The Old Storm Drains were less a piece of infrastructure and more of an open wound beneath the city.
The smell hit me first—a mix of stagnant water, human waste, and something sharp and metallic. Acid.
I adjusted the scarf over my nose and checked my gear. I hadn't gone straight to the drains. I had made a pit stop at a dry goods merchant near the market district. It had cost me five of my precious coppers, but the heavy sack hanging from my belt was worth its weight in gold if my theory was right.
[Rock Salt - 5 lbs]
"Slimes," I muttered, stepping onto the slippery stone ledge that ran alongside the sewage flow. "Basically aggressive water balloons."
The Guild manual said slimes were D-Rank threats for physical fighters because weapons passed right through them, and the acid ruined steel. Mages loved them; a simple Fireball boiled them alive. But for an F-Rank with a spear? It was usually a death sentence.
Unless you knew chemistry.
I moved deeper into the tunnel. The only light came from the bioluminescent moss clinging to the ceiling and the faint, greenish glow coming from the water ahead.
Sizzle.
I froze.
Ten meters ahead, the flow of the drain was blocked. A pulsating, translucent green mass was clogging the tunnel. It was huge—maybe three meters wide. Inside its gel-like body, I could see debris floating: a rusted helmet, drift wood, and the half-dissolved skeleton of a large dog.
It wasn't one big slime. It was a colony. Five or six of them merged together, feeding on the runoff.
I crouched, watching them.
Intent.
They didn't have brains, but they had hunger. They sensed vibration.
I picked up a loose stone and tossed it against the far wall. Clack.
The green mass shivered. A pseudopod—a thick tentacle of slime—lashed out toward the sound with terrifying speed. Hiss. The stone dissolved in seconds.
"Fast," I noted. "And highly acidic."
If I tried to stab that, my spearhead would melt, and the slime would crawl up the shaft to eat my hand.
I unhooked the sack of salt from my belt.
"Hey!" I shouted, stepping into the light. "Soup's on!"
The colony shivered. It sensed the heat of a living body. The entire mass surged forward, moving like a tidal wave of jelly. It was faster than a human could run in this muck.
I didn't run. I waited.
I held the sack of salt by the bottom corner.
Ten feet.
Five feet.
The smell of vinegar was overwhelming. The pseudopods raised up, ready to engulf me.
"Eat this," I grunted.
I swung the sack like a flail, slashing the fabric open with my dagger at the apex of the swing.
Five pounds of coarse rock salt exploded into the air, creating a white cloud that coated the front of the rushing slime.
The reaction was instant.
SCREEEEEEE.
The slime didn't have vocal cords, but the sound of escaping gas and rapid dehydration sounded like a tea kettle screaming.
Water moves from low salt concentration to high salt concentration.
The salt sucked the moisture right out of the slime's membrane. The outer layer of the jelly instantly turned white and crusty. The slime thrashed, losing its cohesion. It wasn't a liquid wave anymore; it was a shriveled, convulsing lump.
The acid neutralized as the water content dropped. The "body" collapsed, revealing the glowing red cores inside—dense clusters of magic that acted as hearts.
I didn't hesitate.
I lunged.
My spear tip—plain, cheap steel—punched through the desiccated outer layer.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
I shattered the cores one by one. The glass-like sound echoed in the tunnel.
The green glow faded. The mass stopped moving. It dissolved into a harmless puddle of grey sludge and saltwater.
I stood there, breathing hard, listening for more movement.
Silence.
"Undefeated champion." I whispered, wiping a speck of salt from my cheek.
I stepped forward to collect the loot. Slime cores were used in alchemy. They fetched a decent price.
I was crouched over the remains, prying a cracked core free from the sludge, when the sound reached me.
Footsteps.
Not the sloppy splash of slimes. Not rats. Too measured. Too careful.
I froze, one knee in the muck, spear half-raised.
The drains carried sound strangely—echoes bending, distances lying—but whoever it was wasn't trying to hide their pace. That worried me more than stealth.
A light bloomed at the far bend of the tunnel.
Mage-light. Clean. Blue.
I swore under my breath.
I backed up slowly, keeping my movements deliberate. Panic killed more adventurers than monsters ever did. My boots scraped against stone as I pulled the sack of remaining salt closer with my heel.
The light grew brighter.
A figure stepped into view.
Polished blue armor, etched with sigils that hummed faintly under the glow. Cloak immaculate. Not a speck of sewage on him. A long staff rested loosely in his hand, crystal tip pulsing.
The Mage from the Guild.
He took one look at the desiccated sludge, the shattered cores, the salt crusted along the walls—and then at me.
"Well," he said mildly. "That answers a few questions."
I straightened, spear held low but ready. "Guild inspection?" I asked. "Or are you here to tell me I did it wrong?"
His lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Slimes are D-Rank," he said. "You're F-Rank. No Blessing. No spellcasting focus." His eyes flicked to the salt. "And yet…"
He gestured at the corpse with his staff.
"You neutralized a colony without magic."
I shrugged. "They were thirsty."
That earned me a smile. Sharp. Interested.
"Adam Reed," he said, testing the name. "Do you know how many apprentices I've watched melt themselves trying to be clever down here?"
"They probably lack what you'd call a brain." I said.
He laughed softly at that. Then his gaze hardened.
"Tell me," he said, stepping closer. "Where did you learn to think like that?"
"What's special about it? I just did what made sense, I guess," I said.
For a long moment, he studied me—my stance, my grip, the way I favored my right side.
Finally, he nodded.
"For now," he said. "Collect your cores. I'll confirm the infestation is cleared."
"And then?" I asked.
He turned away, mage-light drifting after him.
"Nohing" he said over his shoulder while giving a smile.
The light vanished around the bend.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"…Great," I muttered. "Definitely a fan."
I knelt back down and gathered the cores faster this time.
I didn't linger in the drains any longer than necessary.
The silence after the Mage left felt heavier than the fight. Slimes were honest enemies. They wanted to dissolve you. Men like that wanted to understand you and that was worse.
I wrapped the slime cores in cloth and secured them in my pouch. Six intact. One cracked. Not bad.
I climbed out through a rusted maintenance hatch near the riverwalk, emerging into cool night air.
By the time I reached the Guild, the hall was quieter. The Blessed were gone, probably celebrating somewhere expensive. The Unblessed lingered, nursing cheap ale.
The receptionist looked up as I approached.
"You're alive," she said.
"Disappointed?" I asked.
She snorted and held out her hand. "Cores."
I placed them on the counter.
Her eyebrows climbed steadily as she counted. "Six…" A pause. "…You were assigned three. Maybe four, if luck smiled on you."
"Yeah," I said. "Lucky me."
She huffed, then slid the reward across the counter. Forty copper. Plus a small bonus for excess cores.
"And Adam," she added, not looking up. "Keep up the good work."
I offered a thin smile and left before she could say anything else.
I didn't go straight home. Instead, I took the long route through the warehouse district, doubling back twice to make sure I wasn't being followed. Paranoia wasn't madness if it kept you breathing.
Only when I was sure did I slip back into my room through the window. I hid the cores beneath a loose floorboard and collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The Mage hadn't attacked me. Hadn't reported me. Hadn't even threatened outright.
And somehow, that unsettled me more than if he had.