The world had changed.
Martial arts, once practiced in secluded dojos or underground arenas, had become a global movement. And at the center of this evolution stood one name—Yujiro Hanma. His legend had outgrown borders. His brutal strength, unmatched skill, and primal aura transformed him into something more than human. He wasn't just feared—he was worshipped.
Dojos carrying his name popped up in every corner of the world. Nations trained their soldiers in combat fused with arcane arts, trying to replicate what Yujiro had achieved. But no one ever came close.
Yet, far from that world, across dimensions and time itself, another story quietly began to unfold…
Satoru Mikami lived a quiet, unassuming life in Tokyo. He was 37 years old, never married, no kids. His work in construction planning paid well enough, and his biggest joy came from helping his junior, Tamura. That day, Tamura had excitedly dragged him out to meet his new girlfriend.
Satoru joked around as usual, masking the faint ache of loneliness that lingered in his chest.
But fate was cruel.
As they walked along the street, laughter echoing between the buildings, chaos struck.
A scream. A blur. A man charging with a knife. Time slowed.
Satoru didn't think. He pushed Tamura out of harm's way—an instinctive move that changed everything.
The blade plunged deep into his side. He collapsed, blood soaking his shirt, warmth draining from his limbs. Sounds grew distant. His vision dimmed. But as life slipped away…
A voice echoed in the void.
"Conditions met. Initiating Skill Transfer..."
"Acquiring Unique Skill: [Predator]... Acquiring Unique Skill: [Great Sage]... Adjusting to new vessel…"
Satoru's final thought was simple.
"Is this… really the end?"
Silence. Then awareness.
Satoru awoke to complete darkness. But something was off. He couldn't feel his arms. Or legs. Or... anything solid. He felt like jelly.
"Welcome to your new form: Slime."
"What... the hell?"
His voice didn't echo. In fact, it didn't sound at all—it was more like thoughts bouncing inside his own mind. He tried to move and ended up squishing forward.
Then it hit him.
He wasn't dreaming.
He was reborn... as a slime.
His name was gone. His body gone. His world—gone.
Yet, he felt calm. A strange, artificial calm.
"Unique Skill [Great Sage] active. Emotional stabilization in progress."
At least he wasn't alone.
And so, in this unknown cave, Satoru began to move. He absorbed water. Rocks. Magical plants. Each time he ate something, a voice would analyze it, break it down, and sometimes—grant him a new skill.
"Water absorbed."
"Magic Ore absorbed. Basic Magicules increased."
"Medicinal herb absorbed. Skill gained: [Minor Healing]."
Bit by bit, Satoru—now an unnamed slime—began to understand his new reality.
Days? Weeks? He couldn't tell how long he wandered through the cave. But one day, he sensed something massive ahead.
A presence unlike anything he had encountered.
It was… alive.
Powerful. Ancient. And angry.
He moved closer. And then he saw it—or rather, felt it.
A dragon.
Chained by four glowing binds, a titanic black beast lay imprisoned, its scales glistening with raw magic. Its eyes, golden and sharp, opened slowly.
"A slime?" it rumbled. "How amusing."
Satoru hesitated. "You can talk?"
"Of course. I am Veldora—the Storm Dragon! One of the four True Dragons of this world!"
"A dragon…?!"
Veldora huffed. "Alive, yes. Free? No. I was sealed here 300 years ago by a human hero. All because I accidentally destroyed a town."
Satoru tilted, curious. "Wait... a hero sealed you? Was it just a regular human?"
"No. Not at all. That Hero was special. She had a divine-class weapon, powerful skills, and terrifying battle instincts. I was careless."
Satoru squished a little closer. "Have you met other humans like that?"
Veldora's eye narrowed. "Actually... you're the second human from another world that I've met."
Satoru's mind jolted. "Another one? Who was the first?"
The dragon chuckled, sending shockwaves through the cave. "His name is Yujiro Hanma."
Satoru froze.
"The man was… unlike anything I've ever seen," Veldora said, voice heavy with awe. "He didn't use magic. No skills. Just raw strength. I've never felt so close to death before. Even I, Veldora, feared him."
Satoru's thoughts raced. Yujiro Hanma... that's not a name you forget.
As time passed, Satoru and Veldora talked often. About the world, about Earth, about heroes and monsters.
Then, one day, Veldora said, "You don't have a name, do you?"
Satoru wobbled. "I guess not."
"Then I shall name you."
Satoru blinked. "Wait, you will?"
"Of course. That's what friends do."
Satoru felt... warm. Even as a slime, he hadn't realized how lonely he'd been.
Veldora closed his eyes. "Your name... shall be Rimuru."
At that moment, light surged through his body. Magicules roared like a waterfall. The name wasn't just given—it was engraved into his soul.
He felt power surge through him. Energy, purpose, identity.
Then Rimuru said, "We're like a family now. So how about a last name?"
Veldora grinned. "Heh. I like that. Go on."
Rimuru paused. "How about... Tempest?"
Veldora's eyes sparkled. "Yes. A storm that changes everything. I like it."
From that day on, they were no longer strangers.
Rimuru Tempest and Veldora Tempest.
Rimuru, now empowered with a name, tried to break Veldora's seal. He summoned every bit of strength, every ounce of magic.
Nothing worked.
"I'm not strong enough…" he muttered.
Veldora looked at him calmly. "Then what now?"
Rimuru took a deep breath. "I have a plan. It's crazy. But maybe... I can absorb you into my body. Then I can analyze the seal with from the inside and find a way to break it later."
There was silence.
Then Veldora burst into laughter. "Absorb me?! A True Dragon?! You've got guts, Rimuru!"
Rimuru stayed silent.
"...Alright then," Veldora said, finally. "Let's try it. What do we have to lose?"
And so, Rimuru activated [Predator].
Veldora's enormous form shimmered and twisted into magical energy. It surged into Rimuru's body, filling his core like a storm.
"Veldora Tempest successfully stored in stomach."
"Analyzing Infinite Prison…"
The dragon's body was gone—but his soul remained within Rimuru.
Their bond had transcended names, magic, and species.
The age of the Tempest had begun.
The moon was veiled behind drifting clouds, casting long shadows over a cold marble floor. Deep inside a gothic fortress nestled in the Puppet Nation of Jistav, a cloaked figure stood before a glowing crystal, its surface swirling with crimson light. That man was Clayman—the Marionette Master, one of the Ten Great Demon Lords. He was not known for his strength like Milim, nor for majesty like Frey. His true power was in manipulation, in strings pulled from behind velvet curtains.
His voice was calm and calculated as he whispered to the crystal, "The time draws near. The world needs a push... and the Jura Forest is the perfect place to begin."
Behind him, several figures watched silently. Among them were the proud Carrion, Beastmaster of Eurazania, the majestic winged Frey, and the volatile Milim Nava, the Destroyer.
Clayman had spun this meeting as an informal discussion of growing tensions among monster territories. He painted a picture of chaos: too many independent forces, not enough control, and a growing number of nameless monsters amassing in Jura.
"We must prune the wilds before they grow into forests of rebellion," he said, masking venom with velvet. "A great force is stirring. If left unchecked, it could rival even us. Don't you think, Milim?"
Milim scoffed. "If someone wants to be strong, they just have to fight me. That's all. This politics stuff is boring."
Frey, on the other hand, was intrigued. "And what do you propose, Clayman?"
Clayman's lips curled into a smile.
In the desolate wastes beyond the southern edges of Jura Forest, a horde of orcs huddled beneath jagged cliffs. They were starving, their eyes sunken and bodies thin from lack of food and leadership. Once a mighty race of brutes, they were now reduced to scavengers—until he came.
Gelmud.
A thin, flamboyantly dressed man stepped into their camp. His steps were elegant, but his presence unnatural. His long fingers waved dramatically as he surveyed the pitiful state of the orcs.
"Tsk-tsk-tsk. Such poor, desperate things," he said, sighing theatrically. "So much potential, wasted in the mud."
The orcs growled in caution, but one among them—a large brute, broader and slightly more aware than the rest—stepped forward. He said nothing, but his gaze locked onto Gelmud's. Hunger burned in his eyes, but not just for food. For purpose.
Gelmud grinned. "You there. What is your name?"
The orc stared blankly. "...Name?"
Gelmud placed a hand over his chest in mock surprise. "How tragic! No name? No destiny? Then allow me to grant you both!"
He raised his hand, fingers gleaming with magic.
"I name you Geld! You will be the general of this horde, and you will devour the world for me!"
The sky darkened momentarily. A vortex of mana coiled around Geld's form, and his muscles bulged with unnatural force. His eyes widened, bloodshot, as his mind twisted and reshaped. In his chest, a heat ignited, wild and insatiable.
A voice rang inside his soul:
[Unique Skill Acquired: STARVED]
Hunger shall never leave you. Consume. Devour. Grow.
Geld roared—a bellow that shook the cliffs—and the orcs around him howled in unison. The weak had become a tide of carnage.
Clayman sat in his throne-like chair, sipping wine with elegance. He watched the scene through the same glowing crystal.
"Perfect," he whispered. "With Geld leading the orc army, and Starved driving them, they will sweep through the Jura Forest, destroying all who stand in their way."
Behind him, a massive marionette leaned against the wall—his true servant, not flesh but will-bound wood.
"They'll weaken the Lizardmen, the Goblins, the Treants, the Ogres. Every piece that resists structure. When all is dust... I'll sweep in and claim victory. That will be enough chaos, enough destruction... to evolve into a True Demon Lord."
He paused, fingers tapping the stem of his goblet.