that made the lizard’s frills bristle.

Lady Kumoemi chuckled softly; her eyes crinkling with bemusement as she leaned forward slightly. “Qué pasa, lagarto?” She asked teasingly. “Eres tu y tus amigos afraid of what goes bump in the dark, hmm?”

Gabiru snapped upright, his pride stung. “Afraid?!” He barked— eyes flashing. “Of course we’re not!”

“Oh?” Lady Kumoemi’s voice dripped with mock disbelief— her fangs glinting as her grin grew. “Then why do you hesitate?”

Gabiru jabbed a clawed finger at the slime; his tail lashing behind him. “Because HE doesn’t speak for me or my men!” He declared dramatically— flaring his frills wide as his companions stared in admiration. “I, Gabiru, am my own master— an unstoppable warrior of justice!”

Lady Kumoemi chortled softly, while crossing her arms beneath her ample chest. “Is that so?” She drawled. “So then, what shall it be? Will you rise to the challenge… Or shall you falter?”

Gabiru dropped his pose only to strike another— throwing one arm overhead. “I never falter!” He proclaimed grandly. “We shall slay the evil that lies within this cavern!”

His companions— enamored by his confidence— cheered, with their voices echoing wildly. 

The pompous lizard then suddenly dropped the act briefly to shoot Rimuru a withering glare. “… But only because I choose it of my own volition,” he snapped, before sweeping his sword out with dramatic flair. “For I, Gabiru the Great, live to vanquish evil wherever it lurks!”

“For Captain Gabiru!” His lizardmen roared, while punching their fists into the air. “For Jura!”

Lady Kumoemi watched with an amused, almost maternal grin as the leader of the lizards valiantly led the charge. 

He raised his short sword high, with his voice ringing heroically. “Forward, warriors! We descend into darkness not as the prey— but as the hunters!”

The lizardmen then bellowed in unison, before falling in behind him as he crawled into the ichor-drenched hole— the stench nearly overpowering. 

Gabiru gagged once, but steeled himself, before pushing on through black slime and cracked bones. Webs shivered across the walls and ceiling, while sticky strands brushed their scales.

From behind them, Lady Kumoemi, Rimuru, Goblin Slayer, and Ranga stood together— watching the last of the lizardmen slip into the darkness.

“… They are brave, I will give them that,” she said softly with pride, as her many eyes tracked their departure.

Gabiru continued onward on all fours— his claws digging into the rock slick with demon ichor, while his short sword gripped so tightly it made his knuckles ache. His frills flattened against his neck as he slithered low, eyes narrowed to slits— pupils locked on the darkness ahead. 

Every rasping breath behind him belonged to his companions— he filtered them out, focusing instead on the sounds rippling through the cavern: the wet scrape of claws on stone, guttural grunts, and sharp, snuffling breaths. 

His heart pounded in rhythm with each distant step.

He then suddenly raised a fist over his shoulder without looking back. His companions froze instantly, scales scraping softly as they halted. 

Gabiru’s tongue flicked out, tasting the foul air. “Twenty… No, more,” he whispered, eyes gleaming. “They’ll see us the moment we’re out. We must go fast— no hesitation.”

His companions nodded grimly, while their captain sucked in a breath— muscles coiling.

“… Now.”

They then shot forward like arrows loosed from a bow— bursting from the cramped tunnel into a cavern thick with the stench of death. 

The demonic goblins huddled there jerked up, milky yellow eyes blinking with stupid shock— just in time for Gabiru and his warriors to crash into them like a living avalanche.

Gabiru snarled— fangs bared. “CUT THEM DOWN!!!”

His sword flashed, before burying itself to the hilt in a demon’s mouth— the blade punching out the back of its skull in a spray of black ichor. 

He the. tore it free sideways, before caving in another demon’s head with the same blow. 

A third lunged; Gabiru the. pivoted— letting it sail past him before driving his short sword into the base of its neck, and twisting until it split the spine with a wet crack.

All around him, his companions roared. 

One rammed his sword up through a goblin’s jaw, bursting its brain; another hooked a demon by the throat, dragging it in to slit its belly open, black intestines slopping across the cavern floor. 

Gabiru’s tail snapped out, tripping a fiend so two lizardmen could hack its head and arms off in a single furious sequence.

More demons swarmed from the shadows, but the lizardmen met them head-on. 

Gabiru vaulted into the fray; plunging his blade into a champion’s shoulder, and feeling bone grind beneath his hilt as he yanked it free to stab again— this time through the creature’s eye, and leaving its skull sagging open like a split melon.

He then spun around; ducking low as a goblin demon’s claws raked over his frills. He immediately rose with a vicious uppercut; his blade gutting it from groin to sternum— spilling black ichor and lumps of sickly, tumor-like organs across his feet. 

Another demon grabbed at him; Gabiru rammed his sword through its throat— pinning it to a cave pillar before kicking its head until it came apart in wet chunks.

All around him, his companions continued to fight with wild desperation: their swords carving through goblin limbs, with demon arms and legs littering the cavern floor. 

One lizardman screamed as claws opened his chest; causing him to drop before fumbling a healing vial from his belt— chugging it while black blood sprayed around him. He then rose seconds later, eyes burning with fury as he sliced three demons apart in a blur of rage.

Gabiru pounced onto another goblin champion— sword plunging into its gut. He wrenched it sideways, and cut a ragged trench through the demon’s belly before dragging the blade up into its chest— shattering ribs with a crunch. 

Black ichor erupted over his face, as he roared while headbutting the corpse aside to turn on two smaller goblins— both of whom he stabbed in a frenzied cross-slash that dropped them screaming to the ground.

Another one of his companions fell back— bleeding heavily from a leg wound. He stabbed a demon in the ribs even as he collapsed, with black blood spraying across the cavern floor, before guzzling a healing vial and snarling back into the fight.

Gabiru’s sword arm ached, his scales slick with black gore. His breaths came ragged, but he didn’t stop— he couldn’t. 

He soon slammed his blade into a demon’s mouth— splitting its head in two, then ripped his sword free to parry another clawed strike. He then hacked through the attacker’s wrist, before burying his sword in its chest so deep that the tip burst from its back.

The lizardmen worked in bloody concert, blades flashing as they kept chopping demons apart with relentless fury— bodies toppling, heads rolling, limbs flying. 

Black ichor ran in rivers down the walls— soaking the cavern floor until their feet squelched with every step.

Eventually, momentarily silence fell.

Gabiru wiped the black gunk from his snout with the back of his arm; his short sword glinting dull and wet in the dim. His frills twitched while his ears pricked at the eerie silence settling over the battlefield they’d carved through. 

All around him, the corpses of demonic goblins lay shredded; their foul blood pooling thick and black underfoot.

He turned toward his companions; eyes fierce, voice low but firm, as he said, “On your feet, warriors. We can rest when this is done.”

His companions groaned softly, while pushing off the gore-slick walls; battered and winded, but obedient. They fell in behind him as he stepped forward, his boots squelching with every stride. 

Gabiru continued to lead the way; squeezing through tight passages, then duck-walking beneath crumbling stone where the ceiling sagged low. “Eyes sharp. Blades ready,” he ordered, the weight of command settling heavy in his chest.

They kept pressing deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels, with their captain’s keen ears picking up the telltale signs before each clash: the scuffle of clawed feet, the guttural growls of unseen beasts. 

Again and again they struck— ambushed by snarling imps, larger and stronger than the demonic goblins, with their black hides slick and rubbery, fanged mouths snapping. 

Gabiru met them with fury— his short sword sinking to the hilt in one imp’s gut, then dragging free in a burst of steaming ichor. His tail lashed another off its feet, as his blade finished it before it hit the ground.

“Strike low!” Gabiru barked as two of his warriors tangled with a trio of imps— their swords glancing off thick hides. “The throat— the heart!”

His words spurred them on; swords biting deeper, imps falling shrieking as black blood sprayed the stone. 

Gabiru was everywhere at once— blade flashing, tail smashing. A massive imp lunged for his throat, only to be rammed by his short sword that shot up under its jaw— skewering its brain, before he yanked it free with a snarl.

They continued passing through chamber after chamber, carving through demons— less like the imps and goblins, and more like twisted mockeries of beasts. 

Winged fiends shrieked as they fell. Horned devils bellowed in fury before their heads rolled across the cavern floor. 

Gabiru fought on like an unrelenting storm: his scales caked in ichor, his sword arm trembling with effort but unyielding.

Finally, they reached it: a narrow chokehold in the rock, a bottleneck where the air reeked of sulfur and rot. And from its black maw surged an onslaught— the largest wave yet. 

Dozens of demons— goblins, imps, small fiends with burning eyes and gnashing teeth— all cramming into the narrow passage in a frenzy.

Gabiru planted himself at the point, before roaring out, “HOLD THE LINE!!!”

Steel clashed against claw and fang. 

Gabiru’s sword rose and fell, each stroke splitting bone, slicing muscle, spilling black ichor. 

His companions continued to fight at his side— their short swords flashing, bodies straining, and scales nicked and bloodied. 

One lizardman cried out as a demon’s claws tore a gash along his side, but he bit down on his pain and fought on. 

Another took a slash to the face— blood blinding him— yet he lashed out blindly at his attacker.

“Keep them back! Don’t let them through!” Gabiru shouted.

The clash raged for what felt like an eternity; the bottleneck running slick with demon blood, the floor ankle-deep in black filth. 

Bodies piled high— demon and lizardman alike. 

Gabiru fought like a demon himself— carving a path of ruin through the horde with his blade dulling, and his muscles burning. His breath came in ragged gasps.

And then— silence had returned to the cool cavernous air once again, as the last fiend gurgled and died at his feet.

Gabiru stood alone at the center of the carnage— chest heaving. 

His companions slumped against the walls, panting, wounded, their short swords hanging limp at their sides. Empty healing vials littered the floor beside them.

“Captain…” One gasped, with blood dripping from his snout. “Don’t… Don’t go on alone. It’s too dangerous…”

“Please,” another choked out— his voice thick with exhaustion. “We— we can’t lose you… We’ll regroup… We can—”

Gabiru suddenly turned to them— his expression softening despite the gore staining every scale. He then slowly sheathed his battered sword while standing tall— his frills fanned wide, and his eyes shining.

“… You have all given me more than I could have asked for. You have bled for me. Fought for me. Stood against the darkness without fear.” He spoke to them— his voice growing thick with emotion, while his chest swelled with pride. “I am honored beyond words to have led you here. But this is my burden now— I must see this through.”

His companions’ eyes welled with tears, with their pride in him eclipsing their exhaustion.

Gabiru raised his chin— striking one last heroic pose, battered but unbowed. “Rest, my friends. Your duty is done. I shall return victorious.”

He then turned toward the final chamber within the cavern— his short sword drawing once more, as he strode alone into the tunnel’s gaping maw— leaving behind his loyal warriors, with their voices trembling with emotion as they called after him.

“C-Captain…”

Gabiru’s claws trembled as he uncorked the last vial at his belt— the sour stench of concentrated stamina potion burning his nostrils. He downed it in one gulp; nearly retching at the bitter taste before wiping his scaly lips with the back of his hand. 

The empty vial clinked across the obsidian floor as he tossed it aside.

Gabiru stalked into the final atrium; blade bared, with a growing hum emitting from the crimson rift in the center of the chamber that rattled his bones. 

Waves of heat shimmered off the obsidian floor; black flames bursting in rhythmic pulses around the gash in space. Dark miasma seeped from the rift— coiling like smoke with a scent of scorched nightmares.

He edged closer— eyes narrowed, breath slow— until a voice cut the air behind him. Low, smooth, vibrating with cold amusement.

“… How curious. A surface dweller this far down on their own.”

Gabiru immediately whirled around— his wings flaring wide, as his tail lashed behind him. 

A tall figure stepped from the gloom— silk-black hair, pale angular face, gold eyes shining like molten coin. His gloved hand rested lazily on the rapier at his hip— posture relaxed, almost bored.

Gabiru spat, eyes blazing. “Who are you?! And why is that thing here?!” He demanded, as he stabbed his sword toward the rift. “Speak plainly— or die!”

The demon’s eyes flicked to the rift, then back to Gabiru— faintly amused. “… A wound,” he said softly, with his voice carrying a rasp of old power. “A door. A promise.” He said cryptically, as he stepped closer to the lizardman; his boots silent over the stone. “And you? What promise did you make when you crawled here? Was it to perhaps perish— your heart seizing in terror, as your life fades from your eyes?”

Gabiru’s wings beat the air— gravel shifting beneath his claws. “You think I fear you?!” He snarled in a low and fierce tone. “I’ve faced my share of demons and dragons— I don’t think a shadow in robes will break me.”

The demon’s smirk slowly curled wider. “… Let’s test that.”

Gabiru let out a roar as he lunged forward. Steel hissed and sparks showered as his blade hammered against the demon’s rapier. 

But the demon moved like smoke— sliding aside, and letting Gabiru’s fury carry him forward before slamming an elbow into his ribs. 

Gabiru grunted, pain blooming deep. He quickly recovered while whirling with his tail— only to strike empty air. 

A flash of motion: the demon was already behind him.

A black spike tore from the ground— Gabiru immediately leapt sideways— rolling in a spray of broken stone. He then sprang to his feet with his eyes darting, only for the demon’s rapier to find him in a blur— steel kissed his cheek, as a shallow line of blood beaded down his scales.

“You’re quick,” the demon murmured, while stepping forward as shadows rippled with him. “But speed alone won’t save you.”

Gabiru growled in defiance as his wings snapped. “Neither will your arrogance!” He spat back, before diving low to slide between the demon’s legs— his blade slashing up to catch his opponent off balance. 

But the demon twisted impossibly— gravity itself seeming to bend— and Gabiru’s strike missed by inches.

The demon’s foot then lashed out, catching Gabiru across the jaw with punishing force.

The lizardman tumbled across the floor— coughing blood, but rolled back up— fury and stubborn pride keeping him upright.

“You should know when to stay down,” the demon said quietly, voice chilling. He then extended a hand outward, as black tendrils snaked from the walls toward the lizardman.

Gabiru hacked at them with his wings thrashing, but one managed to coil around his ankle— dragging him hard into the ground with a crunch that rattled his skull.

Gabiru spat blood again, voice hoarse but defiant. “You think…?! I’d surrender…?!” He rasped, while glaring up at the demon’s cold, yellow-eyed gaze. “I’ll die with my blade in hand before I submit to you!”

The demon’s eyes glowed. “Good. I prefer it when my prey dies standing.”

Gabiru heaved, before forcing himself upright with a roar, only to stagger as the demon’s rapier shot forward— nearly invisible, as a single clean thrust. 

The lizardman barely parried— the shock of the impact numbing his arm. His legs buckled, and the demon moved in close— breath cold against his snout.

“… Is this what you imagined? When you thought of how you’d meet your end?” The demon asked, low and almost curious. “You, alone, before the Abyss itself?”

Roaring, Gabiru slammed his head forward— horns cracking against the demon’s cheek. 

The taller figure recoiled a hair’s breadth, with his lip split. 

Gabiru the. lunged with a savage snarl— his blade sweeping upward. 

But the demon shifted again, impossibly fast— one hand grabbing the lizardman’s wrist, and twisting until bones popped. 

Gabiru roared in pain, and was forced to his knees as his sword clattered to the stone.

“You fought better than most,” the demon said, with voice calm as he raised his rapier— black mist coiling around the blade. “But your courage only delays the inevitable.”

Gabiru glared up, eyes blazing. “G-Go…! To hell…!”

The demon smiled faintly. “… You first.”

He drew back to strike—only for a searing white light to flood the chamber— banishing the shadows like dawn. 

The demon immediately staggered back; hissing, with one arm thrown up against the blaze.

“Get away from him!” Rimuru’s voice thundered— young but sharp with fury.

At the atrium’s mouth, Rimuru stood side by side with Goblin Slayer— short sword and hatchet raised, with the cantrip’s brilliant sphere orbiting overhead— its glow tearing the darkness apart.

The demon blinked into the light, with his gold eyes narrowing with cold rage. “That light…! That wretched light…!” He muttered, almost to himself. His gaze locked on the two boys, with his lips slowly curling in a dark grin. “So then… There’s more of you after all.”

Rimuru stepped forward with his fingers tightening around the handle of his sword. “Take one more step toward him—”

“— and then you’ll do what, exactly?” The demon interrupted; laughing softly, though there was a flicker of unease in his eyes as the cantrip’s glow intensified. “You’ll cry to your mothers? Throw tantrums, and strike me with your toys?”

He then spread his arms while the shadows around him swirled— his rapier glowing bright scarlet with power. “Then come, children. Let’s see if fate favors you more than your friend.”

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

The demon’s eyes narrowed, faint uncertainty cracking his earlier composure as his beam of black fire smashed into Ciel’s brilliant cantrip— only to disintegrate into harmless wisps before they ever touched Rimuru or Goblin Slayer. 

The searing white light consumed the darkness like paper in a bonfire.

Rimuru’s eyes gleamed fiercely. “Go!” The slime barked with his voice cutting through the cavern’s gloom as he and Goblin Slayer sprinted— their weapons raised high.

A sneer twisted the demon’s mouth. “It won’t save you forever,” he hissed, while driving his palm to the ground. Jagged spires of shadow then erupted around him with explosive force; stabbing upward as black mist churned violently, and swallowing the chamber in suffocating darkness.

Amid the swirling gloom, the demon’s eyes glinted like molten gold as he kicked Gabiru’s sword off the ground— catching it effortlessly mid-spin, and then twisted his body with surgical precision— booting Gabiru’s limp frame like a living battering ram at the blur of movement he’d glimpsed.

The lizardman’s unconscious body then shot through the smoke with brutal speed— stone shattering as he smashed into the cavern wall. But the demon’s pupils flared; he’d missed— Rimuru and Goblin Slayer had slipped past, unseen.

A flicker of movement overhead caught his eye— the slime descending like a thunderbolt with the ashen-haired boy in his free arm. Above them, the glowing halo blazed like a rising star— flooding the cave with blinding brilliance.

The demon recoiled with a sharp hiss, with his eyes slitting against the light. He then flung Gabiru’s sword like a dart— the blade slicing through the haze toward the slime’s face. “Die, little pest!”

However, Rimuru managed to snap his blade up in time— sparks bursting in the bright air as steel clashed violently. He then pivoted, with his foot kicking off the stone ceiling to explode downward— short sword flashing. 

The demon then lifted his rapier, but the cantrip’s glare forced his eyes shut a fraction too long, and soon the slime’s blade came slamming into his guard— knocking the rapier from his grasp.

A shriek-like tearing fabric filled the air, as the rift behind the black-haired demon twisted in on itself— the shadow flames flickering out as space cracked with a thunderous—

BOOM!!!

The demon’s eyes momentarily flicked to the collapsing gateway— a brief horror flashing across his features.

Upon landing on his feet, Rimuru lunged as he let out a roar— his rusty blade becoming a blur. He hacked, stabbed, and swung with unrelenting fury— each blow aimed to maim or kill. 

The demon weaved and twisted, but a vicious slash finally found its mark— carving deep across his ribs. Black ichor sprayed, as the force staggered him sideways.

With a snarl, Rimuru cocked his blade back— his right arm liquefying into a slick, whip-like tendril. He then lashed it forward, with the sword spinning on the end like a deadly flail. It scythed through the demon’s right arm— severing it cleanly before cleaving a deep trench across his ribs.

A guttural scream ripped from the demon as his arm hit the ground— more ichor spraying in dark arcs. He careened back, before slamming into the stone wall hard enough to send cracks spidering out around him.

Breath ragged, eyes blazing coldly, the demon slowly rose to one knee. His gaze darted past the boys, landing on the closed rift with a haunted intensity— breathing heavily, each inhale like a growl. 

‘Gone… The gate… It’s been shut…’

Setting Goblin Slayer down beside him, Rimuru led their advance “This is it you— the end of the line,” he growled in a low voice, as his blade twitched— his hand eager ready to finish it.

The demon’s severed shoulder writhed, black ichor threading together in a wriggling mass as his arm began to regrow. Regardless of his condition, he still managed to barked a hollow, cold laugh— locking eyes with the slime. 

“If you think I’ll grovel to likes of you, then you’re more delusional than that bloody lizard was,” he said mockingly, before his voice suddenly dropped— growing deadly and absolute. “Your last hour strikes.”

Ignoring the threat, Rimuru lunged, but the demon rolled sharply aside as the slime’s blade crashed into the ground— the ground fracturing upon sparking . 

Goblin Slayer rushed in for a follow-up attack, with his hatchet raised with grim determination. He then swung with all his might— the hatchet’s edge burying into the demon’s neck with a wet crunch of shattered bone.

A strangled noise burst from the demon’s throat as black ichor came bubbling out from his lips. 

Rimuru was on him instantly; stabbing the rusty sword straight through his heart, and lifting him with raw fury before ramming him into the cavern wall. 

The sword snapped, with the shards of jagged steel blasting into his chest like shrapnel.

A howl tore from the demon’s lips— moreichor spewing from his mouth in thick ropes as his body convulsed violently.

Rimuru let him fall, before planting a boot between his shoulders. With a roar of rage, he ripped the hatchet free from the half-healed gash— ichor spraying on him and the cavern floor. 

He then raised the weapon high— his yellow eyes burning with finality— before slamming it down.

The hatchet cleaved through muscle and bone— splitting the demon’s neck; his head tumbled off, and landed with a sickening ‘thud’ before the slime raised his boot and stomped it flat— black gore splattering like ink across the stone.

Rimuru stood hunched over— ragged breaths rasping in his throat, as he glared down at the ruined corpse. His chest heaved with each inhalation, as sweat and black ichor dripped from his chin. 

Beside him, Goblin Slayer stared at the bloodied remains, wide-eyed— equal parts horrified and electrified.

A crooked grin slowly spread across the boy’s face. “That… Was incredible,” he whispered, while his voice trembled with raw exhilaration— his dusty rose eyes shimmering with a glint of youthful awe.

Rimuru suddenly let out a breathless, incredulous laugh— each chuckle punctuated by a cough. “We actually did it…!” He gasped— shaking his head as if trying to wake from a dream. “We killed a demon…! A real, big-time demon…!”

The ashen-haired boy’s eyes darted from the corpse to him. “… Do you think that’s really what he was?” He asked, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet despite the blood caking his clothes. “A big-time demon?”

Rimuru flicked his eyes to where the gapping rift had been— ichor-slicked hair sticking to his forehead. “I mean, what else guards a… Time-space… Hole thing?” He panted, while waving vaguely at the closed abyss. “Definitely something high up, that’s for sure…!”

Gabiru’s ragged groan snapped both boys’ heads around. The cantrip’s light caught the lizardman’s scaly form slumped against the cavern wall— chest heaving with labored breaths.

“G-Gabiru!” Rimuru barked, with his voice cracking as he forced a smirk. He and the ashen-haired boy then jogged over to him— relief battling exhaustion. “Still with us, hot shot?”

Gabiru’s eyes fluttered open— his slits dilating with pain. He then forced his shaking arm up, with his thumb raised high. “I’m… I’m not dying here,” he croaked out in a guttural, yet defiant voice. “Not before you two apologize… For dragging my men and I into… This shit-hole.”

Goblin Slayer laughed breathlessly— his pale lips splitting into a faint grin. “You’re tough,” he panted.

“Damn right, I am…” Gabiru rasped, while trying and failing to puff out his chest; his eyes glinted with pride. “I’m the proud spear of the Dragonewt race—”

But mid-sentence, his pupils shot wide— fixing past the slime, behind them. “MOVE!!!” Gabiru roared in raw panic.

Rimuru’s eyes suddenly snapped over his shoulder— catching a brief flash of steel. 

Without much time to think, the slime shoved the ashen-haired boy hard out of the incoming trajectory. 

The hatchet blurred past, but instead of striking the air, it evaporated into black smoke inches from their faces.

For a heartbeat, silence reigned.

Then the real hatchet— splintered, crusted with blood— whistled out of the smoke before burying itself deep in Goblin Slayer’s shoulder. 

The boy’s body went stiff, then limp as the impact hurled him through the air— straight out of Ciel’s cantrip’s protective light.

“R-REN!!!” Rimuru screamed, while lunging after him— only to feel the world jolt as a massive shadow spike burst up beneath him— impaling him through the chest. 

His slime body convulsed around the dark lance, as agony exploded through him. 

The cantrip’s light flared desperately as shadows clawed at its edges; the barrier bending outward under the strain like overstretched glass.

“S-Shit…! Shit…! Shit…!” Rimuru wheezed, as he clawed desperately at the spike; gel sizzling where it touched the dark magic.

A slow, mocking clap echoed through the swirling shadows.

A silhouette stepped from the gloom— tall, poised, his face battered but smug, while his golden eyes burned with cold triumph.

“Admirable effort,” the demon drawled in a velvety voice that was tinged with sadism. His newly regenerated hand flexed as black fire curled around his fingertips. “But did you truly believe you’d won?”

Gabiru, propped painfully against the wall, bared his fangs. “Y-You bastard…!” He snarled furiously at the demon, “I’m going to make sure you don’t get back up…!”

The demon’s gaze proceeded to shift lazily toward the critically injured lizardman. “How sweet,” he mused with icy amusement. “The valiant reptile himself still believes he still has an actual chance against me.”

Gabiru coughed, blood flecking his lips, but his eyes blazed defiantly. “There are no chances,” he spat, voice hoarse but unbowed. “Only certainties…!”

A cruel smile twisted the demon’s mouth, as he turned his focus back to Rimuru, who was pinned and convulsing against the cavernous ceiling— the stretched cantrip’s light flickering desperately overhead. 

“… Only certainties, you say,” he echoed mockingly in a low voice, as he directed his raised palm toward the ensnared slime— black fire roaring to life, and casting warped shadows across the cavern. “… Allow me then to show you what absolute ‘certainty’ looks like.”

With a crack of thunder, he unleashed his spell.

A beam of pure black flame screamed forward— burning the stone floor it touched, and transforming it into obsidian. The jet of dark flames slammed into Rimuru’s head— bursting into a spray of cyan gel that came raining down. 

The demon managed to also shred Rimuru’s right arm into ribbons, as the shadow spike jerked upward— slamming the slime’s twitching body into the ceiling with a deafening— 

CRACK!!!

The light of Ciel’s cantrip wavered, shuddered— then went out, before plunging the cavern into swallowing darkness.

As the massive shadow spike disintegrated into a cloud of black haze, Rimuru’s ruined body could be crashing lifelessly to the floor. The black smoke soon began thinning around the atrium’s shattered floor; swirling in slow, drifting tendrils as the demon stepped forward. 

His golden eyes burned with a cold, simmering fury, gaze locking onto the soft crimson gleam of his hellite rapier lying among scattered stone chips. 

He exhaled sharply, stooping with measured poise to pick up the blade— fingers brushing off flakes of dried ichor with disdain. His free hand trailed along the flat of the rapier, wiping it clean— his predatory gaze never leaving the trembling form of Gabiru, who was still slumped against the wall.

“Now then… Where were we?” The demon purred low and dangerously, as his eyes danced with sadistic light while he turned the polished rapier in his hand. “Ah yes— I remember now. I was planning on taking my time with you.” 

Tauntingly, the demon stalked a few steps closer— boots crunching through fragments of broken stone-turned-obsidian. “Tell me, lowly reptile— does your kind truly regrow their limbs? Because I’d love to discover that firsthand.”

He raised his rapier in a leisurely flourish— only to stiffen as a distant sound echoed down the entrance tunnel. 

Four paws, clawed and swift, pounding closer, closer. His eyes sharpened to slits. With a fluid snarl, he spun, leveling his palm at the yawning mouth of the tunnel—black fire coiling around his fingers like a living serpent.

“I grow weary of these interruptions,” the demon growled beneath his breath, before unleashing a roaring beam of black fire that ripped across the stone— its hellish heat transforming the floor into igneous.

But when the shadows parted in the immediate aftermath of his attack, his breath caught in his throat as something burst through the torrent of flames— dispersing them with a howling gust of pressure. 

A dark blur slammed forward, too fast to track. 

The demon’s molten gold eyes widened— fury flaring. “What is this…?!”

He sucked in a sharp breath while planting his boots, as he let the onrushing shape draw near, until the last second, when only then he decided to sidestep with inhuman grace— his outstretched hand sweeping out to summon a jagged shadow spike that erupted from the floor, aimed to impale his attacker.

But the spike met a crackling wall of translucent energy— purple and yellow lightning sparking across its surface. The ward shattered the spike into splinters of black mist— shockwaves blasting the demon’s cloak back. 

His golden eyes went wide with rage and disbelief.

Out of the roiling haze, a massive direwolf pup vaulted upward— Ranga, eyes fierce, fangs bared. His entire body flickered with electric arcs, while his fur bristled like a stormcloud coming to life. 

The wolf-pup twisted midair, before landing with a quake that rattled the cavern.

The demon’s snarl turned feral. He lunged, rapier trailing black flames, stabbing in a straight, precise thrust meant to pierce the ward and the wolf’s skull in one stroke.

But Ranga met it head-on— energy coalescing along his single horn that formed a sparking beam of compressed lightning that hissed and crackled, as it clashed with the rapier’s fiery thrust. 

The collision sent a boom of thunderous force ringing through the atrium— shockwaves cracking stone as sparks sprayed in every direction.

“Filthy dog…!” The demon spat out in a twisted rage, as he whirled his blade back— feinting high before slicing low in a sweeping arc. 

Ranga immediately leapt backward, with his paws skidding across shattered rock— barely evading a cleaving stroke that vaporized a chunk of the floor where he’d stood.

The direwolf pup’s eyes glowed brighter while he bolted sideways in a blur— dashing along the cavern wall, twisting upside-down before launching himself at the demon’s flank. 

His jaws snapped down with lightning-charged fangs— teeth scraping the demon’s shoulder with a sizzling hiss.

The demon hissed, before pivoting with uncanny speed. Three inky shadows suddenly erupted around him— afterimages that moved like echoes, with each mirroring his attacks. 

The shadow clones swarmed Ranga; stabbing with mirrored rapiers, forcing the wolf into a spiraling dance of dodges and parries. 

The clash of black fire and lightning turned the atrium into a storm of shadows and blinding light.

“Insignificant mutt!” The demon roared out; frustration cracking his calm, as Ranga twisted between the clones before biting one through the head— causing it to burst into black smoke. 

The wolf-pup then immediately pounced on another— slamming it with crackling paws that dispersed it instantly.

The last shadow tried to catch Ranga’s flank, but the wolf ducked low— his tail whipping around to trip the afterimage, before vaulting into the air again. 

Lightning flashed along his body, with a bolt bursting from his horn that disintegrated the final echo. 

The demon’s eyes narrowed— jaw clenching.

“MONGREL!!!” He screamed out, as he charged forward himself. 

He blurred in close, with his rapier slashing in a blistering flurry— each strike faster than the last, as black flames exploded with every clash of steel and ward. 

Ranga’s paws skipped off shattered stone— his claws slicing grooves as he weaved under, around, and over the deadly strikes.

Their battle sent rippling shockwaves through the chamber— the air warping from the combined heat and static. 

The direwolf-pup hastily snapped his jaws around the demon’s rapier hand— throwing his weight sideways and spinning the demon through the air. 

But before he could follow up, black flames suddenly erupted beneath him— forcing Ranga to leap back, with arcs of electricity bursting from his paws.

The demon landed in a roll, before springing upright with a snarl; his black cloak torn, and his golden eyes alight with furious focus. His breathing deepened with each exhale ragged— mana fatigue creeping through his veins. 

But he didn’t relent.

“Damnit…!” The demon hissed, as he slashed his palm across the air— leaving behind floating crimson runes that flared.

Suddenly, inky tendrils exploded from the shadows— wrapping around the wolf-pup’s limbs and sinking into his flesh. 

Ranga’s eyes went wide, limbs locking as the magic seized his nervous system— lightning sparking helplessly over his fur.

“Insufferable beast…” The demon insulted triumphantly while stepping in close. He then drove the rapier forward with no hesitation— punching the blade into Ranga’s side, between his ribs. 

Flesh split, blood and crackling lightning spraying as the wolf pup let out a strangled yelp.

With a vicious twist, the demon ripped the rapier free— hurling the direwolf-pup’s limp form across the cavern. 

Range came crashing into the far wall with a sickening crunch, before skidding through rubble and coming to rest in a shivering, whimpering heap— his dark fur matted with his own blood.

But before the demon could savor the victory, Gabiru came screaming through the haze— tail whipping for balance as he launched himself bodily into the demon. 

They collided with a thunderous crash— the force sending both skidding across the stone. 

The demon’s rapier tumbled from his grip— clanging and skittering across the floor, as his golden eyes flared wide with rage.

“INSOLENANT BASTARD!!!” He roared with disbelief and fury. “WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT KNOWING WHEN TO STAY—”

Gabiru let out a strangled rasp, as his legs coiled beneath him. “— I’ll stay down when I know you’re DEAD, hell spawn!” He snarled out defiantly, as his knees snapped out with explosive force— slamming himself into the demon’s chest and launching him backward.

The demon staggered; his boots scraping stone as he lost his footing. “You persistent—” he hissed, only to be cut off as the lizardman’s tail swept in a vicious arc— knocking his legs out from under him. 

The black-haired demon hit the ground with a crash; rolling once before planting a hand to push himself up— just in time to see Gabiru lunge.

The lizardman roared with his teeth bared, as he hurled himself atop the demon. His jaws came clamping down— aiming for the throat— but the demon twisted— jamming his forearm between Gabiru’s fangs. 

The bite sank deep, blood and black ichor spraying as the lizardman snarled— eyes wild.

“Rrrgh— DIE ALREADY!!!” The demon spat, as he cocked his free hand back before slamming a punch into Gabiru’s snout. 

There was a wet crunch, followed by fresh blood spraying from the lizardman’s nostrils. 

Gabiru reeled from the searing pain erupting, but refused to let go. Instead, he chose to blindly swing haymakers with his free claw— one blow landing squarely on the demon’s jaw.

“You… Won’t… WIN!!!” Gabiru roared, even as blood streamed down his crushed snout. His claw managed to quickly grip the demon’s throat— his sharp talons digging in, as he tried to tear it open.

With a snarl of pure fury, the demon rolled them over— seizing the advantage, and pinning Gabiru beneath him. 

“ENOUGH!!!” He thundered, before his fists began moving in blurs as he rained down punches. 

Each blow snapped Gabiru’s head back— teeth shattering, bones splintering. Blood splattered across the cavern floor as the lizardman’s struggles slowed— his breath coming in wet, ragged wheezes.

The demon’s blows began to slow as his breathing grew more and more harsh— each swing coming with a growl of exertion. 

Finally, he paused, glaring down at the lizardman’s swollen, broken face; his lips torn, eyes half-lidded but still barely conscious—rasping with pitiful defiance.

“… I should’ve snuffed you out sooner,” the demon snarled in a low voice. With burning narrowed eyes, he lifted his fist for the killing blow—

“— CAPTAIN!!!” Came a cacophony of desperate cries.

Six lizardmen limped from the tunnel’s darkness; their short swords raised high, and their eyes burning with righteous fury, while their bodies trembled with exhaustion, but unwilling to yield. 

“He’s still alive— get him! Protect the captain!” one barked.

“BASTAAAAARD!!! You’ll PAY for this!” another howled in raw rage.

The demon’s gaze flicked up, lip curling in disgust. “More worthless vermin…?!” He murmured under his breath with exasperation, as he stood up. Raising his hand and taking aim at the incoming lizardmen, black fire began to spiral from his palm— swirling into a seething ball of destruction.

But then a crushing weight slammed into his back. His eyes went wide as the black flames sputtered, while his body sprawled face-first into the stone. 

He tried to rise, fury boiling, but searing agony suddenly exploded through his very core. 

He gasped; his eyes bulging, as something cold and alien sank into him— not a blade, but something worse. His essence twisted, splintered, his soul itself cracking as it was devoured piece by piece.

‘What… Is this…? Am I… Being devoured…?’

The lizardmen seized the chance— two rushing to drag Gabiru’s limp form away by the arms, while the other four converged on the downed demon. 

They howled with vengeful fury, as their blades came slashing down again and again— hacking at his arms and shoulders, and cutting deep into black ichor.

The demon barely noticed. His limbs flailed weakly as every shred of his existence was gnawed from the inside out. 

Over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse: a translucent cyan blob, slime-like being with faint outlines of comedically angry eyebrows, latched onto his back— Rimuru. 

The gelatinous creature pulsed as it consumed him— siphoning his life, magicules, and every drop of his power.

‘So then… This is my fate…?’ He thought, as his eyes grew glassy with macabre acceptance. ‘Compared to what Barghest would’ve done to me for failing… Perhaps this is mercy…? But… Even so…’

A guttural snarl twisted his lips as hate flared through him. 

‘This CANNOT be my fate— I refuse to be ended by nameless trash like this! I am above that— I have to be!’

“You… Insignificant… Worthless— GODDAMN NOBODIES!!!” He thundered in defiance— his voice warping, as his body shuddered while black ichor began bubbling around his wounds.

One lizardman paused— blade raised, eyes widening in alarm. “H-He’s not dying! Something’s wrong!”

Black flames began to flicker through the demon’s wounds— small sparks at first, but growing brighter, hungrier. 

The slime on his back tried to absorb faster, but the flames licked outward— their heat growing unbearable.

Rimuru jerked back, as he was forced to disengage— his blobby body quivering with alarm, as he hopped free. 

The lizardmen turned, desperation in their eyes as they tried to flee— limping, as they attempted to retreat to where the other two were still dragging Gabiru toward the entrance tunnel.

“— GET BACK!!!” 

But it was too late. 

The Earth quaked around them, as a thunderous roar split the cavern as a massive black explosion detonated— flames howling outward in a swirling vortex. 

The shockwave hurled the lizardmen forward like ragdolls— their bodies crashing through rubble, as the atrium’s stone cracked and stalactites rained down in thunderous crashes.

At the heart of the inferno stood the demon, with his cloak whipping in the cyclone of dark fire. 

His skin steamed as his body finished regenerating; his eyes transformed into blazing red irises over black scleras. Massive demonic wings unfurled from his back— their span cutting a terrifying silhouette across the swirling fire.

His voice boomed, ragged but thunderous with hatred. “I WILL NOT DIE HERE— NOT TODAY!!! I DEFY THIS PATH!!!”

With a savage beat of his wings, the demon hovered above the cracked cavern floor— black fire swirling around the atrium walls like a raging inferno. 

His glowing red eyes darted across the shattered field of obsidian and stone— searching feverishly for the slime that had dared to bring him to his knees. 

His breaths came ragged and hot as he ground his teeth. “Where are you…?!” He snarled in a low, venomous voice. “REVEAL YOURSELF, COWARD!!!”

What little patience he had left evaporated. 

With a guttural roar, he flung his arms wide, then aimed both palms downward— twin beams of black fire erupted, gouging molten trails through the stone, while shattering stalactites into glassy shards of obsidian. 

The cavern lit up in pulsing crimson as the demon soared in circles, with darkened flames lashing down like hell’s own lightning. “COME OUT!!! FACE ME!!!” He bellowed— each word dripping with murderous rage.

A sudden crack of stone answered him; a massive stalactite— blackened to obsidian by his own fire— split apart at its base. Microscopic shards glittered as they flew upward— slashing toward his wings. 

He roared, as he curled his massive wings forward to shield himself— obsidian flecks sparking against the leathery membrane. 

Instinct screamed, as he jerked sideways in an air dash— barely evading an attack he felt more than saw.

CRACK!!!

An entire stalactite suddenly hurtled through the shadows— smashing into the back of his head. 

His vision whited out in pain as he whipped around, rage blazing— palms already crackling with black flames.

But the slime was faster. 

Rimuru, naked and radiant in a semi-translucent, cyan bipedal-form, leapt from the shadows. His arms extended like whips of gel— wrapping around the demon’s ankles midair. 

With a furious roar of his own, Rimuru yanked— slamming the demon down headfirst into another obsidian spire. 

The impact sent cracks spidering across the stalactite, with obsidian shards exploding like glass rain.

The demon’s scream turned into a guttural growl as he twisted and forced his wings outward in a shockwave of black flame— searing heat forcing Rimuru to reel back with a wet, muffled cry. 

The demon snarled; his eyes narrowing, as he raised his hand to finish the job.

Suddenly, white-hot agony lanced through his forearm— Ranga’s jaws, bloody but unbowed, clamped down with unrelenting fury. 

His powerful body twisted— redirecting the black fire jet into the cavern ceiling. 

Explosions of molten rock showered the atrium in falling obsidian, as the demon howled— livid.

“GET— OFF— ME!!!” He roared in a voice that revealed the apex of his frustration and disbelief. He then seized the wolf-pup by his throat to pry him free, but the direwolf’s horn suddenly glowed— erupting with a point-blank blast of sparking lightning that slammed into the demon’s face. 

He reeled, blinded and stunned, while flames sputtered wildly around him.

Back in the fray, Rimuru cried out with absolute feral hatred, “I’LL KILL YOU!!!” 

The slime then lunged, tackling the demon out of the air— crashing them both to the cavern floor. 

They then proceeded to roll over jagged rubble as Ranga sprang beside them; fangs snapping, and lightning flickering around his battered frame.

Together, they fell upon the demon with rabid violence. 

Ranga’s horn blazed with a continuous torrent of lightning— the beam slamming into the demon’s chest and face, with each pulse forcing a scream of pain. 

Rimuru straddled the demon’s torso, hands wrapping around his throat; his yellow eyes pulsing with prismatic rage as swirling energy spiraled into the demon’s body— eating away at his very soul.

The demon’s scream rose into a distorted wail. 

But he refused to die— roaring in defiance, he spread his wings, folding them around all three of them like a coffin of leather and darkness. 

Fighting the searing agony, he clenched his teeth— black flames building in his palms until they blazed like miniature suns.

Rimuru felt it— tried to retreat— but then a clawed hand lashed out to seize him by the throat with iron strength.

A heartbeat of silence followed, as Ranga’s eyes narrowed— his ribs a shredded ruin, but his resolve unbroken. 

He hurled himself forward to shove Rimuru away to shield him with his own body, as his horn flared with a last-ditch ward— a swirling barrier of purple and yellow lightning that burst outward, just as the demon unleashed his spell.

A deafening blast shook the cavern— black fire bursting in a compressed sphere. 

Ranga’s yelp of pain tore through the din as he and Rimuru were launched— limbs flailing, screams lost to the thunder.

“THIS ENDS NOW!!!” The demon bellowed in a raw, hateful voice; his wings flaring wide, as he leveled both palms together. 

Darkness coalesced between them— growing into a single, seething beam of shadow fire. He hurled it with a roar. 

“BEGONE!!!”

The world seemed to freeze, as the demon’s eyes suddenly caught a glint— metal, impossibly close. 

Confusion dawned faster than pain: both forearms were gone, severed cleanly just below the elbows. Stumps of black ichor sparked with dying flames as he staggered backward— his glowing red eyes darting in wild disbelief.

Standing before him was Goblin Slayer— face pale, but eyes blazing. 

In his small hands gleamed the same hatchet the demon himself had thrown to split him from Rimuru— now buried into his fate instead. 

A crimson light pulsed from the ashen-haired boy’s left eye— trailing like burning mist, as his gaze cut through the swirling shadows.

“Wha… What are you—” the demon rasped, but his words died as Goblin Slayer’s head snapped to meet his gaze— face blank, eyes distant, as though a foreign force was possessing him.

The boy suddenly exploded into motion, as the hatchet flashed up and down with blinding speed— each swing a blur. 

The demon felt every impact— his jaw shattering, his nose shearing off, ears torn away, eyes burst in wet explosions. 

Each blow faster than thought— faster than pain could register.

‘What… What’s happening?’ The demon thought while feeling strangely detached— each heartbeat dragging like eternity. ‘This child… Is it a human? Primordial? A god?’

His mind tried to rationalize, to find sense, even as chunks of his skull flew; shards of bone split away, with his face disintegrated under relentless strikes. 

He continued to search for meaning, for identity, for a reason— but every guess was shredded alongside his flesh.

The final strike arced up— a savage, skyward swing. 

His vision tilted as the world spun; then he felt his head tumble free, cold air rushing around him. 

The demon’s perspective rolled across the stone, landing sideways just in time to watch the ashen-haired boy finish the swing— stance frozen, broken hatchet still raised high, as his crimson eye blazed with an eerie, dwindling calm.

Around them, the black flames wreathing the atrium flickered and died— darkness collapsing into miasma. 

The demon’s wings dissolved into drifting motes of black smoke, while his severed head watched with fading awareness as the boy’s small body trembled violently— blood still gushing from the deep hatchet wound in his shoulder.

Without any warning, the boy suddenly began convulsing as the last crimson light in his eye faded. 

Vomiting a crimson flood before pitching forward, Goblin Slayer came crashing down face-first to the hard, unforgiving ground; the hatchet clattering beside him, as his breath grew ragged and shallow.

A silence followed, thick and oppressive. 

In the swirling black miasma, the demon’s severed head lay watching— its golden irises flickering back to life within darkening scleras. 

His mutilated body, sprawled amidst shattered obsidian, twitched as black flames ignited along every torn surface. A shudder ran through his corpse before it crumbled into sooty mist— ebony vapor coalescing, swirling inward as his form knit itself together.

From the gathering darkness, his body took shape anew— restored, but faltering. His lungs burned as he dragged in each breath. 

Three resurrections in a single battle; mana spent like water. 

The cavern walls around him swayed and twisted, as his vision doubled and warped while a high-pitched whine rang in his ears like a death knell. 

He staggered forward a step— boots scraping across the broken stone.

Vertigo dropped him to one knee, with one hand bracing against the floor. He clenched his teeth while breathing hard— every exhale coming as a ragged hiss. 

‘What… What did I just witness…?’ His hazy mind managed to string together, while his eyelids fluttered as he lifted a trembling finger to rub them. 

Blinking rapidly to clear his blurry sight, he forced his eyes open and scanned the atrium; soon finding himself staring down the ashen-haired boy, who was still sprawled face-down in a widening pool of blood. 

Observing Goblin Slayer’s barely moving body, the demon's breath quietly hitched with a raspy laugh. “He certainly bleeds like most mortals,” he murmured in a low and slithering voice that cut through the dampened air.

He then let himself collapse further— dropping to his knees as he crawled the short distance to the boy. 

Gingerly, he reached out to dip his fingers into the viscous crimson pool. He then lifted them to his nose, inhaling deeply— nothing unique. 

Just copper.

Warily, he dabbed the blood onto his tongue, with his eyes narrowing as he tasted it. “… No different than a human’s,” he rasped, with disappointment and confusion in every syllable. “Magicule count… Practically negligible.’

He scowled to himself— bewilderment setting into his scrambled thoughts, as he wiped his bloodied fingers on the back of Goblin Slayer’s torn tunic. 

His molten gold eyes lingered on the side boy’s vacant face. “Whatever that was… You must have not even been conscious of it,” he mused darkly, as he pushed himself to his knees. 

His gaze drifted then across the ruined atrium— stalactites lay smashed, obsidian shards littered every surface, and the bodies of his foes lay hidden among the wreckage. 

Only the boy’s pale, broken form lay before him in the open.

“They’re all dead… Or at least they will be,” he rasped— his voice low and brittle, as fatigue weighed more and more on every syllable. He then forced himself upright, with every muscle quivering. “I am… The last one standing.”

He then exhaled a strained sigh as he stepped over the boy’s limp body; but not before His boot nudged the hatchet— sending it clattering away with a metallic ring. 

“No more surprises,” he muttered, before limping away from the ashen-haired boy. The demon then began scanning the debris-littered cavern floor for the soft crimson glow of his lost rapier.

As he hobbled through the rubble, he began muttering to himself, with his mind already reeling through contingencies: “I’ll need abyssal catalysts, dimensional anchors… Stable mana lines…” 

However, his low-spoken voice then faltered as his sense of cynicism rapidly thickened. “… That’s assuming there’s any point to reopening a gateway… Baobhan must know by now— surely she must…”

A dry chuckle bubbled from his cracked lips— bitter and low. “Barghest… It’s only a matter of time before that old hound comes sniffing for my soul,” he rasped. 

His smirk twisted, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion as he staggered closer to the rift’s faded scar. There— just above a small clearing, his hellite rapier gleamed faintly in the guttering light.

But then he began to slow his pace, as his thoughts darkened. “… What will become of the Black Numbers…?” He wondered aloud— his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Shall Baobhan select another primordial to take my place in this campaign, or… Or will their loyalty to me be enough to have them… Executed as well…?”

Crouching down in an unhurried manner, the demon’s fingers hollowly brushed against his weapon’s hilt— doubt crawling under his skin. ‘… What’s the point of this farce? Demonkind at the mercy of four wenches… Where did we go—’ 

A sharp tug at the rapier cut the thought dead.

CRACK!!!

The obsidian floor gave way beneath his boots— plunging him into darkness. 

The whiplash of having been torn from his deepest thoughts left him speechless, as he tumbled into a vast trench hidden beneath the atrium; debris and splintered stalactites falling beside him— only for his plummet to end with a bone-jarring halt. 

His limbs jerked taut, as he became tangled in thick, sticky strands that glowed eerily in the dark.

He hung suspended in a massive, silken funnel web— strands gleaming with a pale bioluminescence. 

Below, the all too familiar subterranean river roared past in the blackness; his eyes catching the same passageway along the upper corner of the cavernous ceiling that he had used to gain access into the cave system— now heavily coated in the same webs that had ensnared him.

‘… That spider again— of all wretched places…!’

Realizing the danger he was in, the demon’s eyes widened as he flexed his fingers— black flames surged from his palms, as he desperately tried to burn himself free.

However, the entirety of the web pulsed— reacting with a sudden, blinding radiance.

The strands around him shimmered white— searingly bright, and counteracting his dark arts with ruthless efficiency. 

He screamed as the light scorched his senses— every nerve alight with agony.

From the shadows above, something shifted— eight large, spindly, hairy legs; four eyes glistening like onyxes. 

Silky threads from above began writhing around him— subduing him. 

He snarled, fighting, but the web’s grip constricted until even breath became a struggle.

He heard but a whisper of movement before two cold, sharpened fangs plunged into the side of his neck. His body went immediately rigid, as a torrent of white-hot pain lanced through his veins. 

He felt his magicules— his very essence— being drained, ripped away with merciless precision. His mind reeled, as his senses unraveled while his strength bled out.

After what seemed like an eternity of, the two cold fangs withdrew slowly from his neck. 

Darkness loomed, thick and final. 

Above him, Lady Kumoemi emerged from the gloom— her deceptively beautiful, exotic face framed by styled black hair.

She smiled down at him, voice soft and sickeningly sweet as she cooed, “Duerme, mi pequeño fracaso…”

Unable to even fathom the thought of recovering— not after everything he had gone through— the demon’s eyes fluttered shut. 

Consciousness flickered once, twice— then shattered to black.

Chapter Text

Goblin Slayer was sprawled out like a ragdoll across cold stone, with a hatchet jutting grotesquely from his arm. Every breath hissed and was wet and sharp— ribs grinding like shattered glass. 

Blood seeped faster than he could feel it; warm and thick, soaking beneath him in a spreading, black-red bloom. Darkness flickered at the edges of his sight. Each blink grew slower, heavier; the world smearing into a drunken whirl.

‘Can’t… Can’t breathe—’ his thoughts slurred— words melting like wax. ‘Hurts… Body… Don’t… Work…’

The last flickers of Ciel’s cantrip pulsed overhead— sickly light stuttering across the walls. Each burst of brightness twisted stone into something else— hallways of cracked plaster, doors that didn’t belong. 

His vision stuttered, while black flames crawled over the ceiling that flickered into wooden beams groaning under phantom weight.

‘W… What…? Where…? No… No, this… Home…? Wrong… Wrong…’ his thoughts crawled, while looping into themselves. ‘Not here… Not here—’

A shape moved through the blur: Gabiru, dragging himself with one arm; his scales torn and his eyes widened with panicked determination. 

But even the lizardman wavered; flickering into his mother’s hunched figure, who was coughing violently as the fire licked closer.

The wind rose in his ears— phantom, monstrous— whining high, rattling phantom walls. 

A stairway above him convulsed into being— each step cracking into place with a groaning clamor. It flickered back into the cavern ceiling, before shifting again— black flames leaking through splintered boards.

‘Stairs… Burning… Falling… Don’t want… Don’t want…’ His mind babbled— words spilling in half-formed loops. His mouth opened soundlessly, as he tasted his own blood.

A window suddenly rattled behind a curtain that wasn’t there. 

The ashen-haired boy stumbled upright in the hallucination; legs quaking, with each movement syrupy and jagged. His heart pounded loudly— filling his head with a dull roar.

‘Storm… Louder… Coming… Coming for me…’

He then reached for the doorknob, hesitating. 

A cold, final dread radiated from the wood. ‘Don’t… Don’t open… Don’t—’ His mind repeated over and over again, as he staggered back; the window rattling harder, as it let out a tortured scream of glass and wind.

‘No… Please… Please—’

He slowly peeled the curtain back with shaking hands. Beyond, a writhing sky of black clouds boiled. Lightning danced like knives, as his pulse stuttered.

‘Please… Not again… Not again—’

A lightning bolt stabbed down. Glass exploded— shards blooming outward in a blinding flash. 

His body then lifted, as it was flung backward. His skull smacked hard, as light bursted from his vision.

His eyes suddenly flew open to the cavern ceiling— jagged stone convulsing above him, with black flames crawling like worms. 

Stalactites were raining down; flickering between real rock and burning timbers cracking apart, with each impact making the world jump. 

He tried to move, but his pain roared— blinding him.

‘Still… Alive… Why…? Why…?’ His thoughts continued to spiral— slipping faster. ‘always alive… To see it… Always…’

The world flickered more. 

The falling stalactites became ceiling beams crashing from a burning roof, while phantom heat blistered his skin. 

Drowning in hallucinations, Goblin Slayer had enough clarity to forcibly command his body to roll to his side; letting out a strained groan, while narrowly escaping a spike that shattered the stone.

‘Can’t… Stop… Struggling… Always… Losing…’ His eyes blurred— his tears mixing with the blood on his face— as his breathing came in ragged, bubbling gasps. ‘Always… Waiting… Waiting…’

Gabiru’s voice reached him— muffled and far. 

Lightning flashed, as shadows leapt. But in the dark, he saw only goblins— how he used to imagine them; swarms of them, with their claws gleaming, and sharp, jagged teeth yellow. 

His ears roared with phantom wind— drowning everything.

‘I hate them… Hate… Hate…’

Memory swept him deeper: the smell of smoke choking his lungs, and his mother’s arms tight around him as she coughed violently. 

Her dress pulled over his face, shielding him from the acrid air. She held him so close he could feel her heart pounding, words rasped into his ear— words soft and absolute.

“… Everything will be okay, baby. Don’t come out until it’s safe,” she whispered in a brown voice, as he remembered feeling her tears trickling down into the top of his head. 

“… Mama loves you, my sweet, sweet little boy— she always will.”

As she pressed her lips to his forehead, he once again felt the finality in the motion— the desperate love. 

The small crawl space beneath the stairs yawned dark before him. She shoved him inside— her eyes shimmering with fear and resolve— and closed the door.

His eyes cracked open again in the present, vision landing on the hatchet buried in his own arm. The handle glistened dully in the black flames’ shifting light. 

He remembered Vivianne’s voice from the night Riverwood was raided— so much like their mother’s that it haunted him.

“I love you, Ren… No matter what happens to me— don’t leave this spot.”

His head turned— eyes crawling over the hatchet lodged in his arm. Each heartbeat shook it; his pain spiking white. 

Lightning flashed— Ranga’s magic casting mad shadows over the cavern. His reflection warped in the metal: pale, tears carving bloody rivulets down his cheek.

‘Weak weak weak… Always weak…’ the thought beat like a drum. ‘Always failing… Always saved…’

Ciel’s words slowly drifted up on his memory; ragged and disembodied.

‘… I know you want to grow strong. Strong enough to protect your sister. Strong enough to never feel afraid again…’

Her voice tangled with Vivianne’s and his mother’s; a chorus of love and helplessness, smothering him.

‘… One day you will be. But today isn’t that day. So please— know your limits.’ 

He pressed his head down, with his cheek lying against a blood-slick stone. ‘Child… I’m just…’ his thoughts grated, broken shards. ‘I’ll never… never…’

Suddenly, lightning flared again, with the reflection flashing in the hatchet’s blade— no longer his face, but a dark helm, visor black as night, and a single crimson eye glowing hot. 

His breath caught, as his pulse stumbled.

‘But… I’m… Not Ren… Not Ren…’ His mind hissed, rising, desperate. ‘I am…’

He then seized the hatchet’s handle— his bruised, battered muscles screaming. He then wrenched it free— pain detonating white, blood splashing across his chest. 

He forced himself to stagger upright, as his vision swam with fire and darkness. The hallucination consumed him: goblins swarming in the black flames, leering, cackling.

‘I… I AM GOBLIN SLAYER!!!’

Daybreak broke like a revelation across Lake Virelda; the first bold rays of sun painting the obsidian waters in kaleidoscopic sweeps of rose gold, molten orange, and a soft, ethereal pink. 

The mirror-like lake reflected every blazing hue; fractured by the ripple of gentle waves that whispered up to the long wooden pier jutting out from the Jura Temple’s backyard. 

Beyond the lake, the Tempest Mountains loomed proud and serene, their snow-laden peaks catching the light in a fierce white glow— sentinels heralding the coming day.

The pier itself was a testament to hope and urgency; empty clotheslines snapped softly in the summer morning breeze, pale linens fluttering like ghostly banners. 

Crates of nails and carefully stacked lumber waited in neat rows; large barrels brimmed with translucent slime shimmering faintly, while bundled white silk sheets lay folded alongside coils of thick rope; each length glinting with tiny protective runes. 

The scent of fresh wood and lake water hung heavy in the air. 

Hundreds of Jura’s denizens— goblins, orcs, ogres, lizardmen, kobolds, dryads, and more— crowded the grassy slope leading to the pier; the sheer breadth of their gathering a living tapestry of color and curiosity.

At the head of the pier, standing like beacons of resolve, were Ciel and Vivianne. 

Together they faced the uneasy throng, the brunette’s expression composed but haunted, while the Great Sage stood tall and still; the tranquility in her bearing at odds with the murmuring waves of unease rolling through the crowd. 

The murmurs ebbed into silence as Ciel’s gaze swept across them— yellow eyes as cool and demanding of attention as the dawn itself— unshaken by the fearful whispers of hundreds.

She then raised one hand— magic coiling at her fingertips— before casting a soft, silvery spell that carried her voice to the farthest corners of the gathering without thunder or blare.

“… Friends and kin of Jura, by now, you have heard the tidings that weigh upon our hearts,” she began; her voice commanding, but gentle. “Last night, Captain Gabiru and his brave company, while journeying as emissaries to entreat the aid of Lady Kumoemi, uncovered what had remained hidden for centuries: a basecamp of the Dark Sect, deep below the roots of our forest.”

A rustle swept the crowd. Ciel’s gaze flicked subtly to Vivianne beside her— catching the flicker of grief, the faint tremor in her eyes. Without hesitation, the silvery-blue headed woman reached down— slipping her gloved fingers into the young woman beside her. 

Their eyes met; a silent tether of comfort binding them. Vivianne’s lips curved in a wan, grateful smile as she squeezed back.

Ciel’s face softened momentarily, before she turned back to the sea of worried faces. “Through the bravery of Captain Gabiru, Zadrah, Molgath, Sivriss, Haruk, Quorrax, and Peliok, alongside Rimuru, Goblin Slayer, Ranga, and yes, Lady Kumoemi, not only were the Dark Sect’s machinations thwarted, but an executive of their vile order was subdued and taken alive.”

A wave of hushed exclamations rippled through the gathered denizens. 

When the noise quieted, Ciel continued— her voice unwavering. “Interrogations conducted through the night revealed a sprawling labyrinth of tunnels snaking beneath the forest— routes they exploited to breach Lady Kumoemi’s sanctum. Thanks to her and the dryads’ swift action, we have laid formidable countermeasures: enchanted silken wards woven into the roots, sanctified barriers tracing the shorelines, and arcane seals seeded in the soil to snare any who dare creep unseen.”

A swell of applause proceeded to roll forth, as the crowd’s anxiety gave way to grateful relief. 

The Great Sage waited, with her fingers still woven with Vivianne’s, until the last cheers faded into the hush of dawn.

She then inhaled deeply, as her gaze softened. “… But this battle has done more than reveal our hidden foe— it has reminded us that our dreams cannot end with a campus alone. The world beyond grows ever more divided and uncertain. Our strength must not merely be in defenses or offenses, but in our unity— in the bonds we forge here. Let us show the world what harmony can achieve— let them see that together, we are unbreakable.”

She turned slowly to face the lake, with Vivianne pivoting beside her. And as Ciel raised her hands, white light began spiraling from her palms— coiling like morning mist around the pier. 

Her voice rang clear— her words soaked in quiet resolve, “Today marks another one of many more steps toward a future worth sharing— a future worthy of every sacrifice and endeavor we’ve endured to be here.”

Vivianne— eyes bright with tears that caught the morning light— pulled a thick, worn notebook from her satchel and flipped it open. Pages brimming with diagrams fluttered like moth wings. She then leaned closer to Ciel— her voice trembling but determined as she murmured, “Start with the keel… Then the ribs…”

The Great Sage’s eyes gleamed— a sharp glint of determination cutting through her stoic calm. 

She gestured, and the cut timbers rose, with each piece gliding into place as if the lake’s breeze carried them. Boards fused with a soft crackling of magic; ropes slithered like living snakes, while knotting themselves taut. Nails darted one by one— sinking with precise taps. Barrels of slime tipped; spilling their glowing contents to seep into seams— each rivulet hardening into crystalline bonds stronger than steel. Silken sails unfurled; catching dawn’s breath as they rippled out as radiant white banners beneath the blooming sky.

Bit by bit, an elegant hull took form, dark wood shimmering with rune-lit veins; its mast rising proud and tall until it loomed over the pier. 

The ship’s prow dipped into the lake, with water lapping at its flanks as ropes tied it fast to the moorings; the deck polished to a gleaming sheen beneath the first true sunlight.

When the final plank settled, a hush deeper than silence spread. Hundreds stared, breathless; the finished ship a shining testament to possibility. 

Ciel and Vivianne turned, hand in hand, to face the crowd as the first cheers erupted— a roar of awe and joy that rolled like thunder across the lake.

The Great Sage then lifted her voice one last time— clear and unfaltering: “This is our dawn. Let it herald an age when we choose hope over fear, and build a world worthy of every life within these woods.”

Later that morning, Lake Virelda glistened beneath the high sun’s warmth. The brilliant pinks and oranges of dawn had faded into the soft gold of midday, but the dark waters still caught hints of that earlier brilliance— shimmering where ripples settled around the pier. 

The great ship moored there stood proud and newly born; its hull a deep polished brown, the mast tall and straight, ropes pulled tight, sails folded like sleeping wings. 

Beyond it, the distant Tempest Mountains rose jagged and silent, their snow-capped peaks glinting coldly above the morning haze— untouched by the summer breeze that danced down to the sandy shore.

In the temple’s backyard, Vivianne had just dismissed her students, and the air buzzed with their excited chatter as they scattered with their lunches in hand. 

Earlier, she’d taught them how to add and subtract by lining up bright pebbles in patterns across the grass. She also guided them through reading verses from the children’s books Jura used to read to Ciel. When it came time for science, she explained how a plant’s roots drank from the soil, and showed them how to mend small tears in cloth with patient stitches afterward. 

But though the children listened dutifully throughout her lessons, their eyes drifted again and again to the ship at the pier; the towering form that loomed over the lake like a promise of adventure.

On a wide blanket laid across the sandy shore, Goblin Slayer sat cross-legged with left his arm and shoulder tightly bound in silky bandages— the faint minty sting of balm rising with each passing breeze. 

Beside him, Rimuru sprawled on his side; propped up on one elbow, yellow eyes locked on the ship with restless fascination. A bowl of sashimi salad sat before him that was piled with fresh lake smelt, shining rice, and crisp greens.

“You think Vi’s gonna let you come on the ship’s maiden voyage?” Rimuru burst out— breaking the gentle quiet. His voice quivered with anticipation, but then his brows drew together and he tilted his head. “Wait… ‘Maiden voyage’… I used it in the way you’re supposed to say it, yeah?”

Goblin Slayer’s eyes stayed fixed on the ship— half-lidded and heavy. His chopsticks fumbled as he picked up a piece of fish, before chewing it slowly. “You did,” he replied in a mildly distant voice, before exhaling— the air catching in his sore throat, as his gaze trailed along the ship’s curved hull.

Rimuru’s lips split into a wide grin, as he scooped up his bowl and, with a dramatic flourish, took a huge bite— rice, fish, and vegetables spilling dangerously close to his chin. 

He then wiped it with his wrist and let out a satisfied sigh. “Man… She’s gotta let you go! I mean, we helped save the forest, didn’t we?” He argued excitedly, with his yellow eyes darting to Goblin Slayer’s bandaged arm. “That’s gotta count for something, doesn’t it?”

Goblin Slayer’s shoulders sank as his posture deflated ever so slightly; his voice barely above a whisper, as he reluctantly replied, “Vi said… No more ‘errands’ like that— not until I’m older, so… I don’t think I’ll be going to the Tempest Mountains for a while.”

Rimuru paused— chewing noisily. “Seriously?!” He asked in mild offense on his behalf, before swallowing with a loud gulp. He then nudged the ashen-haired boy’s side with his elbow. “That’s not fair! And besides, to be fair… It’s not like going to talk to Lady Kumoemi or going to Erelan’s Steppe for supplies was supposed to turn violent.” He argued, while waving his chopsticks vaguely. 

“And I mean, it’s not like anyone could’ve guessed we’d end up getting shot at, or having to fight whatever the hell a “Primordial Noir” is,” he said, before taking another messy bite— speaking around his food, as he added, “Still though… It was kinda cool that we fought him though, wasn’t it?”

Shuna, seated primly across from them, watched the exchange with wide rose-colored eyes. Her legs were folded neatly beneath her, her back straight, and her posture composed. She held her bowl with one delicate hand— chopsticks poised perfectly. The lake breeze ruffled the loose ends of her pink hair— framing her face as she frowned, her gaze shifting between Rimuru’s grin and Goblin Slayer’s weary expression.

“I… Feel inclined to agree with Miss Vi’s decision,” she said softly— each word precise and careful. “You two shouldn’t be putting yourselves in situations like that. It’s reckless.”

The slime then huffed, while rolling his eyes at her. “Oh, come on, Shuna— lighten up. You know me,” he bragged, while puffing his chest out a little as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, “I’ve been in more scraps than I can count. Hell, I’m practically a pro at this kind of thing!”

Goblin Slayer then shifted his gaze to Rimuru, with his brow arching with quiet amusement. His chopsticks hovered above his bowl. “Pro at what?” He asked dryly. “Getting us almost killed?”

Rimuru smirked, ignoring the jab. “Anywaaaaay… I’m gonna get on that ship. I mean, look at it— it’s incredible! I’ll bet I’ll even get to be the captain of it, now that Gabiru’s on ‘light-limited duty,’” he boldly mused, before thrusting a thumb toward his chest. “Maybe Ciel’ll even let me name it!”

Goblin Slayer let out a short, skeptical hum; his mouth tightening into a faint smirk. “What would you even call it?”

Rimuru’s eyes lit up, wicked and playful. “‘The SS Asscheeks.’ Or… ‘The Soggy Sea Biscuit.’ Wait, I know— ‘The Mighty Shit-Sailor!’”

Goblin Slayer’s composure cracked, as he bit down hard on his food; his shoulders shaking as he fought back a laugh.

Meanwhile, Shuna’s eyes were widened so much that they seemed to actually swallow her delicate features, as she let out a quiet, horrified gasp. “R-Rimuru,” she began, with her voice trembling like a thin reed in the wind. “I… I truly don’t believe the Great Sage would approve of any of those names!” 

Goblin Slayer couldn’t help himself any longer, as let out a quiet chuckle while shaking his head. “She’s right… So seriously… What would you actually name it?” He asked, while poking at his rice bowl with his chopsticks; his dusty rose eyes shifting up to the slime’s with a glimmer of curiosity.

Rimuru’s grin dropped into a look of fierce concentration, as he lifted a finger dramatically. “Okay, okay… Let me actually think for a second,” he said, before his forehead began to wrinkle; his yellow eyes squinting, while his lips pursed like he was about to sneeze. 

Shuna and Goblin Slayer waited silently; watching his internal struggle with thinly veiled amusement.

Seconds dragged by before Rimuru suddenly snapped his fingers, eyes widening. “Wait— Shuna, what was Jura’s wife’s name again? I don’t want to say it wrong.”

The pink-haired onii’s eyes brightened instantly; her soft pink lips curling into a gentle, almost nostalgic smile. “Mia,” she answered warmly. Her gaze then drifted past them to the ship, as if she could see the name already painted on its hull. “You want to name the ship ‘Mia,’ don’t you?”

The slime shifted; a hint of shyness creeping into his posture, as he rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah… I mean, it fits, right?” He asked aloud, before his voice dropped lower in volume. “I mean… The forest, the temple— they’re all already named after Jura. But Mia deserves something too, doesn’t she?”

Suddenly, Goblin Slayer’s eyes softened as he followed Rimuru’s gaze to the towering mast. “… Did Marvin’s mom really do as important as his dad?” He asked, with some hesitation in his soft spoken voice. His chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth, as he added, “I know Jura restored the forest… But what did she do specifically?”

For a moment, silence pressed in; punctuated only by the soft lapping of water against the shore. 

Even Ranga lifted his massive head from his paws— his yellow eyes glowing with quiet awareness as they fixed on the ashen-haired boy.

Goblin Slayer’s brow furrowed at the weight of their silence. “W… What…?” He mumbled, with a nervous edge creeping into his voice. “Did I… Did I say something wrong?”

Rimuru’s eyes softened, as a small chuckle escaped him like a breeze through leaves. “Nah, Ren. You didn’t say anything wrong. We just… Never told you about her, so that’s on us.”

Shuna nodded firmly while leaning forward; her rose colored eyes glowing with earnest warmth. “I’ll tell you some of what my mother used to tell me about Mia,” she said softly; her voice becoming like a lullaby drifting across the water. “She was a scholar from the Mages’ Association— brilliant, fearless. She came searching for Jura after he disappeared from their ranks; after he decided he couldn’t just stand by while the Great Jura Forest withered.”

She paused; her gaze misting, as if seeing a memory not her own. “Mia found him here. She wasn’t a fighter, but she helped him build the first shelters, and studied the soil and water to find what plants would heal it fastest. When Jura went on expeditions to gather resources or artifacts, or go on quests to rescue monsters who were caught in the crossfire of the Great War, Mia cared for the Great Sage, and raised her like her own child.”

Goblin Slayer’s eyes flicked between them, processing the quiet power in Shuna’s words. “Then… Why doesn’t Ciel talk about her?” He asked gingerly. “Every time I’ve heard her tell stories, it’s always Jura this, Jura that.”

Rimuru tilted his head— eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Let me ask you something, Ren,” he said; his voice dropping lower, more serious than before. “Why don’t you talk about your parents? Why do you always talk about Vi?”

Goblin Slayer froze; his mouth working silently before he found words. “I… I don’t know…”

The slime smiled gently. “Sure you do. Vi’s the one who’s here— the one people see, and who they know. It’s not that your parents didn’t matter… It’s just… They never had an impression on us. And because Vi’s who everyone’s familiar with, you just automatically talk about her; just like how Ciel talks about Jura, and not really much about Mia.”

Shuna’s lips parted slightly to add to Rimuru’s point— her voice soft but clear. “My mother was the princess of our tribe, back in the Shinzuhara Shogunate— was in next in line. My grandmother ruled our pond village with kindness, and taught my mother and the rest of her people how to live in harmony with the water and the spirits of the forest,” she said, with her hands tightened around her bowl— memories of the stories told darkening her gaze. 

“… But then the samurai wanted our land, so… They burned their village, and killed those who resisted. My mother led the survivors into the forest; making sure everyone could help was safe, even after her own family was murdered.” She said quietly before letting in a shaky breath— the summer breeze stirring her hair. “She helped her tribe start over; she led the survivors here, after she heard of what Jura was doing. But even now, outside my tribe… Not many people remember her name— Hashihime… But even so… It doesn’t mean she was any less important than Jura.”

Somber empathy filled the ashen-haired boy, as he suddenly swallowed the lump in his throat; his heart heavy as he looked down at his reflection in his rice bowl. “I… I didn’t know,” he murmured; his voice so quiet it almost vanished in the wind.

Rimuru leaned forward, with his eyes locked on Goblin Slayer’s. “Mia and Hashihime may not have statues or temples built in their names, but it was people like them that made all of this possible.” His voice softened even further, almost conspiratorial. “Everyone of them believed in the vision that Jura dedicated almost his entire life towards, and from what I’ve been told, Jura put his all of his trust into them as well. That’s why we honor him, Ren; because honoring him means we’re honoring those who’ve put their dreams into his legacy— their legacy. Our legacy.”

Goblin Slayer looked up slowly, a fragile but genuine smile cracking through the heaviness on his face. “… Mia’s a good name,” he said at last, voice steadying as it left his lips. “So is Hashihime,” he murmured as well, as his dusty rose eyes drifted back to the ship; imagining the letters of both names carved proudly into the wood.

The waves lapped quietly against the pier; the rhythmic hush blending with the delighted laughter of children running through the pasture around the temple. Shouts and giggles of every race and species carried on the breeze, and filling the air with the bright, ringing sounds of life.

Chapter Text

After lunch, the students of the Jura stood assembled in neat columns; their voices low with anticipation. The pasture stretched between them and the dark waters of Lake Virelda, where the ship rocked gently, tied snug to the mooring. 

The vessel creaked and groaned; the sound of taut ropes straining as the breeze caught at the folded sails. The hull let out soft, hollow knocks as it shifted against the pier’s edge, and the faint lap of water filled the space between the ship’s timbers.

At the pier’s entrance stood Gabiru, who was leaning heavily on a long branch that he’d fashioned into a walking stick. His elongated face glistened beneath a thick coating of healing ointment that concealed beneath a cast of pale, silk-wrapped bandages encased his head— leaving only his amber eyes exposed. 

A careful split between his lips allowed him to speak; revealing new, brilliant white teeth among those that had survived his brutal fight. Each word he spoke seemed to cost him effort; the movement of his jaw brought flashes of pain that darkened his gaze before he mastered it.

Gabiru drew in a slow breath; steadying himself before his voice boomed across the field— loud, but not without strain. “Welcome back from your midday meal!” His tone was forceful, though he paused just long enough to work through the discomfort. “I trust you enjoyed yourselves, because it ends now!”

He shifted his weight before pacing slowly along the edge of the pier where it met the grass. Gabiru then lifted his chin. “Do not, for even a heartbeat, assume that because my body is mending after my encounter with a primordial demon that today’s training will be soft,” he announced loudly; his eyes narrowed, hawk-like, as his gaze swept over the sea of young faces. “If anything… I’m in a fouler mood than usual! So stretch! Arms across the chest— BEGIN!!!”

The students snapped to it; some were too quick and overzealous, while others were slow and uncertain. 

Gabiru’s assistants— tall, broad-shouldered lizardmen, each adorned with simple leather sashes and bone charms— wove between the rows. With firm, silent gestures, they corrected postures: a shoulder pushed lower here, an arm tugged straighter there, a subtle shift of the hips to realign balance.

Gabiru’s sharp gaze never left the group. He began demonstrating the next stretch despite his bandaged frame— raising one arm overhead, leaning to the side, the motion stiff and pained, but precise. “Hold it! Breathe! Switch sides! Hold!” 

They moved through more: rolling shoulders, clasping hands behind their backs, lunging forward with legs bent deeply— each stretch exact, each command clipped. 

Gabiru bore it all with grim discipline; every movement small but purposeful as he led by example. At last, he planted his walking stick in the earth and squared his stance. “To the ground! Push-up position!” 

The students dropped to the grassy ground; their palms firm against the grass, and bodies forming trembling planks. 

Gabiru waited, silent; giving his assistants time to inspect, to nudge elbows in, and to lift sagging hips. 

When all were ready, he began to count.

“One! Down! Up!”

“Two! Down! Up!”

“Three! Down! Up!”

And so it continued, steady and relentless, with Gabiru counting each rep until they reached thirty. 

By then, faces were flushed, arms shook, breaths came in harsh, uneven pulls. But their instructor did not relent.

“Mountain climbers!” He barked. “Two minutes! BEGIN!!!”

The field exploded into movement; legs pumping, palms pressed hard to the earth. The slap of feet against grass filled the air. 

Gabiru counted the seconds in his head; forcing himself to stand tall, with his cast-wrapped jaw tight as he bore the ache of his own injuries. The ship beside him creaked and sighed, as if echoing the strain of the bodies before it.

Eventually, he lifted a hand. His voice cracked just slightly from the force of his command, as he shouted, “BREAK!!! Water break!”

A chorus of gasps and sighs answered him. 

Gabiru turned, before limping toward his leather canteen resting at the pier’s edge. His stick trembled slightly as he eased himself down; his whole frame stiff with pain. 

With a slow, relieved exhale, he unscrewed the cork and lifted the cool canteen to his lips— drinking deeply. The water soothed his throat, and he sighed with satisfaction; corking the vessel again and tossing it carelessly onto the wood.

The students milled, while catching their breath. Their instructor let them have the moment, but only that.

“PAIR UP!!!” He called out; his voice regaining its force. He then raised one clawed finger, pointing directly toward the blanket where Goblin Slayer and Rimuru stood together, watching. “Ashta! Tempest! I’ll be choosing your partners today!”

Both heads snapped up. 

Rimuru blinked— wide-eyed— while Goblin Slayer’s brows furrowed; a flicker of dread crossed his face. Around them, laughter rippled through the crowd; nothing cruel, just the innocent teasing of comrades.

The slime groaned, as he dragged a hand down his face. “Ah, come on, Gabiru…!”

Meanwhile, the ashen-haired boy tilted his head slightly to speak— his voice even, but loud enough to carry. “… Why do we need our partners chosen?”

Their instructor’s eyes narrowed beneath his bandages “Because, Ashta, you and Tempest are too comfortable— you rely too much on him! What happens when he’s not with you?! Hm?! What then?!”

Turning his focus away from Goblin Slayer, Gabiru jabbed his walking stick toward the white-haired goblin who was standing amongst his own kind. “Tempest— you’re with Gobuta!”

Upon hearing his name, the aforementioned goblin went rigid. “W-Wait, me?! With Rimuru?!” He asked with his eyes widening, before immediately trying— and failing— to put on a brave face. “O-Okay, I guess! Haha… Ha…” He trailed off with a forced grin, as the slime turned towards him to give him a wolfish smile.

“Hey, no pressure,” Rimuru said, with a mischievous smirk spreading across his lips. “Just know that I’m totally gonna wipe the grass with you, m’kay?” 

Gobuta’s throat bobbed as he laughed nervously. “Haha… G-Good one, Rimuru…”

Gabiru then turned his attention away to begin scanning the rows of students— finding a suitable candidate for Goblin Slayer, before spotting the tallest student amongst the entire class. “… Malruk!”

Upon hearing his name, the aforementioned orc stiffened like someone had dropped ice down his back. His head lifted slowly; his eyes shadowed under the messy fall of black hair that covered his entire forehead. “… Yeah?”

“You’re with Ashta,” Gabiru ordered with a hint of finality in his voice— leaving no room for protest.

Malruk’s nostrils flared as he stomped forward. The ground almost seemed to shiver with each of his heavy steps. The orc’s rugged hide outfit shifted over his thick chest, and his fur bracers glinted in the sun. 

Malruk’s eyes barely flicked toward the Goblin Slayer’s, as he came to a halt. He refused to meet his shorter partner’s gaze, with his arms hanging stiffly at his sides.

The ashen-haired boy’s eyes were steady, yet curious as he looked up at the orc’s brown eyes. “… Hey,” he said in a low voice, but clearly. “You should look at your opponent. It’s part of training.”

Malruk’s eyes darted up from the grass to Goblin Slayer’s dusty rose irises for half a second, before darting away. “… Yeah? And what if I don’t feel like it?”

“Then you won’t learn anything,” Goblin Slayer said simply, almost clinically, as if observing a piece of equipment.

Malruk’s lips curled into a bitter sneer. “Like I need to learn anything from you…”

Gabiru’s voice boomed across the field. “Into jōdan-no-kamae! High guard, blades up!”

Goblin Slayer lifted his wooden sword smoothly; blade angled overhead, and his posture perfect. 

Malruk’s movement was jerky; a grunt escaping him as he raised his oversized wooden sword— a thick plank of carved oak easily twice the size of his opponent’s.

Their blades met with a sharp crack— the impact vibrating down their arms.

“… This is a waste of time,” Malruk muttered, with his brown eyes narrowing.

“You’re sloppy,” Goblin Slayer replied coolly. “Your guard is wide open.”

Malruk’s teeth ground together audibly. “I didn’t ask.”

Gabiru’s stick slammed the ground, drawing everyone’s attention. “Youngest attacks first! Eldest defends! BEGIN!!!”

Goblin Slayer moved first— clean, quick strikes, his feet sure in the grass. His wooden sword cracked against the orc’s side, shoulder, and hip; not hard enough to harm, but enough to sting. 

Malruk’s attempts to block came late— clumsy— with his frustration growing with each hit.

“Stop leaning forward so much,” Goblin Slayer offered between strikes, breath even.

Malruk growled low in his throat. “Shut. It.”

Another tap of the blade against his ribs. The orc swore under his breath; the flush of anger climbing his neck. 

His parries became wilder— less controlled.

“BREAK!!!” Gabiru called, with his stick thudding against the ground.

Malruk stood, with his ample chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes burned as he stepped into the ashen-haired boy’s space; his own wooden sword dropping slightly. “What’s your problem, human? You trying to show off? That it?”

Goblin Slayer didn’t step back, even as the six-foot tall older boy bumped his body against his. “I’m training. That’s what this is.”

Malruk snorted. “Oh, you’re training, huh? Bet that worked real well when you got your shit pushed in by that demon.”

Goblin Slayer’s gaze sharpened, yet he remained stone faced as he simply replied back, “At least I’m not a coward.”

The words landed harder than intended.

Malruk’s jaw clenched, as something dark flickered behind his eyes.

“SWITCH!!!” Gabiru barked. “Chūdan-no-kamae! Center guard!”

They shifted positions. 

Goblin Slayer dropped into stance fluidly, while Malruk mimicked him— stiff and seething.

“BEGIN!!!” Gabiru’s voice cracked across the field.

Malruk came at him like a storm; wooden sword slashing down in brutal arcs. 

Goblin Slayer didn’t meet force with force; he dodged, let the strikes whistle past, feet light, blade low to balance his turns. 

The air filled with the sound of wood cutting air, and boots scraping grass.

Malruk’s breath grew harsh, as sweat dripped from his jawline. His strikes turned wilder as Goblin Slayer stayed out of reach— calm and collected.

From the rows came whispers.

“… Aren’t orcs supposed to be good at fighting?”

“… Look at Ren go! He’s so cool!”

“… I thought Chieftain Gro’Varnak’s kid was supposed to be a boy?”

Malruk’s ears burned as the words filtered in, as his next swing was reckless. “SHUT THE HELL UP!!!” He bellowed— not at his opponent, but at the voices needling him.

The six-foot tall orc suddenly snapped. 

He dropped his blade mid-swing and charged— shoulder down. Goblin Slayer tried to pivot aside, but Malruk’s bulk crashed into him— sending him sprawling. 

The ashen-haired boy hit the ground hard, before sliding through the grass until he landed on his injured arm.

Pain burst white-hot up his side. His breath hitched, but he clamped his jaw shut— swallowing the cry. 

Around him, everything stilled for a heartbeat.

“R-REN!!!” Rimuru’s voice cut through— sharp with worry.

Gabiru’s assistants immediately rushed in. One dropped to his knees beside Goblin Slayer to check the bandaged arm, as fresh blood began to seep through. “Stay still— don’t move that arm!”

Gabiru began limping forward from the entrance of the pier— fury radiating from his posture. “TRAINING TIME-OUT!!!”

Malruk took a step back, with horror dawning on his face. “I… I didn’t— I-I wasn’t—”

The murmurs from the students turned sharp.

“Did you see that?!”

“He lost it—”

“He went too far—”

The remorseful orc raised both of his trembling hands up, as if to ward off the words. “I-It was an accident— I swear—”

Suddenly, a hard shove sent him stumbling forward. Malruk landed on his knees near Goblin Slayer— looking over his broad shoulder, and blinking up to find Rimuru standing over him.

“What the hell were you thinking…?!” The slime retorted in a low voice— his body trembling with restrained fury. “You wanna try that crap on me…?! Huh…?! Wanna see what happens…?!”

Malruk stammered, “I— no, I didn’t—”

Ignoring his stumbling words, Rimuru leaned in— his voice growing to a venomous whisper. “I’ll break every bone in your mouth…”

Gabiru’s voice suddenly cracked like lightning. “THAT’S ENOUGH!!!” He shouted in a thunderous boom, as he swung his branch down— forcing himself between them. His yellow eyes glared at Rimuru through his facial cast. “Tempest! Pair up with Ashta. NOW!!!”

The slime hesitated while still breathing hard, but eventually backed down, as he made his way past Malruk to check on Goblin Slayer. “… Are you okay, Ren?”

Sitting up from the grass, the ashen-haired boy looked up to give a small nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

And while Rimuru and Goblin Slayer quietly talked, Gabiru turned his gaze on Malruk. “… Go to the pier.”

“Please— I didn’t mean—”

Gabiru’s eyes blazed, as he interrupted him. “— Save it for your father. Chieftain Tharok Gro’Varnak will hear how his son assaulted an injured hero of Jura! NOW, GO!!!”

Malruk’s entire frame stiffened, as terror flashed across his eyes while he staggered back. His broad shoulders then slumped, with the weight of dread crushing him as he turned and trudged toward the pier— each step reluctant and heavy.

Gabiru straightened, planting his branch in the earth with a harsh thud. He swept his gaze over the students, voice thunderous yet controlled. “Everyone! Deep breaths! Reset positions! We’re here to train, not tear each other apart!”

The field fell into tense silence that was broken only by the whisper of the lake’s gentle waves brushing the pier and the low moan of the ship’s hull shifting with the breeze— timbers creaking, ropes softly groaning as they tugged against the moorings.

The students’ feet shifted in the grass, with their eyes wide and breaths shaky. But they moved; partners finding each other, and their wooden swords raised once more.

Gabiru’s eyes lingered on Malruk making way beside where the ship was docked, before settling on Goblin Slayer and Rimuru, as they squared off side by side. “Let this be a lesson! We are not enemies here!”

And the training resumed; the field filled once more with the sound of wooden swords clashing and feet moving through grass— but the shadow of what had happened lingered, heavy and unspoken.

The soft slap of lake water against the pier’s worn pilings filled the silence as Malruk sat hunched forward— his boots kicking idly above the shimmering waves. Each ripple distorted his reflection— bloodshot eyes, tight jaw, and lips pressed thin with the effort of holding himself together. His plush chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths. 

A fresh tear rolled down his cheek before he reached up to scrub at it with the heel of his palm— growling under his breath, “Dammit…” His thumb and forefinger then fumbled at the corners of his eyes— wiping angrily at the wetness that wouldn’t stop.

Behind him, the old boards of the pier groaned faintly. 

His head snapped over his shoulder, with his heart slamming in his chest— and then plummeting when he saw none other than his primary teacher walking toward him. 

Her sundress fluttered in the gentle lake breeze, with her brown braided-hair catching glints of the sun; her brown eyes soft but unyielding as they met his widened gaze for a brief, gut-wrenching moment. 

She smiled— a small, patient smile that only twisted the knot in his stomach tighter.

Shame burned in his chest, as he whipped his focus back to the water; fists clenched at his sides as his breath turned ragged, as if he could will himself invisible if he just stared hard enough into the rippling lake. 

He heard her footsteps pause beside him, with each step light but impossibly loud in his ears.

Then the boards creaked, and he felt the subtle shift of the pier as she lowered herself down next to him. He could see her in the corner of his vision— so close he could feel the warmth of her presence, yet he wanted nothing more than to sink through the boards beneath his boots.

Neither spoke. 

The hush of the water slipping between the pilings; the distant, rhythmic thud of wooden practice swords clashing, and Gabiru’s barked orders rolled across the still air. 

But there on the pier, it was as if time had paused.

Vivianne’s voice, when it came, was soft as a lullaby and sharp as a blade. “… You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world, Malruk.”

The words slammed into him, and his throat closed up. He swallowed, but the knot in his chest only grew tighter. His voice rasped out low and cracked, as he quietly murmured, “It feels like it…” 

Another elongated moment of silence accompanied by the lakeside ambience followed, with his eyes staying locked on the waves. “… I’m sorry, Miss Vi. I’m so… So sorry for what I did to your brother.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her turning slightly toward him; leaning just enough for him to see the quiet strength in her face— kind, but unwavering. 

“… I know you’re sorry; that was never in question,” she assured gently. “But I’m not worried about Ren right now. I’m worried about you.”

He blinked rapidly; confusion flashing across his face even as he kept his eyes pinned to the swirling water. His voice trembled, as he asked her, “W-Why…? Why would you… Care about how I feel…? After what I did…?”

Vivianne’s breath escaped slowly, as though she had been holding it. “Because what you did isn’t the sum of who you are,” she said. “Harmful choices still come from somewhere, and when someone lashes out… It's usually not about the thing right in front of them. Something deeper’s hurting; something that’s being ignored. And when we ignore that pain for too long… It finds other ways out.”

Malruk dropped his gaze again— staring into the shimmering water. His shoulders curled in, and when he spoke, his voice was small and tight. “I… I don’t know what’s wrong with me…”

His voice faltered. He swallowed.

“When I get like that, it’s like… It’s like I can’t breathe. I get angry. Like something inside me’s twisting up— screaming that I’m failing. That I’ll always be wrong. And I don’t want to be like that, I really don’t, but I just—” he broke off— his jaw trembling. “I… I-I don’t know what it is… Or why I’m like that.”

Vivianne didn’t speak right away. She let the silence breathe between them; allowed it to settle— like water clearing after a stone is dropped.

Then, gently, her voice returned. “… That kind of anger… It's like armor. It convinces you you’re safe, that if you can shout loud enough or strike fast enough, no one will see how lost you feel underneath.” She said, before tilting her head while her eyes still on the shifting lake. “But armor like that? It doesn’t just keep others out. It traps you inside. And sometimes… It starts to feel heavier than the thing you were trying to protect yourself from in the first place.”

Malruk shifted beside her, and when he finally looked over, it was quick— fleeting. His cheeks were flushed dark; his jaw clenched like it hurt to hold still. “… You talk like you’ve felt this,” he said, while trying to sound skeptical but coming off more like a boy hoping she might say yes. “But you… You don’t seem like the kind of person who ever gets that angry. Not like I do.”

Vivianne’s smile was quiet, sad. “Everyone gets angry, Malruk. Everyone. It’s not our anger that’s the issue— it’s what we let it turn us into that’s the problem.”

He didn’t say anything, but she felt his breath hitch beside her. That little silence of someone listening harder than they meant to.

She then looked out across the lake again; her brown eyes a little distant. “Last night, when Gabiru and the others came back with Lady Kumoemi… They were carrying Ren. Bloodied, unconscious. Limp. I thought…” She trailed off before drawing in a breath, and then another, slower one to ground herself. “… I thought he’d died.”

Malruk turned toward her fully; the movement was slow, as if he was afraid of interrupting.

Her voice was steady, but the weight beneath it was unmistakable. “I’ve never felt terror like that. Not since the fire.”

He blinked. “W… What fire, Miss Vi?”

Vivianne nodded faintly, before speaking again. “When I was fifteen, I was away studying in the Shinzuhara Shogunate. One day, I received a letter from the village elder. He wrote to me how our house burned down in a storm. My parents… They didn’t make it out. And Ren—” her voice caught, and she swallowed before continuing. “He was barely alive when they found him. The doctor didn’t know if he’d make it… I had to travel back not knowing if I’d ever see him again.”

Malruk’s throat bobbed. His lip trembled again, and he blinked rapidly, as if trying to beat back a wave of emotion he didn’t know how to ride.

She then exhaled slowly. “Last night… It felt just like that again. Holding him, soaked in blood; whispering every prayer I knew to any god who might still be listening,” she said quietly— her voice cracking faintly. “Even after the Great Sage healed him, I… I couldn’t stop shaking.”

A single tear spilled down Malruk’s cheek and caught on his jaw, before sliding off into the lake. He wiped at it roughly— breathing uneven. “I… I don’t understand how you could teach class after something like that… How could you be so calm, Miss Vi?”

Vivianne was quiet for a moment; collecting her thoughts, before articulating them into words. “… I didn’t stay calm,” she said at last. “Not at first. When I’d gathered myself enough to stand, I joined Ciel and Treyni to interrogate the man who’d nearly killed Ren. The one responsible for the whole attack.”

Malruk stiffened beside her.

“He wasn’t frightened. Not even when Ciel raised her hand to cast a spell, or when Treyni closed the barn doors. He just smiled at us; like the pain he’d caused was some kind of checkmate. Like he believed we were about to prove him right.”

Her fingers instinctively brushed over the fabric of her dress— smoothing a wrinkle that wasn’t there. “They wanted to hurt him. I could see it in their eyes. Ciel wanted justice. Treyni— who almost never lets anything rattle her— had blood in her voice. And… I can’t lie, Malruk. I wanted it too. For a brief moment, I wanted to make him feel what it’s like to hold someone you love and not know if they’re going to wake up.”

Malruk’s breathing hitched, as he turned his head slightly— watching her sidelong.

“I almost gave in to it,” Vivianne murmured while not looking at him, but not hiding either. “But then… I looked at him. I mean really looked at him. Past the arrogance, past the cruelty. And what I saw wasn’t a monster. It was someone so thoroughly emptied out by hate and regret that he didn’t even recognize it in himself anymore. A person who had fed his pain for so long that there was nothing left of him but teeth.”

Malruk blinked— stunned silent.

“So I did something else,” she said. “Something he didn’t expect. I told him I forgave him.”

He turned sharply toward her. “You what?!”

Vivianne’s gaze remained steady, but there was weariness there too; the kind that sits deep behind the eyes. “I told him that I didn’t want vengeance. That none of us needed more blood. That what I wanted— what I needed— was a future where the children in this village could walk home without flinching at shadows. I told him that I pitied him… Not for what he did, but for the circumstances in his life that led him down such a terrible path.”

Malruk’s mouth opened like he wanted to object, but nothing came out.

“He looked at me like I’d spoken another language,” she continued. “Like he couldn’t process the idea that someone wouldn’t meet hate with more hate. I think… I think it shattered something in him.”

The orc’s brows knit, as his lips tightened and trembled. “Did he… Say anything?”

Vivianne nodded slowly. “He asked me why I wasn’t screaming at him. Why I wasn’t trying to kill him. He asked me over and over if it was some trick. And all I did was tell him the truth— again and again. That I didn’t want him to suffer. I just wanted him to help me stop whatever plans the Dark Sect had for us.”

She paused— voice softening again. “Eventually… He talked. He told us everything he knew. Where the others were. What their plans were. Not because we broke him, I think… I think it was because— for the first time in years— someone treated him like a person.”

Malruk was quiet for a long time. 

His hands gripped his thighs— knuckles pale. The wind passed over them again; drawing long shadows across the surface of the lake.

Malruk then stared back at her— his lips parted slightly, breath catching. “I… I don’t think I could’ve done that, Miss Vi. Not after what he did. Not even if someone begged me to.”

Vivianne turned toward him slightly now, her hands resting calmly in her lap.

“I only forgave him, because I’ve seen what hatred does to people,” she said. “I’ve seen how easily it buries love under anger and guilt. I’ve seen how it turns mourning into obsession— how it eats you from the inside until all that’s left is the pain. And I refuse to become that. Not for him. Not for anyone.”

Malruk’s throat bobbed with a tight swallow. His voice came trembling out of him. “D… D-Do you think I’m becoming that…? H-Hateful…?”

Vivianne’s expression softened.

“I think you’re terrified of becoming someone you’re not,” she said. “And I think you’ve been living with that fear so long, you’ve started mistaking it for who you are. But that’s not true, Malruk. You’re not your anger. You’re not your confusion. You’re someone who feels like they’re at war with themselves— and who’s scared of what will happen if they lose.”

Malruk’s hands started shaking again. Even while facing towards her, his eyes didn’t look at her. “I… I don’t think I feel like I’m supposed to feel… And it’s like… Everyone keeps waiting for me to just be something I’m not… Strong, loud— sure— but I never asked to be that… And when I can’t make myself fit, when I don’t measure up…” He hesitated, as his eyes grew glassy again. “I… I hate myself for it… And then I hate everyone else for making me feel that way…”

Vivianne then reached out then— gently resting her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers didn’t press; they just stayed, light but firm— grounding.

“I know that feeling,” she said. “That pull between who the world sees and who you really are. It’s terrifying, but you don’t have to figure it all out at once. You just have to start by being honest with yourself.”

The orc then looked up into her gaze. He wasn’t trying to hide it anymore; his eyes were red, his face flushed— his grief and shame laid bare in his expression.

“E… E-Even if being honest means disappointing everyone…?” He whispered.

The brunette gave him a tired smile that was somehow still warm, as she replied, “You don’t owe anyone a version of yourself that breaks you. The people who care about you… They’ll walk with you through the process— not just wait for the end result. And those who won’t? They were never meant to be part of the real story— your story.”

Malruk’s lips parted, as his breathing hitched once, twice. “I-I didn’t mean to hurt your brother,” he whispered— swallowing hard. “I just— something in me snapped… I saw the way he looked at me… The way he fought… The way he didn’t hesitate… And all I could think was, ‘Why can’t I feel that sure about myself…?’”

Vivianne’s gaze softened even further. “My brother, I… I don’t think he’s as sure as he comes off,” she said. “He’s still finding his way too, but the difference is he’s allowed to be himself in a world that doesn’t constantly try to tell him what he’s supposed to be… I don’t think you’ve allowed yourself to have that same freedom— not yet, anyway.”

Malruk trembled.

“But you can,” she continued. “You’re reflecting— you’re feeling— and that tells me more about who you are than anything you’ve done in a single moment of weakness.”

His lip wobbled, as the emotion caught in his chest bloomed into a choked sob. “I don’t want to be this person,” he rasped out quietly. “I-I don’t want to live like this forever…!”

The brunette then shifted closer to him; her voice steady as she said, “Then don’t.” She then proceeded to open her arms slightly— inviting him in for an embrace.

Malruk hesitated; the last of his pride holding him upright for one more heartbeat. Then he leaned into her side— slowly at first, and then fully, with his larger frame folding against her as his chest heaved in silent sobs. His forehead rested against her shoulder, and for once, he didn’t feel monstrous— he just felt held.

Vivianne wrapped her arm around him— her voice low near his ear. “If I can forgive the man who nearly stole my brother’s life from me,” she murmured, “then surely you can forgive yourself.”

He then sobbed harder, and she didn’t move to quiet him.

She only held him tighter.

Chapter Text

The last clang of wooden blades and barked corrections from Gabiru's assistants had long since faded into the gentle quiet of early afternoon. 

Blankets and colorful cloths— stitched from every corner of the Great Jura Forest— were spread across the shaded grass behind the Jura Temple; its towering three-story frame casting a deep, cooling shadow over the back row of students. 

Hundreds of them, seated in orderly clusters, were faced the pier where the grassy slope kissed the first sun-faded plank of wood.

There, standing at the threshold between earth and water, was the Great Sage.

Draped in her usual white robes, her silhouette caught the last beams of overhead sun. She held her arms behind her back— her posture regal but relaxed— and as the last shuffle of fabric settled across the field, her yellow eyes swept over the class like a slow breeze. 

One glance at a time— methodical, quiet, and knowing.

Then, she opened her mouth.

Her voice— gentle but clear— carried across the yard; amplified not by shouting, but by the faint shimmer of a voice projection spell circling her throat like a faint silver locket. 

It was calm, focused, as if it had waited all day to be heard.

“I hope your bodies are now steadied and your minds clear,” she began. “Physical endurance and martial skill are important foundations, but without the ability to understand the wellspring of magic within you… Your spellcraft will remain shallow. Today’s lesson is vital to your growth.”

Across the crowd, some students straightened with sharpened attention. Others, still catching their breath from training, blinked sluggishly in the warm shade.

“To those of you confident in your penmanship and recall,” Ciel continued, “you may now retrieve your notebooks and pens. If you are not yet ready to write—” she said, as her eyes briefly flicked over Gobuta, who sat upright but made no motion to move, “— then listen well. Retention is just as valuable as transcription.”

Near the middle of the crowd, Goblin Slayer unfastened the ties of his satchel and pulled out his notebook— worn and crinkled at the edges— and his pen. His dusty rose eyes followed every movement with intensity. 

To his left, Rimuru lazily leaned back on his elbows while making no move to grab his supplies; a smirk tugged at his lips. 

On the other side, Shuna hesitated before reaching into her own embroidered pouch— clearly unsure, but unwilling to fall behind.

“I cannot teach you spells,” Ciel said, “until you understand the vessel that allows you to cast them.”

She then raised her left hand; a soft light gathered in her palm— blue at first, then shifting through a spectrum of violet and silver— before curling upward like smoke and forming a small, floating sigil. 

The crowd watched— transfixed.

“This is not a spell,” she explained. “It is simply raw mana— gathered, shaped, and allowed to hold form without function. A display, nothing more. But it illustrates the point.”

She proceeded to then lower her hand, and the sigil dissolved like breath on a mirror.

“Mana,” she said, “is not the same as life force. It is not your blood. It is not your strength. It is a substance drawn from the world around you, absorbed by your soul— then stored and filtered through your mind.”

She paused; letting the idea settle like dust before continuing.

“Your life force is called ‘Od,’” she said— enunciating the word clearly. “Some of you may have heard it referred to by another name— ‘chakra.’ Od flows through the body, and is bound to your physical self. It fuels stamina. It determines how long you can endure battle, movement, and concentration. But mana…” Her eyes glinted. “Mana is what makes magic possible.”

A hum rippled through the students.

“Mana is spiritual in nature. It comes from without, while chakra comes from within. If you push your body past its Od limits, you will collapse. If you push your soul past its mana limits, you will… Rupture.”

Even Rimuru’s smirk faded slightly at that.

“Chakra can grow through meditation, focus, and repetition. But your mana pool— the amount of magical energy your soul can store— is not so easily improved. Not through practice alone.”

She then raised both her hands, before a faint tremor coursed through the pier beneath her feet, and the air shimmered as a massive illusion took shape above her— a glowing, translucent blue crystal, faceted like quartz but pulsing with slow, ethereal light. 

Whispers of awe echoed across the rows.

“This is a magicule crystal,” Ciel said. “They are formed when ambient mana— dispersed from spells or natural leaks— is absorbed by the earth’s life force, then crystallized over time. They are most commonly found in caves, the deeper the more potent. Higher-grade clusters can even affect the air quality.”

She lowered the illusion, giving the class a few moments to catch up on their notes.

“The magicules within these crystals can be extracted through a draining spell,” Ciel added. “Not as efficient as potions, no— but useful in emergencies, or when rationing resources.”

Goblin Slayer narrowed his eyes slightly, his pen gliding quickly across the page. The slime then elbowed him gently with a teasing grin. “I taught ya about that, remember…?” He whispered.

The ashen-haired boy simply gave him a faint smirk, and said, “Yeah, you did,” before continuing on with his notes. 

“Now… A bit of history,” she continued. “Long before the Pendragon Empire unified Feyrun, there was a famous city where the Empire’s capital now is that was once known as Baulder’s Gate. It was there— hidden in the scrolls of forgotten alchemists— that the first elixirs were created to bypass the fixed nature of one’s mana pool.”

A low murmur of intrigue ran through the students.

“Before that discovery,” she said, “you were stuck with what you were born with. No amount of discipline could change your pool’s capacity. But the Baulderian alchemists found a formula— one that infused the soul with refined magicules, stabilized through herbal catalysts.”

The crystal illusion returned; now surrounded by glowing sketches of roots, leaves, and flasks.

“Over time, substitutes were found. Easier ingredients. Simpler methods. Today, we will discuss the beginner’s variation— the one I recommend each of you learn.”

She then extended her hand, and above her appeared four glowing projections: a pale mushroom with spots, a small cluster of silvery-blue berries, a leaf with a silver sheen, and a twisting root like knotted rope.

“These are: glimmercaps, moonberries, frostleaf, and bitterroot. All can be found within the Great Jura Forest, within a few kilometers of the temple. You may gather them with supervision in your free time as an afterschool assignment.”

She waited until every pen stopped moving.

“To craft your first elixir,” she continued, “you will need a mortar and pestle to grind these ingredients finely. Bring one liter of water to a boil, and slowly add the crushed herbs. Once the mixture darkens— about seven minutes— place one magicule crystal inside. The liquid should turn clear, and glow cyan blue.”

Rimuru raised a hand lazily. “What if it turns green?”

“Then you did it wrong,” she said flatly; causing the slime to slowly lower his hand.

The Great Sage pressed onward. “Allow the mixture to cool. You may add a citrus rind for acidity—this isn’t necessary, but it reduces the bitterness and helps prevent nausea. Measure your ingredients precisely. If you are uncertain, speak with Miss Vi tomorrow morning before lunch.”

Shuna visibly perked up at that, while Goblin Slayer made a small note in the margin of his page.

“One liter consumed will raise your mana reservoir by approximately one astral unit,” Ciel said. “No more than two liters per day is advised. Make it part of your daily intake.”

The students began whispering quietly amongst themselves— some talking about gathering ingredients, while others spoke of how bitter the elixir might taste.

Ciel gave them a moment longer, then folded her arms again.

“This is only the beginning,” she said. “A strong mana pool is essential, but it is not the whole of your arcane foundation. The body channels chakra. The soul absorbs mana. But it is the mind— calm, clear, and disciplined— that allows you to cast without hesitation.”

A silence fell— reverent and complete.

“Next,” she said, “we’ll begin simple chakra conditioning.”

Hours passed after the Great Sage’s lesson on chakra came to its conclusion; the sun’s position had hung low behind the Jura Temple, with its golden light spilling westward through the pines. 

Where its rays touched the world, they painted the lake in gleaming ribbons of molten orange and pastel lilac— catching against the ripples like melted glass.

Beyond the water’s edge, the distant crags of the Tempest Mountains shimmered softly in a haze of warm, gold-dappled haze— colors deepening as the light sank lower behind the canopy.

Inside the temple’s first-floor study hall, the fire had already been lit. Its amber glow flickered across the wooden floorboards and walls lined with shelves— some stacked high with books, others cluttered with paper scrolls, dried plants, and half-used ink bottles.

A kettle whistled faintly through the walls from the kitchen, but no one moved to fetch it; though, it wasn’t long until another member of the house tended to it.

Vivianne sat curled comfortably on the left arm of the plush sofa before the fireplace; her weight leaned toward the center cushion, notebook braced against one elbow, her pen moving steadily. A thick geological textbook lay open on her lap, with its pages full of sketched strata and annotated diagrams. 

Beside her, Ciel reclined with her legs crossed, with one heel resting atop the coffee table. A homespun map was spread across her knees— an old attempt of Jura’s to chart the island at the center of Lake Virelda. It was dotted with smudged pencil marks, directional arrows, and more than a few question marks.

Ciel’s yellow eyes skimmed the terrain markings— her fingers twitching faintly in thought.

Pacing before them, as restless as a tethered hound, was Goblin Slayer.

He circled the space in front of the fireplace in tight, deliberate lines— feet barely making a sound on the floorboards, though every now and then, the wood let out a mild creak that betrayed his presence. 

His brow was drawn, mouth tight, and his dusty rose eyes kept flicking toward the women on the couch like he was waiting to be noticed.

Neither of them bothered looking up.

Goblin Slayer came to a sudden halt near the fireplace mantel, squaring his shoulders and pivoting toward them— his body stiff, but his expression determined. He was careful not to bump the table Ciel’s bare feet rested on as he stepped closer.

“I am capable of gathering ingredients on my own,” the ashen-haired boy declared with his arms crossed, and his eyes sharp beneath the tousled shadow of his bangs. His voice was calm, but the determined edge in it betrayed a lingering sting. “I don’t need Rimuru to always be there with me. And if it’s really such a big deal, I’ll bring Ranga.”

Still, neither woman looked up.

Vivianne shifted slightly under the weight of the geology book balanced across her knees. Her pen didn’t stop moving as she replied in her usual gentle cadence. “Ranga’s coming to the island too, sweetheart.”

On the cushion beside her, Ciel lazily rotated the map of the Tempest Mountains in her lap— the corner of her lip tilting up faintly. “Gabiru’s crew will need him,” she added, with her tone tranquil as always. “The quarry site’s going to be buried under layers of overgrowth and old volcanic sediment. Jura’s map…” Her golden eyes then flicked toward a messily inked spiral near the mountain’s edge. “… Leaves something to be desired.”

The brunette gave a soft hum of agreement as she traced a note in her ledger with delicate precision. “We’ll need his sense of direction just to figure out which end of the island we’re even supposed to land on. You’ve seen Jura’s handwriting, haven’t you, Ren?”

The Great Sage tapped the edge of the map with her knuckle, as she commented aloud, “Mia was always the one with the better penmanship out of the two of them.”

Goblin Slayer let out a groan and dragged a hand through his ashen hair; his fingers raking his bangs back with mild theatricality. “But Shuna and Gobuta get to go out on their own,” he argued, with eyes flashing with quiet exasperation. “Why can’t I?”

“They’re not going alone,” Ciel replied without missing a beat. She then finally looked up, meeting his gaze with an implacable calm. “Shuna will be with her father, and Gobuta’s going with the students from his tribe.”

“Plus, they’re your friends, Ren,” Vivianne murmured without looking up. “Why not go with them? I’m sure they’d be happy to have you.”

He opened his mouth, shut it, and gave the floor a withering glare. The firelight warmed his back, as he muttered, “But I don’t want to go with them…”

Vivianne the. turned a page in the geology textbook. “You’re only saying that because you’re hoping to get into some trouble,” she said matter-of-factly.

The ashen-haired boy’s eyes the. narrowed, and his cheeks puffed faintly as he retorted quietly, “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she said, while marking a new note in the margin. “You’ve been getting too used to playing out your little adventurer fantasies— so naturally, you want more of it.”

“I do not—!” He started hotly, then stopped himself— shoulders squaring. He the. grumbled something under his breath, before speaking up again— more composed. “Okay… Fine. I did have fun with Rimuru the last couple times we went out. But it’s not like I’m reckless; I’m not going to go off and get myself killed.”

He then drew in a breath, with his chin lifting defiantly. “You don’t have to worry about me, Vi. I can handle myself. I got shot at by a platoon of guards, remember? And I survived an encounter with Diablo—”

“— With who?” Vivianne asked flatly; finally pausing in her writing and looking up with one brow raised.

“… Diablo,” he said, almost sheepishly. “That’s what Lady Kumoemi called him. I asked her who he was and she just said, ‘Diablo.’”

Ciel’s head tilted to the side, interest piqued. “That’s Amazonian,” she murmured to the brunette. “It means ‘devil.’”

Goblin Slayer nodded, as he placed his hands on his hips. “Exactly. That’s what he is. A devil.”

“Technically, he’s a primordial,” the Great Sage corrected, while folding her arms over the map as she leaned back slightly. Then she added, voice flat as stone, “But yes. ‘Diablo’ is a very fitting name for him.”

Vivianne rolled her eyes and let out a long breath through her nose. “Regardless,” she said, tone sharp but still fond, “the answer is the same. You’re not going anywhere in the woods alone. Not until you’re thirteen.”

Already suspecting her response, the ashen-haired boy still couldn’t help but to gawk at her like she’d just outlawed breathing. “… T-That’s—!”

“— Final, is what it is,” she said, already back to her notebook.

His mouth opened again, then closed with a hiss of air as he let out an exaggerated sigh— somewhere between a dragon’s snort and a kettle about to whistle. He planted his hands at his sides and bowed slightly, jaw clenched.

“Y… Yes, ma’am…”

Ciel didn’t smile, but her eyes flicked his way with approval. “If it’s the ingredients you’re worried about, I’ll ask Gobuta to collect extras. He and his tribe would be more than happy to assist you.”

“I don’t need their help,” Goblin Slayer muttered bitterly. Then, almost comically fast, he caught himself and amended— more stiffly than he meant to— “Y-Yes, Great Sage; I’d appreciate that…”

Finally, Vivianne looked up again, her eyes warm in the firelight, her expression unreadable in the way only a big sister’s could be. “You could always try making a new friend to go along with you, can’t you?” She suggested gently. “It’ll do you good to talk to someone outside your little circle. And who knows? Maybe they’ll be adventurous, like Rimuru.”

Goblin Slayer frowned, looking like he wanted to argue— but the truth caught in his throat, and soon his eyes flicked to the floor.

“But—”

“— Speaking of devils,” Ciel suddenly interrupted evenly, with her own gaze flicking toward the direction of the foyer.

A knock echoed then faintly through the hall.

Vivianne didn’t even flinch, as she asked the woman beside her, “Who’s that?”

The Great Sage’s eyes slipped shut. There was a pulse of magic so subtle it barely rippled the air. A beat later, she opened them again. 

“Malruk,” she replied calmly. “And his father, Chieftain Gro’Varnak.” She the. set the map aside, and without ceremony, fixed her eyes on the boy. “They’re here for you, Ashta.”

Goblin Slayer blinked at the revelation, while his mouth tightened. “I’ll, uh… I’ll go see what they want,” he said quietly, as he turned toward the door leading to the hallway.

“Remember your manners,” Vivianne called softly. “And try to be friendly to Malruk— the poor boy could use a kind friend in his life.”

Goblin Slayer paused at the threshold of the room before looking back at his sister. “I will,” he said quietly, with a hint of reluctance in his voice. “… Love you, Vi.”

“I love you too, Ren,” she answered without missing a beat; her voice as soft as the wool blanket over her knees.

Then he was gone; his footfalls soft down the corridor, even after the door had closed behind him.

The fire cracked again, and for a moment, nothing else stirred. The pen in Vivianne’s hand resumed its quiet scratching, as she spoke without looking up. “… Do you think I’m too hard on him?”

Ciel was silent for a moment. She didn’t immediately reply. She tucked the edge of the map beneath the textbook, summoned her pen to hover near her shoulder, and leaned in to mark a narrow ridge drawn in charcoal.

“… No,” she said finally, tone level and sure. “You’re not.”

Vivianne then softly exhaled at the Great Sage’s response, as she turned the page of the textbook.

The soft tick of the grandfather clock echoed across the dim foyer. Shadows clung to the beige walls; flickering faintly where the orange glow of the entryway lantern caught on the oak paneling that framed the baseboards and corners of the hall. 

The wooden banister of the staircase to Goblin Slayer’s left creaked slightly as he passed, the polished wood smooth beneath his fingertips. He glanced briefly at the living room archway across from him, where the warm scent of firewood and parchment drifted from the study beyond.

His socks made barely a sound against the floorboards as he stepped across the red and gold woven rug stretched in front of the heavy oak door. He reached up to unlatch the lock, then opened the door inward with care.

The cool summer air greeted him first— soft, still, and fragrant with pine and lake mist. Standing under the porch awning were two figures, both imposing in their own right. 

The first, Malruk, shifted awkwardly from foot to foot; his brown eyes low, and his hands clasped stiffly in front of him. And beside him stood his father.

Gro’Varnak, Chieftain of the Jura Orc Tribes, was a figure of myth brought to life. Towering at just over three meters tall, his presence filled the doorway like a statue carved from midnight granite. His long black hair was tied up in a warrior’s knot, and his beard— thick and regal— was braided with a silver cord near his chin. 

His tribal robes bore the marks of rank and history: dark navy silks woven with ochre threading and curved bone clasps, all fastened over a breastplate carved from obsidian scales. 

He stood proud— like a man who’d once fought titans and won— as he inclined his head just slightly.

“Good evening,” Gro’Varnak greeted calmly in an expectantly deep, baritone voice. Then, with a measured tilt of his head, he asked, “Are you the boy my son wrongfully injured today?”

The ashen-haired boy’s gaze shifted, uncertain, to Malruk.

The orc teen— taller by nearly two full heads and broad as a smith’s anvil— looked instantly away, his eyes dropping to the woven doormat beneath their boots, as if it were suddenly the most fascinating artifact in all the Great Jura Forest.

“Well…” Goblin Slayer rubbed the back of his neck, before lifting both hands in a mild, noncommittal gesture of peace. “Things just got a little… Heated during training. He pushed me, yeah, but I’m alright now.”

He then lowered his left arm, before rolling back the sleeve slightly to reveal the linen wrappings snug around the top of his shoulder and bicep.

“See? That’s where I got axed at,” Goblin Slayer said, with an almost juvenile sense of boyish pride in his voice. “It was already almost healed when I fell. Now? It’s just a little sore, is all.”

Gro’Varnak let out a low, contemplative hum. His sharp eyes— piercing beneath the warm orange light of the porch lanterns— lingered on the bandages for a long breath before he gave a single, slow nod.

“A true warrior does not waste strength on blame. He endures. Still,” the chieftain added, while folding his arms across his massive chest, “had I known the Dark Sect had dared open a rift to the Abyss beneath these woods… I would have rallied my kin and descended upon them myself. You shouldn’t have ever gotten that injury in the first place.”

Goblin Slayer responded at first with a modest shrug. “It wasn’t like we knew what was down there. We were just supposed to visit Lady Kumoemi to ask if she could help my sister and the Great Sage with sailcloth. Everything else just… Sort of happened. Right place, wrong time. Or maybe the right time? Either way, it worked out.”

Gro’Varnak's brows arched faintly. “And fortune favored the bold, it seems. The forest stirs with talk— Lady Kumoemi is now weaving her silks for us above ground.” He said, as he gave a rare smile— his beard shifting as he spoke. “I hear King Kidomaru’s craftsmen have already begun shaping her silk into garments. Uniforms, no less. For our students.”

Goblin Slayer perked up a bit at that. “Yeah, his daughter told me. Funny enough, my sister actually wore a uniform when she studied in the Shinzuhara Shogunate. Said it made her feel… ‘In gear,’ I think were her words. Like she was showing up for herself.”

“Is that so?” Gro’Varnak stroked his beard, amused. “To think… My son, in a uniform. An orc in pressed linen, polished buttons.” He mused aloud, before giving Malruk a gentle jostle by the shoulder. “Imagine that.”

The teen orc let out a strangled grunt, while his eyes were still averted. “… Please don’t.”

“Why not?” Gro’Varnak mused. “It might even teach you posture.”

Malruk gave a look that hovered somewhere between a pout and a glare, but he said nothing. He instead let out a tight, wordless grunt.

Gro’Varnak then withdrew his hand and let it fall to his side with a quiet pat. A breath passed, as his expression softened.

“… Well,” he continued, more quietly now, “I believe you understand why we’ve made our way here.”

The ashen-haired boy’s gaze flicked back to Malruk. The orc teen stood stiff, as though the porch boards beneath him were about to crack. He had yet to move.

“… Yeah,” Goblin Slayer said, tone softer. “I think I do.”

The chieftain’s voice dropped to something quieter— something close to reverent. “… Then I’ll let my son speak his part.”

He then turned toward Malruk with a quiet expectation; not pressing, but not retreating, as the silence stretched.

Malruk’s fingers then curled tightly against the side of his hide skirt. Then, with visible effort, he raised his gaze from the doormat. Though he looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else, he still stood his ground.

“I… I’m sorry, Ren,” he muttered at first— his voice quiet, and low. “For what happened, I mean… I got frustrated during drills. I—” he hesitated, jaw clenching before forcing himself to continue, “— I pushed you, a-and it was wrong.”

He then looked up more directly at the ashen-haired boy; brown eyes earnest, if not a little pained.

“I… I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… I lost control.” He swallowed, voice thickening slightly. “And… I hope you can forgive me… I know I was out of line.”

Goblin Slayer blinked. Not out of surprise— Malruk wasn’t the first person to offer an apology. But there was something fragile about the way he said it. Something he wasn’t expecting from someone nearly twice his size and built like a fortress wall.

He scratched his cheek with one hand and gave an awkward, sideways smile.

“… It’s fine,” he finally said. Then, with more certainty, “Really; that’s all behind me.”

Malruk’s shoulders relaxed— just barely— but it was noticeable.

Gro’Varnak’s deep voice broke the pause; his tone rich with pride. “Spoken with the spirit of a true warrior. Both of you.” He then bowed his head slightly toward the ashen-haired boy. “Thank you. For accepting my son’s apology, and for treating him with the dignity of a comrade— even after what he’s done.”

“You’re welcome,” Goblin Slayer replied; giving a faint bow of his own, as best he could without looking too stiff.

The chieftain made a small gesture to excuse himself; already shifting his weight as if preparing to step down the porch. “We’ve taken enough of your evening, I think. And the “SS Mia’s” maiden voyage sails with the sun. I imagine you’ll want to rest, before we see each other again tomorrow—”

“— Ah,” Goblin Slayer quickly raised a hand. “About that… Actually… I won’t be going to the Tempest Mountains.”

Gro’Varnak paused with a look of visible confusion on his face. “Is that so?”

The boy lowered his hand; resting them both on his hips. He looked down at his feet and then back up at the chieftain.

“It’s just going to be Rimuru, Ranga, and my sister this time. I’m… Sort of grounded.” He admitted, as his ears colored faintly. “Vi, uh… She doesn’t want me going out on any more field work until I turn thirteen.”

A long silence followed.

“… You’re serious?” Gro’Varnak asked finally.

Goblin Slayer nodded once, quietly frustrated. “Y-Yeah…”

The chieftain considered that, before letting out a deep, contemplative breath. “From what I’ve heard, you carry yourself with the calm of a seasoned fighter. As a matter of fact, I might even wager to say that you’re more capable than many grown men I’ve met.”

“That’s what I tried telling her!” The boy exclaimed, with his eyes narrowing— before quickly catching himself, and adjusting his posture again.

Gro’Varnak’s laughter came like a low drumroll— short but genuine. “Still…” He continued, with his voice lowering. “It is no small thing, what she’s asking of you. Restraint— when your instincts tell you to act— can be the hardest lesson of all.”

The chieftain gave a knowing nod, before speaking once more. “But I understand her. After nearly losing someone… It changes a person. The wound may close, but it never forgets where it came from.”

Goblin Slayer opened his mouth again, but nothing formed. He hesitated, before admitting at last, “Yeah… I know.”

Gro’Varnak then placed one massive hand gently on the boy’s shoulder. “Then take this time. Hone your blade. Train your spirit. So that when your moment comes again… No one will question your readiness.”

Goblin Slayer looked up at him— small beneath the towering frame, but no less resolute. “…Thanks,” he said quietly.

“No,” the chieftain said, while smiling. “Thank you.” He then looked to Malruk with a firm but gentle gaze. “Come, son. Perhaps by Monday, the two of you can spar again with better control.”

Malruk gave a stiff nod, before replying back with, “… Yes, Father.”

The two orcs then turned with their backs towards the front door, before stepping toward the stairs. 

However, they were halfway down when Goblin Slayer called out in a quiet, but insistent voice, “Wait—!”

Both heads turned towards him, as the ashen-haired boy shifted his weight in the doorway— visibly nervous.

“… Malruk,” Goblin Slayer said; voice steadier this time. “Do you want to stay over this weekend? It’s just going to be Shuna, the Great Sage, and I.”

Malruk blinked; stunned by the sudden offer.

The teenage orc stared at the ashen-haired boy in silence— his broad shoulders rigid, and his tusks bared slightly in confusion. “I… W-What?”

Gro’Varnak turned fully; his expression a mix of surprise and approval. “Oh?” He said. “Well now… That is a kind offer, young man— very kind of you. Friendship, after all, is the forge where warriors temper their bonds.” He then looked at his son. “What say you?”

Malruk stared at his father with a growing look of panic; his face deepening to a darker green. “Dad—”

“— I think it would be good for you,” Gro’Varnak continued with a grin. “The weekend among friends? In peaceful company?”

Malruk let out a sigh; his brown eyes darting briefly toward Goblin Slayer before glancing back at the porch railing. “… I mean, if your sister’s okay with it,” he reluctantly muttered in response; his cheeks now completely darkened. “I-I don’t want to intrude or anything…”

Goblin Slayer gave a nod. “I’ll check with her. She’s usually good about this kind of stuff.”

Gro’Varnak clapped his hands together— delighted. “Then let it be settled! We shall await your sister’s blessing!”

“Daaad…” Malruk groaned, while rubbing at his face.

“Sorry,” the chieftain replied smoothly. “I’m simply… Happy, with the direction this is all taking.” He then turned once more to Goblin Slayer. “We’ll wait here; take all the time you need, Ashta.”

Goblin Slayer gave a grateful grin. “I’ll be right back.”

He then stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind him— but not before casting a quick glance over his shoulder at the two orcs, who were still standing in the golden light of the porch.

As Goblin Slayer made his way back toward the study, he raked his hand through his bangs and muttered under his breath, “What the hell am I doing…?”

But he couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

Not even if he tried.

Chapter Text

The gentle clinking of forks against ceramic filled the dining hall, accompanied by the low hum of conversation and the soft crackle of the candelabra’s flames. 

Warm light from the brass chandelier above pooled across the polished oak surface of the elongated table; dancing off the rims of teacups and the subtle glaze of egg-drop soup. 

Vivianne sat at the head of the table; her posture relaxed, with one arm resting near her plate and the other gently cradling her teacup. 

“Malruk,” she said kindly, while setting her cup down with a soft clink against the ceramic saucer. Her voice was warm and casual, almost motherly in tone, as she glanced over the table. 

The candlelight caught gently in the curve of her braid as it draped over her shoulder. “I’ve never asked— what is it that you enjoy doing in your free time?”

There was a brief, almost imperceptible pause in the table’s rhythm. 

The orc teen, caught mid-bite with a mouthful of shrimp fried rice, froze for just a second. His brows lifted slightly— not in alarm, but in surprise— and his dark brown eyes darted toward her.

Goblin Slayer, seated to Malruk’s right, glanced sideways but said nothing. He merely continued slowly chewing, with his posture relaxed yet slightly tight in the shoulders.

Malruk blinked once, then quietly reached for his napkin; his large hand dwarfing the white cloth. He patted his mouth quickly, with his tusks brushing the edge of the fabric, before clearing his throat. 

“Ah— s-sorry,” he muttered in a low and gravelly voice. He then reached for his teacup— the porcelain looking comically delicate in his thick fingers— and took a slow, polite sip before setting it down with great care. 

“Um…” He murmured under his breath, as reached up to idly scratch the back of his neck. “Well… I, uh…” A faint flush began to creep up his neck, visible even beneath his green skin. “I-I make statues out of clay… And little figures too. Sometimes, I even make dyes to paint them.”

There was a short pause. The only sounds were the gentle clatter of silverware; the soft hiss of the candle flames, and the faint shifting of Ranga repositioning himself under the table with a snuffling sigh.

Vivianne’s expression softened with quiet intrigue. “Really? That’s wonderful,” she said with an easy smile— not condescending, just warmly surprised.

Malruk looked up at her, just for a second— as if testing the authenticity of her reaction. Then he quickly dropped his gaze again; his ears twitching slightly, as he rubbed his hands together under the table.

Rimuru raised a brow from across the table but stayed quiet— choosing to pick at his dumpling with his fork instead of speaking just yet.

Vivianne took another sip of tea before resting her hands gently in her lap. “How do you make them?” She asked, with her voice light with curiosity. “Is it like… Sculpting? Or do you use molds?”

The orc boy straightened slightly; his brows drawing inward in focus. “Um… I don’t really use molds, but I do go looking for the clay myself— it’s usually near the creeks in the forest, or ravines when the rain’s fresh. You have to dig down past the leafy stuff to get the good stuff beneath the sediment.”

Goblin Slayer glanced at him sideways again with quiet interest, though he said nothing.

Malruk, noticing but not acknowledging, went on. “You soak it first, and then you strain it through muslin or thick cloth. Get the grit and roots out. Then it’s just… Kneading it— like bread. You gotta get the air pockets out or it’ll crack when it dries.”

Gabiru, seated across the table, had been mid-sip when he paused and leaned forward slightly, with a furrowed brow raised. “You do all that yourself?”

Malruk nodded; looking slightly surprised that anyone else was listening. “Yeah. It’s not that hard once you get used to it. After that, I shape them by hand, or I use wire loops— like this kind of curved knife— for details. Sometimes I use bones or sticks too. It just depends on what I’m making.”

The orc then shifted his plate slightly so he could talk without leaning over it. “If the weather’s humid, I dry them near the stove, or sometimes the smokehouse— my dad lets me hang them from the ceiling beams, if they’re small. The paint takes longer. I make that with berries, or tree bark. Sometimes ash or resin if I want it to stick.”

As he spoke, his voice grew more steady. The hesitation fell away, replaced instead by a quiet confidence. The edge of his mouth even curled up faintly— not quite a smile, but the thought of one. “It stains your fingers for days. I like it, though. Sometimes it smells like pine, or flowers. Or like… Dirt, but the good kind.”

Vivianne then leaned her chin gently against the back of her knuckles; watching him with a warm, knowing look. “That sounds like a lot of work, but it’s clear you care about it. You really put a lot of thought into the process.”

“I guess so,” Malruk murmured, rubbing at the back of his neck again— but with a little more pride than embarrassment.

Ciel, her silver-blue hair catching a faint glimmer from the chandelier above, calmly lifted her porcelain teacup— sipping it, before setting it down with a faint clink. “… There’s an arts and crafts room on the second floor,” she said evenly. “Rimuru uses it to draw.”

At that, the slime glanced up from his plate.

He didn’t speak at first, simply narrowing his glowing yellow eyes as they landed on the teenage orc. It wasn’t quite a glare— but it wasn’t friendly either. 

It lingered a bit too long, before he finally said in a flat voice, “... Yeah. I do.”

Then, leaning back in his chair, he sighed through his nose. With deliberate slowness, he reached down, grabbed a shrimp dumpling from his plate— stuffing the entire thing into his mouth in one bite, without breaking eye contact with the orc.

Malruk shifted in his seat, before glancing downward toward his plate. Even Gabiru noticed the tension and raised a brow, but said nothing.

Ciel’s gaze flicked to Rimuru with a barely perceptible glance— cool, disapproving. Then she turned back to Malruk. “Shuna can show you the room before bed,” she said calmly. “There’s natural lighting, storage shelves, and brushes. And a mop.”

Shuna gave a soft giggle beside the slime. “Rimuru always spills ink every time he’s in there!”

“… Do not,” Rimuru mumbled around his dumpling, with his cheeks puffed.

Ciel shifted her gaze to the younger children seated around the table. “Regardless of what the night entails, bedtime is nine-thirty,” she added, her voice effortlessly commanding. “That includes you too, Gobuta.”

The white-haired goblin perked up from his plate. “Hey, no arguments here!” He said cheerfully, while flashing a grin. “I gotta get up at four anyway; I’m taking muster before sunrise.”

He then jabbed his thumb toward Gabiru, as he gave the lizardman a smug smirk. “You might be in charge of the guys with muscle, but I’m the foreman who’s actually gonna get stuff done.”

Gabiru rolled his eyes, while not bothering to hide his smirk. “Oh please. You’re just jealous of my position.”

Treyni, sitting with effortless elegance beside them, lifted her teacup with a smirk curling on her lips. “Just try not to accidentally build another barn while you and your tribe are mining the quarry, Gobuta.”

Ciel’s mouth quirked slightly, as Gabiru let out a small chuckle.

The aforementioned goblin threw his arms up, in exasperation. “Okay, that was ONE time! And I already talked to them about it; it’s not gonna happen again— I swear!”

Vivianne covered her mouth with one hand— clearly amused. “Well, even if you were only meant to build a chicken coop, I’m grateful that you and your tribe built that barn. Without it, we’d have nowhere to keep Diablo.”

At that, Rimuru lit up.

His yellow eyes went wide with delight, and he turned quickly to Goblin Slayer, who was quietly finishing a spoonful of soup.

“See…?!” Rimuru whispered in a loud, hushed voice; leaning over with a wide, excited grin. “It’s catching on…!”

Goblin Slayer blinked once. Then he glanced sideways at the slime and gave the faintest smirk— just enough for the slime to nearly giggle.

Like everyone else at the table, Gabiru had heard Rimuru as clear as day. “You and your naming games,” he muttered, but the smile tugging at his snout betrayed his amusement.

“I like naming things,” Rimuru mumbled, while poking another with his chopsticks dumpling. “It’s like… Giving it a soul.”

“… I once named a carrot,” Gobuta chimed in proudly. “Named him Carl.”

There was a beat.

“W… Why?” Asked Treyni, who was in the middle of sipping her tea delicately.

“Because Carl looked at me funny,” the white-haired goblin replied plainly.

Ciel closed her eyes briefly, inhaled slowly, and then exhaled in a practiced breath of composure.

Meanwhile, Vivianne smiled out of pity as she reached for her teacup once more— her fingers gently circling the handle. 

She looked at Malruk again; her tone still soft, still warm. “I’d love to see one of your sculptures sometime,” she said genuinely. “If you’re ever willing to share them.”

Malruk blinked— caught off guard by his teacher’s proposal. “Y-You would?”

“Of course,” Vivianne replied with a small nod. “You said you use natural dyes? Maybe next time you’re out foraging for berries or bark, you could take Ren with you.”

The ashen-haired boy blinked at the sound of his name, looking up mid-spoonful. “… Huh?”

“It might be nice. Plus, Ren needs someone to help him gather ingredients for brewing elixirs.” Vivianne added, while still smiling at the orc gently. “Who knows? You two might learn something from each other.”

Malruk glanced sideways at Goblin Slayer, unsure— but not unwilling.

“… Maybe,” the teenage orc mumbled.

Rimuru, still chewing, muttered under his breath, “Just remember to keep your hands to yourself…”

Ciel gave him a look.

He coughed, swallowed, and looked away.

The slime visibly flinched, then coughed awkwardly before swallowing his food, and looking away— shoulders hunching a little as he scooped at his rice.

Gabiru let out a scoffing breath through his snout. He rolled his eyes at Rimuru with the kind of theatrical flair that only he could manage, then leaned back in his chair with exaggerated patience. “Don’t be such a child, Rimuru,” he said, almost fondly.

Gobuta blinked at him, before leaning forward to raise a brow at him. “… Aren’t you, like, eighteen?”

“Eighteen and a half,” Gabiru said quickly, lifting a finger. “Which makes me—” He paused dramatically, looking down at the goblin beside him. “— your superior.”

Gobuta squinted at him. “That’s not what I— wait, I forgot to ask… If you’re technically the captain of the ship, does that make me your first mate?”

Gabiru snapped his fingers; suddenly energized. “Exactly! I knew you’d catch on.” He exclaimed proudly while sitting up straighter; puffing out his chest proudly, and lifting his spoon like it was a command staff. “You’re the first one who I’ll yell orders at; so start getting used to it, Gobuta.”

Ranga let out a soft, whuffing breath from beneath the table, as if in quiet disapproval.

Vivianne, who had been mid-sip of her tea, set it down delicately and chuckled. “Actually—” she said, while glancing over at the lizardman, “— a first mate is the ship’s second-in-command. They help manage the crew and make sure the captain’s orders are followed.”

Gabiru tilted his head. “That’s… What I said?”

“No, you didn’t,” Ciel argued flatly.

Shuna giggled softly behind her hand.

Gabiru then threw up his hands with a shrug. “Well, all I know is— I’m the captain! And while we’re sailing Lake Virelda, what I say goes!”

“You keep saying that,” Treyni murmured, while sipping from her own teacup.

Gabiru grinned. “And I’ll keep saying it, too!” He declared, before reaching for another generous scoop of rice, but his movement slowed. 

His eyes shifted across the table; unintentionally making eye contact with Malruk. 

The teen orc, who had been quietly eating again, paused when he felt the gaze settle on him.

Gabiru’s expression lost its bravado, as his smirk faded into something more neutral— though not unfriendly. “Speaking of which… When I spoke to your father earlier, we had a… Surprising conversation,” he said after a pause. 

The table quieted slightly, though not entirely.

Ranga gave a low snore from beneath the table, and the soft tinkle of cutlery still came from Goblin Slayer’s side of the table— but the center of attention shifted.

Malruk’s voice was quiet when he finally asked, “What… Did you two talk about?”

Gabiru leaned forward; resting his elbows on the edge of the table, with his fingers lightly interlaced. “He told me you didn’t want to come to the Tempest Mountains— said you weren’t interested.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, from Gabiru’s right, Treyni reached out and jabbed her elbow firmly into his ribs. The lizardman flinched with a sharp grunt, then looked down at her in confusion. “What?! What did I say?!”

Treyni gave him a pointed look— a silent, elegant sort of reprimand that only she could deliver while sipping tea.

Gabiru blinked again, then looked around the table, still a bit lost. “Seriously, what?!”

Malruk’s jaw shifted slightly, working through the pressure of the moment. His gaze drifted downward to his plate again; toward a small uneaten dumpling nudged against the rice. 

He seemed to study it for a moment, with the candlelight from above flickering gently across his features— tired eyes, a furrowed brow, the faintest flush of self-consciousness.

“I…” The orc teen began quietly, with his voice sounding low, and a bit scratchy. “I just don’t really find that kind of stuff interesting.” 

He then gave a small shrug— slow and deliberate— as he glanced sideways at no one in particular. “I mean… I’ve thought about it, but…”

He trailed off; his words seeming to fall short of whatever thought hadn’t fully formed in his head.

Ciel reached for her tea again. She didn’t drink— only curled her fingers gently around the warm porcelain cup. 

“… You don’t have to explain yourself if you’re uncomfortable,” she reassured calmly, before turning her head slightly; meeting the lizardman’s bewildered eyes across the table. 

That look said everything— measured, cool, and ever so slightly disappointed.

Gabiru, to his credit, raised both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright,” he murmured. “My apologies, Malruk; I didn’t mean anything by it.”

The teen orc nodded once, not quite looking up but letting the tension in his shoulders drop a bit.

“… Thank you,” he said quietly, offering the words to the lizardman.

Ciel said nothing further. Instead, she turned back toward the teenage orc— her gaze calm, her tone unchanged— as she gently slipped a hand under the table and placed it against Vivianne’s thigh in quiet reassurance.

Vivianne responded with a subtle glance, then placed her own hand atop Ciel’s and gave it a small, affirming squeeze, before she herself gave her attention to Malruk.

Then the two of them took a breath together. A slow one.

And finally— still not lifting his gaze, but no longer shrinking into himself— Malruk added, “I just don’t think it’s for me. The exploring. The traveling. All the… Expectations.”

His voice wavered; not with fear, but with the difficulty of honesty.

“… It’s not that I don’t care,” he continued, “It’s just… I feel different when I’m out there. Not in a good way. Like I’m just… Just not being the ‘me’ I want to be.”

A pause followed— gentle and quiet. No one laughed, nor did anyone fill the silence.

Even Rimuru stayed still; fidgeting only slightly as he glanced toward the orc, but didn’t speak.

It was Ciel who gave the first nod— just the faintest dip of her head, her long silvery-blue hair catching the soft golden light from the chandelier above.

Goblin Slayer, who had quietly resumed sipping his soup during the lull in conversation, stiffened when he felt something nudge his shin beneath the table. 

It was a soft, deliberate tap.

His eyes lifted toward where Vivianne sat with her hands gently folded around her teacup; the light of the chandelier and candelabra tracing the edge of her hair. 

She didn’t speak— but the look she gave him was crystal clear. With a subtle tilt of her head— a warm, but insistent arch of her brow— she gave the faintest glance toward Malruk.

The ashen-haired boy exhaled quietly through his nose and gave her a weary, sidelong look. 

Then, he turned slightly in his chair, toward the towering orc beside him, while adjusting his posture with some visible reluctance.

“… Malruk,” he said— then stopped.

The word hung there.

The teen orc turned toward him; visibly surprised, but not defensive. “… Yeah, Ren?”

Goblin Slayer opened his mouth to speak, but then became immediately aware of how quiet the table had become. 

Ciel had set down her tea. Shuna had paused mid-chew. Gabiru’s brow lifted with interest, and even Ranga gave a soft, alert huff beneath the table— as if sensing a shift in the air.

Goblin Slayer hesitated a beat too long; his throat catching. Then, somewhat flatly, he asked, “… Wanna go swimming in the lake before bed?”

Silence.

A single shrimp slipped from Rimuru’s chopsticks and dropped back onto his plate with a wet plop.

Vivianne blinked.

Ciel raised an eyebrow so high it threatened to vanish into her bangs.

Then—

“— OH, HELL YEAH!!!” Rimuru suddenly screamed from the top of his lungs, as he stood up with so much enthusiasm that his chair scraped loudly behind him. “It’s been forever since we—!”

“— Sit,” the Great Sage said without looking at him.

The word cut clean through the air.

Rimuru froze mid-gesture, his arms still raised. “S-Sorry!” He squeaked— cheeks burning— before lowering himself quickly back into his seat. The moment his backside touched the cushion, he looked around sheepishly and began sipping his tea like it was his last lifeline.

Malruk blinked, caught between confusion and amusement. “I mean…” He said slowly, with the tone of his voice shifting with something a touch softer. “Yeah, that… Sounds nice.”

He gave a small nod, and though his voice was even, the green tint on his cheeks deepened.

Vivianne and Ciel exchanged matching looks— two long-suffering women with the shared expression of mothers realizing they would be supervising damp children again tonight.

Ciel then cleared her throat; her voice composed as ever, as she announced, “You all have one hour before lights out.” She then reached for her cup. “If you finish eating—” she began, before pausing to glance sideways; just in time to catch the slime scooting his plate toward his face— chopsticks closed, and raised like a shovel. “— Without rushing, you may swim until eight-forty-five. But you will bathe afterward— no exceptions.”

Gobuta, already licking soy sauce from his fingers, gave a confused grunt. “Why not just dry off and sleep? That’s what my tribe does.”

“I have no objection to your customs,” Ciel replied without missing a beat. “However, if you intend to lie atop linens Vivianne and Shuna have spent hours washing, you will demonstrate proper hygiene.”

Gobuta deflated. “Y… Yes, Great Sage,” he acknowledged with quiet respect in his defeated voice, before picking up his spoon and stared into his soup with resigned disappointment.

Shuna, ever patient, leaned toward Malruk with a small smile and a warm gleam in her rose-colored eyes. “I made shampoo from lavender and honey yesterday,” she said sweetly. “You’ll like it! It’s gentle on the scalp and makes your hair smell like moonlit gardens!”

“What the hell does a ‘moonlit garden’ even smell like…?” Rimuru muttered in a perplexed voice— momentarily narrowing his eyes, as he tried to imagine it.

Still, the slime shook the confusion off as he reached up and ran both hands through his long, damp-looking strands with pride. “Anyway… She’s not lying though. With his good it is, there’s no way I can ever just go back to using only water. It’s like—” he sniffed dramatically at the ends of his hair “— a whole new plane of existence!”

He then turned, and saw Malruk staring awkwardly at his sudden theatrics, and blinked— his smile immediately turning sour, as he once again began glaring at the teenage orc.

“… Just don’t use it all on your big, gross hairy body.”

The table fell silent.

Shuna’s smile vanished.

Gabiru blinked once.

Treyni gave an audible inhale through her nose.

Malruk stiffened.

Even Ranga lifted his head slightly and looked up toward the slime beneath the table.

Ciel then stood slowly. 

There was no dramatic chair scrape— no snap of movement— just an elegant unfolding of cloth and precision, as her robes settled around her like moonlight catching snow.

Rimuru’s eyes widened in horror, as he realized the consequences of his actions coming to fruition, right before his very eyes. “W-Wait, wait! I-I was joking, okay?! You all know I’m just—!”

“— Don’t make a scene,” the Great Sage said calmly, while already walking around the table towards where the slime was panicking.

“I-I didn’t mean it like that!” Rimuru yelped, while beginning to stand hallways up from his chair.

It was too late.

Ciel lifted him by the shoulder; her fingers curling like iron around a soft bath toy. 

Rimuru flailed a little but couldn’t quite escape. “I’m sorry— I said I was sorry! Ciel, come on—!”

But the Great Sage only turned on her heel and began walking him briskly toward the living room.

Goblin Slayer kept his eyes on his soup; biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, as he resisted the urge to succumb to his juvenile sense of schadenfreude.

The door to the foyer closed softly behind them.

Then—

SMACK!!!

Everyone flinched.

Vivianne cleared her throat delicately, while offering a polite smile as she turned to the green-haired drayad. “So… How is work in the greenhouses coming along?”

SMACK!!!

Treyni— ever composed— sipped her tea with grace. “Surprisingly well,” she replied, while keeping her eyes on Vivianne— though the corners of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.

SMACK!!!

“We’ve been able to harvest more than expected. The soil’s holding strong, and the new trellises are supporting the heavier melons.”

SMACK!!!

“If Gobuta’s group finds enough copper ore when they travel, we’ll be able to implement that irrigation system you showed me.”

SMACK!!!

Gobuta perked up. “W-We’ll also be looking for quartz,” he added helpfully; cheeks still puffed slightly from his last bite of dumpling. “If we find good deposits, we can have the orcs refine it in their forges.”

SMACK!!!

SMACK!!!

SMACK!!!

SMACK!!!

SMACK!!!

Everyone tried not to react.

Then— finally— the sound stopped.

Footsteps padded back across the wooden floors. 

The air in the dining hall stilled as Rimuru reentered; rubbing his backside and cheeks flushed pink. 

Ciel followed behind him at a serene pace, with not a single strand of her silvery-blue hair out of place.

The slime muttered something inaudible, as he neared his spot at the table. Ciel the. gently guided him back into his chair; pulling it out and pushing it back in with casual ease.

“T-Thank you, ma’am…” Rimuru quietly murmured with stiff politeness.

“You’re welcome,” Ciel said in her usual calm tone, while settling gracefully into her seat beside Vivianne and lifting her cup again.

The table was silent for a moment.

Then, Vivianne gave a quiet snort of laughter behind her tea.

Treyni smirked. “You reap what you sow, kid,” she murmured.

Shuna chuckled behind her hand.

Meanwhile, Ranga made a contented grunt from beneath the table and shifted slightly, so Rimuru’s feet were once again nestled beside his warm flank.

Finally, Ciel set her cup down and straightened.

“Copper and iron,” she said; resuming where the conversation had left off, “will remain the top priority for mining expeditions. Copper for conductivity. Iron for structural strength. Gobuta—?”

“— R-Right!” Gobuta chimed, as he sat straighter in his seat. “We’re gonna check the southern ridge first, like how you wrote on Jura’s map! Hopefully when we find the quarry, there’ll already be copper veins exposed from erosion. If we find more, we can smelt and cast them on-site.”

“Good,” Ciel nodded. “And if you uncover quartz?”

“We’ll start separating it right away,” Gobuta said. “We’ve got mesh screens, and Shuna’s clan made us new gloves from spider silk for sifting.”

Treyni then turned toward Vivianne— her voice light, as she said, “If it all comes together… We might be able to channel fresh water into even more greenhouse by autumn.”

“That would be amazing,” Vivianne said sincerely. “The more self-sustaining green houses we can make, the better our seasonal crop rotation will be.”

“Especially once the mountain herbs come in,” Shuna added softly. “I’ve been working on a new salve recipe. Chamomile and ginger base.”

“You should show Malruk,” Vivianne said brightly, glancing at the orc with a gentle smile. “He might like learning how to make his own soaps and glazes.”

Malruk blinked. “Glazes?”

“For your figures,” Shuna chimed. “You can coat them before painting— it helps with shine and finish.”

The teen orc scratched the back of his neck, the green in his cheeks deepening again. “That… Sounds kinda cool, actually.”

Rimuru, mouth full again, glanced over at Goblin Slayer, waiting for the ashen-haired boy to look back at him, before musing aloud, “Maybe we can learn how to use dye too, huh Ren?”

Goblin Slayer nodded, while watching Malruk with a thoughtful, faint smile.

Rimuru rolled his eyes, before smirking as he sat back comfortably in his seat— as much as his sore backside would let him. “Anyway… I’m totally going to dive off the bow of the ship after—”

“— No, you’re not,” Ciel said instantly.

The slime flinched, before slumping back in clear defeat. “Y-Yes, ma’am…”

Chapter Text

A breeze whispered in from the west, rustling the high reeds near the shoreline and carrying with it the cool scent of pine and clean lakewater. The moored sails of the ‘SS Mia’ twitched faintly in their rigging— canvas creaking once before settling again. 

The tall-masted ship stood quiet and unmoving along the pier; her polished hull catching the moonlight like carved ivory. In the darkness, she seemed less a vessel and more a shrine— rooted, dignified, a floating temple given shape by wood and silence.

Vivianne sat near the very tip of the bow, with her arms tucked behind her on the cool planks. She was wrapped loosely in a pale, open-shouldered nightgown; her legs bare and her feet dangling freely above the lake. 

Her braid curled over one shoulder— catching soft moonlight in its length, as it rested against her chest. Her head tilted back toward the sky; eyes half-lidded, face still and unreadable. 

There was a calm about her posture; not quite sleepy, but quiet— thoughtful. It was the kind of stillness that came only when one had nothing left to resist.

Behind her stood Ciel, with her arms crossed lightly beneath her flowing white sleeves. Her robes— silver-threaded and trimmed with gold— shifted like paper lanterns in the breeze— catching light with each flutter. 

Her long, moon-kissed hair lifted gently as she moved one hand upward; raising it toward the stars with practiced grace.

A pulse of magic gathered in her fingers. Small orbs of light unfurled from her palm, one after another— like pearls blown from a breath— and floated outward in slow spirals. 

They hovered across the lake’s surface, swaying slightly as if moved by invisible tides— casting pale halos into the dark shallows and bathing the water in soft, enchanted glow.

Then came a splash— sharp and sudden.

The lake parted briefly, and Goblin Slayer rose from its depths— standing waist-deep with water streaming off him in silver rivulets. 

His long, ashen hair clung to his face in soaked strands, and his breath came sharp with the cold; his chest rising and falling as droplets traced down his narrow frame. 

For a moment he didn’t speak, didn’t move— only raised his arms and slicked his wet hair back with his fingers; blinking through the droplets still clinging to his lashes.

The water slapped him across the face before he’d even caught his breath.

He stumbled half a step; sputtering and blinking rapidly, as he wiped his eyes with the back of his arm. “Pff—! What the hell was that for?”

Two meters away, Rimuru stood up straighter in the water— already grinning like a devil. He was just as soaked, his bare chest gleaming under the moonlight; sky-blue hair plastered unevenly across his forehead. His arms were still slightly raised from the splash.

“That,” Rimuru announced, while pointing a dripping finger at him, “was payback!”

Goblin Slayer blinked back at him; his shoulders still squared. “… For what?”

“For laughing at me earlier,” the slime said; his voice mock-accusatory as he waded closer. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you smirking when Ciel dragged me out of the dinning room!”

“I… I didn’t laugh though,” Goblin Slayer replied flatly, though his mouth twitched. “I mean… I tried not to, at least.”

“You still smiled! I saw the corner of your mouth twitch! That still counts as laughing!”

A pause, then the younger boy tilted his head— deadpan. “So if I think something’s funny— but only on the inside— that still gives you the right to slap me with water?”

“Exactly,” Rimuru said, while giving a proud little nod. “It’s called ‘justice,’ pal!”

“… That’s not justice,” Goblin Slayer murmured, while taking a slow step forward through the water that lapped around his hips. “That’s you being petty.”

“Maybe,” Rimuru shrugged, before lowering himself into the water with a dramatic crouch. “But now that I’ve drawn first blood, you better get ready! I’m feeling greedy!”

Goblin Slayer narrowed his eyes. “… You really want to fight in the lake? Right now?”

“Oh, I was born to fight,” Rimuru declared; crouching deeper like a frog poised to pounce. “Come on, edge-lord; let’s see what you got!”

The splash came before the warning.

Rimuru lunged forward, gripping Goblin Slayer’s arm with both hands and pulling downward— trying to tip him off balance. 

The ashen-haired boy resisted immediately; feet digging into the sand beneath the surface, as he let out a low grunt and yanked his arm upward.

They twisted and grappled in the shallows— half-serious and half-laughing— their grips slipping against each other’s slick skin. 

Rimuru ducked under his friend’s arm and tried to hook a leg around him, only to be shoved away with a sudden splash that left him blinking water from his nose.

Goblin Slayer snorted under his breath; not quite laughing, but close.

“Oh, so now you’re into it?!” Rimuru wheezed as he swam back toward him; his voice strained from laughter. “You bitch!”

“Takes one to know one,” Goblin Slayer muttered, while reaching up to fix his soaked hair again. “Also, you suck at wrestling.”

“Do not!” Rimuru cried. “You just fight dirty!”

“We’re not playing a sport,” the boy said, before grabbing the slime by the wrist and trying to twist it behind his back. “There’s no rules.”

“That’s what cheaters always say— gah!” Rimuru yelped, as Goblin Slayer hooked a knee into his side— just under the ribs.

Water churned around them; limbs splashing and colliding in a clumsy flurry of grapples and shoves. Neither boy seemed particularly coordinated— but neither of them cared. 

Rimuru wheezed dramatically with every failed counterattack, while Goblin Slayer fought with a kind of cold determination undercut by the small, rare smiles that tugged at his otherwise unreadable face.

Near the shallows, Gobuta floated lazily on his back; staring up at the moons with a dazed grin. His round belly bobbed above the water like a buoy— his arms spread wide.

Then a shadow moved into view.

Malruk stood knee-deep in the water nearby; muscular arms folded stiffly across his bare, ample chest; his shoulders hunched, as though unsure whether to relax or flee. 

His shaggy dark hair was slicked back behind his ears, and a faint trail of wet body hair ran along the sides of his forearms— darker now beneath the moonlight. 

Though tall and broad-shouldered, he looked anything but relaxed. The cold glint off the water only seemed to make him more rigid.

Gobuta turned his head toward him, before paddling over a little with an awkward grin.

“Hey… Malruk, right?” He asked. “You, uh… Wanna join in? We can mess around, like them. Friendly sparring. Nothing too intense. Totally not weird.”

Malruk blinked once, his expression unreadable.

“… No thanks,” he said finally— his voice flat as stone.

Gobuta paused— grin twitching a little. “Oh… Cool. Yeah, cool, no problem. I totally get it,” he mumbled, before turning slowly away and dog-paddling back toward the shore. “Just thought I’d ask…”

He then drifted away like a rejected inner tube, muttering under his breath— something about how, “nobody ever wants to goof around with goblins.”

Malruk stood there for a long moment, with his arms still crossed. Then he exhaled softly through his nose and rubbed at the back of his neck; his ears dipping slightly in a sheepish tilt.

“… Maybe I should’ve just said ‘yes,’” Malruk muttered, half to himself; rubbing the back of his thick neck, as if trying to loosen the regret coiled in his spine.

“… You still can, you know,” the voice said softly from beside him, like a ripple catching him off guard. 

The teenage orc then turned his head just as Shuna stepped into the shallows— her bare feet slipping soundlessly into the lake’s edge. 

Her lavender-pink hair trailed behind her in damp waves— catching faint glimmers of moonlight as it clung to her back. She wore a simple wrap tied over her chest and a skirt that fluttered around her thighs— soaked halfway from the water.

Malruk straightened, while blinking at her with a puzzled expression on his face. “… I— what?”

She smiled up at him with warmth— calm and bright and utterly disarming. “I said you still can,” she repeated, while tilting her head just slightly. “There’s no rule against changing your mind.”

The orc teen shifted in place; unsure if he should fold his arms again or keep them at his sides. “I… I don’t really…” He exhaled— the breath catching halfway out. “I’m not sure if playing around like that’s really… My thing.”

Shuna giggled— not mockingly, but softly, like she already understood. “That’s okay. It’s not everybody’s thing. Some people like to watch from the edge of the pool; but that doesn’t mean they’re not part of it.”

“I… I wasn’t watching them,” Malruk muttered, though his ears twitched at the lie. “Just… Ended up nearby.”

“Coincidentally?” She asked, while nudging him lightly with her elbow.

He proceeded to give her a side glance, but regardless still didn’t deny it.

The silence that followed was a soft one— comfortably stretched by the water lapping at their waists and the low murmur of distant conversation. 

Shuna’s rose-colored eyes drifted upward, as her lashes caught the pale silver light. “… The moons are beautiful tonight,” she said at last, in a quiet, thoughtful voice.

Malruk followed her gaze.

High above, the twin orbs hovered in the velvet sky. One glowed a soft, smoldering red, like banked coals or sun-warmed stone, while the other shimmered in pale forest green— casting long threads of emerald light down onto the lake. 

Where their opposing hues touched, the sky melted into an ethereal white. It veiled the water in silver and danced gently over every ripple.

“… Yeah,” Malruk said, while almost surprised by how easily the word left him. “They really are.”

Shuna then turned her head just slightly— peeking at him from the corner of her eye. “You know,” she said, “in Shinzuharian, saying that means something.”

He blinked at her. “… Saying what?”

“That. ‘The moons are beautiful tonight,’” she said, while smiling faintly. “It’s not just a statement. In their language, it’s a way of telling someone you like them.”

Malruk stared, caught somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief. “… No kidding?”

Shuna shook her head solemnly, though the glint in her eyes betrayed her amusement. “Not even a little. It’s kind of an old poetic thing. My mother taught it to me when I was small.”

He hesitated, then asked carefully, “How do you say it?”

A small grin tugged at her lips as she placed one hand lightly on her chest. “‘Tsuki ga kirei desu ne.’”

Malruk mouthed the words to himself, then repeated them under his breath. “… Tsuki ga kirei… Desu ne?”

“That’s it,” Shuna said, eyes sparkling. “You’ve got a pretty good accent.”

He shrugged awkwardly. “It… Sounds kind of pretty.”

“It’s a soft language,” she said, while stepping a bit closer; the water rising gently along her skirt. “Lots of space in the vowels. Not like Common. In Shinzuharian, the quiet parts of a sentence matter just as much as the words.”

Malruk watched her quietly. Then, lowering his voice, asked, “So… You’re Shinzuharian?”

She tilted her head again. “My mother was. I’m from a small oni village in the southeast ridge of the woods; they’re close to the temple. Some of us still learn bits of the language. Mostly phrases, blessings, riddles— what have you.”

He nodded, while glancing toward the little white horn curving from the side of her forehead. “So then… You’re an oni, then?”

Shuna chuckled softly. “Not exactly. People call us onis, and we don’t correct them because it’s easier that way— but my people have always referred to ourselves by a different word.”

She tapped the base of her horn lightly with two fingers. “‘Ōga.’ It means ‘ogre,’ in Shinzuharian.”

Malruk’s brow furrowed. “But… You don’t look anything like an ogre.”

“I get that a lot,” she said with a laugh. “You’re probably thinking of the loud, barrel-chucking kind from the south, right? Mud-covered, green, and always shouting?”

“Exactly,” he said. “And I heard they smell like… Burnt onions.”

“Yup,” she said cheerfully. “That’s not us. We’re a little more refined, I like to think. Horns, spiritual practices, seasonal rites… You know. Less swamps, more shrines.”

Malruk studied her more closely now— the calm in her voice, and the easy confidence in her gestures. Her hair, luminous and gently disheveled, curled slightly at the ends from the water. Her single horn gleamed pale against her damp forehead.

He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve only got one horn… Is that normal?”

Shuna lifted her brows in mock offense. “Excuse you,” she said playfully. Then, she touched just above her other brow, where a faint, rounded bump sat beneath the skin. “The second one’s still growing in. You can feel it if you want.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Uh… I’m good.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, while inching closer; her voice full of teasing mischief. “Don’t pretend you’re not at least a little curious.”

He hesitated, then exhaled a breath through his nose and raised one hand. “Fine… One second.”

The orc teen then reached out; his fingers hovering for a moment, before pressing gently against the bump on her forehead. It was warm, firm, and smoother than he expected— like the surface of a river stone buried in moss.

“… Eugh,” he muttered, quickly pulling his hand back. “That… Feels weird.”

“Told you,” she giggled. “It’s like a buried pebble, right?”

“More like a seed,” he said, while flicking water from his fingers. “Like it’s just waiting to sprout.”

Shuna smiled. “I like that— a seed. That’s a nicer way to think about it than ‘awkward stub.’”

He then let out a laugh— short and surprised. It didn’t sound like much— but it was real, and the tension in his shoulders had disappeared.

Then, after a pause, he glanced sideways again. “Hey… Are the orcs in Shinzuhara different from the ones here in Eldrosvale?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Why, my mother told me once of the ones that live deep in the eastern provinces; apparently they frequent near the bamboo forests. According to what I remember about them, they don’t look anything like you.”

Malruk tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Different breed entirely. Pale body hair, weird patches of fur on their shoulders, tusks like downward-pointing spears. Some of them apparently have… Hooves.”

“… Hooves?”

Shuna nodded solemnly. “I’m fairly confident she’s called them ‘furry boars with arms,’ at least once when describing them to me.”

Malruk blinked. “That’s… Actually disgusting.”

She laughed so hard she had to brace herself against his shoulder. “Right?! She used to swear it’s true. I’m hoping she exaggerated, but…”

The teenage orc grimaced half-playfully; his chuckles growing louder, as he mused with a grin, “I dunno… Now that I’m picturing it, I kinda want to un-hear it…!”

She wiped a small tear from the corner of her eye. “Too late! You’ve got boar-men in your brain forever!”

They laughed again, and that time, the sound carried across the lake; mingling with the low splash of the waves and the rising voices near the dock.

Then came a loud shout— not angry, but panicked. 

Urgent.

“Ren— Ren, wait! C’mon man; I didn’t mean to! It’s not my fault!”

Both of them turned at once.

Out in the lake, Rimuru was flailing toward shore— sputtering and red-faced. 

Goblin Slayer was already halfway out of the water; head down, shoulders stiff, as he marched back toward the pier in rigid silence.

“I swear, it wasn’t on purpose!” The slime called, while wading after him with hands raised. “It’s just— you were really close to me, and then your thighs rubbed against mine, and then my ‘thing’ rubbed against your ‘thing,’ and then—!”

“— Rimuru,” Goblin Slayer said, voice low and dark, “stop talking about it.”

“Okay, but don’t pretend like you didn’t like it—!”

“— What did I JUST say?!”

The rest of the swimmers fell silent.

Then the laughter started.

First from Gobuta, who burst into loud snorting giggles, then from the nearby goblins, who fell over one another with howls of glee. 

Shuna was already stifling her laughter behind both palms; her eyes watering from how hard she was trying not to burst out.

Malruk just stood there, stunned. “… What was that?”

“A typical night for them,” Shuna replied; finally managing to speak through her laughter. “You get used to it!”

He looked at her, deadpan. “Are they… Always like that?”

“Yes, but they’re usually slightly less… Fruity than THAT.”

Malruk chortled at that, as he and the pink-haired oni continued to watch Rimuru still trying to chase after Goblin Slayer, all while sputtering out incoherent apologies.

Chapter Text

The Jura Temple had settled into its night rhythm.

Cicadas hummed somewhere in the dark trees beyond the open windows, and the wind had softened to a whisper, brushing against old stone arches with a hush like breath through parchment. 

Candlelight flickered gently in sconces along the halls; casting long shadows over the walls, while the scent of heated water, herbs, and worn paper filled the air from floor to floor.

On the second story, behind a door carved with a graceful leaf motif, Shuna lay half-submerged in the bath.

The tub was deep and claw-footed, set beside an arched window of clouded glass that filtered moonlight into soft beams. Steam curled up around her like gauze; catching in her lashes and clinging to her hair, which spilled over the rim of the tub in pink ribbons. 

Her pale shoulders shimmered with droplets, with her collarbone just above the waterline. A slow, contented breath left her nose as she slipped lower; the bathwater rising just beneath her chin.

She didn’t often get to indulge in solitude— not like this. Not without Rimuru crashing in, or Gobuta bursting in with a frog, or Ranga sneezing in the hallway so hard it rattled the fixtures. 

But tonight the upper floor had gone quiet. Only the temple’s heartbeat remained— the creak of rafters, the distant hum of boiling elixir upstairs, and the slow ripple of water shifting against porcelain.

The lavender and honey soap she’d made two days ago had turned the bathwater a faint amber blush. Its scent— gentle, floral, and warm— rose in waves as she lathered her arms, letting the soft suds cling to her skin like silk. 

The bar itself sat in a wooden soap tray carved into the shape of a sleeping fox; its nose just poking out from a swirl of steam.

In her hands, a little toy boat bobbed with each movement. Carved from cedar, its tiny sail was stitched from scrap linen and tied with her own thread. She’d painted the hull white and added bronze accents along the edge— mimicking the ‘SS Mia’ in miniature. 

It didn’t float perfectly straight— there was a slight list to one side— but it didn’t need to. It sailed well enough across her bath.

“Captain Gabiru,” she whispered, while nudging it forward with a fingertip, “chart a path through the water. We’ll make port at Tempest before dawn.”

The ship wobbled, coasted forward, and bumped gently against her knee.

She giggled quietly, with her eyes half-lidded. 

Outside the door, Gobuta sat with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out across the tile.

His hair was damp with lake water, and the towel around his neck had already started to dry at the ends. 

He’d brought something to pass the time: a worn comic book he’d found tucked inside a dusty wooden crate in the temple’s study. 

The cover was nearly faded out, with a red-inked hero punching a sea monster, and the title read something like ‘Blazing Thunder: Sea Hell Saga.’ Gobuta didn’t know what a saga was, but the word sounded exciting.

He opened it and stared hard at the first panel.

It showed the hero standing on a cliff, wind blowing through his hair, with text in a jagged speech bubble: “No more running. This ends now.”

Gobuta squinted at the letters. His lips moved slowly as he tried to sound it out. “… Nuh… Nor… Moor… Roon… Run-ning…? Th… Thihs… Ends… En’s…”

He grunted, then flipped the page and stared at the next panel. It was easier: a giant sea monster was swatting at boats.

“… Okay,” he muttered, nodding. “I’m getting it.”

He turned the page again, then frowned. There were more words now. Two characters talking in a dark cave. One was saying something about “destiny” or maybe “dentistry.” It was hard to tell.

Gobuta closed the comic for a second— hugging it against his knees with a frustrated little huff. “Why can’t pictures just… Talk more?” He muttered.

Then, hearing something shift inside the washroom, he perked up.

“Shuna?” He asked through the door, before knocking twice with his knuckles. “You done yet?”

“No,” came her relaxed voice from within; muffled by steam and distance. “Not yet.”

“…Oh. Okay.”

He then slouched back down and resumed squinting at page three— the sea monster was roaring.

Downstairs, on the first floor, the older of the two washrooms remained dimly lit by a single lantern swaying from a hook. The scent of heated tile and faint minerals clung to the air. Steam coiled lazily from the deep clay tub at the center of the room, which was glazed in pale blue and flecked with the dark kiss of age.

Malruk sat stiff-backed in the water; his muscular arms folded across his ample chest. The tub was just wide enough to stretch his legs in, but he hadn’t. 

His knees were drawn close, and his elbows rested awkwardly on the rim as if unsure where else to go. The water came up to his ribs and shimmered faintly in the dim light.

The soap rested untouched on the small dish beside him.

It was hers— the same lavender and honey blend Shuna had made. Ciel had left bars for each of them, lined neatly in a basket. The teenage orc had picked his up, turned it in his hand for a while, and then set it down again.

He stared at it.

The soap smelled nice. Warm, soft. Familiar in a way that made his chest tighten.

And yet, he didn’t reach for it.

His eyes dropped to the hair across his forearms— thicker than it used to be. His chest, too, had grown rougher. He remembered when it was smooth— when he still found it oddly comforting to be mistaken as the chieftain’s daughter. 

But that was years ago. 

Now his shoulders felt too wide. His limbs, too dense. His reflection in the water always looked like someone bigger. Someone heavier.

Someone alien.

He shifted slightly; the surface rippled, as he lowered one hand into the water and scrubbed his arm— not with the soap, just his palm. 

It didn’t help. The skin still felt wrong— uneven. 

He rubbed harder. Not enough to leave a mark, but close. A faint dark flushed beneath his green skin.

Rimuru’s voice echoed, unwanted, in the back of his mind. 

‘Just don’t use it all on your big, gross hairy body.’

The Great Sage had made the slime apologize in front of everyone after dinner, and to Malruk’s face. The slime had looked sorry— truly sorry. But the words had still landed where they hurt most.

Malruk leaned forward slightly, to rest his arms on his knees. His breath came quiet, with his nose low above the water.

The soap still sat there.

Unmoved.

He sighed.

Above them, the third-story windows glowed faintly; the only lit room left in the upper wing. Pale blue light spilled across the high hallway carpet; cast through thick alchemical glass, and shimmered like frost where it touched the floor. 

Inside the alchemy room, the air smelled of crushed herbs and the faint sharpness of old parchment. The walls were lined with tall cabinets of stained wood; each labeled in fine script with sigils and runes from multiple languages— some faded, some glowing faintly in the dark. 

Bundles of dried flora hung from hooks near the rafters: mintspires, glimmercaps, coils of sunroot, and twigs of charcoaled myrrh. The room pulsed with low energy, with magicule crystals embedded in the floor softly, humming beneath their boots.

At the center of the room stood a sturdy worktable made of blackened oak. A small cast iron pot simmered atop a rune-etched brass trivet; the liquid within turned a translucent, as it glowed cyan softly. 

The two magicule crystals they’d added earlier had begun to turn transparent now; their inner light dimming as their essence was drawn fully into the elixir.

Goblin Slayer sat nearby in a small wooden chair, with one leg crossed neatly over the other, and his posture straight despite the lateness of the hour. 

The chair itself looked just slightly too small for someone his age, but he made no complaint. Resting in his lap was a thick, leather-bound alchemy log with curled edges and Jura’s unmistakable handwriting scribbled across its yellowed pages. 

His dusty rose eyes narrowed as he slowly read through a recipe— his lips moving just barely.

“… Quarter sprig of frostleaf— steep until steam turns clear,” he murmured barely above a breath. He kept squinting, while dragging his gaze across the lines. “Then… Then add— what does that even say?” He asked quietly under his breath, as his brow furrowed deeper. “Glymshade? No. Grimshade? Gildshade…?”

He huffed lightly through his nose and turned the page with care; revealing another set of handwritten instructions scrawled in a more rushed hand— as though Jura had written it late into a sleepless night. 

The boy’s gaze flicked back toward the pot— checking its hue and the gentle bubbling.

Across the room, Rimuru was finishing his part of the work. He stood in front of the tall shelf of ingredients; one arm cradling three glass jars tightly against his chest, while the fourth— containing glimmercaps— rested in his free hand. 

The mushrooms inside were pale and bulbous, with their caps freckled with soft blue specks like paint on porcelain. He carefully slid the jar into its proper spot; fitting it between two bundles of dried jorun bark and a velvet pouch of ghostmoss.

He wore a cheerful smile, but his expression flickered with something quieter— a reluctance just barely visible in the tightness of his brows. As he stepped back from the shelf, his yellow eyes drifted sideways.

Goblin Slayer hadn’t noticed yet.

Rimuru hesitated, holding the other jars closer.

“… So, about what happened in the water,” he said, gently.

The sound cut softly through the warm haze of the room.

Goblin Slayer stiffened slightly.

He paused mid-sentence, eyes lifting from the log. His fingers lingered at the edge of the page for a second longer than needed, before he reached down to pull a small homemade bookmark from his tunic pocket— a folded scrap of blue ribbon with faint stitching— and placed it between the pages. 

He shut the book with a muted thud, then carefully set it down on the small table beside his chair.

His jaw shifted.

Then, without turning, he looked over toward Rimuru— their eyes meeting. “… What about it?” He asked, uneasily.

His voice was quiet, but there was a stiffness to it. The kind that came not from anger— but from knowing the moment had been coming for a while.

Rimuru looked back at him for a second, with his lips parted slightly. He didn’t speak right away, as his throat bobbed with a swallow.

Then he smiled— small, sheepish, a little lopsided— and shrugged one shoulder, while shifting the jars in his grip.

“I just…” He turned again to face the shelf, before sliding the jar of moonberries gently into place. “I just wanted you to know that I really didn’t mean to… Y’know. Push my ‘thing’ against yours. That wasn’t— like— it wasn’t on purpose or anything.”

The slime exhaled and reached up onto the tips of his toes to try placing the bitterroot jar back on the upper shelf; his other hand still hugging the frostleaf and breathmoss tightly.

“I don’t want you thinking I’m some kind of creep or something,” he muttered, while reaching up further and straining as the jar clicked into its spot.

Goblin Slayer was silent for a moment.

Then, watching Rimuru’s back— the way his shoulders were drawn slightly inward, not in fear, but in worry— he let out a quiet sigh.

“… That never crossed my mind,” he said.

The slime’s posture then eased; shoulders lowering just slightly as his hand hovered over the final shelf.

The ashen-haired boy then added— a little more clearly, “I knew it was an accident.”

Rimuru the. glanced over his shoulder— visibly relieved. “… Thanks, Ren.”

He placed the last jar— frostleaf— onto the middle shelf— freeing his arms at last. He gave the cabinet a little pat, dusted off his fingers, and turned slowly, leaning lightly against it.

“Still,” he said, “I shouldn’t’ve joked around afterward. Especially not about the… Boner stuff.”

Goblin Slayer shook his head faintly. “No…” He said.

Rimuru blinked. “No?”

“I mean,” Goblin Slayer continued, while rubbing the side of his neck, “I should be the one apologizing.”

Rimuru tilted his head— visibly confused.

The ashen-haired boy didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he looked down, then slowly back up.

“I… I shouldn’t have acted like I was ashamed,” he said, voice quiet, but steady. “I don’t want you to think I find you… Unattractive, or unappealing.”

Rimuru’s expression shifted.

His cheeks pinkened just slightly, eyes widening in quiet surprise before narrowing in a playful smile. “Oh, is that right?” The slime replied— his voice laced with teasing.

Goblin Slayer froze.

Rimuru then stepped forward a bit, while folding his arms with casual swagger. “So does that mean you do find me hot?”

Goblin Slayer’s mouth opened. “I— what—? That’s not—”

“— Oh, come on,” Rimuru said, while his yellow eyes sparkled. “You just said I wasn’t unappealing.”

“That’s not the same thing as—!”

“— I mean,” Rimuru grinned, while stepping even closer, “I felt you get hard, Ren. Even if it was an accident, your dick sure as hell found me attractive.”

“T-That’s not true!” Goblin Slayer said quickly, though his blush had deepened, high across his cheeks now. “That— didn’t happen. I didn’t—”

“— It totally did, and you know,” Rimuru said, while laughing.

Goblin Slayer gritted his teeth, then turned his head with a huff. “… S-Shut up.”

The slime’s grin only widened, as he walked to the back of the ashen-haired boy’s chair; leaning forward with his elbows resting playfully across the backrest. 

His chin hovered just behind the boy’s head, close enough to tease— but not quite touch.

“What was it you just said?” Rimuru asked, while still smirking. “About not being ashamed?”

Goblin Slayer narrowed his eyes but didn’t look up.

His heart fluttered in his chest, uncomfortable but giddy— like he’d drunk hot tea too fast. “I…” He muttered slowly, “… I didn’t mind it.”

Rimuru blinked. “Hmm?”

Goblin Slayer then glanced up at him with a slight scowl. “I said I didn’t mind it, okay?” There was a pause, before the boy looked away again. “I… I only got upset because there were people around…”

Rimuru chuckled softly.

“Well,” he said, nudging closer, “there’s no one else around now…” His voice lowered just slightly, eyes glinting. “… Same goes for your bedroom, too.”

Goblin Slayer flushed red to the tips of his ears. “K-Keep dreaming, Rimuru…”

The slime chortled at that, before leaning in further. “What’s the matter, ‘Goblin Slayer?’” He teased. “Scared?”

Suddenly, the ashen-haired boy sat up. He rose slowly; uncrossing his legs and squaring his shoulders as he turned to face Rimuru.

Their eyes met, level and unwavering.

“… Nothing scares me,” he said.

“Is that right now?” The slime challenged; his grin growing wider, as his cheeks began growing flushed. “… Wanna prove it?”

The potion behind them hissed once more; the surface shifting slightly as it reached the final stage of its brew.

But neither of them looked away.

Down on the second floor, Gobuta was still at it.

The goblin lay sprawled on his belly across the plush rug just outside the second-floor washroom door; his chin propped up on his fists, and legs kicking lazily in the air behind him. 

His damp white-hair had started to dry in clumps, curling upward slightly where the towel had mussed it. The comic book was still open in front of him— ‘Blazing Thunder: Sea Hell Saga’— and though his eyes were locked on the illustrations, his lips moved silently— trying once again to sound out a single line of dialogue.

“Un… Leash… The… Fury of…Th…Thunder Tide…?”

He finished murmuring before blinking; looking up at the panel of the caped hero punching a kraken.

“… Does it say ‘fury,’ or ‘furry?’”

His long ear suddenly twitched, as a soft shift of air reached him, followed by the faint scuff of footsteps descending the stairs. 

Gobuta then looked over his shoulder, to see Goblin Slayer making his way down from the third floor; his expression taut and serious, face flushed from cheek to ear. His steps were brisk, purposefully even, and his hands were clenched faintly at his sides.

Just behind him came Rimuru— equally red-faced, but grinning like he’d just won a bet he hadn’t told anyone about. His eyes sparkled, while his pace was unhurried; almost floating down the steps with arms behind his head like he hadn’t a care in the world.

Gobuta blinked again. “Oh— hey!” He chirped, while raising a hand at the two boys. “You guys done alchemifying, or whatever?”

The ashen-haired boy gave a stiff nod. “We are.”

“Yup,” the slime added smoothly, while trailing just behind. “Now we’re moving on to… Other mixtures.”

Goblin Slayer turned over his shoulder to shoot Rimuru a glaring look— his jaw clenched.

Gobuta tilted his head, not catching it. “Huh? Oh— cool, cool. So… You guys heading to bed now?” He asked, while pointing with his thumb over his shoulder— toward the hallway that led to the temple bedrooms. “Already took your baths and everything, so makes sense if you are.”

Rimuru hummed. “Mhm. Some of us might be getting… Extra cozy tonight.”

Goblin Slayer groaned lowly; his eye twitched as he tensed, while stopping mid-step.

Rimuru snickered— clearly pleased with himself.

Gobuta furrowed his brow, while trying to parse that. “Oh, well— I’ll, uh, I’ll try to keep it down when I go to bed too then.”

“Good idea,” the slime said with a grin. “I’ll be sure to be quiet too.”

It was then that the ashen-haired boy looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him.

They soon passed by Gobuta; their footsteps padding lightly along the smooth wooden floor, as they turned into the hallway. The oil lanterns lining the corridor flickered as they moved past— casting long twin shadows on the wall.

Gobuta blinked after them, brow furrowed.

He turned back to his comic to flip to the next page. The sea monster was now holding a lighthouse in its jaws. Thunder clouds were gathering overhead. It looked awesome.

He stared at it for a few seconds, then glanced back toward the hallway.

“… Wait a minute.” His eyes narrowed faintly. “… Rimuru doesn’t sleep there.”

A long beat of silence passed.

“…Did he just go into Ren’s room?” He asked himself, while scratching his head. “… Huh.”

Then, after a moment, he smiled again, shrugged, and went back to puzzling through panel thirteen, where Thunderguts was now throwing an anchor like a discus.

“Hope Ren has an extra blanket,” Gobuta mumbled.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

The sun crested the jagged peaks of the Tempest Mountains— spilling golden warmth down their mist-veiled slopes and across the forested lowlands below. Lake Virelda caught the morning light in shimmering handfuls, and scattered it like coins across the wind-brushed surface. 

Every crest, ripple, and idle current became liquid glass— brilliant, weightless, and slow-moving beneath the great white hull of the ‘SS Mia,’ whose broad sails remained furled for now, breathing in the breeze like slumbering wings.

The polished wood beneath the vessel’s quarterdeck gleamed like sun-bleached bone, and a moveable staircase— locked into place beside the pier— had already been wheeled in by several therians and lizardmen; the latter working quickly with practiced ease. 

Goblins chatted in small clusters— gesturing toward supply crates with rope-bound checklists— while a pair of dryads carried bundles of sweetroot and cloverwine aboard the vessel; brushing past a crew of towering orcs carrying rolled maps and iron-banded barrels.

Footsteps padded down on the trimmed grass yard leading to the pier.

Goblin Slayer walked near the front of the group: his sleeveless black shirt catching the morning light in brief flashes where the threads stretched against his shoulders. 

At his side strode Rimuru, dressed in a long cerulean coat with pale fur lining and a thick beige scarf bundled around his neck. His hair shimmered in the sun like starlight on glacier ice— catching the wind in loose tufts.

Behind them came Vivianne and Ciel, walking side by side at a slower pace; their steps relaxed yet heavy with the coming farewell. The brunette’s travel cloak fluttered faintly behind her, while the Great Sage moved with her usual quiet poise; the golden trim of her long white robes swaying like drifting embroidery. 

Ranga trotted a few paces ahead with his tail wagging steadily; the breeze ruffling his midnight fur as he let out an idle chuff of contentment.

Shuna and Malruk followed behind the women. The warm summer air clung to their clothes, but the breeze rolling in from the lake tempered it; carrying with it the scent of pine, sun-warmed dockwood, and distant cooking spices from one of the harbor stalls.

“… This sucks,” Rimuru muttered again, while adjusting the weight of his duffel as it bumped against his leg with each step. His scarf fluttered in the lake breeze, and the long tails of his blue coat trailed behind him like a cape. “Can’t believe you’re not coming with us, Ren. Whoever came up with that idea is dumb.”

He looked over at Goblin Slayer, his expression half-pouting, half-sincere.

The ashen-haired boy didn’t answer right away. He just kept his eyes on the glinting waves ahead; jaw tight, the warm sun catching along the edge of his sleeveless black shirt. The early morning breeze combed gently through his long bangs.

Behind them, Vivianne let out a soft breath through her nose.

Ciel, who walked dutifully at her side, shifted Vivianne’s travel bag to her other shoulder. The brown leather case looked heavy, but the spirit bore it with ease. 

Her golden eyes then flicked toward Rimuru— narrowing faintly in warning, as she tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

Rimuru blinked, as he glanced over at her. “… Huh?”

Ciel’s expression didn’t change, but the meaning was unmistakable.

The slime’s gaze darted forward. “Oh… Right. Sorry.” He then cleared his throat and flashed a grin at Goblin Slayer— this one a touch softer. “I mean… I’m really gonna miss hanging out with you.”

Goblin Slayer glanced sideways at him. His mouth quirked, just barely. “You could’ve led with that.”

Ranga, trotting ahead of the group, let out a quiet, rumbling laugh. His thick white tail swept side to side like a lazy metronome, ears perked and alert as he kept an eye on the loading crews along the dock. The breeze stirred the fur around his shoulders; sunlight catching along the dark blue star nestled beneath his horn.

“If it makes you feel better,” Rimuru said, while puffing his cheeks out as he adjusted the strap of his bag, “I’ll try to bring you back something cool. You know— souvenir stuff. Ancient relic, maybe a sword. Something Jura never found.”

“It wasn’t that Jura never found them, it’s just that he never brought back relics,” Ciel said plainly. “He gathered materials. He was not a collector.”

Vivianne smiled faintly at that, the breeze playing with the edges of her cloak. “He didn’t need to bring anything back. He already had something priceless waiting here.”

Ciel blinked, as her steps slowed. “… Me?” She asked softly.

Vivianne turned her head, smiling wider now— her cheeks a little pink. “Who else?”

Ciel’s lips parted, and for a moment, her expression— usually cool and composed— became quietly undone. Her heart, though incorporeal in nature, fluttered like a moth’s wings. She looked away for a second, then looked back— eyes luminous.

Ranga turned his head to glance over his shoulder at them; his ears twitching at the silence.

Vivianne reached out and took Ciel’s hand— her fingers threading through her pale ones.

Behind them, Shuna let out an excited gasp. “Awww! That’s so romantic!” She squealed. “You’re like, totally perfect together.”

Malruk raised a brow at her, then looked toward the two women. He blinked, then nodded faintly. “Yeah… You’re good together, Miss Vi.”

Goblin Slayer and Rimuru then simultaneously turned to look behind them just in time to see Ciel and Vivianne walking hand-in-hand.

Without missing a beat, Rimuru blurted, “Wait, wait— Ciel, are you SCREWING Ren’s sister?!”

Vivianne almost tripped. Ciel froze like a statue, her face going crimson.

Goblin Slayer’s jaw clenched. “R-Rimuru—”

The Great Sage turned her gaze slowly, dangerously, toward the slime. “Should I begin questioning the relationship between you and YOUR Ashta?” She asked threateningly— her voice like cold silver drawn across stone.

Rimuru’s pupils shrank. “N-Nope! Moving on!” He said quickly, before spinning forward— clamming up immediately, as he clutched his bag tighter.

Malruk tilted his head, while blinking slowly. “… Wait, what?”

Shuna smiled serenely. “I think it’s sweet that you two are such good friends, Rimuru!”

Goblin Slayer sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

They soon reached the edge of the pier just as the final boarding bell rang out from the quarterdeck of the ‘SS Mia,’ echoing across the lake.

Vivianne turned to face her brother, her hand still held gently in Ciel’s. “Well… This is it.”

The Great Sage then stepped forward and passed the bag to her— holding it with both hands for a moment longer than necessary— while her golden eyes searched the brunette’s brown gaze. “Take care of yourself,” she said softly.

Vivianne nodded. “I will.” She replied sweetly, before reaching her free hand up to tuck a stray silver-blue strand behind Ciel’s ear. “Just keep an eye on Ren. You’re the only one who can keep him from falling into a lake or getting into trouble.”

Ciel smiled quietly. “You have my word, Vivianne. He’ll be fine.”

That’s when Vivianne leaned forward to kiss her.

The moment was brief— but not rushed.

When she pulled away, they lingered close— foreheads nearly touching.

“… I love you,” Ciel whispered.

“And I love you more,” Vivianne replied, before turning to her brother.

Goblin Slayer stepped forward, silent for a beat, before wrapping his arms around her.

“I’ll be alright,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she whispered back. “But I still worry… I always will.”

“I love you, Vi.”

She kissed the top of his head. “I love you too, Ren.”

Then— Shuna came sprinting in and leapt into Vivianne’s arms.

“Can I come to your wedding?!” She squealed.

Vivianne almost dropped her luggage. “Wh-What?”

“I always get to be the flower girl when someone gets married! But I also want to plan it! And officiate! I’m a shrine maiden, so it’d count!”

Vivianne’s eyes went wide. “Shuna—” she laughed, while fully flustered. “If… And when… That ever happens, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.”

“Yaaaay!”

Malruk then stepped forward after the brunette set the excited oni down on; the teenage orc awkwardly clearing his throat, before saying, “Hope the trip’s good for you, Miss Vi.”

Vivianne offered him a kind smile. “Thank you, Malruk. And be sure to use this time to bond with my brother, alright?”

Rimuru snorted. “Yeah, just not too much though, okay?”

Ciel gave him another look.

Malruk blinked. “I’m not gonna— uh— c-complicate anything.”

“Better not,” Rimuru muttered, while side-eying him.

Rimuru then turned back to the ashen-haired boy. There was a brief pause— he wanted to lean in. But there were too many eyes; so instead, the slime cleared his throat and extended his hand.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll see you later, alligator.”

Goblin Slayer smirked, taking it. “See you in a while, crocodile.”

Vivianne, Rimuru, and Ranga turned toward the gangway. The direwolf pup took the lead; his tail wagging proudly, and his large paws making hollow clunks on the boarding stairs. 

The brunette followed close behind him; her steps calm, wind catching in the hem of her cloak, while the slime gave one last dramatic wave before following with his bag slung lazily over his shoulder.

From the edge of the pier, Goblin Slayer, Ciel, Shuna, and Malruk stood among the crowd of villagers and forest dwellers— watching as the ship began to stir and ready itself to sail.

Vivianne turned at the top of the stairs.

She lifted her hand.

And waved.

The ship’s wheel gleamed with oil and polish, its brass fittings catching the glint of morning sun as the ‘SS Mia’ bobbed gently in the water. 

At the helm stood Gabiru— one foot planted confidently atop a wooden step, his arms folded across his chest, and cape fluttering behind him as if the wind answered only to him. His chin was high; his eyes narrowed toward the shimmering east, where the Tempest Mountains pierced the horizon like jagged emerald spears rising out of mist and morning cloud.

Just beside him stood his first mate: Gobuta. 

The goblin’s mop of white hair barely reached the height of Gabiru’s belt buckle, but he stood with determined posture nonetheless— shoulders square, hands clasped behind his back, as if doing everything possible to mimic the lizardman’s proud bearing.

Below the quarterdeck, crew members had begun gathering along the main deck— dryads and lizardmen and goblins alike, all dressed in breezy linens and light leathers suited for a journey across the lake. 

Some leaned against coiled ropes, others wiped their palms nervously, but all looked toward the helm as Gabiru took a step forward and spun on his heel to face them.

“Comrades of the SS Mia!” The lizardman called out; his voice booming with practiced flair. “Brothers of blade, rope, and spirit! Lend me your ears and your loyalty— for today, we sail!”

Gobuta groaned quietly but kept smiling.

Gabiru then raised one hand into the air and struck a dramatic pose— cape fluttering once more. “You have all volunteered for this most noble of undertakings: the maiden voyage of this proud vessel across the sacred waters of Lake Virelda, to the southern base of the Tempest Mountains!”

There was light applause and a few scattered cheers.

“As you all know well by now, I am your Captain— Gabiru the Gallant!” He announced with his chest puffed. “The most illustrious warrior-navigator to ever grace these planks!”

He proceeded to then gesture grandly to his right; nearly smacking Gobuta with his tail in the process.

“And this— this brave, loyal soul— is my First Mate, Gobuta! If you have any questions, complaints, or grievances of mortal urgency, direct them all to him.” He smirked. “And should any of you feel inclined to mutiny, well! Gobuta will be the first to seize the helm and usher in a new reign of terror!”

Gabiru laughed at his own joke. Gobuta did not.

“… He’s kidding,” the white-haired goblin added quickly, while nervously glancing left and right. “P-Please don’t start a mutiny.”

With a light wave of his clawed hand, Gabiru brushed aside the levity and stood straighter; his expression sharpening as he gripped the railing.

“But all jokes aside… This voyage marks the beginning of something greater than any of us. We are the first to chart this course— the first to lay eyes upon Jura’s Quarry since the days of its founder. And we go not as conquerors… But as builders.”

Vivianne, standing among the gathered crew near the mainmast, folded her arms and listened with a small smile.

“Our mission,” Gabiru continued, “is to locate that quarry and assess its viability as a staging ground for continued expansion along the southern face of the Tempest Mountains. The Great Sage herself has informed us that the quarry is the most stable location to begin construction— raw materials, shelter from the elements, proximity to the central ridgeline.”

He paused— his tail curling thoughtfully.

“Using those resources, we will fashion tools, shelters, and perhaps in time, raise a full-scale facility. I will remain to oversee its construction, while Lady Vivianne will return to the Jura Temple to expand our community, and work along the Great Sage to build our very own school grounds, and modern infrastructure.”

Gabiru looked down at her— lowering his voice with something nearing reverence. “Two branches… Of the same mighty tree.”

Vivianne offered a graceful nod and stepped forward. “I look forward to working with all of you,” she said warmly, with her voice carrying across the deck. “This journey will test us, but I know we’ll all return stronger— and with something worth sharing with all our neighbors.”

Ciel, still among the crowd onshore, smiled quietly, her golden eyes proud.

Gabiru clapped his hands. “First Mate!”

Gobuta gave a dramatic salute. “Aye-aye Captain!”

Gabiru blinked at him. “… Did you just say ‘aye-aye?’”

“Yup!”

“… Aye-aye?”

“Yup.”

“… Are we pirates now?”

Gobuta grinned. “Technically, we’re more like privateers than pirates… I think?”

Gabiru sighed through his nose. “Very well. Privateers, then. Begin the voyage.”

Gobuta’s grin widened as he turned to the goblin boatswain’s mates gathered near the ropes and pulleys.

“Unmoor the lines!” He barked. “Raise the fenders and ready the sails!”

The goblins jumped into action— ropes creaked, metal clinked, and the thick cords holding the ship fast to the dock began to fall slack. 

One goblin scurried up the rigging with surprising agility, while another turned the capstan with his full body weight— grunting rhythmically.

On the starboard side, dryads unfurled the mainsail with a practiced sweep of their arms; the white cloth catching the breeze and billowing with a satisfying snap.

“Boatswain’s mates!” Gobuta called— his voice surprisingly commanding. “Sails ready?”

“Ready, sir!”

“Quarterdeck clear?”

“Clear!”

“Wind status— pending!”

“… P-Pending?” Gabiru muttered, with hand on the wheel. “What does that even mean?”

The Great Sage, with her long sleeves lifting slightly in the breeze, raised her arm from among the crowd on the dock.

With a delicate, almost ceremonial motion, she whispered an incantation. Her golden eyes flashed gently— and a warm gust of wind swelled from behind the ship.

The sails surged full, as the ‘SS Mia’ shuddered forward; pushed gently from the dock, and guided by the wind itself.

The crowd onshore broke into cheers.

“Wind: acquired!” Gobuta declared.

Gabiru cracked a dazzling grin and planted both hands on the wheel.

“Then let us begin!” He called, eyes fixed on the rising mountains. “Full course for the Tempest Mountains!”

Rimuru leaned on the railing— watching the dock begin to drift away. “Man,” he said, smiling softly, “this is actually kinda awesome.”

Vivianne stood beside him; wind in her hair, her eyes fixed back on her brother and Ciel— now growing smaller by the second on the pier. “Yeah,” she whispered. “It really is.”

Gabiru leaned into the wheel and struck one final pose— his cape billowing out behind him, his frills lifted with pride, tail high as the ship gained speed.

“The world will remember this day,” he declared, “as the day the ‘SS Mia’ sailed into legend!”

From the shore, the ship had become a pale silhouette in motion; sails swollen with wind, gliding smoothly across the expanse of Lake Virelda. Her crew stood assembled on deck; flags raised, voices raised higher. 

The mission had begun.

Ciel stood tall at the edge of the pier, her silvery-blue hair dancing softly in the breeze. Her golden eyes stayed fixed on the ship as it faded into the horizon. 

The last gust of wind from her spell had long since passed, yet its echo still lingered in the air.

Beside her stood Shuna, her pink head bowed and her hands clasped firmly before her. Her expression was one of utter focus and humility. 

Behind her stood Malruk, silent but watchful, and a few steps to the right, Goblin Slayer stood rigid with his hands in his pockets— quietly enduring the moment.

Shuna’s voice lifted gently, a melodic whisper into the wind: 

“O Earth Mother, gentle and ever-watching— Keeper of harvest, of war, and of love.
Hear your daughter’s voice, humbly given.
Let your spirit guide our kin,
Those who ride the lake’s mirrored path,
On winds born from your breath.”

“… Watch over their oars, their sails, their steps.
Let the mountains not curse them,
Let the deep not swallow them.
Let the hidden stone, Jura’s Quarry,
Open its arms and speak its name.”

“… Give strength to their hands, and courage to their hearts.
Let no shadow twist their way,
Let no greed take root in their minds.
And when their work is done,
Bring them home to us.
In health. In peace.
In the light of your embrace.”

“… So I pray, and so may it be.”

“… Amen.”

As Shuna finished her prayer, the breeze stirred again— slow and reverent, like it had been listening. It caught the edge of her sleeves and the hem of her skirt— lifting them gently before slipping away across the lake, and carrying her final whispered syllables toward the drifting sails of the ‘SS Mia.’

Ciel dipped her head in quiet reverence. Her hand, warm and grounding, came to rest upon Shuna’s shoulder. “… Amen,” she murmured; the word soft but clear.

Malruk exhaled slowly and bowed his head; his arms folding neatly over his chest in a gesture that looked surprisingly graceful for someone so broad. “… Amen,” he echoed, more breath than voice.

Goblin Slayer hesitated. His gaze shifted, flicking briefly between the others before dropping to the ground, as his hands sank deeper into his pockets. 

For a moment, it felt like the prayer still lingered in the air, heavy and sacred. He didn’t really believe in gods. He barely believed in prayers.

But—

“… Amen,” he muttered under his breath.

It felt dry in his mouth. A word said out of courtesy rather than conviction. But he caught Ciel glancing sideways at him anyway— her golden eyes unreadable, save for the faint trace of warmth she offered him. 

He gave her the smallest of nods in return.

And so the ‘SS Mia’ continued to shrink in the distance; the sails now a white sliver on the water, framed by the faraway peaks of the Tempest Mountains. 

The wind had stilled, as the crowd behind them began to disperse; chatter and footsteps filling the space where reverence had once been.

And then, like a crack of sunlight splitting a cloud, Shuna turned on her heel and gasped, “I know what I want to do today!”

Goblin Slayer blinked, as Malruk stiffened.

“I finally finished weaving that spider silk I spun!” She beamed, while bouncing on the balls of her feet. “It’s so shiny and soft— I want to make something summery. Something elegant!”

She then turned toward the teenage orc, with rose-colored eyes that practically sparkled. “Malruk,” she sang, with her fingers lacing behind her back, “can I make you a dress?”

The orc blinked at her.

“A… A dress?” he repeated; unsure if he’d heard right.

“A dress, yes!” Shuna chirped, while taking a step closer. “You’d look so, so pretty in one. Don’t give me that look— your cheeks are already doing half the work!”

Goblin Slayer coughed into his sleeve— failing to hide his snort. 

Malruk whipped a glance his way, and the ashen-haired boy immediately looked in another direction— suddenly very interested in a patch of grass near his boot.

“You’ve got kind eyes, a strong jaw, and a beautiful neck,” Shuna continued, while now circling the teenage orc, as though measuring him with her gaze. “A lavender sash would look amazing on you. Maybe something with puffed sleeves… Elbow-length gloves… A little ribbon to match?”

Malruk’s voice was barely a breath. “I… I don’t know…”

She didn’t even slow. “And we’d do just a little mascara to bring out your lashes— oh, your eyes would pop. A bit of blush for those cheekbones— yes, that face, right there— that’s the one! And a rose-pink lip gloss. Maybe a silver choker too…”

Shuna stepped back and framed him with her fingers— index and thumbs creating overlapping corners, as she squinted one eye and stuck out her tongue in concentration.

“… You’d look absolutely gorgeous.”

Malruk stared at the ground, visibly overwhelmed. 

His hand came up instinctively to shield half his face, but Goblin Slayer saw the tremble in his fingers. Not from embarrassment— but from something quieter. 

Something buried; a strange, flickering ache that sat just beneath the surface.

Goblin Slayer continued to watch him— watched the way Malruk’s body leaned slightly toward the idea, even as his words tried to shrink away from it. 

The image Shuna had painted took root in the boy’s mind uninvited: the curvaceous orc in flowing silk, the fabric clinging softly to his silhouette, his expression serene and radiant. Not just beautiful— right. 

Shuna glanced at him suddenly. “Well? Don’t you think so, Ren?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His ears were burning, but he didn’t look away. “… I do,” he said at last— voice quiet. “I think… Malruk would look very beautiful.”

That’s when the orc’s brown eyes widened through his fingers. He lowered his hand slightly, gaze flickering up just enough to meet the ashen-haired boy’s. 

The orc’s face was a mess of color— cheeks burning, lips slightly parted, eyes unsure. But he didn’t look angry; he looked vulnerable.

And something in Goblin Slayer’s chest gave another strange twist.

Ciel raised an eyebrow, then let out a short, amused snort. “Hmph. I’d watch your words, Ren. If Rimuru catches you saying that, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

Goblin Slayer groaned into his hand. “Please don’t remind me.”

Shuna then clapped her hands together. “I’m going to have it all sketched out by lunchtime!” She declared. “Ribbons, lace, maybe even some shimmer dye! This is gonna be so fun!”

Malruk looked like he might faint. “I… Don’t know if I—”

“— We can take our time,” Shuna said cheerfully. “Only if you want to.”

The quiet reassurance in her voice seemed to ease something in the teenage orc’s shoulders. He then gave a small nod— more to himself than to anyone else.

They turned to look out over the lake again. The ship was now barely more than a speck. The breeze had returned; just enough to stir their hair and brush against their clothes.

Ciel then stretched her arms lazily over her head. “Regardless of today’s pursuits,” she said, squinting up at the sky. “The sun’s getting stronger, and the last thing any of you need is to get sunburnt.”

Goblin Slayer tilted his head back. “It’s not that bad—”

“— You say that now,” Ciel muttered, “but your shoulders are ghost-pale. Let’s go.”

She proceeded to turn on her heel, before beginning to walk back toward the stone steps leading into the Jura Temple.

Shuna skipped ahead— humming to herself, and already narrating her imaginary wardrobe plans.

Goblin Slayer started walking beside Malruk.

They were quiet for a long moment— until Goblin Slayer spoke, his voice low. “… She was right, you know.”

Malruk looked over, confused. “About what?”

“The dress. It’d suit you.”

The orc’s breath hitched. “… Thanks,” Malruk said softly, glancing away. His voice sounded different— like it came from somewhere deeper. “That… Means more than you think.”

The ashen-haired boy didn’t press. He just nodded and walked beside him; shoulders aligned, a quiet rhythm in their steps.

Behind them, the lake sparkled.

And somewhere, far beyond the horizon, the ‘SS Mia’ pressed forward.

Chapter Text

The barn doors groaned open— spilling sunlight into the musky stillness within.

A dense wave of warmth curled out from the interior; humid and old, tinged faintly with hay, aged wood, and the acrid smell of magic slowly fermenting over time. Dust caught the golden beams like suspended ash, and the light filtered through the upper windows in slanted shafts— slicing across the loft and second story catwalks.

Ciel stood in the threshold; motionless, but watching.

The air within shimmered slightly. The source of the distortion lay at the heart of the barn— a ritual circle etched in white salt, its outermost rim bordered by countless prayer scripts inked into the floorboards in divine blood. The symbol carved at the center was no ordinary pentagram, but an older star— symmetrical, foreign, and pulsing faintly with a slow, breath-like rhythm.

At its center, suspended like an imprisoned fallen angel, hung a being wrapped in a cocoon of shimmering webs— his form slouched but composed, as though waiting for a performance to begin. 

The threads glowed with suppressed power, warding glyphs gleaming in dark crimson where they had been inscribed using dried blood— Ciel’s handiwork. 

His light skin caught the light as though lacquered. Though bound, his posture was unbothered, elegant even. He reclined within his trap like a prince waiting for his host to offer wine; his eyes were molten gold, and nested within black sclera that gave nothing away.

Even in bonds, even wrapped in divine-etched silk and blood-anchored warding threads, the demon smiled.

Soon, he spoke; low, rich, and far too pleased with himself. “Ah… If it isn’t the Great Sage of Jura.”

Ciel stood beneath the arched entry of the barn. She didn’t move; not even the faintest tilt of the head.

He went on, undeterred. “Am I correct in assuming,” he drawled with a velvet lilt, “that the ‘SS Mia’ has set sail?”

She gave no answer; not immediately. Her golden gaze sharpened under the weight of his question— narrowing not with doubt, but calculation.

The silence between them stretched. Long enough to become awkward, had either of them been lesser.

Then, with a motion so fluid it felt like thought incarnate, Ciel lifted her hand and flicked two fingers outward.

Behind her, the great barn doors shuddered closed.

The light vanished like a breath sucked from the world, and with it, the soft rustling of the wind. The barn fell into a half-lit gloom; the only illumination now coming from the vertical blinds high above and the soft glow of the ritual circle burned into the wooden floor.

Still, she said nothing.

Her first step echoed faintly through the barn, then another; the soles of her sandals brushing over wood.

“… It has,” she said quietly at last, but so clear it cut through the stillness like the ring of tempered steel.

Diablo chuckled, as if her answer had confirmed some private joke. “Then may Lady Ashta sail in peace,” he intoned mockingly, while lifting his brow. “A favorable wind at her back, and waters calm beneath.” He then tilted his head— letting it rest lightly against the cocoon’s fibers. “And as for the rest of the crew? Mmm… I suppose I wish them no harm. If only for her sake.”

The Great Sage did not reply. Her jaw had tensed, her expression unmoved, but her fists tightened at her sides.

The demon noticed, of course.

“I care little for them, you see,” he said. “Or that sprightly little slime with too much optimism, and not enough caution. What was his name again? Rimuru?”

The name lingered on his tongue like something unpleasant.

“But Lady Ashta,” he added, smiling again. “Even monsters such as I can have attachments, you know.”

She stopped at the edge of the salt ring.

“… Is that what you call it?” Ciel asked in a low voice; her tone smooth, like a blade polished to a mirror. “… Attachment? You think that’s endearing?”

“I think,” Diablo replied, while shrugging inside his silken bindings, “it earns me attention. And that, at the very least, is valuable.” He then let his gaze drift around the barn in mock inspection. “No arranging reptile. No slime with a hero complex. Not even that brutish mongrel watchdog. It’s just you and me. It makes one wonder what sort of conversation you’re hoping to have.”

“You mistake me,” Ciel said, her voice like distant thunder, “for someone who came to humor you.”

He laughed— softly, like a man enjoying wine rather than a prisoner awaiting sentence. “Not humor. No, no… Never that. You don’t strike me as the humorous type, Great Sage of Jura. You came for something; that much is obvious.”

“I came,” she said, stepping closer, “for answers.” Her robes stirred slightly as she moved— quiet fabric in a quieter space. She stopped just shy of the warding line. “And I will have them. You will tell me what you know about the Dark Sect, and you will not waste my time with riddles or flirtation. I am not Vivianne.”

“No,” he mused, watching her now with real interest. “No, you’re not. She’d have brought tea and offered questions like gifts. You bring demands.”

“You don’t get the choice of how you’re questioned,” Ciel retorted.

A flicker passed through his face— small, but noticeable. His smirk dimmed, if only slightly. For the first time, wariness bled into the cracks of his practiced amusement.

“… You already know I care nothing for this forest and its denizens,” he said slowly, while watching her patiently. “You knew that the moment you and that spider bound me here.”

“I don’t need you to care about the forest,” Ciel replied coldly. “But you do care about her, and she’s tied to it.”

Though Diablo’s expression didn’t change, something beneath it shifted. “… You’re awfully confident of that.”

“I’m not.” She stated flatly; her gaze never wavering. “But I’ve seen the look of a man who’s afraid to lose someone. And I see it now.”

A beat of silence passed.

Then, Diablo looked away— just briefly. His smile returned, but it was thinner.

“… I told Lady Ashta what she needed to know,” he said at last— his voice pitched lower. “Enough to keep this land safe from the Dark Sect. What more could possibly interest you?”

Ciel raised her hand again— slowly. She swept it outward in a wide, graceful arc, like a teacher gesturing to a map no one else could see.

“War isn’t a storm you predict,” she said. “It’s a fire; it spreads wherever the wind chooses.”

He tilted his head again, seeming faintly intrigued. “Ah… So that’s what you’re interested in. We speak now of the broader horizon.”

“I’ve seen kingdoms in wartime,” Ciel continued in a steady, but sharp voice. “I watched men kill for grain and gold. I watched fathers offer their daughters to enemies in exchange for the possibility of mercy. I’ve seen hope burn to ash before it even took root.”

Her tone remained calm, but her words struck like arrows.

“I was four when the soldiers came. I remember my mother screaming— holding me as she ran through outside these very walls. I saw her die in front of me, as I was subjugated to the smoke of the old forest that was razed to the ground.”

Diablo didn’t smile this time.

“I still remember my family dying while screaming,” she said. “My neighbors were murdered. I’ve seen what ambition looks like when it’s wearing a crown.”

There was no anger in her voice— only gravity.

“You may believe the Dark Sect’s war begins and ends with the Pendragon throne, and we were but a stepping stone,” she said. “You’re wrong. A war like this doesn’t stop when it wins. It stops when there’s nothing left to take.”

Diablo stared at her in silence.

And then, softly, almost reverently, he said, “So you think the Dark Sect as a spark, while the world around you is dry kindling?”

A long silence followed. 

The sound of a beam settling somewhere above creaked softly. Dust drifted like pollen through the filtered light.

When Diablo finally spoke again, his voice was toned down. “So what is it you fear most, Great Sage of Jura? That the Dark Sect will burning this forest to the roots? Or that someone more… Civilized, will?”

Ciel’s mouth didn’t move, but her eyes darkened.

Diablo’s hum was soft, but no less ominous for it. He tilted his head against the cocoon's strands as if contemplating a painting on a wall no one else could see.

“Those within the Pendragon Empire have always been ambitious,” he said at last. “That is no revelation. What is interesting… Is how your little forest community has grown, with only minimal disruptions.”

Ciel said nothing, though expression remained cool— her gaze never leaving him.

He smiled faintly. “Jura has built more than shelter. He’s built the foundation for what true peaceful unity looks like; you and Lady Ashta are building upon that. However, the more you build upon his foundation, the larger its shadow shall cast.”

Ciel’s voice came like ice cracking, as she impatiently ordered, “Say what you mean.”

He sighed— mock-patient. “What I mean to say is that it’s only a matter of time before Eldrosvale turns its full attention this way. Your governance is new, and your autonomy is fragile. As for your recent projects…” He lifted his brows. “Well, the Jura Temple no longer resembles a mere lake-side house, does it? The more you construct on your own accord, the more it looks like rebellion in the making.”

A sliver of disdain flickered in Ciel’s gaze. “Do you truly believe educating and providing for those who come from surviving families of the Great War amounts to sedition?”

“Not I,” he replied easily. “But the House of Viremont— the royal family who rule over Eldrosvale— will seldom share your nuance. They’ll see a growing settlement hoarding resources, and not paying taxes. Possible trade disruption, with that ship of yours. Alternative loyalties forming on land they still consider their own.”

Ciel said nothing at first. Her golden eyes lingered on him— not probing, not questioning, but watching like one might a venomous insect preserved in glass. 

“Legally— if such a word matters to the jaws of conquest— the Great Jura Forest still falls within Eldrosvale’s frontier demesne; under the name “Darrinworth Forest,”” Diablo said, while reclining in the cocoon, as though he weren’t bound in blood-woven silk. “Perhaps you’ve redrawn the map. But have they?”

Ciel’s brow arched, slow and deliberate. “… You speak as if they've already made a claim to go to war with us.”

“They haven’t had to— not yet, at least,” he countered, as his molten gold eyes glimmered faintly. “Expansion always draws attention, and attention always invites action. It’s not a matter of ‘if’ they’ll come to intrude— it’s ‘when.’”

Ciel regarded him for a long moment— silent, but not still. Her focus had drifted inward at first, toward distant memories of war and consequence, but now it returned to him with a clarity sharpened by distaste. 

“… And yet,” she said finally, her voice cool and clean as polished glass, “the only malevolent force to have crossed into this forest since Jura gave it life again… Has been you.”

Diablo didn’t flinch, but something behind his eyes adjusted— like a curtain being drawn halfway, measuring shadow.

“So… Who gave the order?” She asked. 

The question lingered— not a challenge, not a demand, but an invitation to see how he’d maneuver around it.

He waited a beat; then, with a slight tilt of his head, he spoke. 

“… Baobhan Sith.”

Ciel blinked once— pondering the name, before shaking her head, as she said in a low voice, “That… That name means nothing to me.”

He gave a quiet, humorless chuckle, with one corner of his mouth lifting faintly. “I thought it might not; her kind is what you'd call “forgotten by time.” Truthfully, I myself know little of her.”

“Yet, you obeyed her, nonetheless,” she said finally.

“I obeyed the voice I couldn’t afford to ignore,” he replied sharply; his sardonic mask slipping for a mere second, before he slowly recovered with the same composed poise he had since Ciel walked in. 

Diablo’s voice then dipped lower, as he continued, “Baobhan delivers messages, not decisions. Her orders come sealed in silence, and provide no explanation; at least none she’s ever shared with us.”

The Great Saga then stepped forward at a pace; her white robes brushing the floor, and her gaze narrowing. “… Then, where do her messages come from?”

He hesitated— not with doubt, but with distaste.

“… From the Veiled One,” he said, the name landing like ash in the air. “I’ve never met her, nor have I ever seen her face. But her influence winds through the Dark Sect like smoke through rafters. Baobhan relays her words to those of us labeled ‘executives.’”

Ciel tilted her head slightly. “So, you’re part of a hierarchy then?”

“Of sorts,” Diablo muttered. “An arrangement born not from order— but conquest. When Veiled One and her knights forced their way into the Abyss, those of us not killed were given titles. They called mine ‘Executive,’ but it only ever meant ‘expendable.’”

“And the one who reigns above them all?” She asked. “Is it the Demon Lord?”

He gave a small, empty laugh. “Ah… Yes— the figurehead. We’re told he rules the Dark Sect; that all things pass through his will. But no one’s seen him, as far as anyone can prove. I don’t know if he’s a person, a myth, or just a title held up to make the orders feel ordained.”

Ciel’s arms folded, slow and deliberate. “So then… You were fine with following a command from someone who may not even exist?”

Diablo met her eyes, before explaining to her in a sincere voice, “In the Abyss, that’s not unusual. Rumors have longer reigns than kings.”

A silence passed between them that was filled only by the faint creak of timber and the shimmer of the ward’s hum.

“… You mentioned the Veiled One having multiple knights underneath her,” Ciel said, in a low voice— breaking the stillness between them. “Who are they?”

“Ah, yes; her own “Knights of the Roundtable.”” Diablo replied, as his tone shifted again— slightly wearier, and less guarded. “The Veiled One commands three knights; that much, at least, is whispered openly. Like I’ve said, Baobhan Sith is one of them— she is her messenger.”

He then shifted against the webbing, as though trying to shrug off a memory. “The second is called Barghest. I’ve never seen her, but I’ve heard the aftermath. She’s not a strategist in the traditional sense. She’s the axe they swing when something needs to be erased. She oversees campaigns… And punishments.”

Ciel’s gaze flicked upward. “Punishments?”

“Traitors. Dissenters. Failures.” He said, as his voice flattened. “She finds them, and returns them. What happens after… No one really speaks of. Most assume death. But I’ve heard worse; screams that echo back from the Abyss like they're still burning.”

Ciel considered him for a moment; the lack of empathy she held towards demons made itself apparent, by her cold demeanor, as she soon asked him, “Who’s the third knight?”

His expression shifted— something faint and reluctant in the curve of his mouth.

“… Mélusine,” he said quietly.

The name felt colder than the others, though the Great Sage still showed no visible signs of recognition.

“She doesn’t leave the Abyss,” he continued. “Not since she stepped foot into it. Some claim she was originally born inside it, but used to be something else entirely. Others say that she’s the one who keeps the Veiled One’s secrets buried. All I know is… Those who are summoned to her don’t return.”

Ciel didn’t interrupt. She, instead let him continue— watching the shifts in his face.

“Mélusine is the end of all arguments,” he added with a bitter twist. “She serves when others question; she erases what outlives its usefulness.”

Then, softer, and half to himself, he mused, “There's actually a pattern to all of this, if you haven’t already noticed.”

Ciel raised an eyebrow, before dryly asking him, “And what might that pattern be?”

“Each of them,” Diablo went on, “serves a function: one delivers messages, one carries them out, and one erases what came before. Everything you need to override one existence with another.”

Ciel took a moment to lament on the primordial’s words; though she still found herself unable to care for his plight, the danger that the Veiled One and her three knights presented was quite alarming. “… Has anyone ever tried to resist?”

The question came softly— but it hit like an iron spike.

Diablo gave a slow breath through his nose. “Once. A faction— considerably large, as they were bold— tried to splinter off. Believed the Veiled One was bluffing. They thought the knights could be challenged.”

He paused— allowing for the weight to settle.

“An entire rebellion, made up of thirty or so percent, I’d say, of all of the survivors within the Abyss… And they lasted all but approximately five seconds against the four of them,” he said dryly. “Six, if you count the part where some of them tried to run.”

Ciel’s expression held still, but her posture shifted— subtle, composed, not with pity or sentiment, but something quieter. Understanding, perhaps; recognition of a truth too bleak to be dramatized.

“So then… The Abyss now unifies itself not through purpose,” she murmured, “but through fear.”

Diablo inclined his head, with a wry smile brushing the corners of his mouth. “And necessity. But yes— fear most of all. A bitter glue, but effective; far more than any oath ever spoken aloud.”

Her chin rose slightly, with her golden eyes narrowing. “… Even you?”

“Especially me,” he said in a low voice, tinged with fatigue. “Which is precisely why I want to see the Dark Sect fall. They bind through dread… But I do not wish to be bound.”

She took a step forward— unhurried, but deliberate. Not to menace him, but to close the distance in thought. The glow from the ward shimmered at the hem of her robe, gilding its edges in soft firelight.

“If that’s true,” she said, voice cool but calm, “then answer me clearly: why did the Dark Sect turn its gaze toward the Great Jura Forest? What did they stand to gain?”

Diablo’s eyes searched hers for a long moment. He didn’t deflect, nor did he stall. When he spoke, it was with a quiet resignation.

“I… I wasn’t given a reason,” he said. “Only a command; the kind that comes with no room for interpretation. ‘Conquer the forest; bring them to heel.’ That was all.”

Ciel remained silent, but her gaze shifted— studying him, dissecting his tone, his posture, his breath. She searched for cracks in his explanation, though she found none.

At last, her gaze dropped to the salt-ring etched into the barn floor— the barrier that held him pinned in a web of ancient bindings. 

Then, with a slow inhale, her eyes rose again to meet his. “… What else can you tell me?”

His voice grew quieter; not weaker, but unguarded.

“… I now believe that it was never about conquest,” he said. “Not the forest. Not its borders. Not its tribes. I suspect now that I was sent not to claim land, but to trespass across something more delicate. To push at the edge of something fragile. Maybe to deliver a message, or to become one.”

He leaned forward then, just slightly— enough for the barrier to pulse faintly against his skin. A thin thread of scorched silk rose into the air.

“So allow me to ask, Great Sage of Jura,” he murmured. “Does Lady Ashta understand the kind of sanctuary she’s building? One that promises peace without the prerequisite of power? One that dares to exist in a world that devours anything that refuses to play its game?”

Ciel blinked once— slowly, and deliberately— but said nothing.

Diablo eased back again— not in submission, but like someone relinquishing a burden that had weighed on his spine far too long.

“I hold no illusions,” he said. “I know what I am. I know the blood I’ve spilled and the chains I’ve helped forge. But if I was sent here not to occupy land, but to expose your weaknesses… If my presence was meant to unravel something beneath your unity…”

His voice tapered for a moment— then steadied.

“… Then maybe it was never the forest they wanted. Maybe it was her dream.”

Ciel’s brow lowered slightly, and with it— her tone sharpened. “You dare make presumptions towards a vision you were sent to destroy?”

“I do more than merely dare to make presumptions of it,” Diablo replied, in an unwavering voice. “I offer to be its shield, if I’m allowed.”

The edge in her gaze did not soften. Suspicion steeped into the very way she looked at him— folding itself around her words like the hilt of a blade.

“I take it then that this is a transaction,” she said quietly. “What do you want in return?”

His answer came without pause.

“Sanctuary. Not just for myself, but for those who followed me as well.”

Her expression didn’t shift. “You mean the “Black Numbers?””

He inclined his head. “Yes. Demons, born of the Abyss. Marked by it, yes. But they chose me— not the Veiled One, not the cloaked figure that leads the Dark Sect. Me.”

Her arms folded with slow deliberation— her sleeves rustling faintly. “And each of them carries a past soaked in blood,” she said. “None are innocent.”

“They’re not,” Diablo answered. “But they’re loyal to me. And now that I’ve failed them, I fear that I’m one way or the other, the Dark Sect will set their sights on them— not to use them, but to make an example.”

Her eyes narrowed further. “So this is no alliance. It’s a plea for survival.”

“No,” he said in a softer tone. “It’s a pact. In return for shelter, we offer strength. Not empty allegiance— real contribution. Seasoned tacticians. Commanders. Trainers. Soldiers. And make no mistake, Great Sage of Jura— the threats against this forest haven’t begun in earnest. They will come. From the Pendragon Empire, to the Dark Sect, and from all other forces that see Lady Ashta’s dream as a challenge to their power— to their ideal status quo.”

He paused, while watching her. “You will need allies,” he said. “Even if you don’t want them.”

Ciel’s gaze turned inward for a moment— her expression unreadable. “… And if I say we can protect ourselves?” She asked, almost idly.

He allowed a breath of a smile— faint, hollowed by fatigue. “Then I’d say you either don’t see the scale of what’s coming… Or you’ve convinced yourself not to.”

Ciel said nothing.

Her silence hung sharp between them— not hesitant, but calculated. She had not softened, not shifted, and yet something behind her eyes measured him differently now.

Diablo let that silence stretch a moment longer before speaking again; his voice quieter than before— firm, but stripped of pretense.

“… I’m not asking you for your forgiveness,” he said. “That would be an insult. To you, to her, to everything I’ve done.”

The Great Sage’s expression remained unreadable, though her gaze narrowed slightly. She studied his face not for guilt, but for truth— how it lived behind the weariness in his eyes, or whether it lived there at all.

Finally, her voice came, low and steady. “… Then more is it that you’re asking for?”

He met her gaze without hesitation. A beat passed between them before he answered— not abruptly, but as if weighing the exact shape of every word.

“… Consent,” he said. “To serve freely in a cause of my own choosing… Not one shackled to threat or obligation. A place where my existence isn’t treated as a blight.”

His voice held no arrogance— only clarity. But then, his eyes dropped slightly; not in defeat, but as if following a thought inward.

“… And if I may be permitted one more request,” he added. “Let me stay near her.”

Ciel’s posture stiffened, and when she spoke; her words came edged like polished steel. “She is not yours.”

“I know,” he said without blinking. “I have no claim on her, nor would I dare pretend I should.”

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice softened with a kind of reverence rarely heard from creatures born of shadow.

“But she saw me,” he said. “Not the name I wear, not the title, not the wall I’ve built around the hollow thing inside of me. She saw me— as I am— and she didn’t turn away.”

He let the words settle for a breath; the memory flickering behind his eyes like a fragile warmth trying to hold against the cold.

“Even after what I did to her brother… She didn’t meet me with hate. She offered things that I’ve thought had long since died in this world— mercy, and forgiveness. As though she believed… I could still choose differently.”

His eyes closed briefly; not to retreat, but to shield something raw from the air between them.

“I… I don’t need her trust,” he said quietly. “I don’t ask to walk beside her, or for her to look my way again. But if she’s truly building something gentler— something meant to endure beyond fear— then let me be the blade that bars the door when cruelty comes knocking.”

The silence returned— not empty this time, but full. Full of something fragile, ancient, and unspoken.

“… Demonkind has never known the warmth of divine light,” he went on, slower now. “The sacred consumes us. The holy rejects us; even sunlight feels like a thing meant for others.”

He proceeded to swallow; his voice growing thinner— not from weakness, but memory.

“But what lives in her soul… It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t sanctify or destroy. It mends. She speaks like hope is real— like it matters.”

His lips curved—just  faintly. Not a smile of satisfaction, nor charm. Something softer, and grateful.

“I never imagined I’d envy the warmth of a soul,” he murmured. “Not until I met Lady Ashta.”

Ciel’s expression did not break— but something flickered, deep behind her gaze. Not jealousy, nor warmth, but something heavier; the weight of trust, sharpened by duty.

At last, her voice came— quiet, but edged with command.

“… If Vivianne and I accept this pact,” she said, “you will be bound by it. Betray it, even once, and I will not wait for an explanation.”

Diablo bowed his head— not with mockery or flattery, but the stillness of acceptance.

“Then I will give you no cause.”

She then turned from him; the hem of her robe brushing against the salted circle as she stepped toward the barn’s heavy doors.

But after two steps, she stopped.

“… And hear me clearly,” she said, as her voice deepened— deadly in its calm. “If you so much as raise a hand against her— or against anyone in this forest— I will not spare your name. I will unmake you, so utterly that even memory will lose you.”

“… Understood,” he said, with a cautious, under meaningful tone in his voice.

She then moved again, and the morning light greeted her as she reached the threshold. The wood of the door stood open— light slanting through it like the last promise of something still possible.

She lingered there just a moment longer, before turning only slightly to glance back at him over her shoulder. 

“… You are not trusted,” she said. “And I do not forgive you.”

Her golden eyes narrowed.

“But you may yet prove necessary.”

Then she stepped into the pasture, just beyond the front yard of the Jura Temple.

The door groaned shut behind her, and the barn fell quiet once more. The wards pulsed faintly in the dark— humming against the floor like the heartbeat of something still deciding what to become.

Diablo sat still, alone in the dim silence.

He did not smile, but his shoulders eased, and the breath he released came not from relief, but from recognition.

And in a whisper— so low it scarcely reached his own ears—he bowed his head and breathed,
“… Thank you.”

Chapter Text

The sun outside pressed gently against the pale curtains— filtering into the room with the muted gold of a morning nearing its end. Shadows gathered in the corners like dozing cats, while the light stretched itself comfortably across the soft clutter of Shuna’s bedroom. 

Books leaned in haphazard stacks beside the bed, feathers and pressed flowers clung to twine above the altar, and the faint scent of lavender, ink, and last night’s tea lingered in the air like something sacred and well-loved.

Malruk stood in the middle of the room— awkward, tense, and thoroughly out of place. His muscular arms stuck stiffly out to either side; his green cheeks dark with embarrassment, as Shuna fluttered around him like a particularly cheerful tailor sprite. 

The white summer dress clung gently to his wide frame— flowing past the tops of his stockings and skimming the edge of his thighs. A white bow sat crooked in his messy black hair— tugging his bangs low across his forehead, as if trying to hide him from the room itself.

He was staring— intently, silently— at the tapestry hung above the altar.

“… Who’s that?” He asked in a low voice— nodding toward the black-ink depiction of the young oni woman in ceremonial robes.

Shuna didn’t look up. “Hold still, I’m marking your waistline,” she muttered around the measuring tape looped at her wrist and the push pins tucked neatly into her mouth.

She then stepped in close, pulled the tape snug, then smiled faintly. “… You really do have a beautiful figure,” she added cheerfully. “So curvy… I’m honestly a little jealous.”

Malruk twitched— just a little— but didn’t respond. His ears had gone dark, and he looked like he might rather be anywhere else. Shuna grinned quietly and moved on.

She then reached for her scissors next and frowned when the metal barely made a dent in the silk’s edge. With a murmured enchantment, the blades shimmered faintly— reinforced with magic— and only then did they begin to slice through the tightly woven spider silk.

Malruk watched her crouch and hop gently around him— moving with surprising grace in her socks across the sun-dappled floor. She cut along the skirt’s hem, snipping away stray threads, adjusting a fold here, a seam there. 

The scissors clicked gently through the quiet.

“… That’s my mother,” she said at last, nodding toward the tapestry without pausing her work. “That’s what she looked like when she was forty. My father had that made as a gift when they first started courting.”

“Really?” Malruk blinked. “That’s… Neat. The most sentimental thing my old man ever gave my mom was her own bed.”

The scissors stopped, mid-snip.

Shuna blinked, before looking up slightly. “… Does she sleep separately from him?”

“Yeah,” Malruk replied with a small chuckle, while adjusting the way he stood. “She’s got her own quarters.”

Shuna tilted her head, clearly curious—but not unkindly. “Is that… Normal?”

He gave a soft shrug, watching her return to snipping fabric near the hem of his skirt. “Not really, I guess; but it is where I’m from.”

Her eyes flicked back up. “And where in the forest are you from?”

“The Ashfang stronghold; north of the red rock ravine,” Malruk said, while lowering his arms slightly and flexing his fingers. “Biggest, and the only orc clan in the woods. My father’s chieftain, so that means his family gets the throne— including anyone who he chooses to marry.”

“Oh, so then… I take it your mother mother isn’t the only wife he has?” Shuna asked softly, while rising to her feet.

He nodded. “She’s but one of thirty-six.”

Shuna’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak.

“She used to be his favorite,” he said, with his voice lowering slightly. “But… That changed. One of the newer wives gave him twins a few winters ago, and well— my father’s always been proud of strong bloodlines.”

He didn’t sound bitter, just tired— detached, almost, like it was just another detail of orc life.

“That… Doesn’t seem very fair,” Shuna murmured, while adjusting the folds at his waist with care.

“It’s not.” He replied with a faint smile. “But tradition doesn’t ask if it’s fair; it just expects you to follow it.”

She folded her arms lightly. “So the chieftain just… Have as many women as he chooses?”

“Basically.” Malruk shifted slightly under her gaze. “The strongest male wins the right to all women within the stronghold. It’s… Part of how power is passed; the chieftain gets to stay in power, until eventually one of his sons slays him in battle, and gets to be the new chieftain.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but something about her eyes narrowed— just slightly. “… And what about the women already in his family?” She asked carefully. “His mother? His sisters?”

“Oh— no, no, not like that,” Malruk said quickly— suddenly wide-eyed. “I mean, thank the gods, that’s one of those… Very, very old traditions we decided not to keep.” He winced as the words left him. “No orc these days in their right mind would follow a man who… Uh, y’know— is quite literally a ‘motherfucker.’”

There was a pause— brief, but undeniably awkward.

Then Shuna pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. A faint blush rose on her cheeks. “That’s… Good to know.”

Malruk covered his face with one hand. “Sorry,” he groaned, with his brown eyes darting toward the floor. “I forgot how young you are… I shouldn’t be saying that kind stuff in front of you.”

Shuna then let out a soft giggle, before shaking her head. “It’s quite alright; though, I do appreciate the consideration.” She said, as she slipped the first glove off his arm and turned it inside out to check the seams. “Besides… I already know about the ‘birds and the bees,’ and I’ve spent enough time around Rimuru to have heard plenty of swear words.”

“… Thank the gods,” Malruk muttered under his breath, while visibly relaxing. He then continued to watch her work in silence; his ample chest slowly rising and falling, as the soft sounds of her scissors and thread filled the air. 

The second glove took shape beneath her fingers— smooth, precise, and made with a care he wasn't used to receiving. 

The sun through the curtains filtered in golden beams across the room— catching the soft sheen of the spider silk stretched over his arms. He flexed his fingers once, awkwardly, and relaxed again.

He didn’t say much, but the silence between them didn’t ask for words.

Then Shuna’s hands stilled.

She froze, mid-trim, with her fingers gently holding the silk just below his elbow. Her rose-colored eyes drifted up— not to the glove, but to his face. Her expression shifted— softening in a way that wasn’t teasing or prying.

Her head tilted slightly. “… If you were a girl,” she asked quietly, “what would your name be?”

Malruk blinked hard, as his jaw tensed. 

The question hit him like a gust of wind, and he didn’t know where to look. His eyes darted from the loom to the altar, then finally down toward the floor again.

The green in his cheeks deepened even more than they already had.

Shuna instantly straightened. “I-I’m sorry,” she said quickly, while pulling her hands back and clutching the scissors to her chest. “That was too personal. I didn’t mean to—”

“— N-No.” Malruk’s voice broke a little. “It’s… It’s fine.”

He reached up to rub the back of his neck, before exhaling; the noise sounded almost like a whimper— something small and uncertain that slipped out despite himself.

“… That’s a good question,” he mumbled, as he glanced up at her— just once— and gave a crooked, shy little smile. His tusks caught the light, but there was no pride behind them, just a quiet, hesitant honesty.

“…What would you think if I told you I’ve actually thought about that?” He asked in a soft, low voice. “More times than I probably should’ve, actually…” 

Shuna didn’t answer right away, though her gaze softened as she stepped away. Malruk watched her cross the room to the loom beside the rocking chair, where she picked up a roll of spider silk she’d spun earlier— pale, shimmering, still faintly warm from the sunbeam it had rested in.

She brought it to her worktable, sat down with care, and unspooled a length of fabric. After snipping a clean strip, she began threading her needle. 

Malruk flushed again, his dark-green cheeks deepening in color as he watched her guide the needle through the silk. Her stitches were small and precise; each one pulled tight with practiced care. 

Though she focused on the collar in her lap, her softened expression betrayed a quiet swirl of thought behind her eyes.

“… I’m not really sure what you’re feeling, Malruk,” she said at last, in a gentle, but steady voice. “I’ve never gone through something like it, and I don’t want to pretend I know what to say.”

Malruk blinked, caught off guard by her honesty, while Shuna’s eyes stayed on the collar; her fingers pausing briefly on the thread.

“I don’t know if there’s a name for it, or a right way to talk about it… But I do know when someone’s trying hard just to be themselves, and I know when that takes guts.”

Malruk shifted his stance a little, before lowering his arms. He watched her closely, unsure where she was going with this— but not interrupting.

“I saw it in you,” she added— her voice still steady. “Even before you said anything at the dinner table last night.”

The silence stretched for a moment. The teenage orc looked down at the hem of his skirt, then back at her. He rubbed his palm awkwardly down his arm; over the silk glove she’d just finished tailoring.

“… It’s not something I really try to talk about,” he admitted in a low, but not tense voice. “I mean… I’m still figuring it out. Some days I feel like I know who I am just fine. Others…”

He shrugged, as he trailed off for a moment— his lips growing pursed. “… Others, I look at people like you— people who wear femininity like a second skin— and I wonder what it’d be like if that was just… Allowed. You know? If I didn’t have to feel weird or ashamed for liking how I look right now.”

Shuna nodded slowly— still threading her needle again without looking up.

“You don’t sound ashamed to me right now,” she said gently.

Malruk gave a short, dry chuckle. “I’ve gotten good at hiding it— that’s all.”

He then folded his arms, resting them more naturally against his plush chest. “It’s weird… I’m not even sure I want to be someone else. Just…” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be someone I didn’t have to keep explaining.”

Shuna looked up then, really meeting his gaze.

“… You don’t have to explain anything to me, Malruk,” she said. “Or to anyone here.”

She returned to her stitching— her hands steady. “The Jura Temple has people from all walks of life, you know. Folks who were cast out of their homes, or had to start over because someone said they were wrong just for being different. Some of us still haven’t found the right words for who we are, but that doesn’t stop us from trying to help one another.”

Malruk continued to watch her work, with his brow furrowing slightly. “My whole life, it’s been ‘be strong or be nothing.’ My father— he wouldn’t even look at me if I wore something like this in front of him.”

Shuna's sewing slowed, as she lifted her gaze again. “… You mean because of the dress?” She asked softly.

The teenage orc couldn’t help but to chortle at the sincerity in her voice; not in a condescending manner, but from how he found her to be endearingly sweet. “Yeah. That. The gloves. The bow. All of it.”

He the. touched the side of his head; near the little white bow she’d tied into his dark, choppy hair. “He’d say it makes me soft. That no chief’s son should ever look soft.”

Shuna tilted her head. “But you don’t look soft to me, Malruk. You look brave.”

That caught him off guard. His expression flickered— confused, then oddly touched.

“… You really think that?”

“I do,” she said sincerely. “It takes strength to wear what you want in a world that tells you not to.”

Malruk fell quiet again, but only for a second. “I… I don’t think I want to be a girl all the time,” he said after a moment— his brow furrowed. “But sometimes… I don’t know; sometimes it just feels good— like it’s who I am when I stop pretending to be… A boy, I guess?”

She gave him a little smile. “Then that’s good enough for me.”

The teenage orc took a breath; his gaze falling to the collar in her lap. “I don’t even know what to call it,” he mumbled.

“Well,” Shuna said, while finishing a stitch and tying the thread, “you don’t have to figure all of it out today.” She then stood up— holding the collar gently in her hands. “But… If you want to try a name to call yourself when you do feel like being the you that you want to be, then I’d like to know please.”

Malruk hesitated. His eyes dropped, then slowly lifted again. “I think… maybe “Malra.” It’s close to my name, but softer. It’s what I call myself, in my head, when I feel like… Like this.”

“Malra,” she repeated, with a warm, approving nod. “It suits you.”

He became flushed again, while rubbing his thumb along the edge of his glove. “I… I don’t know if I’ll ever want to be her all the time,” he added quickly. “But when I am… It feels like breathing a little easier.”

Shuna looked up at him and smiled— not patronizingly, not out of pity, just proud.

She then walked forward and gently fastened the collar around his neck. The fabric rested like a ribbon of snow along the dark green of his skin— soft and elegant.

“… There,” she said brightly, brushing her fingers across it. “Now you look like the version of yourself you were meant to see!”

Malruk looked at her— eyes wide, lips parted slightly— then gave a small, unsteady smile. He didn’t say anything, and for once, he didn’t feel the need to explain why.

“And,” Shuna added, while stepping back with a mischievous glint in her eye, “you are absolutely getting some blush. Peach or rose?”

Malra blinked, taken aback, then let out a small laugh that escaped before he could stop it. “You’re weren’t joking about that?!”

“I never joke about make-up,” she said primly— her arms crossed like a seamstress on a mission. “We have tea in under an hour. You need to look like someone who’s about to gracefully sip from a porcelain cup.”

He snorted. “I don’t even know how to sit in this thing yet, let alone sip…!”

“You’ll learn,” she said sweetly. “Elegance is all in the ankles.”

That earned her a quiet, honest laugh. Malruk let himself relax, even if just for a moment. 

The room, cluttered with herbs and thread and woven silk, felt less like a fitting room and more like a safe place— like the kind of space where nothing needed to be fully understood to still be accepted.

“… Thank you, Shuna,” he said at last.

She smiled up at him, before clasping her hands in front of her chest. “You’re very welcome… Malra.”

Author’s notes: For the duration it takes for the US Mia to reach Tempest, find and locate Jura’s Quarry, and to discover the secret that’ll be revealed towards the end of this arc, I’ll be posting these short little episodic stories that all fall within this arc. Slice of life, with action sprinkled in, and with a juicy climax.

Currently, I’m debating whether to have Goblin Slayer stay only with Rimuru, and have that be the main ship, or have them break up, and be friends again— just an experimental fling that results in them agreeing to stay friends instead, and later move on to different people. 

Either way, they’re still sort of a couple at the moment? So that’s that, for now. Feel free to share your thoughts, if you’d like.

Other than that, the next chapter’s gonna be Goblin Slayer centric. 

Chapter Text

The morning air inside the living room had a clean, lavender stillness to it; the kind of quiet that settled only after someone had opened every window, let in the breeze, and made sure nothing was out of place. 

Sunlight bled through the linen curtains in wide gold slants— casting the floorboards in a soft, uneven warmth that danced across the edges of the walls. 

The coffee table had been pushed aside. The sofa now sat angled closer to the window, beneath the sill that overlooked the temple’s front yard. Across the polished floor, a long straw mat had been rolled out with care— perfectly aligned with the empty hearth.

Goblin Slayer sat cross-legged at the center of it.

His small hands carefully turned a page in the large black-bound manual resting open across his lap. The thick, aged paper had a stiffness to it, and each turn felt deliberate— like peeling back a curtain to some quiet, forbidden place. 

The book itself was titled “Breath of the Hollow Flame: Practical Chakra Cultivation for Beginners.” The subtitle, in finer script, read: “A Foundational Guide to Channeling Breath, Mind, and Energy into Unified Internal Motion.”

He’d only made it twenty pages in, and already he was starting to feel the need to reread half of it.

The current page displayed an intricate anatomical drawing of a seated figure, robed in thin ink lines, with seven colored shapes drawn vertically through the center of its body— each one resting at a different point: the top of the head, the brow, the throat, chest, stomach, hips, and the base of the spine. 

Beneath it, hand-drawn arrows spiraled up and down like a gentle helix, with light scribbles of breath motion leading in and out of the lungs and nostrils.

He tilted his head and squinted.

‘If air goes down, why do they say to lift your energy up?’ He wonder to himself, while tapping the edge of the diagram with his finger. ‘Are the colors important, or just to help you remember…? No. It says the red one is earth. The green one is heart. That means… Maybe it’s elemental?’

His eyes skimmed the passage again:

“Begin in a seated posture, spine lengthened, base stable. Still the body before stilling the breath. Still the breath before stilling the mind. Breathe in with awareness; breathe out without clinging. Do not seek force— seek alignment.”

He reread the final phrase three more times.

‘Still the breath before stilling the mind…’ He repeated internally, while frowning. ‘What does that mean? Am I supposed to hold my breath, or something?’

Another line, slightly further down the page, offered additional instruction:

“The ambience of the space is to be prepared with care. Fragrant smoke eases the nervous system and invites breath to deepen. Incense made of resin, wood, or pressed herb is recommended.”

He then looked up from the book slowly, toward the fireplace mantel. There, nestled between a decorative brass clock and a clay dish of smooth stones, sat the incense holder: hand-carved and round, made from greenish soapstone. 

A single stick already waited inside it; thin and brown, and soaked at the tip in faintly darkened rosewater and jade leaf oil.

He stood up quietly to make his way over to the mantle. Once he was there, he reached for the matchbox resting beside it. 

The wood struck rough against the strip— flaring orange as the match lit. 

He then leaned in— shielding the tip with his palm, and brought the flame gently to the incense. It caught quickly, and was followed by smoke rising from the blackening tip, like a silver thread through water.

He watched for several seconds as the scent unfurled into the air. It didn’t burn sharp like dried pine or bitter herb— it instead burned softer, almost as though it was sleepy. It filled his lungs in slow intervals— like steam that had decided not to scald.

Setting the snuffed match in the ceramic ash dish, he turned and made his way to the gramophone in the corner. 

The wooden box sat just beneath it; filled with the records he had hauled down from the temple’s upper attic.

Kneeling beside the crate, he lifted the lid and slid his hand into the middle of the stack— tugging out the first sleeve he saw.

It was pale gray and brushed with gold filigree, showing a violinist seated in a stone courtyard. The artist's name was written in fine print beneath the image: “Alwyne Carroway and the Eldrosvale Chamber Society – Fields of Gray & Gold.”

The titles on the back were all slow dances and nocturnes; a few had names like, “Lament for the Gilded Ones,” and “Courtyard Suite in D Minor.”

He stared at it— unmoving for a few seconds.

‘This is probably the sort of music people in Caerlaigh listen to while staring dramatically out their windows,’ he thought. ‘Or while playing chess in a room full of drapes.’

Back into the box it went.

The next sleeve was parchment-colored, lined with calligraphy inked in deep red, and showed falling maple leaves over misty mountains. “Autumn Reverence – Takahiro Yamamura Ensemble.”

He studied the kanji brushwork; some of it he couldn’t read.

‘This one looks like it would be slow; Vi would know what these words mean. Maybe this’ll be good for sitting still for a long time.’ He nodded slightly. ‘That could help.’

He set it aside.

The third was bound in black leather texture, with a gold-foiled dancer standing mid-motion in a sea of firelight. “Silks & Cinders – Layla Mahran and the Zareth’ar Circle.”

He traced the intricate embroidery along the dancer’s sleeves.

‘Is this… Supposed to ballerina music? Then again, what even is ballerina music supposed to sound like?’

The next sleeve was solid gray with bold block letters: “Blackstone Waltz – Kraet Thûrmund Brass Guild.”

The artwork was minimal— just a snow-covered village with heavy smoke pouring from iron chimneys. He turned it over, and found everything to be labeled with ‘march,’ ‘waltz,’ or ‘processional.’

‘I can’t imagine Dwarven music being good for meditating… Why did Jura ever get this? Maybe this is what he used to listen to while he was building this place?’ He wondered, before sliding it back in.

The fifth record showed a woman standing on a frozen lake, with braided silver hair and candlelight pooled at her feet. “Frostlight Hymns – Helga Jorundsdottir.”

He lingered on it.

‘This looks like it’s lonely music; it’d probably sound really surreal if I played this in the woods at night.’

The sixth had no image, just a crescent moon and five silver stars stamped into navy velvet. “Ashwine Ballads – Noctir Vale Ensemble.”

He held it quietly.

‘Ballads mean stories, so these are probably about dark elves? That might help the breathing part, but… It’s too bad I don’t speak Elvish— whatever stories are in this thing will be completely lost on me.’

The seventh record showed moss-covered standing stones in a grassy field, with clouds shaped like stags overhead. “The Rowan Crown – Aerlith of Quemariom.”

Every track mentioned harps, flutes, or folk dances.

‘… What kind of whimsical high elf crap is this?’

He blinked and slid it back in.

The eighth was romantic. Candlelight. Wine glasses. Dancers in a French garden. “Chanson de Miel – L’Orchestre de Lorvagne.”

He barely gave it two seconds.

‘No.’

The ninth was a dramatic hall of marble and sunlight, with a full orchestra beneath a crimson banner. “Luna Romana – Aurelio di Castamare.”

He turned it over and saw words like ‘Coronation,’ ‘Aeternum Gloria,’ and ‘Invocatione dei Fulguris.’

‘Don’t know what any of this translates to, but… This would probably pair well with a fancy dinner. I might have to ask Shuna to help me set something like that up, when they come back from Tempest.’ 

He then set it aside.

The last record had a soft green sleeve. A woman in a white kimono stood beneath a willow tree, her back turned to the river. “The Willow Lament – Hoshiko Shirakawa.”

He stared for a while.

The moon reflected on the water behind her, while her arms were tucked inside her sleeves.

‘Looks quiet; maybe a little sad, but maybe not the kind that makes you stop… Might work out.’

Satisfied with the final pick, Goblin Slayer took the vinyl out of its sleeve, before rising to his feet while exhaling through his nose. 

He then began turning the crank on the side of the gramophone with one hand, until the internal battery locked into place with a click. The mechanism purred softly, and the needle arm rose under his thumb. 

He proceeded to place the record down, before adjusting it carefully until it sat centered; the black disc catching pale light from the window. Then, with care, he guided the needle toward the outer groove.

A low, dry pop sparked to life.

Then another.

Then the deep, warm hum of static bloomed beneath it all—  thin and crackling at first, then thick and pulsing like quiet thunder trapped in a box.

He blinked and waited.

Music followed.

A single plucked string, then another before a second instrument joined— wind-like, and breathy. The melody didn’t rise; it drifted.

The first notes felt more like water dripping in a cave than anything made by hands.

Goblin Slayer stayed crouched beside the gramophone; unsure if he should be listening this closely. He waited, before the voice entered.

“Hajimari no hi wa… Omoide no you ni…”

It was soft, like the singer wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be heard. She sounded older than he expected, but not old— like someone who had already cried the tears and was singing what was left behind.

He had no idea what the words meant, though he didn’t need to.

“Kaze ga yoru wo tsurete… Watashi wo yobu…”

He exhaled through his nose again, then stood and walked slowly toward the cloth mat; his socked feet brushing against the wooden floor.

The chakra book lay open on the floor, with its pages flattened beneath the fireplace’s dull light. He knelt beside it and ran his fingers under the next block of text. 

“Begin with posture. Sit on the floor with legs crossed, spine upright. Hands rest open atop the knees. Inhale through the nose. Expand the lower belly, then the ribs, then the chest. Exhale in reverse. Maintain this rhythm. Allow breath to lead thought. Awareness follows breath.”

Following the next directions, he knelt down to sit cross-legged— facing the cold fireplace. The incense holder still smoked from earlier— delicate gray wisps curling through the warm beams of light coming in from the window above the couch. 

He then picked up the book again.

“If distractions arise, note them. Do not chase them. Return to the breath. Anchor each breath to the body. Focus downward. Toward the base. Toward the belly. Toward the root.”

He looked down at his lap.

‘That means my hips, right? Or my spine. Or… Whatever’s behind my stomach. Lower chakra? Yeah, okay.’

He then adjusted his posture; his shoulders slumped forward a bit, so he straightened them. His back rounded, so he lifted his chest. He tried not to look like he was trying, but trying was the entire point.

With the book laid beside him, he rested his hands on his knees with his palms upward. The room was warm, but quiet, as the record kept playing.

“Yume no naka de, kimi wa waratte ita…”

He took a deep breath.

Belly.

Ribs.

Chest.

He let it out slowly.

Chest.

Ribs.

Belly.

His breath made no sound; the incense smoke curled toward the ceiling. Somewhere behind him, the needle slid deeper into the record’s groove.

He did it again.

‘It’s not that hard. It just… Feels weird. I’m breathing slower than usual. But not bad; it’s sort of nice, actually.’

He then shifted slightly; his tailbone felt like it was digging into the floor.

‘I’m supposed to focus on the root. That’s down low, so… I guess the base of the spine. Or… Maybe I should try the hips again?’

He is he. exhaled softly, as the music shifted.

A new track began— slower still.

“Umi no soko kara… Noboru hikari…”

The voice cracked slightly this time— intentional, maybe, or just tired. The melody followed her like a shadow, heavy and soft. A piano joined in, then a shakuhachi flute. There were no drums, no rhythm section— just drifting, like rain that had forgotten how to fall straight.

He kept his eyes closed.

The incense filled his nose— warm and strange.

Each breath felt more noticeable, as he tried to stay on track.

‘Belly first. Then ribs. Then chest. Don't skip.’

By the time Goblin Slayer opened his eyes again, the sunlight in the living room had shifted. It no longer poured in from the right-hand window but cast a longer, duller stretch across the floor, angled slightly higher. 

The gramophone was still spinning its record near the corner bookshelf, though it had reached its final groove and hummed in soft, even loops.

He hadn’t meant to sit for that long.

His legs were asleep.

Carefully, the boy adjusted his weight and stood. Both knees popped as he straightened them— making him wince. The wooden floor creaked beneath his socks as he moved. 

The incense had long since burned out— leaving behind a faint trace of sandalwood, now cooled by time. He bent to retrieve the chakra manual, shut it, and tapped its spine against his thigh once before tucking it under his arm.

The mat was rolled up tight, and the coffee table returned to its original spot. 

The gramophone was carefully turned off; the needle arm clicked back into its rest, and the record was slipped into its paper sleeve before being placed at the front of the box. His fingers hovered over the next one in the set for just a moment, but he left it alone.

He then padded out of the living room without making a sound.

The foyer’s tile was cooler than the hardwood, and as he passed the darkened mirror above the console table and the quiet little half-restroom near the corner, the boy’s pace slowed. 

Just ahead, sunlight poured through a tall pair of glass-panelled doors framed by rose-colored curtains drawn loosely to the sides. Beyond them, the warm outline of the Jura Temple’s backyard shimmered faintly against the clear glass.

The vestibule— sunroom, technically— was quiet and still. A faint draft of summer warmth seeped in around the edges of the doors. The checkerboard tile underfoot was faintly scuffed from use, but clean, polished to a gentle, lived-in sheen. The air smelled faintly like wildflower soap, leather, and something lemony.

Goblin Slayer stepped fully inside and let the door behind him swing shut.

The sunlight hit him in a slow, even wash.

He didn’t rush; he simply let his eyes scan the room slowly as he moved through it— his fingers grazing the wooden bench as he passed it, noting how the old cushion on top gave slightly under his touch. 

One of the straw sunhats on the coat rack swayed faintly, as though someone had just brushed past it. The icebox near the corner gave a dull hum— likely kicked on by the rising outdoor heat.

He then stopped beside the window closest to the tall glass doors and reached for the curtain. His fingers pinched the faded rose-colored fabric gently before peeling it back.

The backyard stretched wide beyond the glass— flat, sun-kissed grass bending slightly beneath a late-morning breeze. The pier, unoccupied, jutted from the shoreline like an invitation not yet accepted. 

Lake Virelda sparkled gently in the distance, with its surface catching the sky’s soft reflection. The water was calm, and the Tempest Mountains sat far off at the edge of the lake— their silhouettes hazy, but unmistakable.

He the. leaned in a little closer, while bracing one hand against the windowpane.

The glass was warm against his palm.

Goblin Slayer the. set the book down gently on the windowsill— its spine resting flush against the painted wood. He adjusted it once with the edge of his palm to line it parallel to the glass like it mattered. 

Then he leaned forward, while resting one elbow beside it— his chin propped in the cradle of his hand. His other arm folded across the sill, with his fingers absently drumming out a slow, rhythmic pattern against the sun-warmed ledge.

The light poured in soft through the pane— wrapping his sleeve in a faint golden wash. He shifted his weight forward slightly— letting the warmth soak into his chest and forearms, then glanced out past the garden and toward the lake.

‘They’ve only been gone for like… Six hours. Maybe seven.’ He thought to himself, while he continued to fingers against the window sill— a little slower than before. ‘Not exactly a big deal. I mean, Vi’s left me alone longer than this before.’

His dusty rose eyes narrowed faintly as he scanned the distant view. There wasn’t much movement— no sails on the water, no figures along the path between the trees, not even the usual bird shadows drifting across the shore. 

Just the steady glint of sunlight off Lake Virelda, and the faint outline of the Tempest Mountains.

He blinked, slowly, then let his gaze drift toward the edge of the pier— specifically, the shallow bend in the shoreline where the reeds gathered thickest. 

That’s where Rimuru had first appeared— dripping wet, absurdly naked, and asking if Goblin Slayer’s training manual and wooden sword belonged to him.

‘I still don’t know what he is,’ Goblin Slayer thought to himself, while his thumb brushed along the edge of the sill. ‘Some kind of magic slime, obviously, but also a person. A weird person. A loud, annoying person… I already kinda miss him more than I thought I would.’

The breeze outside stirred the curtain faintly. He adjusted it out of the way with his wrist, then leaned both elbows onto the sill this time— letting his chin rest on the back of his hand.

‘I hope that stuff between us last night doesn’t make things weird when he comes back,’ he thought, his jaw shifting slightly. ‘I liked it, and I think he did too, but… I don’t want him to treat me like I’m fragile or something now. Or worse— start avoiding me.’

He sighed quietly and scratched at the side of his head. His fingers snagged on his hair, which had started to grow out a bit since Vivianne had last trimmed it. His bangs were falling uneven now, getting too close to his eyes again. 

He exhaled, then slowly lowered his hand back down; his fingers curling slightly on the sill.

‘It’s ridiculous how co-dependent I can be,’ he thought to himself. ‘For the longest time, it was Bethany; now I can’t see her anymore, and I still miss her. Then Rimuru comes along, and now he’s gone too… Is it healthy to fixate so much on others?’

He then slowly glanced back once, as if expecting to see someone standing there. But no one was; just the wooden bench opposite of the window. 

Goblin Slayer looked away from it, before his eyes drifted down to the floor.

‘I don’t think I feel lonely,’ he thought. ‘It’s not like that. I just… Don’t know what to do with myself when it’s this quiet.’

Goblin Slayer reached out and ran his hand across the sill, palm open— feeling the sunlight that had pooled there. He then leaned forward more; his forehead almost against the glass now, as he stared out at the lake.

‘I should do something. Anything,’ he thought, as his foot began tapping softly against the mosaic tile. ‘I could go outside for a bit, or look through the storage room again. Maybe there’s a ball or a kite or something.’

His eyes narrowed again, in concentration.

‘If I don’t move soon, I’ll just keep standing here until dinner.’

Author’s note: Again, just another episodic chapter— real slice of life, cozy stuff. The next chapter will shift to the US Mia.

Anyway, some important things to bring up, about this fic, and the future of it.

Apologies for having inconsistent tags, as I’ve been trying to figure out what I want this story to be. At first, I was going to have it all be in one massive story, but then the tags would be too inconsistent, or bloated. 

So, I figured that it makes sense to have it be a series then. This fic will be one of several, with it remaining focused on the Great Jura Forest, and the story of how Goblin Slayer and his older sister meet Rimuru and a good amount of characters from Tensei Slime (the ones that matter, and were not done yet). 

The point of this is to show how it starts off as just them being given to the house by a descendant of Jura, and then grows it them making changes, while also establishing important future plot points, such as how the danger of the Pendragon Empire— specifically the ruling family of the kingdom they live in, the House of Viremont— will pose a danger, as the Jura Temple expands. 

I’m thinking of having Goblin Slayer and Rimuru just have romance in this one, before agreeing to be friends, so that they can still be together, while having their own poly relationships— growing alongside one another, and not having to worry about jealousy. 

Anyway, this first story is on its last final major arc, before we’ll reach a timeskip in which they turn older, and (without spoiling it), Goblin Slayer, Rimuru, Diablo, Ranga, Milim, and Vivianne will have to travel to the Shinzuhara Shogunate. 

There, we can finally introduce Kazuma Satoru, and other Goblin Slayer characters such as Captain, Female Wizard, Fighter, and others who would fit the Japanese aesthetic of the Shinzuhara Shogunate. We’ll have a trio of main characters, while furthering the plot, and having us being able to explore a more modern setting— think Japan, during the Nineties. 

Planning on having Ciel give Goblin Slayer the talk to ensure he doesn’t just anchor himself to Rimuru, with Vivianne doing the same for Rimuru too— the two of them doing it in their separate ways. 

That’s all I can think of for now. So yes, just know that Goblin Slayer, Rimuru, and Kazuma will all have their poly relationships, it’ll just be gradual. 

Chapter Text

The sun loomed overhead, bright and unrelenting— its golden glare bouncing off the shimmering waters of Lake Virelda in long, fractured lines. The sky, cloudless and immense, bleached the horizon into a glowing smear of heat where mountain peaks shimmered like mirages in the East. 

Light danced across the lake’s rippling surface; the reflection so strong it hurt to look at it directly, and yet Gobuta couldn't tear his eyes away.

Leaning over the wide rail near the ship’s helm, his green cheeks puffed with awe; the white-haired goblin watched a school of silver fish leap in playful bursts beside the vessel.

A few splashed close enough for their spray to kiss his outstretched hand. He flinched at the cool mist, then grinned— wide and lopsided— before reaching his hand out again with his palm up, and eager for more. 

Below, deeper shadows flickered through the clear blue waters— freshwater mermaids, swimming alongside the ship in slow, serpentine strokes; their long fins shimmered in the sun like silk threads.

Gobuta laughed under his breath. “Ha…! Okay, now that’s pretty cool…!”

Behind him, one clawed hand resting on the ship’s wheel, Gabiru watched with a crooked grin. The breeze caught his cape— fluttering the dark leather against his side as he turned his gaze toward the east. 

The mountain range had grown more pronounced now— its jagged spine cutting across the distant skyline, layers of blue stacked behind haze and sunlight. The scent of freshwater and sun-warmed wood filled the air. 

Somewhere below, the crew sang fragments of a work chant, mingled with shouts and laughter and the creak of the ship’s timbers groaning with the current.

Gabiru reached into the pouch at his belt; fingers closing around the soft paper wrapping of the sandwich he’d stashed away after lunch. With one fluid motion, he unwrapped it and took a hearty bite— salmon and pickled radish between thick slices of barley bread. 

He chewed thoughtfully, then glanced over toward Gobuta, who was now upright again— brushing his wet hand on the side of his tunic while still grinning out at the lake.

“… You’re really drinking it in, huh?” Gabiru’s voice rolled across the deck; casual, but unmistakably amused. “Tell me, Gobuta: is this the furthest you’ve ever wandered from that little goblin nest of yours that you call a village?”

Gobuta didn’t turn around; he instead leaned his elbows back against the sun-warmed railing and gave a half-shrug, with one brow raised— his eyes stayed fixed on the horizon.

“I mean… I wouldn’t call it that, but yeah,” he said after a pause, dragging the word out with mild disbelief. “Pretty much. The closest thing to an ‘adventure’ I’ve ever had before this was convincing a bunch of others to help me build that stuff around the temple, or just forging for herbs and stuff in the woods.”

The goblin scratched at his neck, then gave a sheepish grin. “Once, I got lost in the inner woods and thought I discovered a secret portal. Turns out it was just an outhouse someone built and forgot about.”

Gabiru chuckled. “A mighty tale of survival. I’m sure the bards will be clamoring for that one.”

“I was eight,” Gobuta added, dryly. “And I cried. A lot.”

“I would’ve too,” Gabiru said with a shrug.

It was then that Gobuta finally turned— shifting to rest his arms along the railing behind him. “But this?” He gestured, while nodding toward the open water. “This is something else entirely.”

Gabiru took another bite of his sandwich— chewing with a contemplative grunt. “You seem like someone who’s been waiting for this without even realizing it,” he mused, while brushing his clawed fingers off on the edge of the wheel. “I’m not talking about the lake, or the way the sunlight hits your face like a soft painter’s brush—”

“— That was oddly poetic,” Gobuta couldn’t help but interrupt, with a bemused grin.

“I dabble,” Gabiru said proudly, then waved the hand dismissively. “No, what I mean is that you seem very comfortable, like you’re finally having an awakening of sorts— heading somewhere your heart’s been pointing toward for a long time.”

Gobuta blinked at him, with his brow furrowed.

“… Did you rehearse that?”

Gabiru gave him a smug look. “Wouldn’t you like to know, ‘Wanderlust?’”

The goblin snorted, but then his face grew more thoughtful, as his gaze drifted back out to the lake.

“I… I don’t know,” Gobuta muttered. “I guess I never really thought about it like that. I mean… I’ve felt that way before, like something was tugging at me from out there, past the trees, past the temple— but every time I got close to putting it into words, it sounded dumb. Like, what am I even chasing? I don't even have a plan for what I want to do with myself.”

“Do you need one?” Gabiru asked, with a soft tone.

“I… I probably do,” Gobuta admitted with an honest look in his eyes; his shoulders deflating just slightly. “Look man, I have dreams, just like everyone else; it’s just that I don’t even know what those dreams are.”

Gabiru leaned slightly on the wheel; his lips twitching into a grin. “And here I thought I was traveling with a fool. Turns out I’m sailing with a philosopher.”

“… I’ve been called worse.”

“Mm. Mostly by me,” Gabiru said. “But I’ll admit, you’re beginning to grow on me, First Mate.”

Gobuta gave him a side-eye. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

Gabiru straightened, slapping the wheel with his palm. “It’s the highest compliment. You’ve got the look, Gobuta— that restless spark. You want more, even if you don’t know what it is yet. Most creatures spend their whole lives convincing themselves they’re content with small things. The fact that you’re asking questions already makes you different.”

Gobuta exhaled slowly. His posture eased, as the wind rustled through his white hair.

“I don't know about that… It’s not like I exactly scream ‘competence,’” he argued lightly. “I lose in training all the time, and can barely read comic books. Rimuru kicks my ass so often, it’s practically a guarantee if I get paired up with him.”

Gabiru snorted, amused. “You think anyone’s got a good record against him? I’ve faced Rimuru twice, and yet to beat him.”

“You too, huh?” Gobuta looked genuinely surprised. “You always act like you’ve got him figured out.”

“Acting,” Gabiru said, while placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “Is a survival mechanism.”

Gobuta grinned. “So… When you fought him those two times, were any of them at least a close match?”

“In spirit, they both were,” Gabiru said again, with feigned solemnity. 

The goblin chuckled, then turned thoughtful again. “But seriously,” he said, “I always just assumed that since I wasn’t the strongest or the smartest, I wouldn’t really… Amount to much.”

Gabiru gave him a long look, then spoke more firmly. “You think strength is about not losing? Gobuta, anyone can look brave when they expect to win. Anyone can puff their chest when the ground’s even. But you? You get knocked flat on your back over and over, and you still show up to spar the next day— improving, and learning from your mistakes.”

Gobuta blinked. “I mean… That could just be me being stubborn, can’t it?”

“No,” Gabiru said. “That’s you having heart.” He turned back toward the mountain-lined horizon. “True courage isn’t in facing an even match; it’s standing your ground when you know the other guy could tear you apart. When the odds say don’t bother, and yet— you still try. That’s what makes you special, Gobuta— that’s what makes you worthy of anointing to anything you set your mind to.”

The white-haired goblin stood there; caught somewhere between disbelief and pride.

“…You really think all that about me?”

Gabiru lifted the remnants of his sandwich, chewing as he spoke.

“I didn’t say it for fun.”

Gobuta’s expression softened, as his eyes blinked against the wind, then slowly lit with something quiet but warm.

Without another word, he stepped forward and hugged Gabiru’s leg; the lizardman immediately froze up. “Wh— h-hey now, what is this— are you hugging me?!”

“Just shut up,” Gobuta muttered— clinging tighter.

Gabiru grimaced like someone enduring a battlefield injury. “Ugh… This is going to ruin my image.”

“You’ll live.”

“My reputation won’t.”

But he didn’t shake him off. Instead, with a sigh only slightly theatrical, Gabiru gave the top of the goblin’s white hair a brief, awkward pat— careful not to look like he was enjoying it.

Down on the main deck, the crew continued their work— shouting to one another between coiled rope and stacked crates, with their boots thudding against the warm planks. The wind filled the sails in a strong, forward pull, and every creak of the hull echoed with the promise of arrival.

Above them all, high atop the crow’s nest, the lookout narrowed his eyes and scanned the brightening horizon— where the misty veil of the Tempest range waited, closer with every passing breath.

Rimuru steadied himself against the rail; one foot  propped on the rim of the nest’s half-wall, the old brass telescope held up to his eye. 

The mountaintops shimmered with melting snowcaps; their jagged teeth glinting beneath the afternoon sun. Ribbons of waterfall traced down their sides like silver veins— vanishing into mist and forest at the base. 

He swept the scope to the left, adjusting the focus until he could make out movement: something broad-backed and quadrupedal, shaking the trees as it trundled through the foliage— a mossy, stone-colored beast with a bony crest on its head.

“… Whoa,” Rimuru murmured under his breath. “That thing’s got legs for days…”

Beyond the forests and foothills, pale sand dunes stretched along the beaches like bleached bones beneath the tide. Strange winged reptiles roosted on the cliff faces; their leathery wings twitching in the wind. 

Farther still, something resembling a long-necked beast poked its head from a patch of trees, its mouth full of leaves. Others— smaller and faster— darted through brush and shadow, like streaks of scaled lightning. 

He was about to search for another herd when he heard the ‘creak’ of rope straining. The tension on the line leading up to the crow’s nest quivered; steady and deliberate.

Someone was climbing.

Rimuru blinked, then collapsed the telescope with a quiet ‘click,’ before stuffing it into the side pocket of his blue long coat. He adjusted the fuzz-lined cuffs of his sleeves— brushing a bit of salt air from his collar— then quickly reached for the long beige scarf wrapped around his neck. Both ends flapped wildly in the wind, so he tugged them down evenly with practiced hands; the fabric snapping back against his chest.

The top of Vivianne’s head appeared over the edge of the crow’s nest wall.

Rimuru mouthed quietly under his breath, “S-Shit…”

Straightening, he cleared his throat with as much nonchalance as he could manage.

“… Y-Yo,” he greeted, as casually as if he wasn’t trying to hide a dirty secret from her.

Vivianne hoisted herself up over the edge of the lookout with a quiet grunt— her travel cloak catching the breeze as she stepped onto the wooden floor of the crow’s nest. 

She adjusted her belt with practiced ease and smoothed a few windblown strands behind her ear before offering the slime a soft smile.

“Afternoon, Rimuru. You’ve been awfully quiet up here,” she said, brushing off her palms. “Spot anything worth mentioning?”

Rimuru didn’t look at her right away; he instead kept his arms folded along the rail, while his scarf fluttered faintly as the wind pulled at its ends. His yellow eyes narrowed against the sun, and lingered on the mountainous horizon. 

After a beat, he leaned back and exhaled slowly through his nose.

“… Dinosaurs,” he muttered, while lifting a finger in the vague direction of the mountainous island. “Big ones. Couple with tree-shaped backs, a lumpy one that walked like a sack of potatoes, and one flying thing that screamed like a kettle. There’s also a boulder with legs skulking near the tree line.”

Vivianne stepped beside him— arching a brow as she scanned the ridge. “A boulder with legs, huh,” she repeated, suppressing a grin. “No spikes, flat snout, kind of round?”

Rimuru turned to her, blinking. “Yeah… Wait, how’d you know?”

“I used to teach basic paleontology in Riverwood. What you described sounds like an ‘ankylosaurus’— thick armor, flat head, clubbed tail. Not many of them left these days, but this climate might’ve preserved a few isolated populations.”

He gave her a look. “Wait, so you just… Know all their names?”

Vivianne tilted her head as if thinking. “Some. There’s triceratops— three horns, big frill. Stegosaurus has back plates. Tyrannosaurus, of course. And brontosaurus— the gentle giant.”

Rimuru stared. “I… I have literally no idea what any of that means.”

She laughed, not mockingly— just warmly amused. “That’s alright. You’ll pick it up; especially once we get the school built. I’m hoping to find a few instructors who are comfortable teaching across species lines.”

He raised a brow. “Y’mean, like us monsters?”

“People— you’re not monsters,” the brunette corrected, with a proud smile. “Everyone deserves access to real knowledge,” she added, while brushing her cloak aside. “But I’ll admit, dinosaurs tend to be a hit with the younger crowd; especially the boys.”

“Why though? They’re just big lizards, right?”

“They’re not actually reptiles,” Vivianne replied, as she tucked a strand behind her ear again. “At least, not in the traditional sense. They predate modern reptiles by a few million years; their lineage goes back to the first marine creatures that dragged themselves onto land… Same with dragons, oddly enough.”

Rimuru blinked at her. “You’re telling me fish turned into dinosaurs?”

“Not fish exactly; but yes, in a way,” she said with a chuckle. “Life began with single-celled organisms— just floating bacteria in the ocean, infused with ambient magicules. That magical influence accelerated evolution. Eventually, you get sea creatures, then amphibians, then reptiles. Dinosaurs came along after that.”

He wrinkled his nose. “That… Sounds kinda made-up.”

“It should sound made-up right now,” Vivianne said kindly. “It’s a lot to wrap your head around at once.”

“… Fair enough,” the slime admitted.

He then leaned against the railing again; his arms loosely folded, gazing over the distant cliffs. “So then… Magicules sort of just sped everything up?”

“In a sense. Magicules aren’t just energy; they’re like… Catalysts. They respond to intention; they carry memory, shape, instinct. When a living thing is exposed to them, it doesn’t just change— it adapts.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, but then what about the weird ones? Like Diablo? Or, uh… Earth Mother? Veldanava?”

Vivianne hesitated. At the sound of that last name, her brows drew slightly. “… Veldanava,” she repeated, the name rolling from her lips with surprising care. “I’ve seen it mentioned in a few older texts. Not often. Supposedly, he’s considered the ‘First Being,’ right?”

Rimuru looked away. “… Y-Yeah. Something like that.”

Vivianne’s expression shifted— her gaze growing distant, while her voice became more thoughtful. “I’m no theologian, but I’ve studied a few deeper magical theories. One of them might explain beings like him… At least in theory.”

He turned to her. “This gonna be one of those ‘blow your mind’ type explanations?”

She smiled faintly. “Hopefully not too badly. It’s called the “Anima Construct Theory.” Basically, if enough people believe something— and there are enough magicules around to respond— that belief can take on form. Reality, in other words, starts listening.”

He blinked. “Wait… That’s the basic version?”

The brunette smirked. “Think of it this way: when belief saturates the environment, the surrounding magicules absorb that belief and start reshaping the world to match. It’s how guardian spirits form, or how urban legends gain traction. Enough belief, and the world starts building something to match.”

“… Like a self-fulfilling myth?”

“Exactly. The more people believe, the more real it becomes. Over time, the construct might develop consciousness. A god born this way might begin as an echo, then gain a sense of will.”

“And you think Earth Mother came from that?”

“It’s one theory,” Vivianne said softly. “She may have been the planet’s survival instinct given form. The Supreme God, by contrast, might’ve been created by the collective longing for order— a psychic projection turned divine.”

Rimuru frowned. “Okay… But Veldanava didn’t come from belief though, right?”

“That’s the odd part,” she said. “Some theories say beings like Veldanava were “Source Sparks”— a pure expression of magic and consciousness. Not born, not made, just awakened.”

He stared at her, unconvinced. “That… That sounds like something out of a kid’s story.”

“Most creation myths do,” Vivianne said. “But imagine the universe trying to understand itself. That awareness condenses, and a spark forms, and then that spark becomes a voice— a will, perhaps.”

“… So he wasn’t a god. He was, like… The start of a sentence, kind of?” 

She blinked, then gave him a sideways smile. “That’s… Not a bad way to put it.”

He shifted awkwardly. “So, uh… Does that mean you don’t believe in any gods, Miss Vi?”

Vivianne turned back to the view, her voice quiet. “I believe there’s something beyond us. I just don’t think it looks or thinks the way we expect. Whatever’s out there… It probably doesn’t fit into our stories.”

“… That’s kinda sad.”

She smiled gently. “It’s also kind of freeing. We made it this far on our own; no divine puppeteer, just effort, growth, mistakes. Maybe that’s more impressive.”

He exhaled. “Huh… Guess I never thought of it like that.”

“You know, a lot of ancient cultures actually thought gods played dice with the world,” she added. “Others believed we were game pieces for higher beings. Some even imagined the gods themselves were just players in an even bigger game.”

“… You’re messing with me.”

Vivianne lifted a brow. “They also thought the world was flat.”

Rimuru squinted. “Wait… It’s not?”

She shot him a look.

“I— uh— I mean I already knew that! I was just testing ya, Miss Vi!”

Her smirk returned, and this time it reached her eyes. “You’re very thorough, Rimuru.”

Neither of them spoke for a while. The wind tugged gently at the sails above, and the creaking wood beneath their feet sounded like the quiet exhale of a much older vessel. 

Vivianne had her hands lightly resting on the railing; her brown eyes fixed on something far past the horizon. 

“… You know,” she said softly at last, “I was twelve when I first left home. Just a child, barely taller than Ren is now.”

Rimuru turned his head slightly— blinking as the words reached him. He stayed quiet at first, caught off guard— not because he didn’t know where she was going with this, but because he did.

“Y-You went to Shinzuhara, right?” he asked carefully. “That’s like… A week away from the temple, right?”

Vivianne smiled faintly. “Indeed; when I sailed there from the capital though, it seemed farther than at the time.”

Rimuru shifted beside her— watching her profile with growing attention. His arms were folded now, loosely, and he leaned just enough toward her to listen without interrupting.

“I always thought that place sounded…” He said, while searching for the right word. “… Mysterious? I mean, I don’t really know anything about it aside from what Ciel’s told me about it. I don’t know what it looks like, or what people are like there. I just know that it’s big, and strict.”

“It can be,” she said, while nodding. “The language alone was hard enough at first. The days felt long. And everything— every rule, every glance— carried weight.”

Rimuru frowned a little, then tilted his head. “Was it lonely?”.

“… At first, yes. I missed home. I missed my parents; this was when my mother was pregnant with Ren, so I was thinking about what’d it be like to see him for the first time. But eventually, I grew into my new life in Tokiwana. I found my footing, and then— like it often happens— I met someone.”

Rimuru blinked once.

She said it plainly, gently, but the slime still felt something shift. He couldn’t explain it exactly; a quiet prickle at the base of his neck, as his shoulders stiffened on their own.

“You mean like… A friend?” He asked, as the image of the ashen-haired boy came to mind.

Vivianne’s smile was soft— not quite sad, but not fond either. “Yes… At first, he was. But that’s how it always begins, doesn’t it?”

Rimuru didn’t answer. Instead, his hands simply tightened slightly where they rested on the wood— his fingers curling as if to brace himself. 

He was trying not to read too far into it, not to jump to the end before she finished— but something in her tone was making his chest feel tight.

Vivianne continued; her voice steady, not heavy, but distant— like she was speaking through glass.

“He wasn’t like the others. He was quiet— perhaps too quiet, sometimes. Always thinking, and always weighing the world. But he had this… Calm about him, like he could hold everything together, even when it was all falling apart.”

Rimuru’s lips parted slightly, then closed again. His breath caught, and for a moment he wasn’t sure what to say.

“Were you two… Close?” He finally asked, just barely louder than the wind.

She nodded.

“We were. Not all at once, but over time. Days turned into seasons. Long walks after lectures. Shared notebooks. Late conversations under paper lamps when the gardens were empty.”

Rimuru stared down at the deck— swallowing the lump in his throat quietly. The more she spoke, the more he wished he didn’t understand where this was going. 

“I never planned for it,” Vivianne said, with her voice lowering. “We never talked about falling in love; it wasn’t some fairy tale, it just… Happened. Quietly, like the changing of a season.”

He exhaled softly— still not looking at her.

Vivianne turned— finally facing him.

“… Rimuru,” she said, and her voice held warmth— not warning. “I know about you and my brother… I know what you two did last night.”

That’s when the slime flinched; his breath caught in his throat, and when he looked up, his face was a blend of guilt and dread and something more vulnerable.

“I… I-I’m sorry,” he whispered— flattering over his own words, as he felt his chest tightening. “I-I k-know I shouldn’t have— I-I just… I-It just… Happened.”

“I know,” she said gently. “And I’m not angry. Truly, I’m not.”

Rimuru looked away— biting his bottom lip. “It… I-It wasn’t supposed to mean anything— I just… Wanted to see what it felt like, but… I think… I think it made me feel… Different about Ren, and now… And now I don’t know what to do… I just… Keep thinking about it… About doing it again with him.”

Vivianne smiled, her expression full of something complicated— understanding, maybe.

“That’s how it is, Rimuru. When you’re young, everything feels so confusing. That sort of… Experimentation can be complicated, and when you mix naivety and romance into matter, it becomes so, so much harder to make sense of.”

The slime stayed quiet, but his fingers twitched slightly.

Vivianne’s tone didn’t change. She wasn’t trying to convince him of anything— just offering what she had learned, softly and without judgment.

“He was the first boy I ever loved,” she continued. “And the last one I ever said goodbye to.”

That made Rimuru look at her again.

“… You broke up with him?” He asked.

“I had to,” she said. “My brother needed me more than he did. When I returned to Riverwood to fill out the paperwork needed to claim guardianship of RenI, I began writing to him afterward, and for a while, he wrote back. But that kind of closeness— it fades, when life pulls you in other directions.”

Rimuru’s voice trembled as he spoke. “Do you regret it? F-Falling in love with him?”

Vivianne was quiet for a moment.

“No,” she said. “I don’t, and I don’t regret letting him go. Both of those things shaped who I am, and if we had stayed together, I think… We would’ve made each other small; we would’ve stopped growing.”

Rimuru’s throat tightened.

“I… I don’t want to lose Ren— not like that,” he murmured. “I… I don’t want this to be something we just forget, and move on from.”

Vivianne then reached out and touched his arm, gently.

“I’m not saying you have to forget, and I’m not telling you to stop loving him, either. But I want you both to live first— to see what the world has to offer before you decide where you belong, and with whom.”

He looked up, hurt flashing behind his eyes.

“So… You want us to stop?”

“I want you both to keep becoming who you’re meant to be,” she said, her voice firm but kind. “Not just for each other, but for yourselves.”

Rimuru didn’t answer. He simply stared down at the deck again; his shoulders hunched forward, like the weight of her words had settled across them.

“I’m not trying to protect you from love,” she added. “Just from forgetting that you’re still allowed to dream beyond it.”

A long pause followed. Rimuru’s chest rose and fell in slow, uncertain breaths.

“… Will you hate me,” he finally asked, “if I can’t ever let go of him?”

Vivianne’s expression softened. “No— I could never hate you. I just want what’s best for both of you, Rimuru.”

Chapter Text

The baseball arced sharply into the sky.

Goblin Slayer’s boots pounded across the soft backyard grass— kicking up dew as he dashed after it. He pivoted hard, planted one foot, and swung. The bat cracked against the ball again with a satisfying ‘pop’— sending it whistling back up into the blue.

Sleek with sweat, the ashen-haired boy spun with momentum— his shirt clinging to his back. His eyes tracked the ball as it came down— again, and again— each time narrowly catching it with the bat’s sweet spot. 

The bat itself was sun-bleached and chipped at the handle, undoubtedly older than he was, but it worked beautifully.

He darted sideways along the edge of the yard— tracing the invisible boundaries that separated wild grass from the flattened path toward the dock. 

Lake Virelda shimmered just beyond; its quiet waves lapping against the wooden beams of the pier. The waterline had crept slightly higher today— he could hear the wet creak of wood with every gentle wave.

He launched into a somersault mid-sprint, kept the ball bouncing, then jumped high— too high— whipping into a front flip. 

The bat then slipped, as his foot missed the landing.

“Ah, shi—”

Before he could hit the grass, a soft pressure caught his back— lifting him weightlessly off the earth. 

A pale white aura wrapped around him— cool, featherlight, like drifting underwater. The bat hovered beside him, while the ball froze in midair.

He blinked and looked down at his arms; still floating. His limbs wobbled a little awkwardly, as he twisted himself upright, just as Ciel stepped calmly from the back porch.

She descended the wooden stairs one at a time, as if nothing unusual was happening; a tea tray balanced effortlessly in her hands. Two ceramic cups sat neatly on their saucers beside a tall-glazed pot, with steam trailing off the spout. 

Her golden eyes flicked to him once, then to the ball and bat beside him, and then back again.

The moment his feet touched the grass, the spell dropped. He staggered as the bat thumped behind him, and the ball rolled to a stop near his boot.

The Great Sage approached him without slowing. “… You’re using those wrong.”

Goblin Slayer squinted at her, still half-sweaty and catching his breath. “I was just playing,” he said quickly. “Sorry if I—”

“— No need to be sorry.” She assured— her tone as flat as ever, but not unkind.

The silence that followed wasn’t cold— just dense, and a little awkward, as she kept walking.

He stood with his arms hanging, glancing between her and the tea tray. “Uh… Is that for… Diablo?” He asked, while gesturing vaguely.

As if appearing to answer his question, Ciel’s footsteps came to a gradual stop; the porcelain clicked faintly on the metal tray. 

“… I know what you and Rimuru did last night,” she said simply.

Goblin Slayer froze.

The grass near his feet suddenly seemed a lot more interesting; heat prickling up his ears and across his nose, as he stared down at the ground.

“… I wasn’t spying on you two,” Ciel added, while still watching him. “But I have ears. We all do.”

“Oh,” he muttered, eyes still down. “R-Right…”

She then exhaled through her nose— barely a sigh. “… It’s not going to happen again.”

“… H-Huh?”

“Whatever you and Rimuru did? Don’t do it anymore— not under my roof.”

Goblin Slayer scratched the back of his head, his embarrassment growing. “Okay… Y-Yes, Great Sage.”

“Good.”

Another silence passed, as she shifted the tray slightly in her hands, then adjusted her gaze down toward the old bat resting in the grass.

“… I’m not trying to control you,” she said, with her voice growing less clinical. “Your sister’s the one who doesn’t want you two getting… Too attached.”

He glanced up at that. “… She said that?”

Ciel didn’t blink. “That she did.”

His brow furrowed faintly, though he didn’t argue. 

“I’m just saying,” she continued, “if you and Rimuru insist on experimenting with each other— or anyone else for that matter, regardless of what your sister and I have to say— then the least you could do is take it elsewhere. Don’t do it in the temple— not until you’re older.”

Goblin Slayer’s spine straightened instinctively. “R-Right— of course.”

She nodded, then added, “And I don’t want to have to have this conversation again.”

“N-No,” he said quickly. “Me neither.”

Ciel gave the smallest, tight-lipped exhale— something like a sigh, or maybe relief that she’d said what she needed to. 

Then, without ceremony, she turned and began walking again— cutting across the grass toward the front path that led around the house and toward the barn.

Goblin Slayer stood alone in the backyard again, arms loose at his sides. 

He bent down and picked up the old baseball bat. The weight of it felt familiar now. He rolled the ball across his palm once, then tossed it lightly into the air and caught it again with a firm ‘thump’ in his glove.

For a long moment, he just stared at it.

“Your sister’s the one who doesn’t want you two getting… Too attached.”

The words echoed in his head again; flat and unembellished, and just the way Ciel had delivered them.

His brow furrowed. That slow, sinking discomfort returned— not sharp like embarrassment, not hot like anger— just a hollow kind of ache, dulled by the truth of it.

He sighed quietly through his nose— lowering the baseball to his side. The glove creaked faintly, as the bat’s chipped tip rested against the ground. He stared down at it; the pale wood casting a short shadow over his boots.

‘I should’ve said no… I should’ve told Rimuru no.’

He closed his eyes for a moment. The ball’s worn leather pressed gently into his palm. The sound of the lake drifted up again from beyond the trees— steady, calm, indifferent.

But then, as his thoughts wandered, they turned— unwillingly— back toward the slime.

‘Did Vi say something to him yet? If she hasn’t… Then when?’

The bat began to drag softly across the grass behind him as he moved forward; his feet shuffling without much aim.

‘I guess at least that part’s over… The awkward talk.’

He grunted to himself, not bitterly— just tired in a way he didn’t want to admit.

But his stomach twisted again as he imagined Rimuru’s face, when the time came when he had to tell him. Not a lecture, just telling him that they couldn’t do anything like that anymore.

‘What’s he gonna say? Will he even still wanna be friends after that?’

The thought lingered like a shadow stretching with the light.

But he didn’t want to keep spiraling. His thoughts were already too loud, and the morning had only just started. He murmured softly under his breath, as if that would muffle the questions echoing in his chest.

“... I suppose I’ll have to cross that bridge when they get back…”

The bat’s tip bumped lightly against the first step as he made his way up onto the porch. The planks creaked under his boots, as he adjusted the glove beneath his arm— tucking the baseball under his armpit, before reaching for the brass handle with his now-free hand.

The old porch door gave a soft groan as he opened it— letting himself into the sunroom.

Later that afternoon, the boy undressed slowly— peeling off his shirt with a wince and folding it neatly on top of his worn trousers by the corner shelf, next to his used boxer-briefs. His boots rested by the tub— his soles damp with sweat from earlier— with one sock tucked into the other. 

With a practiced grimace, he eased himself into the steaming water, inch by inch, until his chest met the surface. He the. leaned back against the tub— exhaling sharply through his nose, as the warmth reached up toward his collarbones and washed the soreness from his limbs.

The wood paneling behind the tub creaked softly as he shifted, one arm slung lazily over the side. The scent of lavender and honey clung thick to the steam— Shuna’s soap. The same one she insisted “smelled like purity.” It smelled more like old candy and flower petals to him, but he wasn’t going to argue with a bar of soap that actually worked.

He let the silence stretch; the only sounds being the occasional plip of water from the brass faucet and the far-off birds outside.

But after a while, that familiar itch crept in. The one that came when the quiet got too quiet. When the loneliness started whispering instead of shouting.

So, naturally, he opened his mouth and let the chaos in.

“… Hey, guys; I know what we’re going to today,” he began in a sharp, nasal whine— channeling one of his old ginger classmates with a perfect eye-roll and raised hand. “Today we’re gonna do somethin’ soooo dumb, we might actually die! I stole some fireworks from my dad, and I’m going to glue them to my shoes!” 

He then slapped the water for emphasis— cracking himself up instantly. “And guess what? I’m gonna light them up, and then ride them up a ramp— right through Cody’s fat mom’s window while she’s showering!”

He barely got the words out before grinning wide— splashing the tub in a ripple.

He then switched tones instantly— pinching his nose, stiffening his posture, and mimicking the aforementioned classmate.

“Junior, what the fuuuuuu—” he said with nerdy exasperation in his voice. “Stop calling my mom fat!”

The ashen-haired boy then held out an invisible doll, before nodding solemnly.

“Also, Ken doesn’t approve of your idea, Junior. He says you’re a dumb bib-wearing baby, and that you don’t know how firecrackers work. And quite frankly, I agree with his sexy ass; he’s an astronaut, after all.”

Then, he deepened his voice.

“Huh-huhhh, whatever losers,” he muttered— channeling his inner bully voice. “Nice rocket-shoes, nerd. Are they shitproof? ‘Cause I’m gonna shove them up your ass— sideways.”

The grin widened on Goblin Slayer’s face. Then, came the ultimate switch. He snapped his whole body upright in the tub, eyes wide, teeth bared.

“HHHHHHHUUUUUUUHHHH!!!” He screamed, shrill and loud, while slapping the water hard. “My name’s Jeffy! See— it says it on my shirt: Je-ffy!” His face twisted into an exaggerated snarl, tongue out. 

“Where’s my helmet, Daddy?! You hid it again didn’t you?! HUUUUHHH!!!” He splashed again. “I. HATE. GREENBEANS!!!” 

His voice pitched higher.

“SHIBBYYYY—” 

Then—

Knock. 

Knock. 

Knock.

Goblin Slayer’s entire body suddenly froze— his eyes widened in embarrassment.

“S-Shit—”

He then slid down into the water until only his eyes peeked above the surface.

“♪ Badadum~ badadum~ ♪” Came a girl’s voice from behind the door; musical and irritatingly chipper.

His heart sank. ‘… Shuna?’

“Lords and ladies of the household!” She announced like a town crier. “By royal decree, the presence of Goblin Slayer is required this evening for a magical feast of romance! Mystery! And awkward conversation!”

Goblin Slayer blinked. His face was still halfway underwater.

“You will attend a dinner party with guests of high status!” She declared, in an exaggerated theatrical voice. “You will be assigned a seat, and expected to be talkative for once!”

Then her voice dropped back to normal:

“We’re playin’ make-believe, and you’re invited! I’m already almost done baking the cake we’ll be having for dessert, and we’ll be having freshwater eel sushi tonight!”

“Ah… I see,” he croaked from the tub. “… Is Malruk going to be there?”

“Not anymore,” Shuna chirped. “Her new name is “Malra,” and SHE’S MY date— so YOU can’t ask her out!”

“… Oh.” He blinked again. “That’s… Okay— s-sure.”

“Wear something fancy— like your school uniform! Just don’t get it dirty before you’re supposed to wear it,” she called out. “Dinner’s at seven, so don’t show up smelling like ‘boy’.”

“… I’m already taking a bath,” he deadpanned.

“Great! You’re already halfway ready! I’ll see you soooon~!” She sing-songed, before padding off.

He waited until her footsteps vanished, before silence followed.

He then exhaled, before once again slumping fully into the tub, as a single smirk crept slowly across his face.

“… Shibbyyyy,” he whispered under his breath— only after he knew the pink-haired oni had left the second story hallway.

The ashen-haired boy stood alone in his bedroom, facing the full-length mirror propped beside his wardrobe. The golden light of the candelabra on his bedside table flickered against the wall— its glow mingling with the warm, steady flame from the wall-mounted sconces. 

Between the two, his reflection stood sharply illuminated; crisp shadows under his chin and around his collar, drawing out every line of his neatly pressed uniform.

He tilted his head slightly, while inspecting himself with a curious expression. His bangs, pale and uneven, hung low across his forehead— casting faint shadows over his tired, dusty rose eyes. 

The blazer he wore— black, tightly buttoned, and slightly stiff at the shoulders— looked almost too formal for him. An embroidered patch sat stitched onto the breast pocket: a white dragon encircled by a silver laurel crest. The turtleneck beneath was bone-white and snug against his throat; clean and plain compared to the sharper cut of the jacket.

He turned slightly, while adjusting the belt that cinched his waist, before brushing down a stray wrinkle along the front of his red plaid trousers. They clung neatly at the ankles— ending just above his feet, which were clad in thick, dark socks. 

He glanced down at them with a half-smile.

‘What’s the point of dressing like I’m meeting royalty… If I’m showing up in these?’

He tugged gently at the cuffs of his blazer— smoothing them over his wrists. Then he straightened up, standing a little taller, with his hands momentarily planted on his hips as he studied himself again in the glass.

‘This is only pretend— just a game; no need to be too analytical.’

The smile vanished, as his eyes narrowed— sharpening into something closer to focus.

‘But even so… I should still put effort into this bit.’

His gaze drifted back to the blazer— his fingers brushing again over the embroidered dragon— before moving to his own reflection— locking eyes with the boy staring back. He raised one hand to his chin, with his thumb pressing just beneath his lower lip as he fell into thought.

‘I can’t go by “Goblin Slayer” tonight; not while I’m dressed like this.’

He then drew in a soft breath through his nose.

‘So then… Who do I want to be?’

He began rolling his weight from heel to toe— thinking to himself. 

‘A king? A poet? A soldier?’

He began picturing himself swinging a sword made of steak knives at the dinner table and shook his head.

‘No… That’s dumb. I’m overthinking this.’

Still, he stared at himself in the mirror— like he might find the answer somewhere behind his own eyes.

‘I just need a role. Something clever. Someone quick. Someone cool.’

A beat passed, and then his lips parted slightly— as something from the attic of his memory drifted into view.

‘Arsène Lupin… The Gentleman Thief.’

His eyes lit faintly. He’d remembered the stories of the titular character well: a charming rogue, always a step ahead, always in disguise. Refined, unpredictable, with a silver tongue and a hidden blade.

‘He could be anyone. A count. A servant. A doctor. A ghost.’

He grinned faintly.

‘Yeah… I could definitely be that.’

Without thinking, he cleared his throat and tried on a smoother voice— cool and composed, with a touch mysterious, and a touch of over confidence.

“Apologies for the delay, madam. I was detained by a matter of national importance,” he said, while raising a brow and tilting his chin slightly.

Then again, a little deeper— more relaxed.

“Trouble? I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

He stifled a chuckle at himself— shaking his head, and tried one more:

“People call me many things. But tonight… You can call me “Joker”— I’ve come to steal your heart, love.”

He watched himself in the mirror a moment longer— eyes sharp and focused— before the smirk faded back into something more thoughtful. He then reached for the lapels of his blazer and tugged them once, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve, and gave his cuffs a final, precise adjustment.

‘This is stupid,’ He thought to himself. Then, more quietly, and with the faintest smile, ‘But it’s kinda fun.’

Satisfied, Goblin Slayer took one last glance at his reflection— at the way his hair shadowed his gaze, at the flicker of candlelight along his crest— and turned toward the door. 

The soft whisper of his socked feet on the wood was the only sound as he stepped out of his room— leaving the mirror and his half-grin behind him.

The rich, chocolatey scent hit him first.

Descending the stairs sock-footed, Goblin Slayer caught a warm drift of cake— thick and sugary and unmistakably homemade— curling up from the kitchen doorway down the hall. 

Somewhere beneath that came a sharper note, lighter and vinegar-tinged— likely rice vinegar. It was masked heavily by the cake’s sweet cloud, but the boy still noted it.

He made his way down into the foyer— the old wood creaking under his steps. The archway leading into the dining room stood open, and as he entered, the familiar scent deepened. 

He slowed just beyond the threshold, and noticed that the tea cart in the corner was missing its tray. 

But what made him stop entirely was the elongated table— elegantly set— and everyone seated at it.

Uniforms— every single one of them.

Plaid skirts, black blazers, school crests. Shuna hadn’t just suggested he dress like this— she had suggested it to everyone else there as well. 

Goblin Slayer’s brow twitched as he stood motionless for a breath— mentally revising his earlier assumption.

‘So then… I wasn’t the only one who got suckered into dressing like a damn private school delinquent.’

He rolled his shoulders, smoothed his cuffs, then stepped forward deliberately, with his posture perfect. 

At the table’s far end, the chair at the head— usually his sister’s— was already occupied. Shuna rose from it like a queen in court, with her pink hair shining softly beneath the sconces. A pleased, nearly gleeful glint danced in her eyes.

The ashen-haired boy bowed stiffly at the waist, then straightened with theatrical grace, with his expression composed.

“Intriguing company you’ve assembled,” he said, with his voice even and articulate, and his eyes scanning the table with an aloof smirk. “You may call me Joker; I have come to steal your hearts.”

Shuna’s face lit up— absolutely lit up.

She gasped, dramatically clutched her chest, then stepped forward with the elegance of a swan and the smugness of a monarch. Her laughter was regal, domineering, and absurdly loud for how small she was.

“Oh-ho~! And here I thought you would never arrive, thief of hearts,” she declared, while gesturing wide with both arms. “But of course, you would dare to crash my divine banquet!”

She then dropped one hand to her chest and pressed the other against her hip. Her voice dropped in tone— calm, but menacingly divine. “You stand before “Kaguya Ōtsutsuki,” matriarch of the Celestial Palace. And you are the final guest to enter MY court.”

Goblin Slayer blinked once, slowly.

‘Oh god. She’s completely into the bit.’

The oni then turned— brushing her skirt back into place, as she lowered herself dramatically into the head chair once more, keeping her posture perfectly regal. “And now that the meddling interloper has graced us with his presence, my beautiful wife shall join us.”

She clapped her hands twice.

“Princess Malra, present our guests with their appetizers,” she said, with an exaggerated mixture of theatrical smugness and spoiled nobility.

And then— Goblin Slayer froze.

From the archway leading to the kitchen, a tall figure stepped out slowly.

The boy’s heart caught.

Malra— once known as Malruk— stood with his head slightly bowed; cheeks flushed a soft, rosy peach. His white summer gown hugged his waistline delicately— the skirt flowing gently above his knees with a cut just high enough to show a glimpse of plush, muscular thighs— the rest covered modestly by white thigh-high stockings. 

His arms, once thick and bruised from sparring, were sheathed in elegant elbow-length gloves— giving him a strangely delicate air. A ribbon sat tied into his choppy black hair, which now framed his face and fell low over his forehead. 

His plump lips were painted a pale, glossy blue, while black mascara and eyeliner highlighted his large, brown eyes.

Goblin Slayer stared— jaw faintly slack, posture faltering.

‘What the hell’s happened since this morning…?!’

Malra stepped forward cautiously, with his socked feet padding gently against the wooden floor; the large white tray in his gloved hands holding several elegant dishes. The tall orc’s bashful eyes scanned the table as he carefully began placing miso soup and crab cakes before each guest.

Goblin Slayer’s thoughts short-circuited.

‘Why does he look so much like an actual girl?! And a GORGEOUS one at that?!’ 

Still somehow holding character, he cleared his throat and— voice just a touch too high— said, “Princess… Malra, was it? You look…” He paused. “You look absolutely radiant tonight.”

The teenage orc’s hands hesitated mid-placement. His head turned slowly toward him— his blue-painted lips parting in a stunned, flustered smile. His blush deepened— nearly glowing beneath the candlelight.

“Th-Thank you,” he murmured, while glancing downward quickly.

Shuna, watching from her throne-like seat, let out a loud, giddy squeak, her eyes shimmering.

“Oh my Goddess,” she whispered behind both hands, “I ship this so hard…!”

She immediately composed herself with a sharp cough and a dramatic inhale— waving her hand dismissively and returning to character. “Yes, yes, my darling wife is most pleasing to the eye. But now— serve the appetizers, dear, before Joker steals your heart away too.”

Malra gave a quiet laugh— still bashful, still glowing— and resumed serving, with his tray now lighter with each guest he passed.

Goblin Slayer, trying desperately to focus on anything other than the teenage orc, walked to the far side of the table. 

Haruna, sitting near the center with a inviting look, patted the chair beside her.

“Right here, Joker,” she said, while lightly tapping the spot with her fingers. “I kept it warm for you.”

He gave her a sidelong glance, then let out a dry, amused breath through his nose before sitting down stiffly— restraining a whimper of discomfort, after accidentally bumping against the underside of the table’s edge.

And as Mara passed behind him, he caught a better view of the appetizers. Miso soup, rich and steaming. Crab cakes topped with finely diced herbs. The smell hit him all over again— grounding him just a little.

But as Malra leaned forward to place the next dish, Goblin Slayer’s eyes— against his better judgment— lingered again on the gentle curve of the orc’s low-cut dress— catching an eyeful of the swell of his green, ample chest, which from the way he was leaning, accentuated their plumpness. 

He quickly looked away, only to meet Malra’s gaze mid-turn.

The tall orc was already looking back at him— clearly having noticed. But instead of recoiling or reacting harshly, Malra just smiled— soft and sincere, if a little shy.

Goblin Slayer stared at him, wide-eyed and pink-faced, before offering a tiny, silent smile of apology.

‘Get it together, dammit.’

Malra nodded, looking flattered, then moved along. The ashen-haired exhaled slowly through his nose and sank slightly into his seat— pulling his blazer tight as if trying to hide behind it, as his persistent erection throbbed beneath his zipper.

‘… This is gonna be a LONG night.’

Outside the Jura Temple, where laughter and clinking tableware echoed faintly from within, the golden hour began its gentle descent. 

The sky overhead ripened into streaks of burnt amber and blushing tangerine; flecked with marbled pink clouds stretching across the high canopy of the heavens. 

Soft orange light spilled over the sloped rooftop of the barn, beyond the edge of the house’s front yard— casting long, warm beams across trimmed grass, the wooden fenceposts, and the tall doors that were hanging ajar to welcome the late breeze.

Within the shaded barn interior, the lighting was wholly its own— gentle orbs of pale-blue magic floated serenely overhead— suspended in a slow, circular drift above a summoning circle etched into the packed earth below. 

The salt lines and outer inscriptions of the pentagram shimmered faintly, and were still intact. The enchanted webbing that had once restrained the intruder had long since vanished— leaving the captured guest free to sit in a proper position of civility.

Diablo knelt with eerie formality— his posture composed, back impossibly straight, knees down on the mat that had been provided, his pitch-black hair and tailored coattails pristine despite the indignity of recent events. 

In his outstretched hands, he held a delicate porcelain saucer and matching teacup— turning his eyes upward to watch the teapot float steadily toward him, suspended in a veil of telekinetic light.

The Great Sage stood just beyond the summoning ring, her boots planted evenly and her arms at rest— one loosely at her side, the other lifting her own cup of tea to her lips. 

Her yellow-gold eyes betrayed little emotion, though there lingered a curious glint of amusement in their depth. She tilted the hovering teapot forward with subtle precision— letting a soft stream of scarlet-tinted tea pour neatly into Diablo’s cup, with steam curling upward like silk threads in the dusky air.

“When I remarked earlier,” Diablo said dryly, “that Lady Ashta brought me tea and delightful conversation… I wasn’t intending to set an impossible precedent.”

Ciel didn’t so much as blink. Her mouth was faintly hidden behind the rim of her own cup as she took a patient sip. Only when the teapot had been placed gently back onto the tray floating beside her did she lower the cup again. 

“… That wasn’t the impression I received,” she replied in a deadpan voice that was tinged with quiet sarcasm.

Diablo let out a soft hum as he looked down into his cup— letting the heat rise into his face before lifting it. “… Hibiscus,” he noted aloud. “An unexpected luxury. Where did you acquire this?”

Ciel tipped her head just slightly, as if considering whether to answer in full. “The greenhouses,” she said. “We’ve constructed three thus far, with more underway. The goblins of the forest contribute labor daily, and the dryads have volunteered to tend the soil and manage cultivation. We’ve inherited a sizeable seed collection from Jura’s alchemy stores, and we’ve begun growing excess for both culinary and medicinal use.”

“I see…” Diablo murmured, while watching the surface of the red tea ripple slightly in his cup. He then began studying his reflection faintly distorted by the crimson tint. “That would explain it… You’re preparing for long-term sustenance. Feeding an army of students and newcomers, no doubt. If Lady Ashta’s dream is to succeed, you’ll need to.”

“Indeed,” Ciel said simply, while raising her cup once more and taking a brief, quiet sip. Her movements were small and composed, but her attention never fully left him.

Diablo shifted slightly— his demonic presence far more relaxed now, less predatory. He lifted his gaze again, locking eyes with her. “Then I must ask, Great Sage of Jura— what has prompted this sudden bout of hospitality?” He asked curiously, if slightly guarded. “One doesn’t go from salted pentagrams and divine wards, to tea and polite company within the span of a day.”

Ciel let him wait.

She sipped her tea again— slow and deliberate— with her eyes watching him over the rim of her cup. Steam curled between them as silence hung in the warm, orange air. 

Diablo’s smile faded ever so slightly, as if anticipating something far more cutting.

She lowered her cup and allowed the quiet to linger just long enough to discomfort him. Then, finally, she smiled.

Faint, controlled, and barely perceptible, but still present.

“It’s highly unlikely,” she admitted, “that Vivianne will decline your proposal.”

Diablo raised an eyebrow, with something flickering behind his molten gold eyes. “Oh?” He asked lightly, while bringing the saucer a fraction closer to his lips.

Ciel nodded. “I’ve thought on it since our last conversation.”

“I see,” Diablo said, while taking a thoughtful sip.

“If the Black Numbers and the denizens of Jura Temple are to form a lasting partnership,” Ciel continued, “then it’s only prudent to begin treating you as an ally.” She then muttered dryly beneath her breath, “As impossible as that may be…”

The black-haired demon let out a soft chortle, amused. “A fair sentiment.”

She made no effort to deny her irritation. She simply raised her cup again and drank from it with her eyes closed— savoring the warmth, as though finally allowing herself the smallest margin of peace.

Diablo raised his own tea in turn. “Then a toast,” he said. “To reluctant alliances.”

Ciel stared at him for a moment. Then, without a word, her tea cup floated gently from her hands, hovered through the air, and tapped softly against his with a polite ‘clink.’ 

Her stoic voice replied flatly, “To reluctant alliances,” as her cup returned to her hand, before she sipped once more. “Now then,” she said, drawing a breath, “regarding military structure…”

Diablo leaned slightly forward, with an intrigued look on his face.

“I’ve begun drafting the necessary framework for martial regiments and spellcasting instruction. I intend to implement tiers for physical, magical, and support units, divided by both ability and affinity. However, your… Experience may lend refinement.”

“My subordinates will be ideal for this,” Diablo said, with a gleam of satisfaction surfacing in his eyes. “There are three others I trust implicitly— Primordial White, Violet, and Yellow. Each one is an apex entity in their own right. White excels in diplomatic subversion and tactics. Violet, in ruthless magical theory and shock assaults. Yellow has a proclivity for—”

“— Their names are unacceptable.”

Diablo blinked; the moment stalled.

“… I beg your pardon?” He asked, incredulously.

“Their names,” Ciel repeated, matter-of-factly, “are not names. They are designations.”

“They are titles of power; such as “Primordial Noir” is,” Diablo argued, with his eyebrows raising— feeling genuinely taken aback. “What objection could you possibly—”

“— No,” Ciel interrupted in a flat voice. “Besides…” she smirked slightly, golden eyes glittering, ““Primordial Noir” is no longer your name.”

The demon recoiled slightly, confused. “… Since when?”

“Since Vivianne began addressing you as “Diablo,”” Ciel replied smoothly— folding one hand over her waist, while her tea floated beside her.

The demon sat in stunned silence.

“S… She… S-She did?” He asked quietly.

“Indeed,” the Great Sage lied with effortless calm; masking the truth that it had been Rimuru, and that the name had first been heard spoken by Lady Kumoemi.

The black-haired demon blinked down into his teacup— a faint red hue blooming at the tips of his ears. He stared for a long moment, and then slowly recomposed himself.

“… Very well then,” he muttered, while lifting his chin slightly. “If Lady Ashta has granted me a name, then I suppose it is only right I extend the same to my own.”

He said nothing else on the matter.

Ciel sipped again— smirking faintly to herself.

“To proper names, then,” she said, while raising her teacup.

“To proper names,” Diablo replied, as he stuck his tea out towards hers.

Their conversation returned shortly after to matters of military command, magic compatibility, and battle doctrine. 

And as the sun dipped further below the forest horizon, and the sky gave way to deeper hues of violet and gold, two of the most formidable minds in the Great Jura Forest quietly aligned— teacups in hand, and calculations already taking shape.

Chapter Text

The ‘SS Mia’ anchored just offshore— its white hull rocking gently in the evening tide as the ship’s shadow stretched long across the sea. Twin dinghies creaked on their ropes as they were lowered into the shimmering orange waters below, with their forms swaying like cradles on the waves. 

The sun— fat and amber— had already begun its descent behind them— gilding the western horizon with fire. Ahead lay the untouched eastern shoreline; a fringe of soft dunes pressed against the edge of a lush, whispering jungle.

In the first dinghy, two muscular orcs sat at the oars; their arms worked in quiet rhythm, as they rowed toward land. Rimuru leaned against the side of the boat, one arm slung casually over the edge, grinning as the sea breeze tousled his silvery-blue hair. 

Beside him sat Vivianne; her long dress bundled to keep dry, her calm gaze fixed on the treeline ahead. Around them, several goblins and two therians sat with crates stacked between their legs. 

One wolf-girl in particular, whose spiked violet bangs resembled a broken crown, rested her clawed hands across her lap. She smelled faintly of oil and lavender. Near her was a hulking, anthropomorphic crocodile in black suspenders and yellow-tinted shades— chewing gum with a lazy sort of menace.

With a final push, the orcs brought the dinghy into the shallows. Sand scraped against the wooden keel, and Ranga— curled like a shaggy ball of anticipation— suddenly sprang to life.

SPLASH!!!

Water exploded outward as the direwolf pup leapt over the side— soaking nearly everyone in the boat. 

“R-Ranga!” Rimuru shouted with a laugh, while shielding his face as the wolf bounded through the waves, howling with joy. 

His tail wagged like a banner in the wind as he galloped onto the beach— kicking up sprays of salt and sand, before spinning in circles and burying his nose in the breeze.

The others followed more carefully.

Vivianne stepped from the dinghy with a graceful lift of her skirts, with her boots sinking slightly into the wet sand. Rimuru hopped out next— humming something under his breath, as he stretched his arms overhead and looked toward the growing camp. 

Behind them, two orcs and a group of goblins heaved the crates over their shoulders, as they trudged toward the supply mound near the edge of the jungle, where other crates had already been stacked like the beginnings of a frontier outpost.

The wolf girl dropped out of the boat last, hopping down with a single fluid motion and rolling her shoulders. The crocodile followed more slowly, chewing harder as he swung one heavy leg over the side and waded ashore with all the urgency of a bored bouncer.

Behind them, the two oarsmen climbed back into the dinghy, pushing off and beginning their slow return to the ‘SS Mia’; their silhouettes growing smaller beneath the ship’s hull as the lift ropes awaited their return.

Up the beach, the Tempest base camp buzzed with organized chaos.

The tents— large, paneled structures made from tightly-woven spider silk— stood like pale huts in a crescent along the treeline; their roofs reinforced with carved wooden frames and wide awnings. 

Lanterns glowed from steel hooks mounted at each corner— casting gentle yellow halos across the path between campfires and supplies. Smoke coiled from the cooking pits, mixing with the scent of charred wood and steamed rice.

Goblins with fishing rods and buckets strapped to their backs marched in ranks toward the shore, with their tackle boxes rattling and their short legs working fast. Some carried small shovels to dig for grubs along the tideline— humming little shanties as they passed Ranga, who barked and bounded around them.

Past the edge of the basecamp, groups of orcs were hard at work. Broad-shouldered and gleaming with sweat, they swung heavy axes into tree trunks; their rhythm echoing in the foliage. Others, working in pairs, gripped long two-man saws— shaving thick trunks into slabs of lumber, which were then cracked apart into firewood.

A dryad stood nearby; her green skin faintly luminous in the shadows as she chanted low and slow— coaxing rot from the timber to enrich the soil. The fallen seeds from each tree were gently placed into compost and replanted farther inland; her careful hands working with a reverence known only to beings as well connected to Earth Mother as her.

Further near the outer vicinity of the basecamp, a pack of therians in leather armor prowled the perimeter. They moved in tight units; their eyes scanning the treetops and the underbrush, while their spears glinted with sap and sunlight. 

One, with hawk-like eyes and spotted fur, suddenly raised his bow and let an arrow loose— ‘thwip!’— catching a velociraptor square in the throat before it could leap from the bushes.

A second raptor charged, only to be brought down by the combined strike of three more. Their movements were fast, efficient, and quiet. When the commotion faded, they dragged the scaly corpses off for processing— dinner, or study, perhaps both.

Above the jungle floor, the canopy stirred. Lizardfolk— slender, scaled, and dressed in dark tunics— climbed silently into the treetops. With bows slung across their backs and quivers bouncing against their tails, they perched like silent watchers; their eyes alert for movement in the skies or beyond the treetops.

Toward the heart of the camp, a larger tent stood— constructed sturdier than the rest. Its walls were layered for insulation, and the stitched banner of the Great Jura Forest fluttered just outside. 

Within, an oil lantern hung low over a collapsible wooden table— casting an amber glow across maps, documents, and a few plates of half-eaten rations.

Gabiru stood hunched over the table, with his arms planted wide across its surface, and one claw tapping against the corner. 

His brows furrowed at the map spread out before him, which was a mismatched lattice of elegant script and jagged ink. 

Ciel’s neat cursive bled across the parchment in dark, annotated ribbons— sharp contrasts to the looping, smudged letters of Jura’s older additions. Their two hands— father and daughter— mingled on the paper like past and present fighting for space.

The lizardman squinted at one of the notes to see a red line snaked from the beach they’d landed on— clearly marked with a tidy annotation in Ciel’s neat, looping script: “Jura’s Landing – suitable for establishing an eastern camp. Closest accessible point for jungle survey.”

Gabiru blinked. “Well… At least that explains why I picked here,” he muttered, while tracing the inked path inland with a clawed fingertip. “Not bad, Ciel.”

Following the red line, he passed a series of sketched symbols— small trees, hills, shallow gullies, marked out with careful precision. Another note read: “Follow ridge spine to the basalt fork. Eastward sloping undergrowth will thicken. Two mushroom-ringed banyans indicate approach to cavern system entrance.”

He raised a brow. “… Mushroom-ringed banyans… Who writes stuff like this?” He murmured to himself; though, he had to admit that it was more useful than the scribbles beneath it— lines scrawled in faded black ink. 

Beneath the red annotations, one line still stood out in blocky, fading script: “Jura’s Quarry – DO NOT FORGET THIS PLACE.”

Ciel had circled it in red and added a final annotation off to the side: “Approximate location of Jura’s Quarry. Overgrowth likely severe. Recommend using Ranga to scent passage. 50+ years abandoned. Nesting threats possible.”

Gabiru sighed hard through his nostrils. “… Wonderful,” he murmured sarcastically, before reaching for the leather pouch at his belt. “Let’s just hope it’s nesting chipmunks and not demons.”

He then pulled out his personal notepad— smaller, worn at the corners, taken from the Jura Temple— and flipped it open. A black-feathered quill sat in a corked ink pot beside the map. He dipped it once and began jotting notes in a shorthand even he barely understood sometimes.

“Find mushroom banyans,” he mumbled to himself, writing quickly. “Ridge spine— left at stupidly mysterious basalt fork… Use Ranga to sniff out Jura’s creepy forgotten mountain basement…”

He paused halfway through a sentence; the feather tip poised above the paper. His brows furrowed. “... And if the Dark Sect’s on this island too?” He muttered. “Tch… Wouldn’t that be just my luck…”

He leaned back slightly, quill still in hand, while chewing the inside of his cheek as his mind spiraled for a moment. He began recalling leading a six man raid through a demon infested cavern, just beyond Lady Kumoemi’s underground lair; slaughtering an entire army of vile creatures, only to cross one of their executives— Diablo.

Shaking the memory loose, Gabiru snorted and shook his head. “Nah… We’re not losing anyone this time,” he muttered. “If anyone tries anything, we’ll rip ‘em limb from limb. I’m not going down again.”

He then proceeded to roll up the black sleeve of his padded gambeson— revealing the thin twine bracelet wrapped snug around his scaled wrist. It shimmered faintly as the lanternlight hit it; a white glimmer tracing its knots.

“… These better work, Ciel,” he muttered to it, half-smiling. “This little arts-and-crafts charm of yours better fry any shadowy curses before they hit us…”

The bracelet flickered once— just enough to answer him— before going still. He then rolled the sleeve back down and returned to his notes; his eyes back on the paper, as the canvas flap of the tent rustled.

Treyni stepped in; her silhouette dappled with the orange glow of dusk, vines wrapped like sleeves across her arms, and a small leaf still stuck in the golden strands of her hair. Her skin glistened faintly with moisture from the humidity, and her green eyes sparkled like glass marbles under the lanternlight.

“… Well, well,” she said lightly, while coming to the opposite side of the table. “Is that your diary, Gabiru?”

The lizardman grinned, while still not looking up at her. “Yep. Full of heartfelt entries about how much I love smoked gouda, and mauled by demons. It's all deeply personal, really.”

Treyni raised one fine brow, amused; her arms folding gently, as took advantage of her height to peek down at the scrawl he was still adding to. “… You even underlined ‘Jura’s creepy forgotten mountain basement.’ That’s very expressive of you.”

He gave a theatrical sigh, before finally setting the quill down into the bottle with a little click. “You caught me. Don’t publish it, though. I don’t think the world’s ready for the tragic inner musings of a handsome lizard, such as I.”

He then set the notepad gently beside the map; letting the ink dry, before giving her his full attention, while his arms rested on the edge of the table. “So,” he asked, more sincerely now. “What do you think of Tempest so far?”

Treyni’s bemused expression softened; her shoulders loosening as a breath of genuine awe slipped out of her. “It’s alive, and it’s beautiful,” she said reverently. “In ways I don’t think I’ve felt in centuries. I’ve already spoken with the roots.”

Gabiru tried not to laugh, but failed. A sharp snort escaped him, followed by an eye-roll he couldn’t stop. 

She deadpanned at him. “… Did you think that was funny?”

He gave a sheepish cough, while rubbing the back of his neck. “N-Not at all…! P-Please, go on.”

Treyni tilted her head, measuring his sincerity, then nodded slowly. “Some of the trees have been here since before humans could even count time. The spores in the air… The fungal networks under the sand… They’re from a world when marine life had barely begun to crawl onto land. I even found remnants of saltwater flora buried beneath the mangroves inland.”

Gabiru blinked. “That’s… A lot. Have you told Vi any of this yet? She’d probably know the right science-y words for all that.”

The dryad snorted, with her shoulders bouncing slightly. “The roots and I don’t care much for mankind’s names, or their obsession with dating them with their so-called timelines.”

A pause followed, as the tent creaked faintly in the breeze.

“… But yes,” she added with a sly grin. “I already spoke to Vi about it; we had a very thoughtful conversation about it, and she taught me just how old ‘charophyte algae’ is; it traces back all the way to eight-hundred-and-fifty million years ago, by the way!”

Gabiru grinned. “I knew it. You two always find each other when there’s nerd stuff to talk about.”

Treyni laughed with a subtle shake of her head. “Yes, well, ‘Nerd stuff,’ as you’ve elegantly put it before, tends to keep the planet from burning.”

He barked a real laugh at that; the sound echoing off the silk-lined walls. “Yeah, well… I never said ‘nerd stuff’ was a bad thing.”

The cicadas nestled in the trees around the camp had grown quieter. Only the soft, rhythmic croak of frogs from the distant swamp broke through the thick silence of the night. 

Inside one particular tent, its lantern had long since been dimmed— leaving only the faint moonlight from the mesh flap to outline the shapes within. Shadows flickered across the canvas walls, which occasionally shifted as something rustled through the underbrush outside.

Vivianne lay on top of her cot, with one one arm draped loosely across her waist, and her bare legs stretched long over the thin linen sheet. 

The tropical humidity clung to her skin like syrup— dewing her arms, flat abdomen, and cleavage with beads of sweat. Her tousled hair fanned out beneath her head like a halo of dark curls, and the rise and fall of her chest was slow and steady. The soft cotton of her undergarments clung lightly to her— barely keeping the heat off her skin, especially between her bare thighs.

Across from her, Rimuru flopped back onto his own cot with a sigh; clad only in a snug white undershirt and the soft briefs he'd taken from the ashen-haired boy’s drawers. Unlike her though, he wasn’t sweating; his body, even in human form, regulated temperature like a cooled spring. 

But even so, the slime still fanned himself lazily with one hand before rolling over onto his side, while his head squished softly into his pillow.

Between them, Ranga’s body sprawled like a shaggy rug across the floor. His form blocked most of the tent’s entryway, with his head resting near the flap. The direwolf pup gave a muffled snore; his ears twitching with each breath, as his belly slowly rose and fell.

Vivianne reached over to the footlocker beside her cot; her fingers curling around the dented canteen resting atop it. She uncapped it with a practiced twist, raised it to her lips, and drank deeply. The water was lukewarm, but it still tasted like relief.

Rimuru turned a little— propping himself up with one elbow as his golden eyes drifted to her. He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her drink, his gaze tracing the small, familiar movements of her wrist and neck. He blinked, then looked away toward the tent wall.

Then, after a beat, his voice broke through the quiet.

“… I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier.”

Vivianne paused mid-motion; the cap still halfway screwed back on. She then turned toward him; her hair brushing against her shoulder, as she propped herself up similarly, mirroring his posture. Her expression was patient— her brown eyes faintly curious in the dark.

“… Is that so?” She said softly. “And which part of my lecture did I manage to etch into your memory?”

He cracked a crooked grin, but his gaze stayed earnest. “The part where you told me to think about what I really want,” he said, while shrugging his shoulder. “About not just… Doing stuff, because it feels good.”

The brunette’s brow arched slightly, but she said nothing. She instead just rested her chin on her palm— patiently waiting.

Rimuru glanced toward the ceiling of the tent. “I really liked what me and Ren had,” he admitted after a moment, his voice lowering slightly. “Y’know. Before we, uh… G-Got found out about.”

That earned a dry smirk from her.

“But,” Rimuru went on, with his cheeks turning faintly pink, “I’ve been thinking, and… I dunno. You’re probably right. I do want to be an adventurer, or something like that. I want to go out and do stuff— so being tied down to one person this early in my life might be troublesome. Anyway—”

He frowned. “— I’m not sure I want to join the Adventurers’ Guild. At least, not like how Ren talks about it. Chasing jobs for strangers who don’t even know your name. That’s not… Me.”

Vivianne’s smirk softened into something more thoughtful. She nodded, her voice still quiet. “I’d prefer Ren stay close to home, too. But I know how stubborn he is when he wants to prove something.”

Rimuru sat up a bit, enthusiasm flickering behind his eyes. “Exactly! Like— what if we started our own guild?” He proposed, while leaning up to sit cross-legged on his cot. “Just for the Great Jura Forest? No strangers, no sketchy contracts from weirdos. Just us— helping the forest grow, protecting people we actually care about. That’d be way cooler, right?”

Vivianne blinked slowly— letting him ramble. His hands waved animatedly in the air as he talked, while his posture lit up even in the dimness.

“We’d have our own ranking system!” Rimuru went on. “Like, instead of bronze or silver or whatever, we could name them after forest creatures. ‘Slime tier,’ ‘Goblin tier’— uh, well, maybe not that one. ‘Spriggan tier,’ I dunno! And instead of people paying us to do quests, we pick the quests. Stuff that helps the land. Clear a trail. Purify a spring. Hunt down something hurting the roots. You know?”

He suddenly paused, frowning. “Wait… How does the actual Adventurers’ Guild even work, anyway?”

Vivianne chuckled gently, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ll explain it to you. But first…”

Her tone shifted slightly— still warm, but firmer..

“… I want you to promise me something.”

Rimuru blinked. “Okaaay…?”

Vivianne tilted her head, still watching him carefully. “Don’t do anything with my brother again.”

The bluntness of it made Rimuru stiffen, eyes wide. “Wh— What?”

“I want to make myself clear,” she said, her voice soft but serious. “Ren’s already been through enough. I know he likes you, and you like him, and if you two want to still be romantically involved with one another, that’s fine— even if I don’t necessarily approve of it. But please, Rimuru… Don’t cross that line anymore— not until you’re both more mature.”

There was a long silence.

Rimuru blinked, then let out a soft, uncomfortable laugh. “I-I thought we already talked about it,” he said anxiously, while offering her an almost apologetic look. “I mean— I’ll seriously try not to, though. But it’s… Not really a switch I can flip. I… I-I still like him that way, y’know? Even if we’re just friends…”

Vivianne let out a quiet sigh through her nose— shaking her head a little. “That’s… That’s not the answer I wanted, but… Thanks for at least being honest, at least.”

He didn’t reply to that. Instead, he pulled his pillow back into place and flopped sideways again— facing her, as she sat up slightly and reached for the canteen again.

“So,” he mumbled, voice muffled in the pillow. “My Adventurers’ Guild; please tell me how I could make my version work even better than the real one, Miss Vi.”

Vivianne gave him a long, unreadable look, then finally smiled faintly— slow and tired and genuine.

“… Alright,” she said, raising the canteen like a toast. “Let’s start with the ranking system. And no, there shouldn’t be a ‘Slime tier.’”

Rimuru groaned. “Aw, c’mon! That was gonna be MY rank though!”

Vivianne laughed quietly under her breath; the sound soft and full of warmth. And as the moon rose a little higher above the jungle canopy, the two of them kept talking— low and unhurried— while Ranga snored quietly into the night.

Chapter Text

By the time the third course was served, it was no longer a dinner party. It was a full-blown interdimensional soap opera with almost no adherence to internal logic.

“Kaguya Ōtsutsuki,” high ruler of the Celestial Palace, leaned back in her seat and tapped two lacquered fingers against her porcelain teacup— her expression cold, unreadable, dangerous.

“You claim to be a thief,” she murmured, with her eyes locked across the table, “but I see no mask… And I smell no deceit. Who sent you, Joker?”

Goblin Slayer— who had by this point adjusted to being referred to exclusively as “Joker,” without any trace of irony— rested his elbow on the table and leaned in coolly. He tapped his chopsticks against his plate with rhythmic precision, then slowly turned them— pointing them toward her like daggers.

“A thief reveals nothing, especially not to royalty. Unless, of course, that royalty has something worth stealing.”

Shuna’s jaw dropped open slightly in real life, though she hid it behind a perfectly poised fan. She inhaled sharply, with her eyes wide and thrilled.

Malra— still embodying “Princess Malra,” consort to the lunar empress— covered his mouth bashfully and looked between them— his lashes fluttering as he pretended to be overcome.

“Oh my heavens… Does he mean me?”

Haruna— currently going by “Junko the Silent,” who had introduced herself earlier as a wayward noble with a fondness for poisons and philosophical despair— snorted loudly from her seat and didn’t bother hiding her wicked grin.

“You’re all idiots,” she said, while swirling her drink lazily. “Don’t you see? He didn’t come here to woo or steal. He’s here to dismantle everything from the inside. One heart at a time.”

Goblin Slayer shot her a glance, with his brow twitching. “You speak like someone who’s hiding a dagger under their gown.”

Haruna raised a brow and let her fingers trail over her lap in mock innocence. “I am.”

There was a pause, as someone at the table coughed, while Malra looked stunned. “Y… You’re what?”

“I’m planning a divine coup,” Haruna said brightly, before setting her drink down with an exaggerated ‘clink.’ “But I won’t need to do a thing. Kaguya’s going to do it for me— once I twist her enough. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

Shuna’s voice cut through the air— smooth and imperial. “You presume much, mortal. I do not bow to temptation.”

Haruna locked eyes with her, grinning. “You already have. You married a commoner in a summer dress.”

Malra blinked. “… Hey.”

Shuna stood up dramatically. “Malra is not a commoner. She is…” She trailed off— faltering, before waving her hand wildly. “She is… A fallen star reborn in the body of a humble orc maiden.”

Goblin Slayer gave her a deadpan look. “That… Sounds suspiciously like a last-minute backstory.”

“Silence, delinquent!” She hissed. “You’re still under trial for stealing divine relics and causing my beloved wife to question her sacred vows!”

Malra turned beet red. “I-I didn’t question anything—!”

“— Then why,” Haruna asked, while leaning in with an impish glint in her eye, “did you blush when he called you ‘radiant?’”

Malra opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again, only to raise a napkin over his face with a wounded groan.

The room burst into chaotic laughter.

But the game didn’t stop.

Shuna, ever the committed empress, paced the length of the table now; her arms folded behind her back as she interrogated her so-called court. 

The guests, playing their own roles, shouted conspiracies and denials, with each one more ridiculous than the last.

Haruna insisted that the palace had been built on top of a long-buried chaos engine that could be detonated with a single mispronounced word. Goblin Slayer insisted he was only there to steal back his “spirit cat,” which Shuna insisted didn’t exist and had been invented just to flirt with Malra.

The teenage orc, meanwhile, was growing visibly flustered— still trying to serve everyone with quiet politeness, all while maintaining his fabricated backstory as a disgraced royal who’d fallen in love with her captor.

“I don’t even know how to be evil,” he whispered once, red-faced, when Goblin Slayer caught his wrist briefly under the guise of asking for more tea.

“You’re doing great,” the boy muttered back.

And then came the final act.

Shuna, arms raised, declared she would invoke the “Great Eclipse” and strip everyone of their earthly titles. Haruna clapped delightedly, revealing her final plan: to seize Kaguya’s power and use it to create a new realm where no one was allowed to love anyone except her.

Goblin Slayer stood up, pointed his chopsticks like twin blades, and proclaimed that the only realm he served was the realm of rebellion.

It was chaos. Brilliant, loud, overdramatic chaos.

By the time the main dish arrived— elegantly plated “Moonlit Snowfish,” which was, in truth, very fresh salmon sushi— everyone was half in character and half unable to breathe from laughing.

Shuna insisted each roll was “infused with lunar gravity,” and that eating them bound you to the moon’s cycles. Haruna pretended to choke on one and accused the sushi of being cursed. Goblin Slayer said nothing, and was too focused on not staring at Malra’s ample cleavage again.

And dessert? Shuna had dubbed it “Obsidian Eclipse Bloom.” The truth, of course, was chocolate cake. Decadent, rich, homemade and warm after having been cooled.

Each slice came with a delicate drizzle of syrup and was delivered by Malra, who by now had long given up on holding in his smiles.

Haruna pretended her food was poisoned again, and made a show of collapsing onto the table. Shuna tried to smite her with a spoon, while Goblin Slayer helped himself to a second slice as the girls fought theatrically in the background.

Eventually, reality began to settle back in. Twilight poured in through the dining room window— dyeing the table in hues of soft indigo and fading gold.

Shuna— still flushed from laughter, a streak of frosting near the corner of her mouth— stood up and tapped her fork to her glass.

“I declare this Celestial Banquet complete,” she said, mostly out of breath. “I shall spare the Earth, and all guests shall now be dismissed… And given leftover rations for the journey back to their realms.”

Goblin Slayer held up the platter of extra sushi rolls and the entire tray of leftover cake. “You mean these.”

“Silence,” she replied. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw you in the palace dungeons for stealing my wife.”

Haruna stood, while still grinning. “You’re all so dramatic.”

The pink-haired oni raised her arms, before scoffing amusingly. “You literally tried to destroy the world!”

“I said what I said.”

And as the stars began to flicker above the tree line, Shuna saw her guests to the door— handing them paper-wrapped bundles of leftovers and bidding them farewell with an imperious wave. 

The summer wind was light— rustling the treetops and blades of grass— as the last rays of gold danced between the Jura Temple’s wooden beams.

When the door finally shut, the noise faded into silence.

Only three remained.

Shuna exhaled and flopped back dramatically into one of the chairs— arms limp at her sides. “Ughhh… I’m never being Kaguya again. She’s exhausting!”

“You were amazing,” Malra said, while untying the white ribbon from his hair, and setting it gently on the table.

Goblin Slayer turned without a word and gathered the first stack of plates— heading for the kitchen.

He passed the dining table in silence, with the soft clink of porcelain in his hands. Once inside the kitchen, the scent of soap and rice vinegar still lingered faintly. He set the dishes in the copper basin and worked the hand pump at the side— filling it with water as he reached for the homemade soap.

The steady rhythm of water echoing into the basin was soothing. He dipped a rag, worked up a gentle lather, and began scrubbing the plates one by one— each motion careful, practiced, quiet.

Through the small window above the sink, the world was dark, dusky blue.

Past the soft grass of the front yard, just beyond the neat wooden fence of the chicken coop, he could see the barn near the edge of the property— its sloped roof dimly lit from within, flickering slightly with the glow of lanterns. 

The light was pale, white as bone, and carried none of the warmth from the dining room earlier. Goblin Slayer kept washing— scrubbing the ceramic plates with a bar of pine-scented soap— his hands moving with a quiet rhythm beneath the hand-pumped flow of cool water spilling into the basin. 

He then leaned slightly forward— peering through the narrow window above the sink. That pale light again— flickering, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. 

Not candlelight. Magic.

A breath clouded the glass. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his tunic, still scrubbing, still thinking. Then— soft as a memory— the scene slipped from him. 

The gentle clink of porcelain became distant, as though muffled underwater, and the world blurred outward—

And somewhere within the stillness of the barn, a ghost-light shimmered.

Inside the structure, under the vast slanted beams of the barn’s ceiling, a row of flickering light orbs floated just beneath the rafters. Their cool glow glimmered across the faded wood— dancing upon the scattered hay and moss-lined floorboards.

At the very center of a chalk-drawn salt circle and a sprawling pentagram, Diablo sat with his legs folded beneath him; his spine arrow-straight, and hands resting on his knees. His back did not waver, even as the silence shifted.

Something had arrived.

Diablo drained the last of his hibiscus tea with studied leisure; the rim of the porcelain cup resting against his lips just long enough to savor the final note of floral bitterness. His lacquer-black fingernails curled against the ceramic as he lowered it with care— setting it against the saucer with a quiet ‘click.’ His black, decorative cloak shifted softly over his lap as he reclined— exhaling in silence.

Ciel, standing still and upright before him, turned her head slightly toward the disturbance— though her posture barely changed.

She did not speak.

Her fingers lifted no more than a breath's width from her thigh. With a subtle, invisible nudge of will, the teacup, saucer, and half-empty silver teapot rose into the air— drifting like leaves on a current until they resettled neatly onto their tray. 

The tray, in turn, descended with elegant poise onto the polished floor. The barn’s orblights dimmed— responding to an unseen atmospheric shift.

Diablo’s lips curved into the faintest semblance of a smile. “How curious,” he murmured; his voice lilting, and amused. “It appears your verdant sanctuary has received a guest… Most uninvited, and very much unexpected.”

The light in Ciel’s eyes deepened— a steady, intelligent shimmer overtaken by something colder. Her once-serene expression tightened; a soft tension formed at the edges of her brow, while her lips pressed in the smallest frown.

Diablo tilted his head— resting his sharp chin against one knuckle. His tone, though quieter now, retained a velvet edge. “Ah… They yet cling to life,” he said, more to himself than to her. “A stable condition, albeit barely so. Suspended… But precariously. I wonder how long fate intends to hold them there.”

Still, the Great Sage offered no words.

She breathed in— slow, deliberate, controlled— and closed her eyes.

From beneath her lashes, a pearlescent light shimmered— spilling in thin ribbons down her cheekbones like threads of moonlight, as the shadows thickened around the corners of the barn. The quiet hum of ancient magic pulsed from her form— rolling outward in gentle waves that left the air strangely still.

Untethered from her corporal form, her mind drifted— casting itself into the world beyond wood and wind. Through tangled boughs, past moss-cloaked trunks, and down the winding Darrinworth Road, she followed the subtle pull of arcane resonance. 

Leaves rustled, as stone markers passed below her like faint memories. The trees opened, then narrowed again, guiding her toward the Blackridge Highway.

There— at the edges of perception— a presence flickered.

Her focus honed.

A child.

Alone.

Blond, dirt-smeared, trembling. Her tiny body wrapped in a ragged burlap shift that barely covered her. One eye swollen shut, and her face streaked with grime and dried blood. Her bare feet stumbled against exposed roots.

She caught herself on a tree, then limped forward, driven by raw panic that echoed in each wheezing breath. Her mouth moved constantly— murmuring nonsense in a hoarse, broken whisper.

Ciel’s eyes opened sharply.

Before her spell could fade, her hand twitched, then unfurled— casting a glowing sigil in the air. A radiant seal exploded outward from her palm— illuminating the woods for a single, silent heartbeat.

And in that instant, the child vanished from the forest floor.

Light burst forth in the barn.

The girl appeared midair— suspended, gently cradled by a field of invisible force. Ciel’s arms lifted slightly, drawing her forward, as Diablo stood in a single, fluid movement; the rich folds of his cloak sweeping across the floor, as his attention fixed on the new arrival.

The girl gasped; her breath rattling like dry paper. One eye opened a sliver— just enough to glimpse Ciel’s luminous figure, and then Diablo’s shadowy silhouette— tall, and imposing with his black sclera-eyed stare.

She whimpered, while trying to crawl away midair: her legs kicking weakly against nothing.

“Shhh...” Ciel whispered softly. “Peace now. You are far from danger; no harm shall come to you under my gaze.”

The girl’s breathing stuttered, as her chest rose and fell in shallow spasms. Her cracked lips trembled, with her expression teetering between terror and disbelief.

With great care, the Great Sage turned her upright and lowered her gently to the ground. Her feet touched the floor, but she remained hunched, swaying like a leaf caught in a windless room.

Ciel stepped closer, then knelt— her gaze now level with the child’s.

She inhaled, audibly, at the sight of the damage.

Lacerated limbs. Bone-deep scrapes across her knees and shins. Skin bruised purple and blue across her ribs. Her tiny frame spoke of long hunger. Her garment, if it could be called that, had once been a potato sack.

“… Oh, little one,” Ciel murmured, reaching out to touch her cheek. Her fingers brushed gently, wiping away a single tear that mingled with grime.

“My name is Ciel,” she said softly. “I am the Great Sage of Jura, and I give you my word: you are safe now. No one will hurt you again.”

The child blinked— visibly uncomprehending. Her lip quivered, but she didn’t speak.

Diablo, silent until now, placed his teacup aside. For once, his movement lacked its usual theatrical poise. His eyes narrowed— not in malice, but in consideration.

Ciel gave the girl time; the silence between them was not empty— it was tender, as it was gentle.

“… Do you know who hurt you?” She asked at last, in a low and even voice.

The girl flinched— then nodded her head once, quickly.

Ciel paused. Then asked more softly still: “Was it your family?”

A pause, then— she shook her head, before beginning to slowly unravel at the thought of her loved ones.

Her knees buckled, and she threw herself against the Great Sage with a jagged sob. Her fists tangled in Ciel’s robes— trembling as the sound tore from her— gut-wrenching, raw, and wordless.

Ciel’s arms closed around her, as she felt something shutter inside of her. She then pressed her cheek gently to the girl’s hair, as the images in her mind began surging— unbidden.

A burning cave. Her own screaming voice in the dark. The stench of iron and soot. Her mother’s body— blackened and crumpled. Heat, and smoke filled her lungs, as she felt herself being slowly cooked alive.

The tears running down her cheek now were not only the girl’s.

Her voice was barely audible.

“… Is your family still alive?”

The child’s body went rigid. Then nodded— once, then again and again, trembling as she clutched tighter.

“Y-Yes,” she croaked, “please— t-the guards— th-they took them— they’re still there— they’ll die— please—!”

Ciel held her— eyes shimmering. “… They won’t,” she whispered. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

She the. stood, slowly, with the girl still held in her arms.

Across from her, Diablo met her gaze— no words passed, but understanding bloomed in the quiet.

“… I shall go, if you grant me your blessing,” he said; his voice smooth, like velvet drawn across steel. “Their sins will not remain unanswered.”

Ciel stepped toward the chalk circle inscribed across the barn floor. She paused, then looked back up slightly toward him.

“… If you offer yourself as Vivianne’s shield,” she said, “then become my blade— that is how you may earn my forgiveness.”

Diablo inclined his head, with one hand pressed to his chest. “… It shall be done.”

With one sweep of her foot, the Great Sage broke the salt ring, before rubbing out the last rune of containment within the painted pentagram.

In an instant— Diablo’s bindings vanished.

From his back, his black unfurled into twin wings of obsidian shadow— vast and soundless— rising in the air like a cape drawn by wind. 

Magic surged from him in pulses, as he stepped forward— his gaze falling at last on the trembling child.

His voice, when he spoke again, was clear, direct, and laced with solemnity.

“… Tell me, little one,” he said, “where shall I go?”

The final plate was warm in his hands— still slick with soap and freckled with stubborn bits of half-dried rice that clung to the glazed surface. 

Goblin Slayer held it steady against the rim of the copper basin; his grip small but firm as he scrubbed in practiced, slow circles with the soft side of a faded cloth. The porcelain began to gleam beneath the steady lanternlight, the sud— shimmering faintly like snow under light of the twin moons.

Once he was satisfied that the plate was clean enough to pass Vivianne’s usual scrutiny, he stretched up onto his toes and gave the old iron hand pump a sharp, steady press. A cold stream of water gushed from the spout with a metallic groan— sluicing over the plate’s surface, and carrying the last of the suds down into the murky basin.

He exhaled quietly through his nose as he leaned back, before setting the dish carefully into the wooden drying rack beside the others— each one lined up like pale, glossy soldiers. Both of his hands braced the edge of the basin as he paused a moment— letting the cold air wash across his damp fingers.

The window above the sink looked out over the front yard, with its glass panes catching the faintest shimmer of starlight. Night had fallen entirely now— draping the outside world in its deep, bluish hush. 

Beyond the whitewashed chicken coop and the garden’s edge, the barn stood as a dark— hulking silhouette against the sky. Something stirred near it, as he narrowed his eyes.

There, a soft light flickered faintly into view— pale and ghostlike. A figure stepped out from the barn’s side door— tall, robed, and unmistakably white. Ciel. Her outline was lit faintly from behind by what remained of some interior glow— already beginning to fade.

But she wasn’t alone.

Trailing close beside her was a much smaller figure, barely more than a shadow at first. As they moved, the dim starlight revealed pale hair. The child looked shaken, and perhaps trembling; her small frame hunched as if bracing against a cold wind no one else could feel.

Goblin Slayer’s brow creased as he leaned a little closer to the window— his fingers curling against the edge of the basin.

“… Who’s that?”

Before he could speculate further, a third figure emerged from the barn’s gloom— sharp, angular, and draped in unmistakable black. The moment he saw the figure’s wings unfurled with a snap, the breath caught in his throat.

“D… Diablo…?!” He whispered— stunned.

The tall, winged demon moved swiftly ahead of the others— stepping several long strides into the yard before turning sharply, as his arms raised wide.

Goblin Slayer's eyes widened.

There was a sudden, violent ‘crack’; his wings beat downward with a deafening gust— sending a ring of dust scattering out from the barn rafters like leaves tossed into a storm. 

Then came another wingbeat— twice as strong, and trailing behind it came a violent pulse of black fire that curled and writhed in the night air.

A flash of light erupted as Ciel raised one arm— summoning a glowing white ward in a fluid, practiced motion. The magic shield flared up between the child and Diablo’s fiery ascent— catching the heat and smoke like a wall of still glass. 

Then, without warning, the dark figure rocketed skyward in a single explosive movement— vanishing into the sky with a plume of smoke and smoldering sparks.

The flames arced once above the treetops before curling in on themselves and vanishing into the stars.

Goblin Slayer stood motionless. His jaw hung open, his eyes wide. The soft drips from his soaked hands pattered onto the basin’s rim, unnoticed.

“W… What…?” His voice came out as a dry croak. “Wha— What just… What?!”

He stumbled back from the sink, with his feet skidding slightly on the worn floorboards, as he pivoted on his heel. His socks slipped, his shoulder bumped the side of the counter, and he caught himself clumsily with one hand, before pushing through the open archway into the dining room.

The scent of lemon oil and rice vinegar hung in the air, but he barely noticed it.

Shuna was standing by the old tea cart; her back half-turned as she swept a pile of crumbs neatly into a small dustpan. She hummed softly, a half-remembered tune from an old lullaby. 

On the other side of the table, Malra was smoothing out freshly folded napkins with the edge of his palm— placing each one precisely by the brass-handled plates.

They both looked up at once.

“Ren?” Shuna’s brow rose slightly as she paused mid-sweep. “What on Earth’s gotten into you?”

Meanwhile, the teenage orc’s dark eyes flicked toward the boy as well— his hands freezing above the next napkin. “Is something wrong?” He asked softly. “You’re pale.”

Goblin Slayer opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He blinked hard and tried again— pressing one hand to the side of his face as if grounding himself. “I… I don’t know,” he murmured. “I think something just— something weird just happened—”

“— What do you mean?” Shuna asked, while already stepping toward him— her sweeping forgotten entirely. “What did you see?”

“I-I don’t know!” He blurted, while brushing past them. “It was outside— Ciel— and then… He—”

“— Ren, slow down!” Shuna interrupted, while still following him quickly; her rose colored eyes wide with concern. “Wait, what ‘he?’ Who are you talking about?!”

Too focused on answering her question, the ashen-haired boy stumbled into the foyer; the carpet slipping slightly beneath his socks. The intricate gold embroidery nearly sent him skidding, but he caught the edge of the marble-topped console just in time. The mirror above it rattled faintly from the sudden impact.

Malra was right behind them now; his movements cautious but sharp. He exchanged a glance with Shuna, who placed one hand gently on the boy’s shoulder, as he came to a stop.

Then—

The door creaked open before Goblin Slayer could reach it.

All three of them stopped at once; their eyes locking on the figure in the open doorway.

Ciel stood framed against the darkness; her white robes streaked with soot and dirt. The long sleeves hung heavy and darkened at the ends, and were matted with ash and hay. A faint, acrid scent of smoke curled off her like a veil. 

In her arms, pressed tightly to her side, was the small blonde girl— shivering, clinging to the folds of Ciel’s robe like a lifeline.

She didn’t speak immediately, as her golden eyes swept across the room, unreadable.

First to Shuna, who drew back a step and gripped the edge of her skirt.

Then to Malra, whose lips parted slightly as his gaze shifted down to the girl.

And finally to Goblin Slayer, who stood frozen in place— not even breathing.

The silence stretched long between them.

Only then did Ciel clear her throat— softly, but with enough weight to cut through the silence that had wrapped itself around the room like fog.

“… This is Juliet Abadie,” she said, her voice low, composed, and deliberate.

The girl clinging to her side flinched slightly at the sound of her name. Her trembling fingers dug tighter into the folds of Ciel’s sleeve; small and pale against the scorched white silk.

“She is… A priestess,” Ciel continued, while glancing down at her with a tenderness that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “A priestess in training.”

Priestess didn’t speak. Her head tilted just enough to lift her gaze, but the motion was sluggish— like a puppet on half-cut strings. Her eyes— blue, unfocused, wide with something not rooted in the here and now— flicked across the room without anchoring on anything. 

It was clear she was seeing something else entirely; something that hadn’t left her.

She looked younger than Goblin Slayer, maybe by six years— but the dull weariness in her face didn’t belong to a child. It belonged to someone who had already walked too far through something terrible.

For a long second, no one moved.

Then Shuna stepped forward— hesitantly, her broom left abandoned near the wall, as her socks made a soft hush against the rug. She opened her mouth, then closed it again— her voice catching on her first attempt.

“S… She’s… She’s hurt…” She said at last; her tone barely above a whisper.

Ciel gave a single slow nod; her hand still steady on the girl’s back. “Yes,” she replied quietly. “But she is safe now.”

Then, turning slightly toward the dining room behind them, she spoke again. “Would you prepare her something small to eat? Nothing heavy. A little food, and tea— if we have any left.”

Shuna blinked, as if only just now remembering where she was. “I—I… Y-Yes, of course,” she stammered, while already backing toward the dining room.

Ciel’s voice softened again, though a quiet insistence threaded through it. “Please.”

“I-I’ll bring her some leftovers,” Shuna murmured quickly, with her eyes flicking toward Priestess again. The girl’s shoulders twitched at the movement, shrinking slightly into Ciel’s side. Shuna stopped herself mid-step, then lowered her gaze and nodded. “… And maybe some chocolate cake, with some sweet brown tea.”

“I’ll help,” Malra offered at once, with his hand raising stiffly. He sounded more nervous than usual, but not unkind. “I’ll… I’ll carry the tray. I can… I mean, I can keep it balanced.”

Ciel inclined her head— acknowledging him with a glance. “Thank you,” she said simply.

The two then disappeared into the dining room together, with their footsteps soft but purposeful— disappearing behind the wall, as the faint sounds of cupboards and clinking crockery began to rise from the kitchen beyond.

Once they were gone, the Great Sage turned her attention to the ashen-haired boy who was still standing in the center of the foyer.

Goblin Slayer’s hands hung awkwardly at his sides; still damp, and his mouth was half-open— caught somewhere between a question and silence. He looked like he wanted to speak but couldn’t decide which of the hundred things in his mind to ask first.

Ciel didn’t press him.

Instead, she lifted her free hand and gestured gently. “Come with me, Ashta.”

Goblin Slayer blinked, startled from his thoughts. “Where…?”

But she didn’t answer him immediately.

Instead, her gaze shifted back to the girl beside her— still clutching her sleeve, still silent. Her voice dropped to something softer than before; something that threaded through the room like the hush of falling snow.

“… Juliet?”

The girl’s name hung in the air a moment. Then slowly— achingly slow— her chin lifted, and her head tilted up toward Ciel.

“Would you come with me to the living room?” The Great Sage asked.

For a moment, Priestess didn’t move. Her eyes searched Ciel’s face as if trying to confirm she was real. Then— finally— she gave a tiny nod.

“O-Okay…” She whispered, barely audible. 

“Thank you,” Ciel said gently, before extending her other hand— palm up.

Priestess’ bruised, trembling fingers released the white sleeve and reached toward the offered hand— drawn not by confidence, but by instinct. 

Together, the three of them made their way slowly into the living room. Goblin Slayer followed a few paces behind, watching Ciel guide Priestess with the same care one might offer a bird with a broken wing.

The hearth burned low now, casting soft light through the room— its glow orange and drowsy, barely enough to hold back the shadows that danced gently across the walls. The tall bookshelf stood like a quiet sentinel in the corner, while the gramophone beside it gave off the faint scent of old wood and polished brass.

Ciel guided Priestess to the couch and eased her down with incredible gentleness, as though any misstep might cause the girl to crumble.

“She needs to rest,” Ciel said softly, while brushing a strand of blonde hair from the child’s cheek.

She then glanced toward Goblin Slayer, who had stopped a few feet away— appearing uncertain.

“Would you help me prepare the space?” She asked.

He nodded, though it took a moment. “Y-Yeah…”

He proceeded to step forward, careful in every motion, and began to clear the couch cushions— stacking them neatly to the side, leaving only the softest one near the armrest, angled away from the archway and toward the bookshelf instead. 

From the cedar chest beneath the window, he pulled a folded cream-colored blanket, then unfolded it carefully and brought it back to the couch. He laid it gently over Priestess— tucking the edge beneath her arms.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t move at all, in fact.

Only her eyes flicked up toward the dark ceiling— slow and glassy.

Ciel stood back slightly, watching. Her expression was hard to read— somewhere between composed and weary. She then crossed her arms loosely; her lips pressed into a tight line.

“… Ashta.”

The boy turned sharply to her voice.

His brow furrowed. “W… What happened?” He asked at last. “Where did she come from?”

Ciel didn’t answer right away. She instead looked toward Priestess again; her eyes yellow dimming as she spoke.

“… She escaped from a prison camp,” she said, low and grave. “A place called Camp Boulder Reach. It’s near Greythrone, in the eastern lowlands. I’ve sent Diablo to rescue her family… And the Lorvagnian refugees her church had taken in.”

Goblin Slayer stared at her, while unblinking. “You did what?!” He asked— louder than before— the words coming out sharper than he meant. “Why did you free Diablo?!”

At that, Ciel’s gaze dropped. She stepped forward and rested a hand gently on his shoulder— firm, but not heavy.

“… All will be explained in due time,” she said quietly. “But for now, she needs care. We can discuss the rest later tonight.”

He looked up at her, unsure. His lips parted, as if to protest again— but no words came. After a long pause, he nodded once— reluctantly.

Ciel let her hand fall.

Then, in a softer tone, she said, “Go to the washroom. Beneath the sink, there’s a jar of healing ointment— thick, green, with a silver cap. Bring it to me.”

“… Will it help?”

“It’s what I used to heal your arm, and Gabiru’s face,” she said gently.

He gave a small, reluctant nod, already beginning to turn.

“Oh— and Ashta?”

He looked back over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she added.

He glanced back at her once, then slipped down the hallway— his steps vanishing into the dark.

When he returned, Ciel took the jar gently from Goblin Slayer’s outstretched hands— murmuring a quiet thanks. The silver cap came off with a soft twist, and the scent of crushed herbs, pine oil, and resin filled the room— earthy and sharp, like the early morning after rainfall.

Priestess stirred beneath the cream-colored blanket— shifting slightly on the couch. Her pale hair caught the orange light of the coals, and her blue eyes, rimmed red with fatigue, flicked up toward Ciel.

“This salve was made by dryads,” the Great Sage said softly, while dipping two fingers into the jar. “It’s very old medicine; collected during the moonless weeks when the air is still and the forest speaks low.”

The child blinked. “It smells like trees…”

“It does,” Ciel agreed, while offering her a small nod. “Like fir and cedar bark. It’ll mend your wounds. You might feel a little heat at first, but that will fade. It also calms the nerves, and will help your body rest.”

Priestess then gave her a quiet nod. She hadn’t said much since her arrival, but her eyes followed Ciel now— watchful, uncertain, but no longer afraid.

Ciel glanced toward Goblin Slayer, who had curled up in the armchair; his small frame outlined in firelight. He remained quiet, alert but still. She offered him a brief look of reassurance, then turned fully back to Priestess.

“Juliet…” Ciel’s voice was gentle, but it carried a tone of careful importance. “I’d like to see the rest of your injuries now. There may be bruises you haven’t noticed, and the salve will work better if I can reach them.”

Priestess hesitated— her fingers tightening beneath the blanket. Her eyes darted sideways, not in fear, but with the anxious reflex of someone who had learned to flinch at routine.

“I can keep the blanket in place,” Ciel added softly. “I won’t leave anything exposed, and if anything I do makes you uncomfortable, you tell me. Immediately. Alright?”

Priestess blinked again, before giving her a small nod. “O-Okay…”

“Thank you,” Ciel said again, before reaching forward to slowly, and respectfully, begin loosening the rough edges of the burlap sack around the girl’s torso.

The fabric had been cinched tight around the shoulders and hips; it was not sized for her, and was clearly scavenged. The drawstring at the back had rubbed a raw patch near her neck. Ciel undid it with care— folding the corners back beneath the blanket. She worked slowly, one layer at a time, while preserving the girl’s dignity with quiet precision.

Goblin Slayer glanced over once— then looked away again, respectfully, though the tightness in his brow betrayed how disturbed he felt. 

As Ciel peeled the sackcloth down beneath the blanket, more bruising came into view— along the arms, around the shoulders, the sides of her ribs, and faintly across her hips and thighs. 

None of the marks looked fresh. No blood. No torn flesh. Just the echo of impacts, one after another— fading across her skin like bruised fruit.

Ciel drew a slow breath, but didn’t comment on them directly. She moved carefully— applying salve in long, smooth strokes with her fingertips, and speaking softly in the same calm rhythm as her hands moved.

When she reached the girl’s inner thighs and gently pressed back a fold of cloth, her fingers paused. The bruises here were deeper— more scattered, but clustered around sensitive areas. She didn’t touch.

Instead, she leaned in, with her voice growing low and cautious. “… Juliet,” she said gently, “these marks— some of them— are in places where harm is… Often intentional. I want to make sure there’s no injury I’ve missed. You don’t have to tell me everything. But… Did anyone ever… Touch you in a way that made you feel unsafe? Or wrong?”

The child’s brows pinched slightly, and she looked up, confused.

Meanwhile, the ashen-haired boy froze in the armchair, as his shoulders went stiff. He didn’t look at them, but his hands balled into fists in his lap, and his jaw locked. 

The thought alone sent a jolt of revulsion through his chest— making him truly realize what his own sister felt when she inspected him, after he had fought his first goblin.

Priestess then looked between them slowly. “I… No?” She answered, while sounding uncertain. “I mean… No. They didn’t do anything like that. I promise.”

Ciel’s shoulders relaxed— just barely— but her eyes remained fixed on the girl’s. “You’re sure?”

Priestess nodded— more firmly that time. “Most of the bruises… I got them when I fell. I was trying to get away and I slipped a lot. On stones, or— one time— on this old cart axle.”

Ciel blinked, but listened.

“I… They were trying to grab me,” Priestess added; her voice getting a little firmer, more present. “When I escaped, two guards saw me running and one chased me down the hill, but I kicked him and ran into a ditch and… I scraped my knee, I think. Then I rolled into this briar bush.”

She shifted under the blanket and gave a tired huff.

“… And I think I tripped on every root between there and the river.”

For the first time, something small and real flickered behind her eyes. 

A trace of indignation.

Goblin Slayer exhaled— long and low— and slumped slightly in his chair. His fists loosened, and he rubbed a hand through his hair. “T-That’s… That’s good. I mean— n-not the whole prison part, but…”

“I understand,” Ciel said softly, while nodding at the blond girl. “Thank you for telling me.”

The Great Sage then moved her hand again— casting a brief shimmer of light across her palm. A fine thread of magic snipped through the final seams of the burlap sack without so much as a tug.

The useless cloth disintegrated into harmless fibers— vanishing beneath the blanket.

“Better,” she said simply.

Priestess nodded, sinking further into the couch. “Mm-hm…”

Ciel the. finished applying the salve with practiced grace— easing the last of it into the worst of the bruises before wrapping the girl securely in the blanket and tucking it beneath her arms.

“… There,” she said, her voice a whisper now. “You’ll be healed by morning light.”

The girl blinked at her again.

“… You’re not like the guards at the camp,” she said sleepily. “They were cruel to us…”

Ciel’s mouth turned, not quite into a smile. “I’m not anything like those people.”

Priestess exhaled softly. “G… Good…”

She then closed her eyes a moment later.

Ciel sat with her in silence, with one hand gently resting over the girl’s shoulder as her breathing slowed. “She’ll sleep soon,” she said softly, before casting a glance toward Goblin Slayer.

He gave a small nod from his chair, his expression unreadable— but the tightness around his mouth had eased.

“… I see,” he said quietly.

The flames in the hearth had dimmed to little more than glowing coals. The shadows along the wall moved slower now. Ciel reached for the corner of the blanket and tucked it more securely around Priestess’ shoulder.

Then, without lifting her hand from the girl’s back, she spoke again— this time to the room itself.

“I’ll stay here with her a while longer,” she said. “You don’t have to stay, Ashta… But if you choose to, you’d be welcome.”

Goblin Slayer looked into the fire for a long moment before answering.

“… I’ll stay,” he said. “It’s fine.”

And with that, the house settled once more into its quiet rhythm— broken only by the steady breath of a child finally beginning to rest.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

Twin moons hovered pale and cold above the plains— one a pale green, the other rust-colored— casting long, pallid shadows across the fortress of Camp Boulder Reach. Its jagged gray walls rose like the spine of a buried beast, ringed by crumbling parapets and punctuated by four squat watchtowers— each fitted with iron floodlights that cast their mechanical glare in slow sweeps across the dead lands beyond. 

Bramble thickets and gnarled thornwood clustered around the gravel paths leading in and out; their leafless silhouettes quivering faintly in the low wind. Somewhere out there, direwolves howled— a lonely, distant note swallowed by the hum of arcane generators powering the prison lights.

Guards in dull munition armor paced the walls, with their rifles slung across their backs and gloved fingers twitching near trigger guards. Each bore lever-action scopes crafted with crude metallurgy— accurate enough to split a hare’s spine from half a field away. Their faces were obscured by black mesh, save for the commanding sergeant stationed atop the southern battlement— chewing on bitterroot.

Below them, in the bowels of the fortress, the prisoners slept in metal-bar cages arranged in crude rows across the central yard. The air reeked of sweat, blood, feces, and rot— a fetid bouquet carried on the windless summer air. 

Chains rattled when bodies shifted. There were no beds— only straw mats soaked through with days-old urine and streaks of blackened blood. Hunger thinned the limbs of the able-bodied and stole the voices from children, who no longer whimpered but simply stared.

One cage, near the north wall, held a wood elf family of seven, huddled together beneath a torn linen shawl. Their youngest— no older than three— clutched a threadbare toy made of knotted reeds. His sister, perhaps ten, whispered stories to him; her voice hoarse from thirst. But their mother wept openly— rocking herself as if to stave off madness. Her lips moved constantly— forming prayers with no sound.

The screech of iron hinges broke the silence.

A guard unlocked their cage, with their bootsteps clanking on the stone. Wordlessly, he stepped over two sleeping bodies and reached down— grabbing the ankle of an elderly elf lying stiff and still near the back.

“No— no, please, he’s not cold yet!” Cried the daughter— crawling forward and grasping the man’s other leg. “That’s our grandfather— he just— he just—!”

The butt of a rifle struck her temple. 

She collapsed, and soon the mother shrieked as threw herself over both bodies, arms trembling, until another guard dragged her off by the hair. 

The old elf’s corpse was hoisted and dragged like a sack of potatoes toward the open pit near the western wall— a shallow trench already lined with the naked dead, with their limbs twisted together like cordwood. 

With one careless swing, the body joined them, before another guard lit a torch and tossed it in.

Ash puffed upward like breath from the mouth of hell.

Throughout the camp, others watched. 

A cage of Lorvagnian refugees— a gaggle of soot-faced children and two gaunt mothers— lay silent, with their eyes glazed and backs pressed to the bars. 

They had survived their kingdom’s collapse, only to be labeled illegal immigrants. Another cage held a dwarf with broken fingers who’d been caught stealing goat meat. His brother had been shot last night. Near the southeast gate, a giantkin man too tall to stand upright in his cage whispered old songs to himself as he rubbed a rope-burned wrist.

None of them were given water tonight. Not after the last riot.

And yet— amid the stench and despair— there was a faint glimpse of hope that persisted.

In a cage separate from the rest, a group of priestesses sat in a circle, clad in stained ivory vestments, with many of them barefoot and bruised. They knelt on threadbare prayer cloths; hands clasped, heads bowed. In their center sat a dark-skinned woman of considerable girth and striking presence— her graying hair tied underneath her white coif.

She was ‘Mother Superior.’ Her voice— rich and low— moved through the cage like molasses in the cold, thick with sorrow, heavy with grace.

“Ooooh, Earth Mother… Keeper of love, of war, of all things that bloom and breathe,” she said, with one hand lifting like a branch in the wind. “We call on You now… We lean on You, ‘cause ain’t nothin’ else holdin’ us.”

Eyes closed, heads bowed. Some cried soft, but their voices stayed steady.

“Take our baby girl— your lamb— and carry her through the thorns, through the dark. Don’t let her stumble, Earth Mother. Don’t let her spirit wear thin.”

“She one o’ yours. Same as us. Juliet… Sweet Juliet, born of your light, our sister on a most holy mission— deliver her to Your light. Put your hand over her. Let her feel you near.”

The light of the small candle within her grasp trembled, but her voice didn’t.

“Don’t let despair break us down. Don’t let this pain make us forget how to love. We walkin’ through dust and death, yes we are… But your reach is still long. Your mercy still here.”

“Your mercy is not gone…” Came the echo of her priestesses.

“If this the end o’ the road, we gon’ meet it like pilgrims. But if you see fit to give us one more day, let it meet us with open hands… And clean hearts.”

They held the final note together— quiet, trembling, but united. No light flickered in the windless yard, yet the prayer felt as if it had moved something larger than the stars.

One by one, the priestesses kissed their thumbs and pressed them to their chests.

The candle was snuffed.

Then the sound of metal boots echoed from the west tower.

The guard atop it adjusted his floodlight— sweeping its blinding white beam across the tangled fields of bramble. His breath fogged inside his mask. The night was growing colder.

‘Click.’

The sound was soft, but near.

He turned.

A hand tapped his shoulder.

“What the fu—?”

His voice cut off, as his pupils shrank; the world tilted sideways.

The last thing he saw was a pair of obsidian eyes, framed by silken black hair and a smile too polite to be sincere.

“Sleep.”

The word wasn’t spoken so much as instilled. The guard’s body slumped forward, but did not fall. Two pale hands caught him— lowered him gently to the tower floor like a child to bed.

Diablo exhaled slowly and adjusted the crumpled lapel of his black coat. He crouched beside the unconscious guard— brushing away a bit of dust from the man’s helmet with a conjured silk handkerchief.

“Lucky for you,” he murmured, brushing a long strand of obsidian hair behind his ear with casual precision, “I’m making an effort to be civil this evening. Otherwise...” His smile thinned, cold and unreadable. “You’d all be burning compost in the ruins of this place already.”

Without further glance at the unconscious guard, Diablo shifted the massive floodlight subtly— tilting the beam downward to once again sweep the western plains in slow, mechanical arcs. From a distance, the motion remained convincing.

He then turned silently on his heel and stepped toward the trapdoor set in the stone beneath his feet— an iron hatch tucked into the center of the watchtower’s upper platform, just beside the mounted spotlight’s crank system. 

The gray stone tower beneath served as one of the outer barracks, and was fused into the curtain wall of Camp Boulder Reach. Diablo’s long fingers found the latch, and with practiced grace, he eased the hatch open without a sound.

Inside, a narrow wooden ladder descended from the trapdoor’s edge, bolted into stone mortarwork that led down to a small, railed landing. Diablo slithered down the rungs headfirst; chest pressed to the ladder’s side, elbows bent to hug the wooden rails tight. 

His movement resembled a spider’s crawl— silent and sure.

The moment his feet touched the landing, voices echoed from the stone stairwell beyond. Six guards were ascending the spiral steps— booted feet clinking against iron-nail risers; their laughter low and tired from long patrols. 

Diablo didn’t hesitate.

His wings snapped open without warning— wide, black, and bone-silent. The air swirled faintly; caught in the subtle disturbance of motion as he launched himself forward in a low, arcing leap. Shadows draped across the stone as he landed in the stairwell above them.

“Wh—”

One of the guards barely choked the syllable before Diablo’s hand struck the side of his neck— silent hex sigils flashing briefly beneath his palm, and then the man slumped over without a cry. 

The next turned, while reaching for the lever of his rifle, but Diablo was already behind him, with his palm against his spine. A muted pulse of cursed energy rolled through him like thunder through a hollow log. 

He folded with a grunt.

The remaining four staggered; some reaching for weapons, one beginning to shout. Diablo blurred between them like smoke— his cloak trailing in dark streaks, as he danced from target to target. 

He did not kill, nor did he need to. The hexes he placed on each were perfectly measured— disruptive, paralyzing, yet far from fatal. It was, he mused, a delicate art to immobilize without scarring.

All six guards lay unconscious on the steps within seconds. Not a shot had been fired, nor a scream to be heard.

With one hand trailing the cool stone of the banister, Diablo continued downward— his wings disappearing into a black puff of smoke. At the bottom floor of the barracks, rows of bunks lined the chamber, dimly lit by a single flickering lantern hung over the hearth. 

The room smelled of iron polish and sour linen. Four more guards slept— exhausted men sprawled in underclothes and half-removed armor; unaware of the shifting air that accompanied the newcomer.

Diablo didn’t waste spells on them. He moved in silence— crouching beside each bed.

A precise tap of knuckle to temple— just firm enough to render unconscious, soft enough to avoid brain trauma— was all it took. 

The last stirred slightly as Diablo reached him, with one eye fluttering open. The primordial demon caught it gently closed again with two fingers and murmured almost kindly, “It’s better if you sleep through this…”

Once the final guard slumped back into his pillow, Diablo straightened— brushing the faintest dust from his sleeves. With not a soul left conscious inside the barracks, he stepped through the low-arched door leading out onto the fortress battlements.

Moonlight swept the walkway in long, pale swaths. All but one of the floodlights from the towers shivered back and forth in stiff mechanical rhythms. Diablo moved through the pools of shadow between them— hugging crenellations, and sliding between cover with inhuman fluidity.

He soon reached the next tower, crept up the side, and scaled the lip of its ledge in a single motion. The guard within was alone— peering through the scope of a long-range lever-action rifle. 

Diablo was already behind him when he whispered, “Pardon me.”

The guard had just enough time to turn before a black palm touched his chest— sigils flashing and seizing the man’s breath mid-motion. The body sagged, unconscious. 

Diablo gently caught him under the arms and laid him on the floorboards— resting his head against the nearest wall.

Again and again he moved— tower to tower, station to station— his body a wraith against stone, his cloak trailing like smoke. Each time, the guards never stood a chance. Some were taken with small spells, others with pressure points and blunt force. 

Within thirty minutes, the entire perimeter had been cleared. Every battlement, every light tower, every rooftop watch station stood occupied only by sleeping men— uniforms undisturbed, and their weapons still slung on their backs. 

With the last of the entire perimeter of the fortress silenced, Diablo stood upon the upper ledge of the fortress wall, framed by the twin moons’ cold silver light, as it shimmered across the bramble-choked plains beyond. 

His wings— sleek and obsidian with an otherworldly sheen— spread outward without sound— catching the night air as he launched himself with a single silent beat into the open sky.

Below him stretched the grim sprawl of Camp Boulder Reach: rows upon rows of rusting iron cages, all crowded with the filth and suffering of the innocent and damned alike. 

From above, he surveyed it all in a single breathless moment— measuring the movement of patrol routes, the rhythm of searchlights sweeping the ground, and the static gathering of guards thickest in the center of the compound.

That was where they stood in greatest number— dozens upon dozens of guards in polished munition armor— watching the prisoners as if any sudden breath might warrant violence.

Diablo hovered momentarily, high enough to be a phantom shadow in the moons’ pale gaze, before angling toward the heart of the yard. A sly smile played along the corners of his mouth.

“They say you’re meant to find the biggest bastard in the yard—” he murmured under his breath, with a wry and unhurried tone, “— and make a spectacle of its fall… Seems I’ve found the right audience for that, as well.”

He then twirled once in the air like a theatrical performer taking his place on center stage; his smile deepening with mock formality.

“Time to inspire the masses, I suppose.”

With a single downward thrust of his wings, Diablo dropped from the heavens like a dark comet; his black coattails and cloak fluttering behind him. In one fluid motion, he unsheathed the hellite rapier at his hip; the infernal metal catching moonlight in a glint of deep crimson. 

The moment his boots struck the earth, he twisted at the hip and delivered a twin-footed kick into the nearest two guards, both of whom had only just begun to raise their rifles.

The force of his landing sent a concussive tremor across the stone and dirt yard. Their thick iron breastplates caved inward with a sound like crumpling tin, and their helmets struck the ground with an echoing ‘clang,’ as they were hurled backward and sprawled unconscious across the gravel. 

A heartbeat later, the first cries of alarm rippled across the compound.

Diablo didn’t wait for them to finish panicking.

With a calculated pirouette, he intercepted the initial volley of gunfire— his rapier dancing in fluid arcs that redirected bullets mid-air— each deflected round snapping into the dust behind him or glancing harmlessly off stone. Not one round struck a prisoner, not a single life was lost, and yet the display of skill felt terrifying in its precision.

They came at him in waves.

The central garrison emptied like an overfilled hornet’s nest. Riflemen, spear-wielders, and baton squads— some in formation, others in chaos— poured from the doorways of the fortress barracks, from behind towers, from patrol routes circling the cages. 

Ninety guards, then one-hundred, then more. But the primordial demon moved like a black flame amidst the storm.

With a flick of his off-hand, dulled shadow spikes erupted from the earth at his command— whipping out in arcs meant not to pierce but to trip, to bind, to knock down. He weaved through the enemy ranks with the elegance of a court duelist and the ruthlessness of a seasoned predator.

One guard lunged at him with a bayonet, only to be disarmed and hurled backward with a blow from the rapier’s pommel. Another tried to shoot from behind— Diablo didn’t even turn; a shadow tendril curled out and yanked the rifle from the man’s hands before slamming him into his comrades.

Boots cracked ribs. Elbows shattered helmets. Every motion Diablo made was graceful and deliberate, choreographed like a deadly dance; each blow measured to incapacitate rather than destroy. 

His golden eyes burned beneath his dark bangs— flicking from one combatant to the next, and scanning every threat and redirecting every weapon faster than most of them could think.

The prisoners— crammed in their cages, bruised and broken, starved and silent— had no idea what they were watching.

Some of them began to cheer.

Others merely stared in breathless awe— pressing themselves to the bars, unsure if this was salvation or something even worse than the guards they had learned to fear. 

A hobgoblin in the back grunted in astonishment. An ogre priestess clutched her prayer beads in trembling hands. Among the Lorvagnian refugees, wide eyes turned skyward, with children gasping in disbelief.

“Who is that?” Someone whispered.

The answer came not from words, but from the sound of Diablo’s wings cracking open again; his cloak fluttering, as he launched forward with a burst of black smoke— chasing down the final cluster of fleeing guards who had begun to sprint toward the fortress gate. 

They didn’t make it far. 

One by one, Diablo appeared in front of them, behind them, beside them— blinking into existence with clouds of dark fog that curled into the shapes of horns and talons— each time delivering a single graceful blow that left his victims sprawling and unconscious before they could cry out.

When the final body hit the earth with a soft ‘thud,’ Diablo exhaled once and slowly turned his attention back to the prisoners.

In the very center of the camp, atop the pile of guards now groaning and twitching in pain, the primordial demon stood with elegance— as if taking a bow at the end of a performance. 

The wind pulled gently at the edges of his cloak, as his hellite rapier hissed while it slid cleanly back into its scabbard.

With deliberate care, he adjusted one of his cuffs, then raised his gaze to the hundreds— perhaps thousands— of eyes now staring at him in a tense and terrible silence.

He cleared his throat with quiet poise, then raised his voice— not by shouting, but by invoking a minor spell; his words carried with perfect clarity to every corner of the yard.

“… My name,” he announced in a rich, commanding voice, “is Diablo.”

He paused— just briefly— his smile flickering with faint amusement as the syllables rolled off his tongue. 

“I am an envoy of the Great Sage of Jura,” he continued; his tone sharpening into regal precision, “and I come bearing no hatred, no vengeance. Not a drop of Eldrosvalian blood has been spilled by my hand this night. Your captors yet live— bruised and humiliated, but intact.”

The moment he uttered “Jura,” a sudden ripple passed through certain parts of the yard. Among the non-human prisoners— goblins, orcs, ogres, therians, dryads, giantkin, cyclopes, and even one stone-skinned golem— heads snapped up at once. 

Whispers passed between them in urgent voices.

“Did he say Jura?”

“He’s from the Great Jura Forest?!”

“I’ve heard of that guy, I think…”

But the human and elven prisoners remained unmoved— many had never even heard of “Jura,” and most were too cautious to hope.

“I come searching,” Diablo continued, while letting his molten gaze drift slowly across the cages, “for the convent of Juliet Abadie. Her family— those she loves— is who I was sent to find.”

A ripple passed through the crowd.

It began with murmurs, faint at first, then rising in clarity as prisoners began to point— shouts erupting— fingers stretching toward one cage among the many.

“Th-There! The priestesses!”

“She’s with them— I heard them praying for her!”

“They said they were her sisters!”

From across the compound, the cage of white-robed women was now unmistakably illuminated by the attention of hundreds.

A dark-skinned woman with tired eyes and a quiet dignity slowly rose to her feet. She took a deep breath— pressing her hand gently over the swell of her chest to steady her composure.

Within moments, Diablo’s wings lifted once more. With three silent beats, he rose above the iron rows of cages— gliding low with effortless grace, and passing over the wide-eyed prisoners whose gazes followed his every move.

He descended toward the one cage that mattered to him in that moment; the earth stirring faintly beneath his landing, as he touched down before the bars.

A hush lingered as Diablo stood before the rusted gate— facing the dark-skinned priestess on the other side.

Between them, iron bars cast long shadows in the dust. Her steady eyes— earth-brown and full of weight— met his golden ones without flinching.

Behind her, the camp murmured— faint prayers, rustling robes, a cough muffled into a sleeve— but between the two of them, there was only silence.

Tension held its breath.

At last, she tilted her chin, and the strength in her voice filled the stillness.

“Mmm… You one o’ them demons, huh?” She asked rhetorically; her eyes never leaving his molten-eyed stare.

Diablo offered a slight incline of his head, with the corner of his mouth curving faintly. “So I’ve been told— often, and with great fanaticism,” he replied, smooth as wine over marble. “And to some extent, I suppose the rumor holds merit.”

Her gaze shifted, slow and deliberate— sweeping over him, and noticing the elegant crimson lining of his mantle, the silver-threaded seams, the weapon at his hip, the dark wings folded like silk curtains of shadow. If she saw danger, she did not show it. What shone in her eyes wasn’t fear— it was discernment.

Her arms crossed. “Alright then… Where’s our girl? Juliet.”

“Alive,” he said simply. “Safe, and recovering. She’s resting in what’s known as the ‘Jura Temple’— it’s a manor along the western edge of Lake Virelda, that’s just past the forest’s heart. As I’ve said, they’re in area considered to them as the ‘Great Jura Forest’; though, you may know the region better as ‘Darrinworth Forest.’”

There was a flicker of movement in her brow.

“Darrinworth, I know,” she murmured. “That name though— the Great Jura Forest… That’s new.”

“More or less,” Diablo agreed. “But the place itself is older than most believe. It’s been… Repurposed since the Great War, let’s say. She’s in good hands— cared for by the Great Sage of Jura herself.”

At that, the woman’s arms stayed crossed, but her tone shifted— still sharp, but laced now with a deeper curiosity.

“… And she the one who sent you? This sage o’ yours?”

Diablo gave a modest nod. “At Juliet’s request, yes. Otherwise, I assure you, I’d be elsewhere.”

That gave her pause.

“… You’re here ‘cause Juliet asked you to save us,” the woman echoed, her voice low.

“That she did.”

There was silence again, but not the same as before. 

She then glanced back over her shoulder. Behind her, a group of robed women watched from inside the dim cage. Most were pale, their faces hollowed by sleepless nights, bruises dark beneath their eyes. Some clutched each other. Others stood stiffly, knuckles pale around their hands. 

But all looked to her.

Mother Superior turned back. Her expression hadn’t softened, but it had settled into something firm and unshakable.

“… You could be lyin’,” she reasoned aloud. “I done heard sweet words from worse mouths than yours, sugar. Could be here just to play.”

A pause.

“… But that wouldn’t make a lick o’ sense. You came marchin’ through fire and men like you was cuttin’ through paper, only to stand here talkin’ peace. You sayin’ Juliet sent you— you sayin’ she safe— and somethin’ ‘bout all this tells me you mean it.”

Diablo then stepped closer toward the cage; his wings brushing together softly, as he lowered his hands in a gesture of open ease.

“It’s no sin to doubt,” he said, gently. “Especially when you’ve spent this long surrounded by cruelty. But what I say is true. Juliet lives. She spoke fondly of you… And asked me to deliver you, her convent— her family— to freedom, and safety.”

Mother Superior studied him, quiet for a long breath— then glanced at the others.

“… Y’all hear that?” She called behind her.

A few of the younger women shifted.

A soft voice, almost uncertain, came from a pale-haired girl near the bars. “He… He doesn’t feel cruel,” she said. “Even when he fought, it wasn’t with hate. Only… Purpose.”

Another priestess, standing beside her, nodded. “He could have killed every guard, yet he didn’t though. If he wished to do us harm, Mother, then wouldn’t he have done it already?”

A third, voice tremulous but sincere, added, “He knew Juliet’s name. He’s… He’s telling the truth, I believe. That has to count for something.”

Mother Superior nodded once— firm, slow.

“… Suppose y’all still got some sense left in ya,” she muttered to the others. Then, louder, “Alright. You got my ear, Diablo. But I ain’t just speakin’ for the sisters. What about the rest? Monster-folk, humans, and them elves… The ones been sufferin’ just the same? What’s gon’ happen to them?”

“All who seek peace— and are willing to embrace the sanctuary we offer— will be welcomed. The Great Sage has made that clear. This place… It broke many of them. But it need not be their end.”

“And them that don’t?” She pressed.

“I’ll judge them one by one,” he said. “The cruel, the wicked— those who would harm the innocent— I will not loose them upon the world.”

Mother Superior looked at him long and hard— measuring something only she could see.

Then, to her flock, she said, “Well, sounds like we got ourselves a chance we wasn’t expectin’. Can’t say I know this Great Sage o’ Jura, but she sound like a woman after my own heart.”

“She’s… Inconveniently virtuous,” Diablo muttered, with an almost begrudginged smirk. “But yes… She’s a good soul.”

The woman snorted at that— something warm and real breaking through the lines on her face. Then she gestured to the lock.

“Well don’t just stand there, Diablo. If you got the means, go on and break it.”

The black-haired demon then raised a hand. A pulse of black fire flared— silent, clean. The iron hissed, and the rusted lock crumbled into ash. The gate then swung open with a moan.

And then— movement. Dozens of robed women stepped cautiously out. Behind them, other prisoners watched from their cages— silent, awestruck.

Diablo moved ahead, and they followed. One by one, the cells were opened— not all, not recklessly. He moved with intention; his eyes glowing faint as he judged each soul.

Only those worthy walked free.

At the main gate of the prison, he stopped. The others gathered behind him. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he summoned a wave of pressure that cracked the fortress doors wide. 

Stone shuddered, and hinges groaned, before the gates then suddenly burst outward into the cool night.

Wind rushed through.

Dust swirled.

And beyond the gate— freedom.

Diablo turned to find Mother Superior beside him. She looked out at the horizon, with her hands on her plump hips.

“… Diablo, huh?” She asked at last.

He inclined his head. “Yes?”

“That your real name? Or just what folks call you?”

There was a pause. His eyes softened, just slightly.

“It was… Bestowed on to me,” he answered. “By someone… Kind. I find myself quite fond of it.”

Her smile returned— worn, but whole. “Then I reckon it’s yours to keep.”

She stepped forward, then paused, glancing back with a raised brow.

“Well? You comin’? Let’s go see what this ‘Jura Temple’ got to offer.”

Chapter Text

The midday heat clung like wet silk to every inch of exposed skin and scale— blanketing the Tempest Jungle in a sweltering, suffocating haze. It rolled in slow waves beneath the emerald canopy; thick as breath, humid as stew. Shafts of pale sunlight slanted through breaks in the foliage overhead, and were fractured into mosaics by layers of vines and leaves— painting the jungle floor in shifting patches of gold and green.

Somewhere deep within the trees, cicadas shrieked in a rising drone, and tree frogs croaked between the vines. Each step squelched through sticky mud or whispered through ferns heavy with moisture; the air alive with buzzing wings and the rustle of unseen creatures.

At the head of the winding column, Gabiru moved like a man destined for greatness— or at the very least, dramatic storytelling. His short sword flashed with bronze light, as it swung in wide arcs— slicing through thick creepers and fibrous vines that dared bar his path. 

The blade was less weapon than machete now— dulled slightly from use, but wielded with the pride of a king parting the sea.

His other hand gripped a well-worn map that was unfolded and pinned against his thigh with a confidence born of rehearsal. Golden script shimmered faintly across the parchment, with its surface marked with arcane glyphs and meticulous notations penned in Ciel’s graceful hand, alongside messier— but no less urgent— scribbles from Jura himself.

A blinking golden dot hovered near the edge of the parchment. From it, a glowing white trail led deeper into the jungle toward a heavily circled ring of red ink— ‘Jura’s Quarry,’ marked at the base of the Tempest Mountains like a bullseye drawn in fury.

Gabiru squinted at the map, muttering, “We’re close,” before grunting and swiping aside another wall of dangling greenery.

Behind him, Gobuta slogged forward; half-hunched under the impossible weight of not one, but two bulging backpacks— his own, and Gabiru’s, which had been offloaded onto him that morning with the regal indifference of someone dropping groceries onto a toddler.

“Mmmphh—” Gobuta groaned in a shallow breath, with his cheeks puffed. Sweat poured down his face and soaked into his collar as he stumbled along the muddy trail. “Y-You sure you don’t wanna carry just one of these, Gabiru…?”

The lizard captain glanced back with a grin that gleamed far too smug for the current temperature. “Of course not,” he said, while swiping his blade upward with flourish. “It would ruin the symmetry of the march, Gobuta. The team must see their leader unburdened! Steadfast! Regal!”

“You mean lazy,” Gobuta mumbled; his voice cracked and raspy as he adjusted a strap digging into the meat of his shoulder.

Gabiru raised an indignant brow— gesturing with his sword like a conductor cueing an overture. “I heard that! Mind your tongue. Sass does not suit the bearer of royal burdens.”

“Neither does chronic back pain,” Gobuta wheezed, before swiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. “How much longer ‘til we get to this quarry anyway?”

Gabiru hacked through another dense curtain of leaves and paused just beyond it— consulting the glowing trail on the map with an expression equal parts solemn and vague. He rolled his shoulders, let out a thoughtful hum, and squinted at the ink.

“Hmm… Given the incline of the terrain… The density of the foliage… And the velocity with which you’re dragging down our pace...” He rocked his head slightly side to side. “I’d say— roughly— four more hours.”

Gobuta stared, slack-jawed. “F-Four?!”

“Give or take,” Gabiru added with unnerving cheer.

“You said only an hour earlier!”

“I said four,” Gabiru countered smoothly. “You must be delirious from the strain. Your legs are giving out, and your memory’s gone with them.” He gave Gobuta a wink, then sliced through a wall of reeds with renewed vigor. “Besides… I thought you said that you had it?”

“I thought I did too!” Gobuta cried, while flinching as a vine slapped him square in the forehead. “But I’m not four-more-hours good! That’s like— a whole half-day! I thought this was a hike, not a trail of tears!”

“A hike?!” Gabiru turned, dramatic as ever; one arm outstretched as if to scold the trees themselves. Sunlight lit the ridges of his brows— casting him in a golden warrior’s glow. “This is no stroll, Gobuta! This is a sacred expedition— an odyssey into Veldora’s ancient domain! Many would weep to walk this path. You don’t carry mere rations… You carry the hopes and dreams of Jura itself!”

“… Feels like I’m carrying your spare boots and bath oils.”

“And that lavender foot powder is vital to morale,” Gabiru shot back, while sounding genuinely affronted. “A good leader smells like victory and crushed flowers.”

Gobuta groaned again, muttering something about crushed vertebrae, but his steps didn’t falter. In truth, for all his griping, there was a strange comfort in the rhythm of Gabiru’s teasing— a kind of steady beat in the chaos of jungle heat and biting insects.

They continued forward until the path widened slightly, spilling into a shallow glade dappled in soft light. The rest of the expedition followed in slow, labored strides— therians with sweat-matted fur, orcs trudging under heavy packs, fellow lizardmen fanning themselves with oversized leaves.

Vivianne trailed near the rear— moving at a patient, unhurried pace. Her skirt was bunched in one hand to keep the hem above the muck, and while the heat had clearly settled into her shoulders, her expression remained composed.

Rimuru buzzed around her like a hyperactive dragonfly— bouncing from root to stone to her side and back again, all while being seemingly immune to both fatigue and gravity.

“Vi! Vi! Hey, Miss Vi! You think there’s those small dinosaurs around here? Like the sharp-jumpy kind that go ‘screeeee!’—” he asked, while making a noise no creature should make “— or the dumb-looking ones with the bonk heads? What’re those called again?”

“Pachycephalosaurus,” Vivianne replied; not missing a beat as she swatted a mosquito from her neck.

“Yeah! Those! Are they, like, nice? Would they let me ride one if I gave them jerky?”

“That depends,” she said gently. “They’re herbivores, so probably not. They don’t eat jerky.”

“I found some in Gobuta’s bag,” Rimuru added proudly. “I was gonna try it.”

Ranga trotted dutifully at the slime’s side; snout low to the earth as he sniffed the underbrush. Every few paces, he stopped to claim a patch of moss or fern with a quiet lift of his leg, then padded on without a sound.

Vivianne gave Rimuru a long look. “Let’s not feed jungle animals salted meat, sweetheart.”

“But how else are they gonna like me?” Rimuru asked, while throwing his arms wide. “Friendship is about sharing!”

“They’ll like you more if you don’t smell like you’re attracting a predator towards their vicinity,” she said, while brushing a leaf from his long, silvery-blue hair.

At the front, Gabiru finally stopped and turned to face the group. He cupped his clawed hands over his snout, raised his chin with heroic flair, and bellowed, “We’ve been marching for two hours!”

A few groans echoed back in response.

“If no one is vehemently opposed, I propose a noble rest— thirty minutes to regain our strength and reforge our resolve!”

Nearly every hand went up at once.

“YES.”

“Bless you, Captain!”

“My feet are sweaty!”

“Make it thirty-five!”

Gabiru grinned and raised a triumphant claw. “Then by my decree, I—”

“— Gabiru— uh— watch your step—”

‘Thunk.’

His heel struck a moss-slick rock, and the proud commander pitched backward with a strangled squawk— vanishing into a bed of ferns in a cascade of snapping twigs and flailing limbs.

There was a collective pause.

Even the cicadas seemed to stop.

Rimuru tilted his head. “Was that… Part of the speech?”

Vivianne sighed, while stepping over calmly. She crouched beside Gabiru’s crumpled form and began brushing leaves from his shoulders.

“Your decree might carry more weight if you stopped falling over it,” she murmured.

Gabiru coughed weakly and raised a single clawed finger. “I… Was merely demonstrating the dangers of unawareness in the field.”

“Sure you were,” she said, unconvinced.

“It was a slick rock…!”

Gobuta passed him with a grunt, with sweat dripping off his chin. “Y’know, maybe next time you should carry the backpacks, and I’ll lead.”

Gabiru blinked up at him. “… What did you just say to me, you little shit?”

“It was only a suggestion, Captain.”

The clearing opened like a breath in the heart of the jungle— quiet, sunlit, and trembling with the soft murmur of running water. A shallow pond stretched wide at the center; its surface dappled with light filtered through a canopy of broad leaves overhead. 

Snowmelt from the far-off Tempest Mountains fed the basin through a winding stream that trickled down from the rocky slope above, and from the pond’s edges, narrow fingers of water crept outward through the underbrush— finding their way toward the distant shores of Lake Virelda.

Vivianne approached from the south end, with her boots leaving soft impressions in the moss-damp earth. She scanned the perimeter with a practiced eye— brushing her hair back behind one ear, as she stepped carefully over a gnarled root. 

Near the pond’s edge, beneath the reach of a wide-limbed tree, she found a long-fallen trunk resting like a bench in the shade. Before settling, she crouched down to inspect it— gently brushing away a trail of ants that had laid claim to one side before running her hand along the bark. Satisfied, she turned— setting her backpack down with a soft thud atop the cleared surface.

“… Alright,” she whispered to herself, while lifting her skirt slightly and hopping backward onto the trunk with practiced grace. The wood groaned faintly beneath her weight as she scooted into place. 

She exhaled, her back relaxing as the breeze combed softly through the clearing— lifting the hem of her skirt and fluttering the ribbon on her sunhat, which she tucked carefully beneath her pack.

From nearby, a crunch of foliage.

Rimuru ambled up beside her— humming something tuneless and cheery as he slung his own pack onto the grass. The flap bounced open the moment it hit the ground, and Ranga— at his side and already panting with interest— stepped closer with a low chuff, with his tail giving a steady wag-wag-wag like a pendulum of eagerness.

“Okay, okay,” Rimuru grinned as he dropped to his knees and started rummaging. “I know you smell it.”

Ranga tilted his head, nose twitching. The moment Rimuru tugged out a small silk pouch, the direwolf’s ears perked straight up.

The slime held it triumphantly overhead. “Behold! Trout jerky,” he announced with a theatrical wiggle of his nonexistent eyebrows. “Told you I had some, Miss Vi…!”

Vivianne turned her head just slightly; still mid-sip from her canteen. She arched a brow at him over the rim.

He grinned wide.

“… So it would seem,” she murmured, while pulling the bottle away from her lips and screwing the cap back on. Her voice was dry, but amused.

Without hesitation, Rimuru flicked a piece of jerky toward Ranga, who snatched it mid-air— not with his mouth, but with a flicker of telekinesis from his glowing horn. He guided the treat to his snout with princely elegance, then bit down with a satisfying crunch.

“So, you were serious about trying to befriend a pachycephalosaurus?” Vivianne asked, while watching the display with equal parts suspicion and intrigue.

“You betcha,” Rimuru replied quickly. “At least, I was.” He said, as he scratched the side of his head sheepishly; jerky pouch still clutched in one hand. “Until you said they’re… Herbivertibores?”

“Herbivores,” she corrected gently, while chuckling beneath her breath.

“Right. Herbavo— ah, whatever.” He waved it off. “Point is, no point trying to feed jerky to something that only eats salad.”

“That’s… One way of saying it.” Vivianne smirked faintly. “So then, are you just going to eat that with Ranga?”

Rimuru blinked at her like she’d said something truly wild. Then laughed loud and bright.

“Pff— no, no. That’d be selfish. What kinda friend hoards jerky for themselves?”

Vivianne’s eyes softened slightly. “So you’re going to give it back to Gobuta?” She asked.

“Ehhh…” Rimuru let the silence hang a moment, then tossed another strip to the direwolf pup, who caught it just as gracefully as the first. “Nah. I’m gonna use it as bait.”

Vivianne’s expression dropped.

“… Bait,” she repeated.

“For one of those big meat-eaters you were telling me about last night,” Rimuru said proudly, puffing his chest. “Y’know— the really big ones. With the teeth, and small arms.”

Vivianne narrowed her eyes. “You mean the Tyrannosaurus rex?”

“Yeah! Tyra— Tyrana… Snoozy-wreks. Th-That guy.”

She covered her mouth with her hand—shaking with quiet laughter.

“Gonna lure one in, cook it over a fire, and boom— everybody gets lunch.” He gestured dramatically to the clearing. “Then I take a couple teeth and make a necklace for Ren. Bet he'd love that.”

Vivianne looked torn between disapproval and bemusement. “He probably would,” she admitted, rubbing her temple. “But what you’re actually going to attract are bugs. Or worse— smaller predators. Velociraptors. Deinonychus. Ceratosaurs, maybe. You’ll bring in a dozen carnivores long before you sniff out a tyrant lizard.”

“I already thought of that,” Rimuru said smugly, while crossing his arms and leaning back on his heels.

“Did you now?” Vivianne deadpanned, while blinking at him.

“Mhm.” He hummed, while popping another piece into Ranga’s mouth, who crunched happily. “Whatever comes first, we just keep doing it until something big enough shows up.”

She sighed and leaned forward, with her elbows resting on her knees. “We only have thirty-five minutes to rest. After that, we’re packing up again. Gabiru’s counting the time.”

“That’s plenty of time,” Rimuru replied with a confident wave. “All I need is for Ranga to catch a scent. That’s how we used to hunt back in the forest, before the farms and the teamwork stuff.”

Vivianne tilted her head, while smiling softly. “I can picture that.”

“Just me, him, and a smell in the wind,” Rimuru said with a wistful grin. “A slime and his trusty pup; the way it outta be.”

She reached forward and gently scratched the soft fur at the top of the direwolf pup’s head; mindful not to brush against his spiraling horn. “Alright. But try to keep track of time anyway.”

“Don’t worry,” Rimuru said cheerily. “Ranga’s got my back; he’ll let me know when it’s time to head back.”

Ranga barked once in response and gave a firm nod; ears perked with pride.

Vivianne smiled warmly at that. “Good boy.”

“Thanks, Miss Vi,” Rimuru added, while gathering up the rest of the jerky. “We’ll be back before the whistle blows.”

She gave him a nod of approval, though still half-doubtful. “Be careful.”

“We’ll be okay!” Rimuru chirped. “Come on, Ranga. Let’s go find ourselves a dino!”

The direwolf’s tail wagged furiously as he trotted after his companion, the two of them vanishing into the green hush of the jungle— jerky in hand and trouble not far behind.

The jungle air grew heavy and dense as Rimuru crouched behind a moss-slicked rock; its curved top was just tall enough to hide his blob-like form. Beside him, Ranga crouched low— his tail still, ears flicked forward, nostrils flaring faintly as he scanned the air for even the slightest disturbance.

Across the glade ahead, a small pile of trout jerky sat in the middle of a patch of cleared ground; surrounded by tufts of crushed fern and glinting beetle husks. The smell was pungent and sticky-sweet in the heat— barely edible to most, perhaps, but more than enough to catch the nose of a nearby carnivore.

"Okay," Rimuru whispered, peeking over the rock again with an impish grin. “Now we wait… And by wait, I mean you wait. And I… Will entertain myself.”

Ranga huffed softly; tail twitching once.

“Don’t judge me,” the slime added, before flopping lazily forward until he hung halfway over the boulder like melted wax. 

He then stretched his arms forward dramatically and began shaping his gooey fingers into crude little puppets. “Rawr,” he intoned in a deep voice, while waggling one hand toward the other. “I’m Bigus Maximus, the king of Penisland. And you are… Chugus Bungus, Guardian of Fuckburg!” He answered in a high-pitched rasp. “Prepare for dino-duel!”

Ranga gave him a singular, unimpressed look, but remained respectfully silent.

“Oh, you’re going down, Chungus,” Rimuru continued; now having the puppets dramatically slap and wrestle each other. “No one steals Bigus Maximus’s fat bitch and lives—!”

A sudden scratching sound drew his attention. Ranga’s claws were digging into the dirt.

Rimuru blinked, sat up straighter. “Huh?”

The direwolf pup’s hackles lifted, as his nose twitched once more— then, without a sound, he leapt over the slime’s hunched back, and charged into the underbrush.

“H-Hey! Wait for me!” Rimuru yelped, before springing to his feet in a ripple of blue energy. He then took off after Ranga— blurring through the trees like a shadow cutting through sunbeams.

Vines whipped past him. Ferns bent with the force of his passage. The wind howled through the tangled canopy overhead as Ranga moved at breakneck speed, a translucent barrier forming ahead of his snout— a shimmering ward shaped by his horn, splitting the air and minimizing resistance. He was nothing more than a streak of silver and indigo, while Rimuru, pulsing with joy and adrenaline, sprinted beside him effortlessly.

Then it hit them.

The thick, iron-rich stench spilled into the wind like a warning— ripe, fresh, heavy.

Ranga faltered, as Rimuru skidded ahead of him before noticing. “… Is that blood?” He asked under his breath, before spinning towards the direwolf pup. “Think we’re gonna get a two-for-one deal?”

Ranga barked once, then bounded back up beside him; his pace growing more cautious. 

The slime nodded; eyes narrowing as the two crept forward, senses sharpened. The scent grew stronger— muddied by something else.

Something older, and enriched with mana.

They soon emerged into a jagged clearing; steam rolling across the earth in lazy curls. Pools of hot spring water bubbled between scattered boulders, and the ground beneath was cracked with warmth— feeding the mist that cloaked the clearing in an eerie silence.

And there— centered like a living nightmare— was the reason for the stench.

A long, lean shadow hunched over a massive carcass. A Tyrannosaurus rex— its jaw slack, tongue lolling, with its ribcage torn wide open like a snapped crate. 

The beast feasted on it with sickening crunches and deep, guttural growls. Black scales gleamed like obsidian— its tail dragging behind it in thick coils.

The dragon then turned, with its cyan eyes locking onto them.

Ranga growled low— stepping forward with bristling fur, and his horn aglow with violent golden and violet arcs.

Rimuru stared, eyes wide in awe. “Oh… Oh this isn’t a dinosaur,” he whispered. Then, a grin slowly spread across his slimey face. “… This is even better.”

The creature snapped upright— wings unfolding like curtains of smoke. It bared jagged teeth still dripping with tyrannosaur gore, and let out a roar that shook leaves from the canopy.

“Ohhh, hell yeah!” Rimuru laughed, while licking his lips. “This is it— I’ve always wanted to beat a dragon!”

The direwolf snorted— digging his paws into the soil as his magic surged stronger.

“And I’ll even get to bring back a bunch of badass souvenirs,” Rimuru grinned. “Now then… Let’s see what kind of edge I’ve inherited from Diablo.”

A dark wind burst behind him.

Two black wings erupted from his back, formed in an instant from fire and shadow— spreading outward with a heavy snap that scattered the steam.

His hands shifted; dark flames licking over his palms— twisting and hardening into claw-like blades that glowed with molten power, but didn’t scorch his gelatinous form. They flickered with flicks of indigo and crimson, the mark of something deeper— something more infernal than he himself fully understood.

The dragon crouched lower, its neck arched like a whip about to crack, then—

A booming, glowing energy flared between the beast’s jaws. Blue, hot, atomic in pressure. The spell vibrated the stones. A single orb of gathering light— humming louder and louder like thunder being coiled.

Ranga bolted, as Rimuru shot upward just as the beam fired— a devastating, electrical blast that annihilated the ground below and shredded the trees in its path. 

The jungle screamed with it.

But the slime had already broken the sound barrier— leaving behind a ripple of air as he soared through the canopy— wings crackling.

Ranga circled low— skimming the mist, then zipped around the dragon’s flank.

Rimuru shot down like a meteor— his whole body blazing with black fire, and trailing a comet’s tail of shadowlight as he twisted midair.

“NICE TRY!!!” He shouted with a laugh that echoed like thunder, plummeting toward the dragon’s head.

But before he could make contact, the air trembled—

A shockwave-laced roar tore through the trees— exploding outward from the beast’s throat like a cannon of air pressure and sound. The violent blast cracked branches and knocked birds from the sky— striking the slime mid-plunge. 

The blow didn’t just stop him; it stunned him. His body jerked, his wings warped mid-flight, and his entire form staggered— momentarily flickering into an amorphous blur before collapsing downward in a confused spiral.

The dragon sidestepped with shocking agility— its long tail already whipping around in one fluid arc. 

As Rimuru fell within reach, the beast reeled back— preparing to launch him skyward with a brutal tail counter.

But then— 

A flash of lightning. A yelp of pain.

The tail froze mid-swing.

Ranga had appeared like a ghost from the mist, with his fangs bared. An enormous crescent of electricity then surged forth from his horn— forming into a crackling, glowing construct. 

With a flash of violet and yellow light, the blade slammed into the underside of the dragon’s tail. The hit didn’t break the scales, but it hurt. The dragon let out a guttural snarl— an ancient, feral sound— as its body flinched from the searing sting.

Rimuru seized the opening.

His wings flared— correcting his trajectory at the last moment with an explosive gust of black fire. He hurtled forward, spiraling through the air until he landed squarely on the dragon’s neck— hands gripping the jagged horns protruding from the base of its skull.

The dragon thrashed violently— roaring as it bucked its long serpentine body like a wild horse. But Rimuru held on with his fingers digging in, and his boots anchored against tough black scales. His yellow eyes glowed for a moment— then shimmered, flashing with a kaleidoscopic sheen.

“Alright… Let’s see what you taste like…”

The moment he said it, a dark glow enveloped his hands— his slime form warping with power as energy began to siphon from the creature beneath him. It wasn’t just magic— it was life itself. 

The dragon’s breath caught, as its glowing cyan eyes shot wide open.

A horrifying roar escaped its throat as its body stiffened; muscles locking up in a grotesque posture. It rose onto its hind legs, trembling as if caught in an invisible vice— limbs twitching, claws curling, and sparks leaping across its jagged scales. 

Rimuru, still clinging to its back, closed his eyes and exhaled calmly— continuing to drain the beast’s energy and will, one pulse at a time.

Down below, Ranga didn’t hesitate.

The direwolf pup grounded himself with claws that carved furrows into the rocky earth. His head lowered, eyes narrowed, and the glow in his horn surged once more. 

Yellow and violet sparks exploded around him as his magic built to its peak. Then, in one blast of furious momentum, he fired— a narrow, focused beam of fusion energy that cracked the air like thunder and slammed directly into the exposed underbelly of the upright dragon.

The hit detonated with force.

The dragon’s scales withstood the blow, but barely. Its chest flared with energy— cyan fire seeping from its mouth and eyes, as magic backfired and surged wildly throughout its body.

The overload had begun.

Electricity crackled across every inch of its form. Blue arcs leapt from its wings to the ground, burning trails into the stone. The whole clearing was lit in bursts of lightning and flashes of raw magic. 

Rimuru’s eyes widened, as he uttered out, “Oh, shit…”

Ranga growled and slammed his paws into the dirt, forming a spherical ward just in time. 

The dragon’s body pulsed like a supernova, its chest swelling outward—

And then it detonated.

A storm barrier erupted outward from the beast’s core— an explosion not of fire, but of storm and pressure, a blast of wind and electricity that turned the entire battlefield into a maelstrom. 

Rimuru shot backward like a comet; his black wings straining, as he broke away from the shockwave. His body caught the edge of the blast, flinging him through the air like a stone. He then crashed into the jungle floor— carving a long trench in the rocky earth and bouncing once— twice— before finally skidding to a halt in a plume of dust and embers.

Above, the dragon opened its maw to the sky and howled. A blinding beam of lightning tore heavenward— so bright it was nearly white. 

The clouds above, once sparse and peaceful, trembled. The sky darkened; swirling clouds formed in seconds— twisting into thunderheads and towering cumulonimbus, with their bellies black with storm. 

Thunder cracked.

Rimuru lay in a shallow crater, with his eyes fluttering. His head throbbed, coat torn, scarf singed. He blinked slowly, dazed, until he realized—

“… Oh, come on,” he muttered hoarsely.

A fat raindrop struck his face. Then another. Then dozens. In moments, the jungle around him was drowning in cold, pouring rain. 

He groaned in irritation— struggling to sit up as his blue longcoat sagged with water, and clung to his small frame like soggy linen.

With a wince, he climbed out of the crater— squinting through the mist and pouring rain.

There— on the other side of the clearing.

The dragon lay on its side, unmoving. Its once colossal body crumbled into glowing cyan particles— floating upward like wisps of fog unraveling into the rain. 

A victorious grin spread across Rimuru’s face.

“I actually did it… I slayed a dragon!”

The grin turned to panic.

“Wait— NO!!! NO, no, no—!”

He then bolted across the clearing— sprinting toward the collapsing carcass, and slipping in puddles and nearly eating dirt.

“— MY SOUVENIRS!!!”

Scrambling over chunks of smoking rock and dragon-scale, the slime launched himself at the maw of the beast. As the head crumbled, he carelessly kicked the jaw open and reached inside.

“Come on, come on— there’s gotta be at least one molar I can turn into a pendant—!”

He found a massive tooth. Grinning, he gripped it with both hands and yanked. But as he pulled, the tooth dissolved right in his hands— fading into sparkling dust.

“Wha— F-FUCK—!!!”

He yelped as his grip collapsed; the disintegrating magicule puffing into his face, and sending him flailing backward with a splash.

He then landed on his butt.

Sopping wet.

“Oh my fucking— ARE YOU SERIOUS?!?”

He stared at his empty palm, then at the swirling motes of light rising around him.

And then— his eyes widened.

A figure stumbled forward from the vanishing mist— tall, imposing, completely naked. Muscles carved like stone, with wild golden hair that gleamed despite the storm. His orange eyes glowed beneath soaked bangs, as he walked with the sluggish, irritated gait of someone halfway between drunk and divine.

“Urrrrgh…” He groaned, while rubbing the back of his head. “What mortal cretin dares aim for my glorious skull?”

Ranga stepped cautiously forward from the dissipating mists; ears lowered, while sniffing the air warily as he stared at the stranger. 

The man flinched at the wet nose brushing his shoulder. “Disrespectful cur— what are you—?”

He paused, before his eyes darted towards Rimuru.

“What is this…?” He growled, before throwing out one arm like he was announcing himself to a crowd. “I enjoy my morning meal in majestic glory, only to be attacked by some squishy trickster and his mangy mongrel? Have you no reverence?!”

He pointed an accusatory finger at Rimuru, who was utterly unbothered by his nudity.

"You— yes, you— blubberous imp! Did no one tell you whose divine magnificence you dared to feast upon?!"

“… What are you on about, man?” Rimuru asked with a puzzled expression. “... By the way… You talk a lot for a guy who just crawled out of a carcass.”

A heavy breath left the golden-haired man as he turned toward the smoldering, still-disintegrating dragon corpse behind him; its long black neck twisted like a snapped bridge, while its ribs were exposed to the steamy air, and its fangs still laced with blood.

“Ah, disgraceful,” he muttered, while pinching the bridge of his nose as if warding off a migraine. “Even in death, my majesty is butchered by barbarity…”

He then turned back around; orange eyes glowing with mild contempt beneath the glisten of his drenched bangs.

“That carcass,” he gestured grandly toward it, “is me, you vapid gumdrop.”

Rimuru tilted his head. “… Say what now?”

Even Ranga narrowed his eyes in shared confusion.

The slime glanced from the muscular, wet, and very much alive man before him, to the massive slain dragon, and then back at the man again.

“You’re… That?” Rimuru asked, while cautiously pointing first at the blond, and then again, back at the dragon remains. “As in— you’re the guy who we slayed?”

The man’s face twisted into righteous indignation.

“I am no mere ‘guy,’ fool! And I most certainly was not slain!” He barked, while stamping a bare foot onto the steaming earth. “I allowed your juvenile tantrum to play out uninterrupted— because I am merciful! Benevolent!”

“Oh… Right,” Rimuru snorted. “That definitely wasn’t your head being skewered while you were halfway through lunch.”

The man’s scowl deepened; a vein twitching near his temple. “Your insolence grates like sand upon silk…”

Ranga, sensing tension again, stepped subtly between them. The golden man didn’t flinch this time, but merely raised a brow at the wolf pup’s looming frame.

“You and the beast yet draw breath because I willed it,” he declared, while brushing a finger down his own chiseled chest. “Were I not gracious— were I not a prince among wyrms— you’d be ash.”

He paused, before turning his chin slightly, with his face dipping into a shadow; his cheeks— just faintly— tinted pink.

Rimuru squinted. “... Wait,” he murmured, before slime leaning closer. “Are you... Blushing?”

“I most certainly am not!” The dragon snapped, before turning away sharply with a swirl of his golden hair. “I am merely... Flushed! From battle!”

“Yeah?” The slime retorted, with an amused smirk. “And when was the last time you fought someone anyway?”

The man stiffened.

He held up a finger, opening his mouth to reply— only to lower his hand, and blinking once in mild embarrassment. Then, with a frustrated grunt, he pivoted on his heel.

“… Bah! What a pointless question!” He bellowed. “The better inquiry is— when last did I find a cause worthy of combat?”

Rimuru muttered, “That’s not what I asked—”

“— Silence!” The man boomed, while raising both arms theatrically, as the mists curled and parted behind him. “Let me enlighten you, you malformed soap bubble.”

He touched his temple, then spread both arms wide as if unveiling a memory for an unseen audience. “There was a time— long before this pitiful era— when the skies burned, the Earth cracked, and the heavens trembled at the dominion of dragonkind. We were the origin, the apex, the dream of creation itself!”

Ranga lay down behind Rimuru— already beginning to roll in the warm dirt, as the rain turned it into mud.

The blond man stepped forward— lightning crackling faintly across his back like static.

“My father,” he intoned, while lowering his voice to something reverent and mythic, “was the Almighty himself. Veldanava. ‘The Star King.’ ‘The Supreme God.’ He descended to this miserable plane in answer to a single prayer— not for power, not for vengeance, but for mercy.”

Rimuru blinked. “Wait— V-Veldanava? Like, THE Veldana—”

“— Hold thy tongue, mongrel!” The man snapped, while flinging a handful of steam into the air. “This tale deserves silence and awe!”

He exhaled haughtily. “Now… Where was I? Ah, yes…”

He then resumed; his arms behind his back, while beginning to pace in circles, as if delivering an epic before a marble throne.

“It was a woman: Lucia of Nasca. A mortal, radiant and incorruptible, who prayed not for herself— but for all the races. She wept for all life, and cried out for the world to be freed of its shackles. And my father heard her.”

The golden man smiled faintly— nostrils flaring as he gazed toward the nearby mountains in the near distance.

“She swayed him. Moved him! The All-Knowing… Moved by a human’s compassion.”

Rimuru and Ranga both sat up a little straighter.

Through the haze of the jungle mist and rain, the name echoed.

Lucia of Nasca.

Veldanava.

The blond man then gestured to himself— his chest puffed with godly pride.

“And thus we were born. Three true dragons, forged from his fading divine body. Myself— “Veldora Tempest.” My sisters— “Velzard” and “Velgrynd.” As though she were our own mother, Lucia of Nasca raised us beneath the stars, and from the heights of divinity, our father watched and blessed us.”

He raised both hands, as if casting light from the heavens.

“We delivered this world. We cast down the tyrants, shattered the crowns of false gods, and quelled the eldritch horrors beneath the seas. I— I— I am ‘Storm Lord!’ ‘The King of Heroes!’ Statues, temples, even calendar years were etched in honor of my name!”

Rimuru let out a long breath. “You really like talking about yourself, huh…?”

“I was the answer to prayers!” Veldora thundered, as if possessed by the spirit of a bard. “I defended the weak, carved mountain ranges with a thought, and painted the sky with the blood of demons! I have songs— epics— whole realms that sing of my exploits!”

His chest swelled with pride so vast, the slime half expected it to detonate.

“Ballads! Odes! My likeness painted on temple ceilings! Parents named children after me— after me!”

Rimuru began crossing his arms over his chest, and stared at him, like he’d stumbled into the world’s most dramatic seminar; the direwolf pup simply yawned— his tail thumping once on the mud.

“And…” Veldora’s voice lowered— subtly, softly. “To your original question.”

Rimuru blinked.

Veldora glanced at the horizon, with his brow furrowed in thought.

“… The last time I truly fought,” he murmured, “was an age before ages. When I still believed there remained something new to prove.” 

He then looked back at them; the haughty gleam returning to his orange eyes. “And now, perhaps… Fate stirs once again?”

Rimuru’s brow raised slightly.

Veldora grinned— wide, confident, and vaguely mad.

“Well then!” He declared. “You have heard my tale. Speak your questions— if they are worthy.”

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

The monsoon had come without warning.

No scout had spotted the buildup, no owl cry or forest rustle had hinted at a shift in pressure. One moment the jungle clearing was hot and wet— filled with chirps and insect buzz and the smell of green rot— and the next, the skies above Tempest had erupted, with gray clouds roiling like an angry sea, and spilling their deluge with the fury of a spurned god.

Rain came down like needles— sharp and stinging. It pelted Gabiru’s scaled cheeks, as he narrowed his eyes against the downpour— raising one clawed hand to shield his vision. 

His long black spikes clung to his neck, and were plastered there by sheets of wind-driven water, as he tilted his head up to squint at the thundering clouds overhead. Lightning cracked like bone splitting sky. Thunder rolled in waves behind it, drowning out the jungle's usual chorus.

“Damn it…” He muttered, with his voice barely audible over the gale. “Where the hell did this come from…?”

He then took a slow step through the mud, tail low, and paused at the faint sound of slipping boots behind him.

“Gaaaaaabiruuuuu!”

A short, frantic figure came huffing through the tall reeds— Gobuta, dragging both their soaked backpacks over his hunched shoulders like a beast of burden. His green face was scrunched with urgency, and his white hair matted flat to his skull. 

Each step he took sent a fresh splash of mud up to his thighs.

“We gotta find shelter!” The goblin hollered over the roar of the storm. “This rain’s gettin’ worse— my underpants are already drowned!!”

Gabiru grimaced— groaning at the sensation of wet fabric clinging to his scaly body. “You're telling me…”

He then glanced skyward again; teeth gritting as another blinding bolt snapped across the sky— illuminating the dense gray underbelly of the clouds. The lizardman inhaled deeply through his nose— nostrils flaring, as he scanned the heavens like he expected to find an answer there.

“... Could this be punishment?” He muttered under his breath, while narrowing his eyes.

Gobuta skidded to a stop beside him, before blinking up at him. “Huh?! What’d you say?!”

Gabiru’s expression darkened. “Veldora! Maybe he’s angry! Maybe this storm isn’t just weather!”

The goblin’s wide eyes blinked once, twice— bewildered. “W-Why would the Storm Lord be mad at us?!”

Gabiru didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked around the clearing they had stopped to rest in— a shallow pond glimmering with ripples and floating leaves, now churned by wind and rain. Trees bent and moaned, jungle vines writhed. Shapes gathered in the distance.

Vivianne, hood down and soaked, held her sunhat against her head with one hand. The others began clustering near her— using blankets, cloaks, even their own weapons to block the rain.

Gabiru quietly began counting heads.

“… Maybe we were supposed to ask permission,” he finally said; his projected voice low and grave. “Before setting foot on this island!”

Gobuta looked up at him with disbelief; his face scrunched. “Whuh?! But what about Jura?! He’s been here loads of times! Ciel never said nothin’ about the island being a problem before!”

Gabiru’s slitted eyes narrowed. “She explicitly said this place was never safe,” he corrected. “There’s a difference!”

The goblin frowned. “... Same thing!”

“No, it’s not,” the lizardman snapped. But then, more quietly— thoughtfully— he added, “Perhaps Jura had Veldora’s blessing? Perhaps he was deemed... Worthy to walk this land.”

He then gestured broadly to the trees, the mud, the stormclouds themselves. “This island was a gift from the heavens, Gobuta! Veldanava himself created it— for Saint Lucia! It wasn’t meant for us!”

The goblin trudged along beside him; his eyes squinted, as the rain hit sideways. “Why would Jura be worthy and we’re not?!”

Gabiru stopped mid-step, before whipping his head around with a scowl. “Are you actually comparing us to the man who walked into a war-torn wasteland and made it bloom again?!” He asked loudly with disbelief. “To the man whose name the spirits themselves still whisper with reverence?!”

Gobuta blinked. “Well I didn’t say it like that…”

Gabiru let out a scoff that was almost a snarl. “Hmph.”

They then trudged the last few steps toward the gathered expedition party; boots sinking ankle-deep into the rain-slick muck. Water streamed from capes and ears and whiskers alike.

Vivianne stood near the rear of the group; her sunhat now limp from moisture, held tightly in place with both hands. Her soaked dress clung to her legs, the hemline muddied, but her gaze was focused and sharp— fixed beyond the swaying canopy they had emerged from hours earlier.

Gabiru’s tone sharpened. “Vi!”

She flinched, then turned— steadying her hat against the howling wind as she raised her voice. “Gabiru! Rimuru and Ranga are still out there! They went off to hunt dinosaurs!”

Gabiru blinked. His brain hiccuped.

“Dinosaurs?!” He repeated, stunned. “Why the hell—?!”

Before he could even finish, one of the therians shouted— her growling voice cutting over the wind. The beastkin girl, eyes painted with green stripes, pointed a clawed finger toward the jungle’s edge.

“There! I see them!”

Vivianne and Gabiru both spun to follow the gesture— squinting past the sheets of rain, to the shadowy green tunnel of canopy just beyond the pond.

Out from the vines, like a slow-moving painting peeling into view, came the unmistakable blue glow of Rimuru’s semi-transparent form. Ranga bounded beside him; thick fur soaked, tail lashing. 

They were trudging through the mud like returning hunters.

But what made Gabiru stiffen— and what made Vivianne’s breath hitch, her face go pale— was what followed behind them.

A man.

No armor. No shirt. No anything.

Tan skin glistening with rainwater. Golden hair wild and matted from the storm. Muscles like chiseled stone and a casual gait that suggested nothing in the world could harm him— except, perhaps, boredom.

He was tall. Much taller than Gabiru. Taller even than the average therian. Easily six-foot-five, and yet somehow carried himself like a king who had to stoop just to walk amongst peasants.

Vivianne’s throat went dry.

The stranger’s expression was neutral at first— disinterested, perhaps even inconvenienced by the weather. 

But then his eyes locked onto hers.

His orange irises widened, and his smug posture froze. His mouth twitched— just slightly— as if the very sight of her cracked something buried under his princely arrogance.

He looked at her not with recognition— but with a slow-dawning, wide-eyed horror.

Vivianne stared, unblinking, soaked to the bone, while Gabiru looked between them— bewildered.

The stranger’s stride faltered.

His boisterous energy, so visible before, now seemed to recoil. Like something else had just entered the jungle clearing— something even the storm dared not interrupt.

Ranga was the first to stop— his ears perked sharply, tail rigid. The wind howled around them— snapping through the underbrush like a living thing, as his keen golden eyes turned toward the tall figure behind them.

The direwolf pup then barked— loud and urgent, and enough to cut through the roar of wind and rain.

Rimuru flinched. He’d been trudging through ankle-deep mud— slipping now and then as droplets streamed off his pale cheeks, with his eyes half-lidded with distraction and chill.

“Eh? What is it, boy?” The slime called, while turning with a stumble.

Ranga responded by jerking his snout sharply toward the jungle path behind them.

Rimuru followed the motion, blinking through sheets of falling rain. He turned just in time to see the tall blond stranger— still motionless— his arms now slapped down across his lap, face flushed a deep, unmistakable crimson. 

He looked furious, and embarrassed.

“… Huh?” Rimuru murmured, while tilting his head— peering with narrowed eyes, before slowly glancing down at the stranger’s thighs.

“...Oh,” he said aloud, with his voice rising with sheepish realization. “Did— did the wind… Blow something into your balls?”

The dragon’s entire face flushed darker, as his broad shoulders rose with fury. “No such thing happened, you imbecile!” He snapped— booming, like a thunderclap. “And you— you failed to mention there was a human maiden present in your party!”

Rimuru blinked again, soaked silvery-blue hair sticking to his forehead. “A human maiden…? Oh, you mean Miss Vi?” He asked, before looking toward her— sunhat sagging under the weight of the rain, her soaked dress still clinging to her curvy frame. “Why does that matter?”

“Why does that matter?” The dragon snarled, with his voice rising in a crescendo of disbelief. “Are your wits as gelatinous as your form? It matters because etiquette must be upheld in the presence of a lady! Even more so when she possesses resplendence, such as hers!”

He then threw a hand dramatically toward Vivianne without even looking at her— his other hand still shielding his groin with thinly veiled panic.

“Especially,” he added, voice low and bitter, “when she is staring!”

The slime gave him a strange look, then glanced once more toward Vivianne, who had not moved from her spot beneath the dripping canopy. Rimuru’s mouth then curled into a mischievous grin. “Wait, is that the issue? Man, I can fix that!”

Veldora’s head jerked back with visible alarm. “Don’t you dare make light of this! At least give me something to preserve my modesty!”

“I gotcha,” Rimuru said casually, while already unbuttoning the front of his coat. “Just take my jacket—”

“— Hurry, slime!” Veldora hissed, while ducking his head and crouching low behind Ranga, as if the rain would hide his shame.

With a quick shrug, Rimuru pulled off the soaked blue coat and handed it toward the flustered dragon, who snatched it with the desperation of a drowning man.

“Turn around,” Veldora snapped.

Rimuru blinked innocently. “… Really?”

“Turn. Around.”

Rolling his eyes, the slime did as told while Veldora grumbled under his breath and began wrapping the wet jacket around his waist like a makeshift loincloth. 

After double-knotting the sleeves, he gave the fabric a few firm tugs— glancing down to ensure no traitorous slip would leave him further humiliated.

Only then did he straighten— back arched, chin high, posture brimming with forced pride.

“… This will suffice,” he muttered, though he seemed unconvinced.

Now wearing only his white shirt beneath the rain, Rimuru exhaled through puffed cheeks. The fabric clung instantly to his body— outlining his slight frame.

“Alrighty, well, can we wrap this up then?” The slime asked, with his petite shoulders hunched. “Can you, y’know— make the storm stop now that you’re all dressed?”

Veldora visibly winced; his face twitching with irritation. “Were I in my true form,” he said, slowly, like explaining to a child, “I would call the winds to heel with a mere breath. However—” he gestured to himself, the coat kilt flapping limply against his thighs “— I am currently denied my full mana. So no— I cannot.”

Rimuru blinked, while rubbing the back of his neck. “Wait, so— when you say ‘true form’… You mean ‘dragon mode,’ right?”

Veldora sighed through his nose— long and loud— like a monarch tolerating peasant idiocy. “… Yes, Rimuru— ‘dragon mode.’” He then gestured wildly, as if conjuring fire from the air— only for the rain to slap across his outstretched palm instead.

“Hurry along now,” he snapped, while swatting the back of Rimuru's shoulder. “I shall face your companions with dignity and grandeur.”

The slime lifted a brow, while smirking. “Trying to make a good impression now, huh?”

“I always make a good impression,” the dragon replied coldly. “It is they who must elevate themselves to appreciate it."

Ranga then trotted up beside Rimuru; tail wagging despite the wind. The slime patted his head as they turned toward the clearing together; boots squelching through wet jungle loam. 

Behind them, the dragon straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and attempted to walk with all the majesty of a crowned king— despite the dripping coat tied around his hips.

Vivianne still stood motionless ahead, her hat now plastered to her head, and fingers curled stiffly at her sides.

Gabiru took a cautious step toward her, then glanced back as the strange man finally emerged into full view of the group. His presence arrived like a pressure change— boisterous, unyielding, imperious.

After exchanging quick pleasantries— due to the severity of the storm— the group traveled back into the jungle; led by the barefoot stride of a dragon who walked like he ruled the canopies.

The cave Veldora led them to yawned open like the mouth of some ancient beast; slick with rainwater that spilled from the jungle above. Its entrance was half-concealed by layers of ivy and glitterstone— mineral veins glowing faintly in blues and violets, humming in the dark as if alive. 

Water dripped in slow, rhythmic plinks from the stone fangs overhead. 

The deeper they walked, the more the echo of the rain faded; replaced by the hollow sounds of trickling streams and the shrill screech of winged beasts nesting in the higher crevices.

Small pterosaurs flapped wildly above them, wings brushing stalactites. Two had nested on a stone shelf near the fire pit Gabiru’s expedition had hastily constructed.

That was a mistake.

“Annoying airborne vermin,” the lizardman muttered, while drawing his blade with a dramatic flourish.

He then launched upward with practiced acrobatics— bouncing off a jagged wall and landing on the ledge in a single, sweeping motion. With a flash of his curved blade, he severed the head of the first pterosaur cleanly.

Its mate took flight— only to be intercepted midair by a streak of white fur and snapping jaws.

Ranga landed with a heavy thud; dirt and dust scattering, as he crunched down hard on the shrieking creature’s spine. 

Its wings fell limp. With a pleased huff, the direwolf pup trotted over and deposited his kill beside a large, flat stone— nodding toward the therian already stationed there.

The crocodilian humanoid, dressed in black suspenders and with one gold tooth gleaming in the firelight, gave a satisfied grunt. “Good boy.”

He proceeded to then take the still-twitching carcass by the leg, and dragged it toward his work area that was already littered with feathers, skin, and cleaned bones. His short sword, honed to cleave sinew and tendon with ease, moved in broad, precise strokes— separating meat from bone with industrial efficiency.

Behind him, an orc woman in a patched apron took each carved slab and dropped it into a sizzling cast-iron skillet.

The fire pit had been cleverly built into a natural vent; the smoke rising steadily toward a cleft in the cave’s ceiling. The sizzle and pop of roasting meat filled the space— mingling with the distant patter of rain outside the rocky hill the cave was built into, and the crackle of burning kindling.

Vivianne sat nearby, with her soaked sundress clinging to her skin, and her long dark hair stuck to her neck and shoulders in heavy strands. She gave her wide-brimmed sunhat a twist— squeezing out rainwater, before hanging it on a jutting rock to dry.

Gobuta, sitting cross-legged on a mossy boulder near the fire, stared at the tall, smugly radiant dragon seated opposite him.

Veldora— wrapped in Rimuru’s blue coat like a makeshift loincloth— sat with one leg propped up, elbow resting lazily against it. His other hand gestured flamboyantly as he wove his tale. 

Firelight flickered across his sharp features— highlighting the wet strands of his golden hair and the sharp gleam in his amber eyes. His voice carried like thunder echoing through the cavern— each word laced with drama and pride.

“And so—” he declared, while pausing for effect, “— when the alabaster horde surged through the Abyssal Gate— mindless, featureless, void of soul— I did not hesitate. I stood alone at the threshold, a wall of scales and lightning against a legion of phantoms.”

Gobuta’s eyes sparkled. “Woah…”

“They moved without thought, without fear. Yet their sorcerer masters— foolish things cloaked in mimicry of humanity— believed their control absolute.” Veldora’s grin grew. “But power, you see, true power… Belongs only to those who seize it.”

Ranga wagged his tail in interest.

“They came in waves— blades that sang without wind, magic so cold it burned. But I— Storm Lord— tore through their ranks, as a storm rends the sea.” He continued, with his orange eyes narrowed slightly. “And in the final hour, when only remnants remained, I hunted down those cowled conjurers and showed them the price of hubris.”

He concluded with a self-satisfied tilt of his chin, as if expecting thunderous applause.

Gobuta nearly clapped, but paused, eyes narrowing in curiosity. “S-Storm Lord?”

Veldora turned to the white-haired goblin. “Hm?”

Gobuta tilted his head. “Why do you and Rimuru have the same last name? Did you give it to him?”

Veldora’s smirk curved into something more regal. He glanced once at the slime— who was still chewing on a massive roasted drumstick, grease smearing the corners of his mouth— and then looked back at Gobuta.

“That name—” he said in a low voice, “— became legend long before your kind first set foot near this body of water. The name ‘Tempest’ was etched into the hearts of mortals the moment Veldanava raised this land from the lake floor— the calm eye of a storm, you see.”

Gobuta leaned in, with his brow furrowed.

“Back then,” Veldora continued, “it was common for those who followed the Star Lord— His teachings, His divine will— to take His name, or our names as tribute. Many changed their bloodlines, their very lineages, to honor Him. ‘Tempest’ became not merely a surname— but a vow.”

Gobuta blinked. “So… Rimuru’s family were followers of the Star Lord too?”

Veldora nodded once. “It is the most likely explanation. I am Veldora of Tempest. He is Rimuru Tempest. A difference of lineage— yet born of the same reverence.”

Rimuru finally swallowed his bite. “That’s one version,” he said casually. “But my great-great-great-great-great grandparents actually migrated here from Tempest. That's where the name comes from.”

Gabiru blinked, turning. “R-Really?”

Rimuru shrugged. “No.” He then took another bite, before speaking around it. “What he said’s the truth. My family are all devout Veldanava followers, but they just called him ‘God.’”

Veldora chuckled, amused. “As they should!” He choked, while sitting straighter, and basking in the flickering firelight. “Veldanava is the only god worthy of the name.”

Rimuru raised a brow. “What about the Supreme God?”

Veldora scoffed, while waving one hand dismissively. “The ‘Supreme God’ is merely one of Veldanava’s many titles! A name granted by mortals trying to grasp divinity beyond their ken!”

Vivianne, seated beside the fire and wringing out her skirt, finally looked up.

“That’s… Not far off,” she said.

Veldora’s golden gaze flicked to her. A raised brow, along with a flash of subtle recognition— swiftly masked. He said nothing, but listened.

Vivianne continued, with her eyes half-lidded in thought. “Modern theology suggests that the figure now called the ‘Supreme God’ may very well be based on a much older deity— one known simply as ‘God’ in the earliest texts. Ancient civilizations had no pantheon.”

She then shifted slightly, before reaching for the roasted meat Rimuru had pulled from the fire for her. The slime gently blew on it before handing it over.

“The more gods were added, the more important that original being became. He became the ‘Supreme God.’ Not as a different entity— just elevated. Above all others.”

Veldora’s grin grew again, sharp and prideful. “As it should be! Veldanava stands above all creation. Time, fate, law, divinity— these are but footstools beneath His gaze!”

He then gestured grandly to the cavern ceiling, as if invoking the heavens from beneath the Earth.

“Mortals may dress up truth in titles, but truth is unchanged. Whether they call Him ‘God’ or ‘Supreme,’ they speak of my creator— the architect of the stars— the one who gave us this world.”

Everyone fell quiet.

Only the fire cracked and hissed. Only the sizzle of cooking meat and the quiet, metallic rhythm of the croc’s blade butchering another pterosaur stirred the air.

The cave walls trembled faintly as thunder rolled overhead— booming like celestial drums through the heart of the jungle. The monsoon continued to rage outside— an endless curtain of water crashing against the mossy rocks and sloping trees beyond the mouth of the cavern. 

Soon, Gabiru returned from the rear of the cave; soaked to the knees in brackish puddle water, with a triumphant grin flashing across his sharp features. 

In each of his clawed hands, he carried a limp cluster of small dinosaurs, gripped casually by their ankles— slick-scaled things with needle teeth and spiny backs, now drooping like overstuffed market produce.

“Well,” he said, strutting forward with his usual flair, “I’ve brought more lunch.” He announced, before tossing the carcasses down onto the waiting flat stone with a wet slap. “Though I must say—” he began, with his eyes narrowed, as he peered across the fire at the nearly-naked golden-haired stranger, “— it’s a curious thing, isn’t it? That the one our kin revere beneath Valdanava Himself… Is a human, not a dragon.”

A pause.

Veldora raised his chin imperiously; one hand resting on his hip, and the other gripping the knotted sleeves of the coat tied around his waist. Despite his bedraggled appearance, the firelight made his amber eyes glint like molten gold. 

His pride, at least, remained untouched.

“I am a dragon,” he retorted, while jabbing a thumb toward his bare chest. “A true one. Just as Valdanava created both dragon and man in His image, so too do I carry both forms within me. You stand before the apex of His design, lizard.”

Gabiru blinked— clearly unimpressed. “Then if your dragon form is the stronger one,” he asked, while folding his arms, “why not remain in it permanently? Seems like a downgrade to me.”

The air thickened.

Veldora’s smile grew tight, but he did not waver.

“My dragon form is of the ‘Throne,’” he said, with his voice lowering like distant thunder. “It is a shape of divine sovereignty, unbound by mortal decay. My human form—” he continues, while clenching a fist against his chest, “— is the anchor. The tether to this world. Both must exist, for power without presence is meaningless. I am both sovereign and steward.”

Gabiru opened his mouth to retort, but Gobuta beat him to it— scratching the back of his neck with an awkward chuckle.

“Heh… That sorta reminds me of Ciel,” he said. “Y’know? How she’s tied to the Great Jura Forest, even though her soul’s in the afterlife. Like… Existing in two places at once?” He the. looked up sheepishly, before glancing around. “R-Right? That’s the same thing, s-sort of…?”

The name hit the air like a dropped blade.

Veldora’s smirk faltered, as his golden brows drew together.

“C… Ciel?” He echoed softly, as if the syllables had dredged something ancient from deep within his memory. His tone lost its haughty luster, replaced instead by something hushed. “Jura’s daughter… She’s… Passed on?”

Beside him, Vivianne leaned forward; her soaked curls still plastered to her face, and her hands resting delicately in her lap. One brow arched ever so slightly.

There had been something in his voice— no theatricality, no pomp. Just a question, and a sincere one at that.

“… She has,” she said gently. “She succumbed to her illness, a little over forty years ago, but her soul is bound to the forest. She never left, and still lives there… In spirit— carrying on Jura’s legacy.”

Veldora didn’t speak. He just sat there— staring at the fire as if it held the answers. The coat around his waist dripped faintly past his waistline.

“… Jura too?” He finally whispered.

Silence fell. 

Ranga’s ears twitched beside Rimuru, who glanced warily at Vivianne, then at the others. Even Gabiru looked unsure.

Then, slowly, Veldora straightened— shoulders stiffening as he realized every eye was on him. He cleared his throat; a flicker of old pride rekindling in his chest.

“… Forgive me,” he said, with his voice regaining its strength, though tinged with something softer now. “I… I was not aware. My family knew Jura. He… Aided us, when the Feyrun civil war ravaged the lake. It was he who restored the fertility of the land— who cleansed the waters when they festered. My sisters and Miliam knew him not as a legend, but as a gardener. A healer…  A good man.”

Vivianne smiled faintly. “… That sounds like him,” she said. “And Ciel’s happy now. And… For any constellation that there is for you… Jura had children of his own, after she passed away.”

At that, Veldora’s eyes flicked up. “H… He did?” He asked— almost incredulously. “With… His wife, I imagine… Mia?”

Vivianne nodded. “Yes; two sons, and a daughter.”

For a long breath, the golden-haired dragonlord stood still, processing. Then— softly— he laughed. Not the thundering kind, nor the boastful one. Just a quiet, low chuckle that echoed faintly off the damp stone walls.

“Ah… I remember,” he murmured. “Every time he came to Tempest for quarry stone, he’d speak of Ciel… And how he hoped to give her siblings… It warms my heart, knowing that his bloodline lives on.”

“Jura’s place is actually where some of us are staying now,” Rimuru chimed in suddenly— propping himself up on one elbow. “The house Jura built for them— Ciel’s place— it’s still there— kept it in good shape all these years. Well, uh… Technically Marvin’s was using it as a vacation home until recently, but—”

“— Marvin?” Veldora interrupted, frowning.

“Yeah,” Rimuru nodded. “Jura’s eldest son. He gave it to Vi and her little brother, Ren. Let them start fresh.”

Veldora’s gaze shifted to Vivianne again— studying her not as a mere maiden now, but as one linked to the threads of a legacy he hadn’t realized still persisted.

“… Why would he do that?” He asked, with one brow furrowed. “Why entrust Jura’s home to you?”

The brunette met his gaze steadily. “Because our fathers were close,” she said. “My brother and I grew up in Riverwood— the same village as him, and I was his adopted son’s teacher, too. Marvin knew what happened to us— how we were exiled after a goblin raid, blamed for something we didn’t do. He… He wanted to help us… And he did.”

Veldora’s expression darkened; concern flickering across his face. “… You were exiled for that?”

She nodded. “It was for the best. He gave us the house, and told us we deserved more than it… Said that it’d hopefully be a new start for us, and it was.”

And then— like it was the most natural thing in the world— she leaned over and ran her clean hand through Rimuru’s damp, silvery-blue hair— gently brushing the strands back.

“And that’s how we met Ciel— she goes by the ‘Great Sage’ now,” she added, while smiling. “And everyone else in these woods.”

The moment lingered— soft and fragile against the backdrop of storm and fire.

Veldora said nothing, just watching, until the smell of sizzling meat became too hard to ignore.

The orc chef, hunched over the firepit, pulled the blackened skillet free of the coals and scraped the steaming dinosaur meat onto a large, flat rock rimmed with green moss. 

The sizzling died into faint crackles. One by one, the crew gathered— tentatively lifting pieces from the pile and testing the texture with cautious nibbles.

Rimuru, still half-reclining beside Ranga, stretched his arms above his head. “That’s why we’re here, y’know,” he said, while grinning lazily. “To find Jura’s Quarry, so we can bring resources back to the Great Tempest Forest. Miss Vi and Ciel wanna build a school there— like, a huge campus. With running water, electricity, real classes— everything Miss Vi experienced when she studied abroad in the Shinzuhara Shogunate.”

At that, Veldora tilted his head. His voice, low and thoughtful now, rumbled through the stone. “… So that’s your mission,” he said. “Not for conquest, not for wealth… But for the future.”

“Especially for the kids,” Gobuta piped up, then hesitated. “I-I mean… If that’s okay? We don’t wanna, uh… Offend you, or the rest of Valdanava’s children…”

Veldora looked at him, then he looked at the fire.

And, slowly, he smiled.

A quiet, fond breath escaped his chest— more a laugh than a sigh. “If Ciel,” he said, “has sanctioned this endeavor… Then who am I to deny it?”

He then rose to his feet; the firelight casting long shadows across his frame. He stood tall, head raised like a prince before his court.

“Then I, Veld—” He stopped, smirking to himself. “Then I, ‘Storm Lord,’ shall guide you. Once the tempest breaks, I shall not only lead you to Jura’s Quarry myself, but to meet my sisters, and Valdanava’s daughter, herself.”

His voice echoed through the cavern like prophecy.

And in the flickering firelight, every head turned toward him.

Awaiting the end of the storm.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

The monsoon had passed.

What had begun as a sudden, overwhelming deluge— summoned involuntarily by the dormant draconic instincts in Rimuru as he siphoned Veldora’s mana— had finally tapered off. 

No longer did thunder boom or lightning fracture the sky in arcs of violet and gold. The thick gray clouds scattered and curled into long vapor trails, as the late afternoon sun spilled molten light across the jungle canopy. And with its descent came a heat far worse than before, as the sodden island exhaled a wave of humidity that clung to every breath and step.

Gabiru’s expedition team moved sluggishly but purposefully as they exited the sheltering cave; their muscles were sore, and their skin slick with sweat. The hike ahead of them would span nearly four hours across the lower ridge of the Tempest Mountains— skirting rivers that had swelled during the storm and weaving through the dense, steaming jungle.

Dinosaurs— the great, scaled sentinels of the island— watched from the shadows.

Predators like the horned spinosaur and long-tailed razorsaurs lingered beyond the underbrush; their gazes sharp and predatory. But none dared step forward, not while he walked among the mortals. 

Even in human form, the aura rolling off Veldora was enough to silence the very heartbeat of the jungle. Leaves quivered and insects went still as he passed— his golden hair damp, but unbothered.

With Veldora at the head, the group crossed mossy bridges of twisted roots and narrow cliffsides— weaving through ravines that echoed with chirps and distant growls. 

And when they eventually arrived at the southern base of the Tempest Mountains, the entire party— save for Veldora— halted.

Even at such a high elevation, the mountains loomed like ancient titans above them, vast and gray-blue in the distance. From this vantage, the tree canopy of the entire jungle unfolded like a living sea below, and past that, the glittering waters of Lake Virelda curved around the horizon— stretching to the very rim of the world. 

Wind brushed through the ferns— tangling their hair, and rustling their clothes.

Gabiru let out a low whistle, as Gobuta simply dropped his two backpacks and gawked.

Only the blond dragon remained unmoved— his large arms folded behind his back, and with a smug tilt to his chin.

Ranga sniffed near the overgrown mine entrance, with his paws silent on the moss-covered stone. His nostrils flared subtly— catching faint traces of copper and iron, and the pulsing scent of long-dormant magicule clusters. Then, without warning, the direwolf pup’s horn sparked— violet and yellow light crackling outward that formed a searing blade of condensed energy. 

With a sharp bark, he sliced through the tangle of vines and jungle growth enshrouding the wide mineshaft. Steam hissed where the energy scorched bark and leaves, and soon the passage was clear.

The others stared.

Rusted conveyor belts stretched inward, and were half-collapsed under their own weight. Mining carts rested on narrow tracks, and were covered in moss and half-swallowed by time. Lantern mounts lined the tunnel walls, with some with fragments of glass still clinging inside.

Gabiru and Gobuta exchanged a nod, then stepped forward— leading a small crew to begin restoration. They moved carefully, slicing vines from rusted gears and reinforcing weakened joints.

Leaving the rest of the expedition team to properly stage at the entrance, Vivianne and Rimuru followed Vedora up a narrower trail veered away from the quarry— steep, winding, and half-hidden beneath layers of moss and crumbling stone. It curled like a forgotten ribbon along the cliffside— leading higher up into the mountains. 

At the front strode the dragon; his posture regal, and every step exuding the confidence of one born from tempest and thunder— despite still wearing the slime’s longcoat as a makeshift loincloth. Still, the way he moved— effortless, theatrical— left no doubt that he knew these cliffs as intimately as he knew the back of his hand.

Behind him, Rimuru and Vivianne walked at a more leisurely pace. 

The slime had his hands tucked into his side pockets, and would occasionally kick stones off the path. Meanwhile, the brunette moved with quiet poise; her sun-bleached dress catching the light, with strands of hair stuck to her cheeks from the lingering humidity. 

Their steps fell into an unspoken rhythm— companionship without words.

Below them, the forest canopy rolled and dipped in great undulating waves— an emerald ocean spread across the land. Lake Virelda, now bathed in full sunlight, sparkled with breathtaking clarity. Clouds still lingered in the distance— caught on the far cliffs like unraveling sails— but up there, the sky was wide and open. The water glimmered like cut glass; its endless surface still disturbed by ripples left from the storm’s passing.

Vivianne slowed her pace, as her eyes traced the horizon in quiet awe. The view was enough to still the breath in her throat.

“It’s… Beautiful,” she murmured softly, with her voice nearly lost in the breeze.

Veldora gave a low, appreciative hum— not turning, as he spoke. “Indeed. Tempest is an island of wonder and grandeur. It is paradise— untamed, perilous, and deserving of praise.”

Rimuru then. glanced sideways at Vivianne— his golden eyes catching the light as he tilted his head up to meet her gaze. “Miss Vi?” He asked gently.

She then looked down at him; the wind lifting a few strands of her hair from her brow. “Yes, sweetheart?”

He hesitated, nudging a pebble with his boot before speaking. “Y’know how Ciel’s tried teaching me a lot about history, geography... Those sorts of things, before you came along?” He said, while beginning to scratch at his temple— clearly trying to find the right words. “But, uh… One thing always stuck with me, even when all the other stuff never did.”

Vivianne arched a brow— giving him her full attention. “Go on.”

“The ocean,” he said after a beat. “I don’t remember all the names she gave me, but she said there were seven of them. It always sounded… Big. You know? Bigger than anything else.”

He turned his head— looking out across the lake again.

Vivianne followed his gaze. “The ocean is quite big,” she said quietly. “And yes— there are seven. Though which seven depends on which age you ask.”

Just then, Veldora stopped so abruptly that the hem of his cloak spun out like a curtain caught in the wind. He then pivoted on his heel and threw one hand toward the sky in a flamboyant arc.

“Aha! You refer to the Seven Great Seas of the Contemporary World!” He thundered, with theatrical flourish. “The ‘Aquarius Ocean,’ the ‘Borealis Ocean,’ the ‘Solaran Ocean,’ the ‘Indaran Ocean,’ the ‘Austral Ocean,’ the ‘Equatoria Ocean,’ and last— but certainly not least— the legendary ‘Thalassor Ocean!’”

Rimuru blinked. “Wait... Are those actually the names of them?”

Vivianne gave him a sideways look, with her arms folding over her chest. “Wow. How long did it take you to memorize all of that?”

Veldora preened. “Memorize all that? My dear, I embody knowledge! How could you think I’d struggle to recall something as mundane, and basic as—” he caught himself, straightened his collar with dignified grace, and cleared his throat. “— you were being sarcastic.”

He then turned back around— striding ahead with embarrassment, and muttering something that made Vivianne stifle a laugh behind her raised hand.

They then continued onward— rounding a bend in the path where a weathered brass telescope stood mounted on a crumbling pedestal near the edge. 

Its lens was cracked and misted over with time, but it remained pointed toward the horizon— as if waiting for a celestial event long delayed. Ivy had grown up one side of it— curling around the base like a quiet monument to some forgotten astronomer.

Vivianne glanced at it with faint curiosity, then looked back down at Rimuru. “So? You were saying?”

He gave a soft “Oh,” as if he’d briefly lost his place, before his voice grew quiet again. “I guess what I was trying to say is…” He momentarily trailed off, as he slowed his steps. “I’ve always wanted to see the ocean for myself. Like— really see it, not just read about it.”

He then glanced toward the lake and motioned with one hand. “… Does this come close to the real deal?”

Vivianne let her eyes sweep across Lake Virelda’s glimmering expanse before answering.

“… From a distance? Yes, it’s vast, and unfathomably deep on top of that. Sometimes stormy, sometimes still. In many ways, it’s the closest you’ll come without salt in the air.” She smiled faintly. “I suppose in a way, Lake Virelda is like the ocean, Rimuru.”

She was about to elaborate when—

“— Ah-ha!” Veldora snapped his fingers again, before spinning dramatically on one heel. “That’s because it was an ocean, Ashta!”

Vivianne raised a brow. “… What?”

He grinned like a man unveiling a royal secret. “It was once the ‘Avalon Sea,’ during the ‘First Epoch.’ After the rise of Tempest, it was renamed the ‘Lucian Sea’— held that name for ten thousand years. And then, two millennia ago, the artist “Virelda” captured its majesty in his famed lakefront paintings. So beloved were his works, they rechristened the waters in his honor.”

Vivianne gave him a skeptical glance. “… You remember all of that?”

“I remember everything, dear teacher,” Veldora replied, while dusting his shoulder as if brushing off a compliment. “Unlike the dragons one would read about in fiction, I’ve lived among scholars. I’ve dined with historians, and I’ve corrected them when they were wrong.”

Vivianne shook her head, but was still smiling.

Rimuru said nothing at first. He simply turned back toward the glistening horizon, with his golden eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

And then he smiled, as he blinked up at Veldora, with his lips parted slightly. 

A pause passed. Then—

“… Wait. How do you even know all that?” The slime suddenly asked— incredulity shading his voice. “Didn’t you say that you guys were all— I don’t know… Isolated or something? Since the—” He trailed off, before glancing sideways toward Vivianne for backup. 

Rimuru’s voice then softened into a murmur, as he asked her, “What age was it again that dragons started getting hunted…?”

The question took some of the luster from Veldora’s proud demeanor, as his smirk faltered ever so slightly. 

The path’s incline had begun to ease as the bend straightened— giving the trio a clear view of the spiraling trail ahead, flanked by crags and moss-coated stone. 

A breeze stirred Veldora’s blond hair, as Vivianne glanced toward the dragon— catching the flicker of pain behind his fiery eyes.

She then answered Rimuru gently. “Aetate Pendraconis Renascitae.”

The phrase rolled off her tongue with a fluidity that belied its harsh history.

“Ay-tatty… Pen-drag... A-sis... Renasa-cake?” Rimuru tried repeating with little confidence, before snapping his fingers, as though proud to have remembered it— only to butcher every syllable. He then turned toward Veldora— expecting correction.

The elder dragon stared at him, dumbfounded for a heartbeat, then released a slow sigh, as he kept walking.

“Hmph. I believe I’m truly beginning to understand the Great Jura Forest’s dire need for a public educational center,” Veldora said loftily, “Anyway— I must say that your skepticism is, I suppose, understandable.” His tone then softened a little— respect lingering in the way he shifted his eyes toward Vivianne. “To satiate that inquiry, let me say that whenever Jura would sail to Tempest, I was the one who greeted him. I would escort him as he came ashore. I requested it, actually— always.”

He faced forward again— walking with one hand tucked behind his back.

“Through him,” Veldora went on, “my sisters and I were kept updated on the world beyond our borders— on your wars, the Pendragon Empire, the world’s advancements, and released novels. Time would pass, and yet Jura would still speak with the same patience, the same clarity. And in those brief moments… It was as though I, too, lived in your world. I treasured those conversations. They were, in essence… My escape from said isolation.”

Vivianne looked up at him; empathy blooming quietly in her chest, as she murmured, “Coming back home to Riverwood made me miss my old life in Tokiwana. I was young, I had dreams, I was finally where I belonged. But… I never resented anyone for leaving it. Not my brother. Not even my parents.” Her voice became softer, as she added, “Some responsibilities just… Matter more.”

Veldora’s steps slowed.

He then looked back at her, with his gaze unreadable for a moment. Then— slowly— a small smile curled across his lips, as his expression warmed.

“Ah… So you do understand it,” he said, with his voice rich with approval. “The choice to dedicate your life to another’s path. To hold that burden— and yet, never once feel it as such.”

Vivianne smiled back, her brow gently lifted. The sincerity in his words struck deeper than expected.

Rimuru, who had lagged just a step behind them both, tilted his head— curious, but also faintly unsure of how to respond to the shift in tone. But he didn’t have to; because, just then, Veldora stopped.

The two younger travelers paused beside him— and their eyes followed his.

Carved directly into the side of the mountain was a cavern entrance. Vast, gaping, and ancient. Twin statues flanked the threshold, and were weathered by centuries of snow and rain. 

They depicted dragons— majestic and curling upward with wings outstretched in solemn glory. Faded moss clung to their stone bellies. One of them had a long, sinewy frame— almost lanky in form, its face noble but slightly mischievous.

Rimuru squinted.

“… Wait a second.” He pointed. “Is that one supposed to be you?”

Veldora smirked faintly, while walking toward the statue.

“It is,” he confirmed, in an almost wistful tone.

He then reached out and ran his hand over the statue’s cracked surface. Fingertips brushed dust and lichen from its broad snout and down its engraved neck, where once-pristine scales had eroded to mere indentations.

“Statues like this used to be common in temples,” he murmured. “Shrines across the continent bore our likeness— mine especially. I was once venerated as a divine guardian. People sought my blessing for courage, and for strength.”

He then lowered his hand— letting it fall to his side.

“… Not so much these days, however,” he added quietly. “At least… Not from what I’ve last heard.”

The air was cool near the cavern mouth; the scent of old stone and mineral deposits wafting out. Vivianne and Rimuru joined him beneath the archway.

“Welcome,” Veldora said with a casual flourish of his arm. “To the entry of our abode.”

With a simple flick of his fingers, a crackling thread of lightning surged through the air. It struck a rune carved high into the ceiling above the threshold— igniting it with golden fire. 

The glowing lines raced outward in a brilliant pattern— illuminating the chamber within.

Vivianne’s eyes widened as the light revealed what lay ahead.

The cavern opened into a wide, domed chamber— its interior hewn smooth from millennia of habitation. 

Gold-veined stone stretched from floor to ceiling— twinkling like stars embedded in the walls. Dozens of statues stood in niches, with their stone robes heavy and regal— depictions of a tall, veiled woman in various postures of prayer, contemplation, and command.

But it wasn’t the statues alone that caught Rimuru’s eye. It was the woman’s face.

He stopped mid-step, pointing again.

“… Hey, doesn’t that look like you, Miss Vi?”

Vivianne blinked at that question. “… What?”

They then stepped closer to the nearest statue— and sure enough, the sculpted features bore a striking resemblance. Not perfect, but unmistakable: the braided hair over her shoulder, the almond eyes, and the shape of her lips.

Veldora chuckled— low and amused.

“Indeed,” he muttered. “That particular image of Lucia was… Quite popular in this region.” He mused aloud, while tilting his head at her slightly. “… I must say— side-by-side, you bear more than a passing resemblance to Veldanava’s beloved.”

Considering what he said, the brunette’s gaze lingered on the statue for a bit longer, before eventually the three continued deeper into the lair; where echoes of ancient voices seemed to linger in the glowing light— ghosts of an age when dragons ruled the skies and humans offered prayers. 

Statues flanked the corridor like sentinels, four in total; their forms stretched upward, powerful and coiled, each one distinct in design— one sleek and sea-serpent-like, one broader with armored plating, one regal and leonine, and the last tall and flame-shaped, like smoke turned to stone.

Together, they watched the last true heir of Valdanava’s chosen walk beneath their gaze— one footfall at a time.

The tunnels inside the mountain narrowed into winding corridors— massive in scale, yet comfortably spacious even a dragon’s height; the floor beneath their feet layered in centuries of dust disturbed only by the occasional scuttling of insects that fled the faint hum of ancient power.