Tamura left before dawn.
Not because of danger, and not because he felt threatened—but because staying would have meant being chosen. By someone. By something. Attention, once it settled, tended to demand shape.
He preferred motion.
The road he took was narrower, older. Grass crept over stone, and the air carried a faint residue of old mana—nothing active, nothing hostile. Just history that had stopped mattering.
Perfect.
As he moved, Tamura reflected on the pattern emerging around him. Rumors. Observers. Lists. None of it was dramatic yet, but it was consistent. The world was doing what it always did when faced with something it couldn't immediately categorize.
It postponed judgment while sharpening knives.
Social Obfuscation dulled the edge, but it did not erase intent. It bought time. Nothing more.
By mid-morning, Tamura encountered a small shrine—collapsed roof, moss-covered altar, the faintest trace of faith lingering like an aftertaste. No god actively answered here anymore. The place was abandoned, forgotten.
He stopped.
Not out of reverence, but curiosity.
Conceptual Appraisal activated.
Former local faith node.
Decommissioned.
Symbolic relevance: near zero.
Observation risk: minimal.
"…This will do."
Tamura settled beside the shrine and rested, letting the quiet stretch. For the first time in days, there were no travelers. No witnesses. No narratives forming in the background.
The system chimed.
> "Daily Sign-In Complete."
> "Reward Acquired: Skill — Self-Definition (Passive, Locked)."
Tamura stiffened.
That was rare.
"Locked?" he asked.
No immediate explanation followed. Only fragments—conditions unmet, thresholds undefined.
He tested it instinctively.
Nothing happened.
The skill did not activate. It did not respond. It simply existed, waiting.
"…That's ominous," Tamura said flatly.
Self-Definition. The name alone carried weight. In a world where beings were classified by race, skill, and role, something that implied choosing one's own definition was—
Dangerous.
He exhaled slowly and chose not to dwell on it.
That was when the pressure changed.
Not mana. Not hostility.
Presence.
Tamura felt it like a hand placed gently—but firmly—on the back of his awareness.
He turned.
At the edge of the clearing stood a woman in priestly robes, weathered by travel rather than ceremony. No visible weapon. No aggressive stance. But her eyes were sharp, focused, and very much awake.
"I was hoping you were real," she said.
Tamura did not answer immediately.
Conceptual Appraisal, cautious.
Affiliation: Western Holy Church (Peripheral).
Authority: Low-to-moderate.
Intent: Verification, not subjugation.
Threat level: Situational.
"…You followed me," Tamura said.
"Yes," she admitted. "For three days."
"That's inefficient."
She smiled faintly. "So I've been told."
They regarded each other in silence.
"You're a slime," she said eventually. "But you don't behave like one. You're not aligned with Tempest, are you?"
Tamura's pause was brief—but noticeable.
"No," he replied. "I'm not."
That answer mattered.
Her posture shifted subtly—not hostile, but alert. "Then I'll be direct. The Church has noticed the reports. A non-aggressive slime traveling independently. Speaking. Trading. Avoiding territory."
"And?" Tamura asked.
"And anomalies don't stay peripheral forever," she said. "Sooner or later, someone will decide you're either a miracle… or a mistake."
Tamura considered her words.
He did not feel anger. Or fear.
Only a faint, familiar irritation—the kind he used to feel when upper management scheduled meetings about things that worked perfectly fine.
"I'm neither," he said. "I'm just living."
The priestess studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "That's what worries them."
She stepped back, signaling distance rather than retreat.
"I won't report this encounter," she said. "Not yet. But others won't be so patient."
Tamura absorbed that calmly.
"Thank you," he said.
She blinked, clearly not expecting gratitude.
As she left, Tamura turned his attention back to the shrine, to the locked skill quietly waiting within him.
Self-Definition.
For the first time since reincarnating, Tamura felt the edge of a line approaching—not a battle, not a war, but a choice.
Remain undefined, drifting just outside the world's grasp.
Or, eventually, decide what he was willing to be known as.
He resumed his journey without hurry.
There was still time.
But the world had begun to ask its questions out loud.