Tamura began to realize something had changed—not because the world felt hostile, but because it felt attentive in a way it hadn't before.
It was subtle.
Birds still sang. The wind still moved through grass and leaves with the same indifferent rhythm. Monsters behaved as expected—some avoided him, others ignored him entirely. Yet when Tamura passed near traveled paths now, conversations paused a fraction too long. Eyes lingered. People noticed him, then seemed to decide—almost unconsciously—that noticing him further was unnecessary.
Social Obfuscation was working.
But it was not erasure.
It was friction.
That morning, Tamura traveled alongside a caravan for several hours without formally joining it. He kept to the side of the road, moving at a pace that never quite matched theirs. Close enough to be seen. Distant enough to be dismissed.
A guard glanced at him more than once.
"A slime?" the man muttered. "Strange place for one."
His companion shrugged. "Doesn't feel dangerous."
"Still shouldn't be here."
"Lots of things shouldn't be here."
And that was the end of it.
Tamura listened quietly, cataloging reactions. This was useful data. Not strength, not skills—perception. How much abnormality the world tolerated before it pushed back.
By midday, the caravan turned toward a fortified town. Tamura did not follow.
Cities condensed attention. Authority accumulated there. Curiosity sharpened into questions with teeth.
Not today.
He diverted toward a low plateau overlooking a valley scattered with farms. The land was calm, worked by hands that feared drought more than monsters. From here, Tamura could observe without participating.
The system chimed again—an anomaly.
> "System Notice: Cumulative Observation Detected."
Tamura frowned. "That's new."
> "Multiple low-level entities have recorded anomalous data related to user. Threat assessment remains below intervention threshold."
"…So I'm on a list."
Not a dangerous one. Not yet.
Tamura felt no fear—only mild irritation.
"Can't a slime enjoy a walk?"
He settled near the edge of the plateau and prepared food again, this time for himself alone. The act was meditative. Measure. Heat. Adjust. Repeat.
As he ate, his thoughts drifted—unwillingly—toward Rimuru.
By now, the goblin village would be stabilizing. Organization replacing chaos. Gratitude solidifying into loyalty. Rimuru would be smiling, laughing, pretending the weight didn't bother him.
Tamura knew better.
He chose that road, Tamura thought. I didn't.
And yet.
That evening, as the sun dipped low, Tamura sensed movement behind him—careful, restrained.
He did not turn.
A human voice spoke from a safe distance. "Excuse me."
Tamura slowly rotated his body.
A man stood there—middle-aged, unarmored, carrying a leather satchel marked with a faded guild emblem. An observer, not a fighter.
"I mean no harm," the man continued quickly. "I'm a recorder. Independent. I document unusual phenomena. I was told about… you."
Tamura was silent.
The man swallowed. "You don't match any known classification. You don't attack. You don't hide. You don't seek territory."
"No," Tamura agreed. "I don't."
"…May I ask why?"
Tamura considered the question longer than necessary.
"Because I don't want anything from the world," he said at last. "I just live in it."
The recorder blinked, clearly unprepared for that answer.
"I won't write about you," the man said suddenly. "Not yet. There's no framework for this. If I submit it now, someone higher up will take interest."
Tamura studied him.
Conceptual Appraisal flickered briefly.
Observer.
Low authority.
High caution.
Personal risk avoidance: elevated.
"…That's sensible," Tamura said.
The man bowed shallowly. "If… if you ever want your story told—"
"I don't," Tamura replied.
The recorder nodded, relief evident, and left without another word.
Night fell.
Tamura remained where he was, watching lights appear in distant homes, one by one. Lives continuing. People unaware of how close the world was to shifting around them.
Social Obfuscation would delay things.
But not forever.
Tamura accepted that calmly.
Tomorrow, he would move again. Another road. Another meal. Another quiet day stolen from a world that increasingly wanted explanations.
For now, that was enough.