Prelude: Liquidity of Self
Darkness does not feel empty.
It feels… thick.
Not like being blind. Like being submerged.
There is no heartbeat. No lungs straining for air. No pain. Just a slow, viscous awareness, as if my thoughts are drifting through warm oil.
This is wrong.
I try to inhale—and discover I no longer possess the equipment required to panic properly.
Notice. Respiratory function: unnecessary.
"…Excuse me?" I think.
Confirmation. You are no longer bound by inefficient biological redundancies.
That voice again. Flat. Calm. Irritatingly professional.
Memory returns in fragments:
A truck.
A street.
A very expensive meal I did not get to finish.
Ah.
I'm dead.
Of all the ways to go, being taken out by logistics is humiliating.
I attempt to sit up.
Instead, my entire sense of self… sloshes.
No bones protest. No muscles complain. My mass simply redistributes, like an overfilled water balloon being nudged from the inside.
I freeze.
"…Why am I liquid?"
Answer. You have been reincarnated as a Slime.
Of course I have.
Because the universe has a sense of humor, and it is aggressively minimalist.
I focus inward, trying to find edges. There are none. My awareness isn't centered behind eyes—it's everywhere at once, spread evenly through my body. Heat doesn't burn; it thins me. Pressure doesn't hurt; it compresses me. The ground beneath me isn't hard—it's resistance.
I do not breathe.
I do not blink.
I exist, efficiently.
Species advantages include high survivability, adaptive structure, and optimal storage potential.
"…Storage?" I latch onto that word. "You're telling me I died and came back as a container?"
Correct.
I would laugh, if I had lungs.
"Alright," I think. "I can work with this. What are you, exactly? Because you sound like a customer service AI that's one bad survey away from a lawsuit."
Designation: Manas-Type Ultimate Skill.
Name: [Azathoth, Lord of Continuity].
An Ultimate Skill.
That does sound expensive.
"And you belong to me?"
Negative. I exist for you.
Good enough.
Information begins to settle, not as a screen, but as understanding—a quiet certainty threaded through my thoughts.
Alongside Azathoth, something else unfurls. Not cold. Not logical.
Hungry.
Unique Skill acquisition complete.
[Gourmet Capitalist, Croesus].
Ah.
Yes.
That… feels right.
I instinctively sense a space that isn't space. A ledger without numbers. A place where matter has value, and value can be… negotiated.
I slide a pebble near my body without touching it. It sinks into me effortlessly, not dissolving, not damaging—just stored.
Asset secured, Croesus hums, not in words, but in satisfaction.
"…So the afterlife gave me a balance sheet," I think. "I suppose that's better than a harp."
Survival probability has increased significantly, Azathoth reports. However, current environment presents threats.
The ground around me vibrates.
Heavy footsteps. Growls. Hostile intent, sharp and poorly managed.
I do not need eyes to know what is approaching.
Direwolves.
Early-season ones, if my instincts are right. Dangerous, but not catastrophic.
I do what any reasonable, newly reincarnated slime with an economic skillset would do.
I hide.
Flattening myself, I seep between rocks and tree roots, my body thinning until I am little more than a damp sheen on stone. The wolves pass, teeth snapping at air, entirely unaware they just missed the most irritating creature this world is about to produce.
When the danger passes, I reform.
"…Okay," I think. "Step one: acquire protection. Step two: acquire infrastructure. Step three: never, ever live outdoors again."
A new presence washes over me.
Not hostile. Curious. Bright.
A blue slime hops into the clearing, followed by goblins and a massive Direwolf whose loyalty is practically leaking out of him.
The blue slime stops.
We… look at each other.
Or rather, he looks at me. I sense him.
"Oh!" his voice rings out in my mind, cheerful and unguarded. "Another slime! Are you okay? You're kinda… darker than usual."
Of course I meet the extrovert.
"I am operational," I reply via instinctual thought transmission, my tone as flat as possible. "And you are… loud."
He laughs. Actually laughs.
"I'm Rimuru! I'm heading to Dwargon to hire a blacksmith. Wanna come along? It's safer in a group!"
I scan the situation in half a second.
Protection? ✔
Trade hub? ✔
Shelter probability? ✔
Chance of leveraging someone else's social skills while I handle assets? Extremely ✔
"I accept," I say. "But I will not be walking."
Rimuru blinks. "Oh! Uh—sure?"
Moments later, I am settled into a wooden cart, surrounded by goblins, the Direwolf panting like a furnace beside me.
The sun beats down.
Dust clings to my surface.
My comfort level drops into the red.
Notice. External environment: sub-optimal.
I sigh internally, already exhausted.
"…Azathoth," I think, watching the distant stone gates of Dwargon rise into view. "I'm going to need a chair. And eventually, an empire."
Acknowledged.
The cart rattles forward.
And thus begins the worst commute of my second life.
Prelude End.