The rhythmic thud of boots grew louder, vibrating through the damp wood of the ancient tree where Blop crouched. He didn't have a choice. He was still a "glitch," a creature of instinct and stolen memories. He retracted his Orcish bulk, melting back into a small, oily mass of translucent slime, and slipped into the hollow rot of a massive trunk.
Through a jagged knothole, Blop watched.
Four figures emerged from the fog. They wore mismatched leather armor, scarred by blades and stained with grease.
These weren't the noble knights of the stories Blop had absorbed from the soldier; these were vultures. Bandits. Their backs were heavy with bulging sacks—the metallic clink of stolen gold and the rustle of pillaged supplies echoed in the quiet forest.
But it was the fifth figure that stopped Blop's heart.
A person, draped in rags so thin they were practically translucent, shuffled behind them. Iron chains rattled with every step, binding their bruised wrists. Their face was a mask of exhaustion and filth.
"Oyy! Move it, you sack of meat! This valley is already trying to kill us, don't make me help it!" A tall, skinny bandit barked, his voice like grinding stones. He backhanded the prisoner, the sound of skin hitting skin echoing through the clearing.
The prisoner stumbled, falling into the mud. They didn't scream. They didn't even cry. They simply dragged themselves back up, their eyes hollow.
"Be silent," the leader growled. He was broader than the others, carrying a heavy steel longsword that looked well-maintained. "The Arorikund doesn't care about your temper. Sound travels here."
"Then why the hell are we taking this route, Boss?" another man whined, clutching his bow.
"Because the Black Market pays triple for slaves that come from 'untraceable' routes," the leader replied coldly. "The knights guard the roads. The other bandits guard the passes. Only the monsters guard the Valley. And I'd rather fight a beast than an Arorian High-Knight."
The Fire and the Flame
As the sun dipped below the horizon, bleeding orange and purple across the sky, the group made camp right in front of Blop's hiding spot. The darkness of the Arorikund wasn't just an absence of light; it was a physical weight.
The bandits sat around a roaring campfire, the smell of roasting salt-pork filling the air. The prisoner was chained to a tree on the edge of the light, shivering so violently that their teeth clicked together. One bandit threw a piece of moldy, hard bread into the dirt near the slave's feet.
"Huh? Feeling cold, little bird?" the skinny bandit mocked, seeing the prisoner nod weakly toward the fire.
"Hahaha! You want to feel warm? I can help with that!"
The bandit reached into the fire with a pair of tongs, pulled out a glowing, orange ember, and flicked it directly onto the prisoner's lap.
The slave recoiled, a muffled whimper escaping their lips as the fabric of their rags began to singe. The bandits roared with laughter, watching the person desperately pat out the spark with trembling, burnt fingers.
Inside the hollow tree, Blop's essence boiled.
(Inner Thought: Why? They are the same. Same skin. Same blood. How can they treat their own species like waste?)
An emotion Blop didn't have a name for—Fury—surged through his slime. He wanted to strike, but his mind stayed him. He was a predator. And predators wait for the moment of vulnerability.
The Night Attack
Midnight arrived. The fire had died down to a low, red glow. Three bandits were snoring, their weapons leaning against the logs. Only the leader sat awake, but even his head was nodding.
Blop flowed out of the tree trunk like a shadow. He didn't make a sound.
He lunged.
In a split second, Blop's body expanded. He didn't transform yet; he stayed as a massive, predatory blob of acidic slime. He slammed into two sleeping bandits, his body expanding to cover their faces and chests.
Sizzle.
The men didn't even have time to scream before the acid began its work. The wet, muffled gurgles woke the others instantly.
"WTF! What is that thing!?" the archer screamed, scrambling for his bow.
"No time for talk! Kill it!" the leader roared, drawing his sword in one fluid motion.
Twang!
An arrow whistled through the air, burying itself deep into Blop's gelatinous center. A sharp, searing pain exploded in Blop's mind. For the first time, he saw his own life-force leaking out—a thick, glowing blue liquid.
The bandits froze for a heartbeat.
"Blue blood?" the leader whispered, his eyes widening. "That's not a beast... that's a Demon-class mutation."
The Hunter and the Beast
Blop hissed, the pain driving him into a frenzy. His body began to crackle and pop. Bones grew at impossible speeds, fur sprouted like needles, and his jaw elongated into a snout of jagged teeth.
The Red Dire Wolf stood in the campfire's glow.
Blop lunged at the leader, his powerful jaws snapping inches from the man's throat. But the leader was fast. He brought his sword up, the steel clashing against Blop's fangs with a shower of sparks.
"What are you waiting for!? Shoot!" the leader yelled.
The archer let loose a barrage of arrows. Blop felt his fur thicken, turning as hard as iron as he willed his cells to harden. He dodged two, but the third caught him in the shoulder.
Suddenly, the leader stepped forward, his sword glowing with a faint, white light. [Martial Art: Heavy Strike].
The blade slammed into Blop's head. The world tilted. Pain, hot and white, blinded him.
"Huh. I guess you're a D-Rank monster," the leader spat, wiping blood from his lip. "But don't forget, beast... I'm a D-Rank Hunter. I've killed dozens of your kind.
The leader began a relentless barrage of slashes. Blop was being overpowered. His wolf form was too big, too easy to hit.
Decision: If I cannot outpower him, I will consume him.
Blop collapsed his form, losing the shape of the wolf mid-swing. The leader's sword cut through empty air as Blop turned back into a liquid lash, latching onto the man's face and chest.
The leader screamed—a high, thin sound—as the acid began to melt his armor and skin. He thrashed, his hands clawing at the slime, until finally, his movements stopped. Only his sword remained, clattering into the dirt.
Blop reformed. This time, he didn't become an Orc. He mimicked the height and shape of a human, his skin a pale, sickly green. As he stood there, the memories of the bandits' language clicked into place in his brain.
He picked up the leader's sword. It felt heavy. Right.
The last bandit—the archer—fell to his knees, his bow dropped in the mud. "Please! Please have mercy! They forced me into this! I'm just a scout!"
Blop looked at him. He remembered the ember flicked at the prisoner. He remembered the laughter.
With a precise, cold swing, the steel blade whistled. The man's head hit the ground before his body did.
Blop turned toward the tree. The prisoner had fainted, their body limp against the iron chains. They looked like they hadn't eaten in a week.
Using the sword, Blop sheared through the chains as if they were paper. He found the bandits' supplies—matches, dried meat, and a clean blanket. He started a new fire, the warmth slowly filling the small clearing. He placed the fainted human near the heat, covering them with the blanket and placing a bag of food nearby.
He sat beside them, watching the flames. But then, a hollow, agonizing ache twisted his stomach. It wasn't just hunger; it was a demand. His body needed bio-mass to heal the arrow wounds.
He looked at the corpses of the bandits. With a sigh of dark resignation, he dragged the last body into the shadows.
As he finished his "meal," the healing process began. The blue blood stopped leaking. The pain faded.
Blop sat back down by the fire, a sword across his lap, waiting for the human to wake up. He was no longer just a pile of slime. He was a protector. He was a killer.