Dawn filtered through the trees like a pale breath.
The forest was still drenched in the damp perfume of night — a scent of rot and moss, of life endlessly devouring itself. Mist curled around the roots like veins, and drops of dew trembled before falling, vanishing into the soil that had drunk blood before.
Akun opened his eyes slowly — or rather, allowed the body to mimic the act.
The goblin he had devoured lay beside the fire, now nothing more than a shell cooling in the faint morning light. Around him, six goblins slept in a ring, weapons clutched close, their breathing heavy and uneven. They had no idea that one of their kin was gone — replaced by something that wore his flesh like a mask.
He stretched in silence.
Muscles responded perfectly.
Every movement felt foreign yet exact. He created a shallow wound on his side — the same he had observed on the original host — a false scar of torn flesh and dried blood. Pain was an illusion, but he knew the sight of it would invite trust.
One goblin stirred, blinking blearily.
Akun slumped forward, feigning weakness, his hand pressed against the imitation wound.
"Does it still hurt?" one asked, his voice rough with sleep but colored by concern.
"Yes... worse," Akun murmured. "Need... village... healer."
The goblins exchanged uncertain looks. The largest — their self-appointed leader — nodded.
"Then we go. Rimuru-sama will help you."
The name struck Akun like a whisper through glass. Rimuru.
A title wrapped in awe and fear. The being who had given the goblins names — and through them, order. A power capable of reshaping the weak into something stronger. Dangerous. Valuable.
He tilted his head slightly.
"Rimuru... who is that?"
"Our master," one replied, reverently. "The one who gave us a home."
Akun lowered his gaze to hide a small, involuntary smile. To give names… to forge bonds through mana… The act was costly — and binding. A mechanism of control. If Rimuru could bestow power, he could also be manipulated by those who understood it.
"Then... let's go," Akun said softly.
The goblins lifted him, one on each side. His mind recorded everything — terrain, distance, posture, tone of voice, every flicker of sincerity in their dull yellow eyes. They were simple creatures, but simplicity was a form of purity — easy to read, easier to twist.
The path wound through the trees. Birds scattered at their approach, and the forest whispered of old violence. Akun kept his silence, eyes half-closed, but his mind never rested.
Every hesitation, every breath from his escorts, was catalogued like data in a living archive.
When the village came into view, Akun paused internally — taking it all in.
The settlement of Tempest was primitive yet alive, built from raw wood and stone. Goblins bustled between tasks, wolves patrolled the perimeters, and dwarves oversaw the construction with mechanical precision.
Order, efficiency, hierarchy.
This was no mere tribe — it was civilization taking root in chaos.
Among them, Akun's perception singled out four presences stronger than the rest — He was short but very muscular: Kaijin, a master smith, his aura simmering like tempered steel. Three others mirrored his rhythm — brothers in exile, united by craft and loyalty. Akun memorized their names and movements. Knowledge was the first weapon.
When they reached Rimuru's dwelling, Akun knelt, mimicking the gesture of submission. He despised the posture but valued the performance.
Rimuru's human form — small, graceful, deceptively gentle — radiated quiet command. His eyes were deep pools of light that seemed to look through flesh and soul alike.
"Did you really get hurt?" Rimuru asked, his tone kind but sharp beneath the surface.
Akun bowed his head.
"Yes… Rimuru-sama. A beast attacked… I barely escaped."
Rimuru's gaze lingered. His inner voice — that strange, invisible analysis system — was at work.
[Observation in progress. Vitality stable. Wound... inconsistent. Deception probability: elevated.]
He said nothing, only offered a small vial filled with glowing blue liquid.
"Drink this. It should heal you."
Akun accepted it with both hands, bowing again.
"Thank you, Rimuru-sama."
The potion burned cold as it slid down his throat, knitting nonexistent flesh with chemical grace.
He felt nothing — but he pretended relief.
"Better… much better."
Rimuru watched silently. Suspicion lingered, but mercy prevailed — as Akun knew it would.
Compassion was the easiest weakness to weaponize.
When the encounter ended, Akun retreated to the edges of the village.
He wandered among the goblins, his new kin, each one a potential pawn. The wolves growled softly but did not attack. Dwarves barked orders, their voices steady as iron striking iron.
Life thrived here — noisy, unguarded, full of rhythm and warmth.
Akun studied it all.
At night, when the fires dimmed, he listened.
Conversations whispered of old fears and new hopes.
He learned names, habits, alliances. Kaijin's respect commanded all. The wolves obeyed out of loyalty, not fear. Rimuru's name was spoken like prayer.
In his mind, he assembled the village as a map of influence — threads of power and devotion, waiting to be cut or rewoven.
Days passed.
The illusion of normalcy deepened.
But beyond the forest, something stirred.
Rumors drifted through the goblin patrols: villages burned, tribes vanished, trails of ash stretching northward.
Akun watched as Rimuru's lieutenants received reports — grim, urgent.
The orcs were moving.
An army vast enough to drown the land in hunger and blood.
That night, Akun stood atop a low ridge, the wind cold against his skin.
He extended his senses — the faint hum of mana stretched for miles. And then he felt it: a pulse, rhythmic and heavy, like the footsteps of a beast too large to comprehend.
A tide of life and death marching toward the forest.
He smiled faintly.
"The world changes. Perfect."
From afar, he could almost see it — an army of twisted flesh and endless appetite, swallowing the horizon. Villages of ogres, lizardmen, and beastkin already caught in its path.
A living storm.
For Rimuru, it would be a trial of leadership.
For Akun… an opportunity.
"Chaos reveals the strongest," he whispered to the night.
"And I intend to be among them."
The wind howled through the trees, carrying the first scent of ash.
And somewhere far beyond, the drums of the orc horde began to beat — slow, relentless, like the heart of a god awakening beneath the soil.