Another tranquil morning began in the heart of the Jura-Tempest Federation, as predictable in its serenity as the arc of the sun rising beyond the forested borders of the realm. The birds outside trilled with instinctive punctuality, the wind barely stirred the ancient trees lining the southern walls, and within the heart of the great castle, Rimuru remained blissfully detached from it all— ensconced in a realm of silence where time barely moved.
Sleep, of course, was no necessity to him— not in any biological sense, not in any way that truly mattered. And yet, he slept.
Or rather, he lingered.
Wrapped in layers of silken sheets woven with spellthread so fine they never retained heat or weight, he rested beneath their cool embrace as if waiting for the world to come find him. The room that surrounded him— his personal quarters deep within the castle's central tower— was spacious without indulgence, composed with the same quiet aesthetic he preferred in diplomacy: minimalism without sterility, elegance without ostentation.
There were no portraits on the walls, no personal trinkets lining the shelves. The smooth, veined stone glinted faintly under the first caress of dawnlight, filtered through heavy curtains dyed in gentle gradients of indigo and pearl.
The faint scent of sandalwood lingered still, a fading memory of the incense he'd burned the previous night— perhaps for comfort, though he hadn't admitted that to himself.
The slime lord stirred, but only slightly. He did not jolt upright or throw the sheets aside with drama; instead, he remained still, with one hand resting loosely across his midsection, and the other curled lightly beside his temple.
His silver-blue hair lay tousled across the pillow like scattered silk, a careless contrast against the cream-colored fabric. His eyes blinked open without urgency, unfocused and almost reluctant, catching slivers of cool light as they drifted across the intricately carved ceiling beams.
There was a weight to the stillness, a quiet density to the air around him, as though the room itself had been holding its breath. His gaze, slow and unbothered, moved to the far side of the bed— where the linens lay unwrinkled and undisturbed.
No warmth, no presence. Just untouched space, quietly uninhabited.
The sight struck him with a strange, disproportionate sense of finality. Like closing a book mid-sentence and knowing, somehow, that one would never pick it up again.
Then, a knock— polite, unobtrusive. Measured to avoid offense.
"Lord Rimuru, are you awake?" The voice was familiar in the way one's own shadow was— ever-present, never out of place.
"Yeah… Yeah, I'm up," Rimuru replied— his voice hoarse with disuse. He then proceeded to drag a hand across his face and shifted onto his side. With a soundless exhale, he let his form dissolve, liquid light flooding the bed for a heartbeat before condensing into his humanoid body once more— sitting upright now, clad in little more than the morning's silence.
The door then opened with the ease of an afterthought, the hinges silenced long ago by enchantment. Diablo entered, every movement executed with the certainty of someone for whom failure did not exist.
His long coat swirled behind him like a shadow detached from the laws of gravity, and his eyes— bright crimson, unblinking— settled on the slime lord with the focus of someone who noticed everything.
"You have a council meeting in fifteen minutes," he announced— his voice smooth as ever. "Shion is preparing breakfast. Benimaru requests your approval on the day's training rotations."
Rimuru did not answer. His posture faltered— but only slightly. A fractional shift in balance, a stillness held a second too long. His gaze lingered on the bed beside him, as if searching for something he hadn't yet decided he'd lost.
Diablo, perceptive as always, paused.
"… Is something the matter, my lord?"
There was no immediate response. Rimuru slowly got up from the top of his covers, with one hand lifting toward his temple and lingering there— as if hoping to pluck a thought from behind his eye. The hand dropped after a beat, pressing against his jaw instead.
"Do you remember anything… Strange happening?" He asked, voice quiet, the question almost idle— though the way his shoulders stiffened betrayed the effort behind the tone.
The inquiry gave Diablo pause. "… Strange, my lord?"
Rimuru's gaze slid away, the corners of his mouth curving without joy. "… Never mind," he said, dismissing the thought as though it hadn't already taken root. "If something happened, I'd know, wouldn't I?"
"That would depend," the demon replied delicately, "on your definition of knowing."
The silence that followed wasn't oppressive, but it lingered like smoke from a fire long extinguished. The slime lord didn't look at the bed again. But he hadn't quite let go of it either.
"You seem… Unwell," Diablo said, taking a measured step forward.
Rimuru turned to face him at last. His expression was composed, almost casual— but there was something behind his eyes, something calculating and tired. He studied Diablo's face with quiet scrutiny, like someone searching for proof that something familiar hadn't changed when they weren't looking.
"… Have you seen anyone recently? Gray hair. Pale skin. Red eyes. Doesn't say much, and probably has on armor?"
Diablo blinked. His expression barely shifted, but a fractional crease formed between his brows. "I… Cannot say that I have, my lord. Although… Shogo Kagurazaka, from the Eastern Empire, had pale skin, and there have been scattered accounts among demonkind of-"
"-No." Rimuru cut him off, voice firmer now. "I'm not talking about them."
"I see…" Diablo's voice faltered, just enough to be noticeable.
Rimuru's smile the. returned— brittle and bitter. "… Forget I asked."
And then, like a whisper against glass, a familiar voice murmured from deep within his mind.
(Notice: Your current efficiency rate is at 99.87%. Would you like to optimize further?)
The phrasing struck a chord. Not new, not exactly— but not entirely familiar either. His brow furrowed.
"N… N-No thanks, Raphael," he muttered under his breath, with a voice too soft for Diablo to hear. "I… I'm good."
The slime lord didn't say anything else as he followed Diablo out the door, and down the silent corridors of his own castle— each step light, yet heavier than the last.
The halls of the castle stretched endlessly ahead, each corridor bearing the silent majesty of a kingdom that had risen from nothing into myth. Everything here breathed magic— not just in the literal sense of runes humming softly beneath polished walls, but in the feeling of being somewhere built to last, fortified not only by spellwork and design but by intention.
The stone underfoot, imbued with layered enchantments, felt alive in the way old trees did— quietly enduring, quietly aware. It carried a subtle warmth that didn't chase the chill but cradled it gently, balancing comfort with the sense that power flowed beneath every slab and seam like blood beneath skin.
The scent of lavender drifted faintly through the air, mingling with the cleaner undertones of waxed wood and the more elusive aroma of residual mana— like a storm had passed through days ago and left only its ghost.
Along the walls, runes traced in metals both mundane and rare shimmered in a rhythm too soft to catch unless one already knew it was there. Sunlight poured through long windows inset with crystalline panes, their shifting refractions drawing quiet constellations on the obsidian-tile floor.
Each step Rimuru took was absorbed into silence, not because he tread lightly, but because the castle seemed to absorb the sound itself— as though even it could sense the heaviness in his pace.
He remembered, distantly, a time when his home had been a shack— no walls to speak of, just loose planks and a roof of straw so brittle that a stiff breeze felt like divine punishment. It had reeked of swamp water and mud, and the air had been thick with the buzzing hum of insect life.
Now the floor beneath his feet reflected his image with mirror-like clarity, and not even dust dared linger without permission.
Still, he dragged his feet.
A voice floated from just ahead—soft, wordless, and melodic. It was the sort of tune people hummed without thinking, born from practiced contentment or a need to fill silence with something gentle. His gaze then lifted, drawn not by curiosity but by instinct, and as he rounded the corner, he saw her.
Shuna's figure moved with practiced elegance, a basket of freshly steamed towels tucked against her hip with the kind of grace that made even the mundane seem like ritual. Her snow-colored kimono— detailed in delicate pink florals that almost shimmered when she stepped through the light— trailed behind her in modest sways, whispering across the polished floor.
When she saw him, her eyes lit softly with warmth, and she offered a bow so fluid it barely seemed conscious. It wasn't the exaggerated dip of formal etiquette, but something more natural— intimate, almost familial.
"Good morning, Rimuru-sama," she said with the warmth of someone who genuinely meant it.
He tried to return it, managing only a smile that touched his lips but never made the journey to his eyes.
"You've been up early again," he said, his voice lower than usual, with the words landing more like a question than a statement.
"Habit, I suppose," Shuna replied, brushing a lock of hair from her face as she turned slightly toward him— her tone light, but perceptive. "Some of us don't have the luxury of infinite stamina."
A soft, breathy sound left Rimuru— an exhale that wanted to be a chuckle but lacked the commitment. "Right. Mortals and their inconvenient need to rest."
"Even gods can look tired though, it would seem," she said, gently enough that the concern in her voice didn't press— only offered. "You look like you didn't sleep at all."
"But I did," Rimuru lied.
Shuna didn't challenge him, but the way her lips pressed together said she didn't believe him, either.
She then stepped aside gracefully, allowing Diablo to continue without interruption. Rimuru followed, though he turned his head back just before passing her, his eyes catching the towel basket again— the casual domesticity of it, the softness of it. And Shuna's expression lingered in his thoughts long after her figure disappeared from view; like she had wanted to say something more, but stopped herself.
A moment later, they passed Soei.
He stood perfectly still near the arch of the hallway, half-concealed in the shadow of a pillar, arms crossed with the practiced rigidity of someone who could vanish the second he wished to. His composure, always flawless, felt especially still now— like even the faintest breath would be too loud.
"Lord Rimuru," Soei greeted with a nod, not bothering with unnecessary movement.
The slime lord nodded back, the throne barely visible past the edge of the corridor— a carved monolith of polished wood and quiet legacy that stared back at him like a mirror he wasn't ready to look into.
"Soei," he murmured, gaze flicking to the seat. The sight of it— unoccupied, pristine, and looming in its own quiet way— stirred something vague and uncomfortable in his chest.
Soei tilted his head slightly, a subtle motion that barely creased the air. "You seem… Elsewhere."
"I'm always elsewhere," Rimuru retorted— barely above a murmur, as he walked past without slowing.
He didn't need to look to know Soei would remain still for a while longer, watching him retreat.
At last, they reached the council chamber. The twin doors that marked its entrance were massive— imposing slabs of reinforced wood, lacquered so deeply they caught the morning sun and turned it into molten gold.
Diablo then came to a halt several paces from the threshold, with his stance composed but unmistakably hesitant. His hands, ever-clasped, did not move, but his gaze shifted to Rimuru with a precision that bordered on reverence.
"My lord," he said quietly, "may I speak freely?"
The slime lord then proceeded to stop mid-step, before glancing up from under his lashes. One corner of his mouth lifted in a tired mimicry of amusement. "… You've never bothered to ask that before. What's the occasion? Turning over a new leaf?"
Diablo bowed his head with rare solemnity. "I merely wish to respect the boundary that now seems to exist."
The phrasing hit harder than it should have.
'That now seems to exist. '
Rimuru's expression didn't shift, but the breath he drew stirred the fringe falling across his brow, and for a moment, his eyes didn't seem to focus on anything at all.
"… Go on, then," he said, tone flat but not unfriendly. "What do you got for me?"
Something unspoken softened in the demon's posture. When he spoke again, the mask of formality didn't vanish, but it no longer obscured the sincerity beneath it.
"… You're different this morning," he said, while being careful not to sound accusatory. "Your mood. Your mannerisms. The way you spoke to Shuna, and Soei. Even me. It isn't fatigue, nor is it irritation. It's something else."
Rimuru's response was a shrug— light, but curiously slow, like he had to think about it before letting his shoulders rise. "I'm just allowed a weird day every now and then, aren't I?"
"You've had odd days before," Diablo replied with equal care, "but never ones where you looked at your own throne like a stranger to it."
The corner of the slime lord's mouth twitched again— the motion dry and humorless. "You've gotten better at noticing things."
"I've always noticed," Diablo said. "I simply never had reason to voice my observations, until now it would seem."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable so much as contemplative— slow, almost stillborn, like the world itself had paused to listen in.
"… Do you remember when we first met?" Rimuru asked eventually, with his voice softening into something nostalgic, but not sentimental.
Diablo tilted his head. "Of course."
"You were in the Eastern Empire, weren't you?" The slime lord went on, with his tone growing quieter. "Locked in a summoning circle with a bunch of other demons. I think your exact words were, 'If you wish to command me, then prove your worth.'"
"That is… An accurate summary," the demon admitted with a faint smile.
"And I did prove it," Rimuru said, mouth twitching into a grin that lacked its usual brightness. "Guess you liked what you saw."
"You demonstrated power beyond anything I had ever encountered," Diablo said, "but it was more than that. You had vision. Purpose."
Rimuru turned fully toward him then. The mirth that had tried to peek through his expression faded, replaced by something older— less guarded, but far more tired.
"… And what did you really think of me then? Tell me honestly."
Diablo hesitated. Not long. But just long enough to show he took the question seriously.
"You were… Fascinating," he said at last. "Unpredictable. A reborn mortal who had become something divine, yet still clung to human instincts. You offered mercy where others offered steel. You strategized where others collapsed. At first, I thought you were naive. That changed."
"Changed how?"
"You grew," the demon replied simply. "You learned what it meant to carry loss. You learned wrath, then restraint. You stopped thinking of responsibility as a burden and began treating it as a part of who you are. I watched you evolve."
Rimuru nodded, slowly.
"… And what about now? What do you think of me now?"
"You are… Magnificent," Diablo said. "You are the cornerstone of this nation. The hope of thousands. My loyalty remains unchanged."
Rimuru smiled.
Then, just as quickly, the smile died.
"And what if I told you I used to be a forty-seven-year-old man who lived alone, masturbated to trashy porn, neglected his family, and died like the pathetic shut-in I always was?"
Diablo blinked.
The slime lord didn't let on, as he asked, "Would that shatter your 'cornerstone'?"
"… My lord-"
"-No. Just answer me. Would you still say I'm magnificent, knowing I spent my whole life behind a screen, pretending to be more than I was? Would you still bow to me if you knew how many people I ignored, how many calls I didn't return, how many times I told myself 'next time' while my parents grew old and my brother stopped trying?"
His voice didn't rise. It didn't break. The words fell steadily, as though delivered by someone who'd told the story too many times to still feel it— but couldn't quite stop repeating it all the same.
Rimuru's arms then crossed in a gesture that looked more like armor than posture, like he needed something— anything— to hold together what remained of him.
Diablo said nothing for a long moment.
And then, without looking away, he said evenly, "… You're not that man anymore. Whatever your past held, it led you here. And here, you are not the ghost of those choices."
Rimuru exhaled sharply through his nose. "Nice answer. Sounds like something you've practiced."
"I haven't," Diablo replied, his voice firm now, unwavering. "And I do not worship you for your perfection. I serve you because I believe in what you are capable of, even when you doubt it. Especially when you doubt it."
Silence didn't fall— it settled, slow and thick, like humidity before a summer storm. It filled the hallway not with emptiness, but with waiting.
For a second— no more— the slime lord looked calm. Not peaceful. Not at ease. But weightless, almost. His shoulders, usually drawn in like he was always bracing for impact, dropped by a fraction.
There was the faintest twitch of something near his mouth— not a smile, exactly, but the memory of one. Like his body remembered how it was supposed to feel, even if his heart couldn't keep up.
And then the moment passed.
Not with a jolt, but with a flicker. His eyes narrowed. The curve of his lips flattened. A low tension rolled beneath his artificial skin, barely perceptible to anyone who hadn't known him for years— but Diablo had.
"Whatever your past life held, it led you here. And here, you are not a ghost of those choices."
"… Ghost," Rimuru repeated, so softly it almost vanished into the corridor. His tone wasn't hostile. It had that restrained calm that always came right before the cracks showed. "Is that what they are, then? My past life? My family? Ghosts?"
Diablo didn't flinch, but the faintest crease tugged at the space between his brows. "That is not what I-"
"-You said it like none of that matters anymore," the slime lord interrupted, voice sharp but eerily steady— like someone pressing a blade flat against a table.
He then turned his head just enough to meet Diablo's eyes, and there was no heat in the look— only ice. "Like all of it— my parents, my brother, the life I had before— I'm supposed to just let it die. Pretend it didn't happen. Because I'm not a ghost, right? I'm here now, and that's what counts."
"My lord," Diablo said, more gently now, "you misunderstand-"
"-No," Rimuru said again, turning fully to face him now. Not with fury. But with something colder. Something too tired to be theatrical. "I'm not misunderstanding shit. I heard you just fine. You're saying I should stop mourning a life that no longer exists. That the people I lost, the ones I failed, aren't part of this equation anymore. That it's time to bury them— because that's what ghosts are for, right?"
Diablo's posture remained composed, but his hands curled slightly at his sides.
"I do not believe anything that shaped you could ever be meaningless," the demon said, his voice firm despite the tension that now threaded through it. "But I also believe clinging to what cannot return will only poison what you still have."
That answer might've helped. Might've passed. But something about the way it came out— the neatness of it, the steadiness— set Rimuru's teeth on edge.
He laughed once. A sound with no warmth, no rise. Like the bark of someone laughing at bad news. "You really are good at this," he said, not unkindly. But there was something jagged underneath the words. "You talk like you care, and I know you do. But the way it lands? It still makes me feel like I'm rotting from the inside out."
Diablo didn't respond. He didn't defend himself. He stood silent, letting the slime lord's words hang in the air like smoke.
Rimuru then stepped forward with the hem of his robes barely audible against the stone, and his presence pulling in tight— heavy with meaning. "What if it was reversed?" He asked, voice low, but pulsing with weight. "What if this life ended? No more Tempest. No castle. No throne. No you . And I got dropped into something else. Would all of this stop mattering too?"
That made the demon blink. Slowly. As if the question had peeled something back in him.
"R-Rimuru-sama…"
"— Because that's what you're telling me," Rimuru pressed— the words flowing, tumbling with a momentum he couldn't stop even if he wanted to. "That everything before was just a stepping stone. That nothing sticks unless it's still in arm's reach. And maybe that's fine for you— maybe immortality lets you flatten time into something simple. But I had parents. I had an older brother who tried. I had a life I didn't appreciate. A name I barely remember saying out loud. I had regrets. So, so many regrets!"
The silence that followed was not kind.
"I… I wouldn't give any of this up, Diablo— not if that was the only way to amend my past," Rimuru whispered. "I wouldn't… But that doesn't mean my other life doesn't matter to me anymore either."
Diablo's voice, when it came, was hushed. Not shaken. But no longer pristine.
"I never meant to imply that, my lord," he said slowly. "Only that… They are not all that you are. You are not bound to that life like chains. You are more than what you regret."
Rimuru closed his eyes.
He didn't speak. He just stood there, the space around him thinning as the weight returned to his shoulders like a coat he'd forgotten he was still wearing.
When he lifted a hand to rub at his temple, the motion was slow, deliberate. He pressed his thumb beneath one eye, as if trying to smother the echo of something that hadn't yet formed into tears.
"Yeah," he murmured eventually. "Yeah… I know."
That was the only truce he had to offer.
They stood like that for a time— Diablo a few paces away, still watching him, and the slime lord with his back to the far end of the corridor, body curled inward, silent but not unreadable.
The tension didn't vanish. But it thinned. It cooled. And at last, Diablo spoke again—only after the silence had room to breathe.
"Do you wish to attend the council meeting, my lord?" He asked, with the edge in his voice gone. What remained was soft, unassuming. Patient. "Or shall I postpone it until further notice?"
The slime lore's gaze drifted toward the hallway ahead. The chambers. The empty throne. The waiting masks. He pictured Shion anxiously straightening chairs that no one would sit in properly. He imagined teacups being shuffled three times too many. The world he'd built was still waiting for him to play his part.
"… I'll go," he said, voice scratchy from silence. "But give me a few minutes. I'll walk in on my own."
Diablo nodded. Not deeply. Not ceremonially. Just a simple motion of trust.
"As you wish."
He didn't bow. Instead, he turned and began walking, with each footstep a whisper across obsidian. The shadows that followed him curled gently at his heels— silent, obedient, never questioning.
Rimuru remained where he stood. One hand against the wall, palm pressed flat to the enchanted stone. The air was still cool. Still clean. Still alive with distant magic. But he felt none of it.
He breathed out, unsteady, chest rising and falling with uneven rhythm.
'That was too much.'
The thought didn't come as guilt often did. It came slowly. Like smoke through fabric. A creeping awareness of how sharp his voice had been. How quickly the emotions had spiraled out of control.
He then sank down onto one of the narrow benches lining the wall. His arms draped across his knees. His head bowed forward, curtain of silver-blue hair obscuring half his face. The light from the windows carved out long beams across the floor, but he sat in their gaps— half-lit, half-lost.
'Diablo didn't deserve that.'
The thought lingered. Bit deep.
Rimuru swallowed hard, the lump in his throat unbudging.
'I'll apologize, ' he told himself, ' after the meeting.'
He then sat there for a while longer, eyes fixed on the stone beneath his feet, hand still resting against the wall. His pulse had slowed, but not fully. That ache behind his eyes remained.
Rimuru then rose up to feet from the bench, before dusting off the hem of his coat with a sweep of his hand. The air in the corridor felt heavier than before, but he ignored it.
He then proceeded to move down the hall— footsteps echoing softly. One hand reached out familiar with every corner of this path, and pushed against the tall double doors at the far end.
They opened with a groan— heavier than usual, slower, like the hinges hadn't been oiled in years.
And that's when something shifted.
He stepped through the threshold, expecting to see the usual stonework, the arching beams of the council chamber, the long table ringed by Tempest's leaders.
And stopped.
The chamber beyond was not the council hall.
It was dim. Stale. Like someone had pumped all the air out and replaced it with something that hummed beneath the skin.
Fluorescent lights that had never been there before blinked above, flickering uncertainly across a space that looked— wrong. Too clean, and too old. The wallpaper was a faded yellow, stained and peeling in the corners. Paper cutouts of cartoon animals— cheerful, but unsettlingly off in their proportions— were stuck to the walls with cracked tape, their smiling faces warped from moisture.
Rimuru blinked. "W… What the hell is this…?"
He then stepped in cautiously— the door whispering shut behind him with a dull click.
The floor was a faded linoleum, checkered in a pattern he didn't recognize, and somewhere in the far corner, a cotton candy machine stood unplugged, covered in a light layer of dust. Next to it, an open ball pit yawned in a sunken space on the floor— bright plastic balls strewn like scattered candy.
A low, crackling whirr came from a radio set on a lone table in the center of the room. Next to it sat a small birthday cake, the white frosting clumsily applied, the candles already lit— melting wax forming slow rivulets down their waxen spines.
The radio sputtered. Then, from the grainy speaker, a voice emerged— robotic and warbled by static:
"Daaaaaaisy, Daaaaaisy… Give me your answeeer doooo…"
Rimuru took a step back.
"… What the fuck?"
The melody continued, fractured and slow. It twisted in the air like an off-key music box left too long in the rain.
He turned toward the doors again and grabbed the handle.
Locked.
No— it moved, but the hallway beyond was gone.
Darkness stretched out behind him, broken only by distant pools of light that spilled out beneath closed doors down a long, narrow corridor that hadn't been there before.
"… This isn't real," Rimuru muttered to himself, his voice small against the hum of the lights. "It's just a dream… I'm still asleep in my room and this is just some bizarre… Anxiety-induced nightmare. Yeah. That's it."
But the door behind him didn't change. And neither did the smell— a sickly mixture of sugar and plastic and something else.
Something rotting.
The room was growing warmer.
Rimuru turned back toward the table in the center of the room. He took a few cautious steps forward— the sound of his own footfalls somehow muffled on the cheap tile.
The candles flickered gently as he approached, the orange light casting a halo against the walls.
He stared down at the cake. The lettering on top had begun to sag, but the words were still legible.
'Happy Birthday, Satoru.'
Rimuru froze.
His throat tightened. The air turned heavier.
"… C-Cute," he said, half-heartedly. "Guess my subconscious has a strange sense of humor…"
He then rubbed at the back of his neck and let out a shallow breath— trying to will himself to wake up. "Alright, fine… I'll play along. I'm going to blow out the candles now and wish myself awake. That's how this works, right?"
He then reluctantly leaned forward slightly— taking in a breath of air into his artificial airs, and pursing his lips together to blow out the flickering candles.
Then— plastic rattled.
A dry, hollow clatter of plastic balls shifting against one another from the pit in the corner. The sound was faint, almost dismissible. Almost.
He froze.
"… Someone there?" Rimuru asked, with his voice quiet, brittle.
The plastic shifted again— this time louder.
He straightened slowly, turning his head, and glanced over his shoulder.
Something was rising from the ball pit.
A figure.
A tall, dark silhouette that seemed to seep upward rather than stand— like ink stretching against the contours of reality. Its form was long, distorted, clad in a dark coat, and atop its head, a wide-brimmed hat cast a deep shadow over where a face should've been.
Rimuru's mouth went dry.
The figure stood still, half-emerged from the pit, unmoving. Watching.
"O… Okay," Rimuru forced a chuckle, voice cracking slightly. "Soooo, like.., Y-You're the entertainment, huh? T-That's great… Really adds to the ambiance…"
The shadow didn't answer.
"… L-Look, buddy, if this is some weird prank, you're kind of pushing it. I've dealt with worse things than— whatever costume party this is."
No response.
The figure stepped forward.
Its movements were silent. Smooth.
Rimuru took a step back instinctively.
"Alright, seriously— back off. I don't know who you are or what this is supposed to be, but I'm not in the mood."
A glint of metal caught the low candlelight.
From beneath the sleeve of the coat, a blade slid into view— long, thin, and wickedly curved. The kind of knife not meant for show. Not even for intimidation.
Just for use.
"… O-Oh," Rimuru's voice cracked again, while sounding more strained. "I-I don't know what the hell this is, but you're not real. You're not."
But the figure kept walking.
Closer.
Closer.
'Why isn't this stopping?' Rimuru thought, panic beginning to set in like ice cracking beneath his skin. 'Why am I not waking up?!'
"H-Hey! I've faced demon lords," he said quickly, raising a hand, though it trembled slightly. "I've gone head-to-head with Hinata Sakaguchi, with Clayman, with Velgrynd for crying out loud— who THE HELL are you to face me?!"
Still, the figure said nothing. The knife gleamed brighter now, only a few meters away.
Rimuru's bravado collapsed.
He then reached blindly— grabbing the cake with both hands, before hurling it with a panicked grunt.
It passed through the figure.
Like smoke.
The frosting splattered against the back wall.
"… That's not good."
The figure kept walking.
The radio hissed again:
"Iiiiiit won't be a styyyylish marriiiaaage…"
Rimuru turned to bolt— but the hallway had changed. The doors were gone. Only darkness stretched ahead, the light growing dimmer, the air thicker.
And behind him—
The decrepit cotton candy machine whirled to life— screeching a blood-curdling cry that sounded like a cry of agony.
He didn't dare look.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears, a scream building in his throat that refused to come out.
'There's no way out—! There's no way—!'
Then, clear and steady in his mind:
(Advisory: RUN.)
After ducking past the shadowy figure, Rimuru's footsteps echoed against the waxy floor, out of rhythm with the distorted melody that slithered through the corridors behind him.
"Daaaaaaisy, Daaaaaisy… Give me your answeeer doooo…"
Each note dragged behind him like a trailing shadow, familiar enough to unsettle, cheerful enough to mock.
He didn't look back. He couldn't. Whatever was behind him didn't need to chase; it only needed to wait.
"Analyze terrain…! Deploy mapping thread…! Initiate spatial perception…!" His voice was barely above a breath, but the commands triggered immediate responses.
Glowing gridlines surged outward from his form, spidering across walls, floors, ceiling— but each path bent in ways that defied logic, curved inward like a collapsing throat.
"W-What," he gasped out in dread. "It's eating the coordinates before I can— no…! No, that's not it…! This isn't real— none of this is real, t-that's why…!"
The corridor then shifted again. The wallpaper, which had once seemed like a garish shade of yellow, now appeared cracked and wet beneath a layer of clear grime.
Cartoon eyes watched from murals— their pupils swirling inward into spirals that pulsed with heatless light. His breath caught as he passed a window-shaped frame— there was no glass, only a black void painted with little balloons, each drawn with childish precision, faces crudely scrawled on each one.
He whispered under his labored breath, "W-What the fuck is this place even supposed to be…?!"
There was no answer, except for the balloon in the frame slowly turning toward him. No wind. No physics. Just decision.
He turned away from it.
His magic resisted him— just subtly, like it was submerged. Raphael's voice remained silent. No diagnostics. No internal dialogue.
"J-Just a bad dream," Rimuru murmured in exasperation, with his tone sharper— almost a warning. "I'm fine…! I'll be fine…!"
He didn't notice the footprints until he stepped into one.
They were the size of a child's, bare and smeared across the tiles in some kind of sticky caramel-red residue, one after another, weaving drunken loops across the floor like a clumsy dance.
Rimuru stepped back, but the next one was already beneath him. The ones behind had vanished. Or maybe they'd never been there. It didn't matter.
The room at the end of the corridor had no door. He didn't walk into it so much as find himself inside it.
The lights inside were dim, as though filtered through wax paper. In the center stood a low table made of gnarled wood, warped in a way that suggested melting rather than construction.
Around it were chairs— seven of them— all different sizes, none of them facing the same direction. Streamers dripped from the ceiling like veins. Another cake sat on the table, candles unlit, its frosting twitching slightly with every breath of air.
Across the room, they stood.
No introduction. No approach. Just presence.
Their faces weren't faces at all. Smooth skin pulled over bone with no clear mouth or nose, eyes sunk deep like wounds. Party hats fused into their heads— grown like tumors. One held a party horn, long and sagging with age, the tip split and dripping something viscous. Another dragged a balloon behind it, the string wrapped three times around its neck like a leash.
Rimuru immediately raised one hand.
"Gluttonous King Beelzebuth, activate. Harvest everything hostile within range. Target separation: maximum."
The air shimmered around him. Black tendrils erupted outward, slicing the space into ribbons, absorbing, devouring, erasing.
The figures dissolved— no resistance, no sound. Gone.
Then the lights in the room blinked— and they stood again, untouched.
Rimuru blinked hard— stunned at the nightmarish reversal that had just undone his attack. And so, he raised his hand up again. "Void God Azathoth— spatial annihilation, wide sweep, priority override: this room."
The world turned inside out. The walls twisted backward, sucking themselves into a singularity at the center of the floor, imploding with the sound of cracking bone.
For a moment, the entire space bent inward—
—and reset.
Same room. Same twitching cake. Same figures.
Same smile in the dark.
He staggered backward.
The corridor had vanished. Only the white wall behind him remained, smooth and seamless. Cold.
Rimuru backed into it.
"No, no— a-analyze the space. Find an opening. C-Create one if you have to!" The commands spilled from his mouth too fast, as if speed could force the response.
Nothing.
The figures stepped forward.
He struck the wall once. Twice. Again. The sound was dull. Final.
But then, suddenly, he was somewhere else.
Tokyo. Spring. Late evening. Streetlights flickering orange across the pavement.
His phone buzzed in one hand. The other clutched a convenience store bag.
He remembered the man before he saw him— remembered the weight of someone behind him, the sound of shoes that didn't match the rhythm of the street. Then came the pressure. A hand on his shoulder, firm and deliberate.
Then a voice, too close.
"You looked at me."
Satoru barely had time to turn his head.
The first stab went under his ribs, angled upward, cruel and practiced. The second came before he could scream, burying deep in his lower back. He collapsed forward, hitting the pavement with one arm twisted beneath him. The phone clattered out of reach.
"Why do you look at people like that?" The man whispered, crouching beside him. He smelled like gasoline and mint. His eyes were wild. "You think you're better than me?! You think you're fucking safe just because it's daytime?!"
The third stab landed in the side of his neck.
Satoru's blood painted the sidewalk in long, gurgling streaks.
And still the man kept speaking, softly, almost kindly. "It's not about you. I just needed a reason. You gave me one."
When the sirens came, the man was gone.
Suddenly, Rimuru gasped— eyes wide. The white wall was back. So were the figures.
So was something else.
Tall. Silent. Wearing a hat that bent the shadows around it, the wide brim covering what little face it had. In its hand, a same blade that had killed him in his previous life.
Rimuru pushed himself upright again.
"Release limiter. Parallel Processing, overclock to maximum. Deploy Ultimate Skill: Merciless."
Magic surged through his body in waves. His skin glowed faintly. The air hissed.
And still the hat-wearing figure stepped closer.
He launched forward, blade of energy drawn, body flickering as he weaved through space faster than light.
But the moment he struck, everything halted.
The blade touched the figure's chest— and passed through.
No resistance. No recoil. As though it were cutting memory, not flesh.
It tilted its head once.
Rimuru felt the blade enter his own side.
Not from the figure. From something else . From behind.
His knees buckled. Heat pooled in his abdomen, down his leg, into the floor. His fingers trembled as he tried to stem the flow— but there was no wound he could see.
He looked up— and every figure in the room had begun to smile— all but the tall, imposing figure who had caught up to him.
The wall behind him pulsed, like something breathing beneath it.
And still that voice whispered, even though no mouth moved:
"Daaaaaaisy, Daaaaaisy… Give me your answeeer doooo…"
The breath caught somewhere inside him and didn't come loose.
Rimuru sat upright, the air thin and wrong, chest convulsing in a shallow, useless rhythm. He didn't remember moving. He didn't remember waking.
The dream had burned out in pieces, torn up and swallowed by the dark before he could make sense of it. But something clung— smell, sound, movement that didn't belong in a world that made sense.
His limbs wouldn't still. His core beat a fractured tempo, light flickering faint beneath his skin like static caught in glass. The tent pressed too close around him. The air felt chemical, cold, stifling. He couldn't breathe.
Desperate for light, the slime reached for where his hazy mind could recall where he last left his iPad beside his sleeping bag.
His hands fumbled in the dark, uncoordinated, the device nearly slipping before he caught it. The screen lit up on the second press.
The glow hit his eyes like a slap. He blinked against it, pupils constricting, breath still ragged as the lock screen faded open.
05:47. April 3rd, 2025.
The numbers glared back at him; sterile and absolute, with a stillness that felt like mockery.
Rimuru stared at the screen without seeing it, the cold glow catching on the edge of his black crop top, the hem curled just slightly where he'd twisted the fabric between restless fingers.
His breath didn't want to settle. Each inhale stopped short, like something in his chest wouldn't give way. With the screen illuminating the nylon interior of the tent, the panicked slime's yellow eyes found themselves instinctively shifting towards the gray-haired man, who was sleeping beside him in his own bed roll— his back turned towards him.
He thought the question, not even forming words.
'Is it okay if I wake him up?'
The answer arrived before he could brace for it.
(Calculating.)
(There is a zero percent chance he will respond negatively.)
He knew that. Didn't need to be told. But it helped— like someone reaching under the surface just to remind him where up was.
Rimuru watched Goblin Slayer's resting body for a moment. The shape of him, familiar in ways that felt important, though he couldn't yet explain why.
Maybe it was the quiet. Or the steadiness. Or maybe it was just that his face wasn't a stranger's.
Regardless, the slime then slowly reached out towards him.
Fingers brushed the soft fabric of his blanket. Rimuru hesitated— then touched the back of the man's shoulder with enough pressure to feel real.
The gray-haired man stirred without flinching. A slow, careful shift beneath the blanket. He blinked blearily, half-turning, silver-gray strands of hair falling against his cheek as rolled around to focus on Rimuru within the dim light.
The silence held just long enough to weigh something.
"… Is something wrong?" Goblin Slayer asked quietly, with his voice rough with sleep.
Rimuru didn't answer. Not right away.
The air felt tighter again, but not as sharp when the slime finally exhaled, slow and shallow, before then nodding once. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing dramatic. Just a small motion that said more than he wanted it to.
The gray-haired man studied him a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly— not with suspicion, but with attention. After seemingly listening for any sound to implicate danger, he then eased upright while propping himself on one arm. His other hand came up, slow, rubbing at his eye with the back of his knuckle as he yawned softly through his nose.
"… Nightmare?" Goblin Slayer asked, with a knowing tone.
Rimuru huffed a quiet breath. It came out thinner than he meant it to. His smile barely lifted his lips, dry and humorless. "Y-Yeah… Is it that obvious?"
The man's eyes lingered on his face, even as he nodded. "Yes. You're doing that thing."
Rimuru tilted his head, before asking him, "What thing?"
Goblin Slayer blinked, still waking. Then his eyes half-lidded in thought, gaze drifting slightly to the side before returning.
"Most people press their tongue to the roof of their mouth, and don't blink when they're scared. Including you."
Rimuru's brows lifted faintly. "… Damn," he murmured, a little more impressed than he was ready to admit. "You're observant."
The slime then tried to follow it with something lighter— some half-formed quip to push the weight off his chest— but it died before it reached his tongue. Whatever smile he'd tried to summon fell apart.
The silence returned, quiet and heavy, but not unkind.
Rimuru then looked at him then— really looked. The ashen hair, the turtleneck soft around his throat, the faint tension still in his brow from sleep. The face was the same. Entirely. No wrongness, no smiling mask stretched too tight. Angelic.
And without warning, something inside the slime let go— just enough to breathe again.
"… Sorry," Rimuru murmured under his breath, before dragging a thumb across the iPad's home button as the screen flickered back to life with a familiar quiet chime.
He hadn't expected to feel anything, not after the kind of morning he'd had thus far. His chest still felt too tight, his limbs weighed down with the residue of whatever nightmare had clawed its way out of his subconscious. But that vanished the second his eyes registered the bright glow of two notifications waiting at the top of the screen.
[Apple Pay: Deposit Received — 1,500,000 Yen] [New Email — From: Ken Mikami]
For a long moment, he didn't move.
He didn't even breathe.
Rimuru's stomach dropped as if the floor beneath him had just given way, and everything— air, thought, sound— was sucked into a single, shuddering vacuum.
The brightness of the screen seemed to stretch and distort in his vision, with the letters swimming for a second— unreal and sharp and silent all at once.
Rimuru's grip then slackened, and soon his iPad slid from his fingers— bouncing off the blanket with a soft thud and tilting to the side.
"… Rimuru?"
Goblin Slayer's voice beside him barely registered at first— calm, steady, but edged with quiet concern.
The gray-haired man then shifted, drawing closer. His brow furrowed as his gaze tracked down to the device, which was half-buried in the folds of the slime's bedding. "What is it?"
Rimuru didn't answer right away. His lips had parted as if to speak, but nothing came. His body remained still, his hands frozen mid-air as if afraid to move, to acknowledge what he'd just seen, to risk waking into another dream— or another nightmare.
Goblin Slayer then followed his gaze and leaned in slightly, close enough that the faint warmth of his shoulder brushed against the slime's arm. He tilted his head to look down at the illuminated screen.
"… Is that from your brother?"
Rimuru swallowed dryly, with his throat tightening as he blinked fast— like he could force his mind to catch up with the flood of adrenaline suddenly racing through his veins.
"Y-Yeah," he managed finally, the word catching on his tongue like he'd forgotten how to speak it.
Goblin Slayer stared at the screen for a moment longer— despite being unable to decipher the words— before then looking back up at seemingly shell shocked slime. "… Are you going to read it?"
"I—" Rimuru faltered again, breath hitching with an emotion he couldn't yet name. "— I don't know… I-I mean, y-yes…"
He then dragged a trembling hand through his hair— fingers tangling at the crown of his head, before sliding down across his scalp and resting over his mouth. His palm pressed hard, as if to hold something in.
His yellow eyes flicked back down to the iPad, still sitting in his lap with that unread email glowing like some forbidden key. His hand hovered over the screen, but didn't move.
After a moment, he looked over at Goblin Slayer again, searching his face— not for approval, but for some kind of reassurance he couldn't name. Just seeing him there— serious, patient, grounded— made it easier to breathe.
"I… I'm going to open it."
The ashen-haired man nodded once. "Whenever you're ready," he assured.
Rimuru hesitated only a second longer before tapping the screen with a trembling finger.
From: ken
To: 1979
Date: April 2, 2025, 13:02 EDT
Subject: WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST READ?!
SATORU.
YOU SLIMY, CROSSDRESSING, SHOUJO-PROTAGONIST-LOOKING FUCK.
Do you have ANY idea what kind of rage blackout I went into after reading your email? I thought it was a PHISHING SCAM. I was one second away from sending your "I came back from the dead, big bro!" sob story to Interpol , until I realized no Nigerian prince could imitate your level of cringe self-importance .
No one's that talented.
And for the record? I wasn't moved by your "boo hoo I died and got reincarnated as the universe's most touch-starved anime girl" routine. No one gives a shit about your spirit journey or how many monsters you probably fucked.
You said you were gonna go to Fujikawa to find Mom and Dad — newsflash, you crusty little reincarnation reject —they moved five years ago, because they probably didn't want you haunting the fucking family altar like Sadako from The Ring .
No, the only reason I didn't delete your emotionally constipated self-insert fanfiction was because every single word of it was about YOU. It was like reading a fucking Tumblr post on meth . "Me me me, I suffered, I glowed up, I miss hugs, I bonded with a knight!"
Bitch, no one cares! But you know what? That kind of narcissistic diarrhea is EXACTLY what convinced me it might actually be you. Because if I know anything about my good-for-nothing little brother, it's that you'd literally rise from the dead just to talk about your feelings .
So guess what I did, you little sparkly cum-demon? I pulled strings. Big strings. I called Tim Cook . Yeah. THE Apple guy. Then I called the Chief Constable of the Tokyo Metro Police , and I said, "Hey, if you've got footage of any weird shit, SEND IT."
And sure as shit, they sent me surveillance that I had to have my butler sort through.
Let me walk you through it: 10:37 AM. Camera glitches like it just saw your browser history. Then BOOM. Out stumbles this blue freakazoid , eyes glazed, falling face first into the concrete. That's you. You look like a used blow-up doll dipped in Gatorade .
Then out comes this Iron Man knockoff reject , looking like he just got rejected from a Renaissance fair, walking out an alley with you like he's gonna lecture the homeless about honor. I swear to God, when he took his helmet off, he reminded me of a virgin's OC brought to life by a waifu pillow curse.
That's right. I watched you stumble into Kobayashi's Treasure Exchange in Sumida—fucking twice, mind you—to probably selling your last remaining brain cells for a packet of tissues and a lotion.
Then you went to fucking Taito-ku—yes, I recognized the goddamn Salvation Army—where you and your tin-can boyfriend got your camping supplies, and went to Ueno Park, like two unemployed theater majors pretending it's "an experience."
So I ran your Apple ID through Find My Device—AND GUESS WHAT, YOU WET NOODLE —your email pinged from a second hand iPad that you were holding in that footage . I cross-checked the timestamps and locations and everything lined up like a giant cosmic "fuck you."
So now I'm forced to accept it:
You are alive.
You are homeless.
And you're gay now.
And I hate this. I HATE that I know this. I HATE that your existence is real and back in my inbox like a revenge STD.
But you're still technically my brother. Technically. Like how an abandoned trailer is technically a home.
So here's what I did, you fruity disaster:
I wired 1,500,000 Yen to your sorry, sparkly bank account (after reactivating that shit from the grave). That's right. One and a half million yen. Don't blow it on V-Bucks, Genshin Impact waifus, or limited-edition anime pillows with detachable panties. This is for survival.
I also booked you a suite at Hotel Toranomon Hills, Minato City. The kind of place that has real soap and actual toilets. Not the kind of stall you've been pissing in with your chainmail-clad boyfriend. The staff already know you're coming. I told them to look for a gender confused blue-haired twink and his emotional support knight.
You have the room till the 10th. That gives you two losers more than a week to pretend you're both functioning members of society. Don't bring bugs into the bed. Don't scream about mana in the breakfast buffet. And don't get caught fucking your rent-a-knight in the hot tub.
I'm in São Paulo right now, balls-deep in a Brazilian named Bianca and trying to close a deal worth more than the GDP of the country you and your loser boyfriend came from. Once I'm done destroying her pelvis and closing my merger, I'll hop on my jet and fly back to Tokyo to get your gay-asses set up with papers.
Birth certificate dick. Real passport type shit.
You better be clean. You better be clothed. And if you cry during our reunion, I will punt your twink-ass off the balcony.
Enjoy the money, dipshit. Try not to choke on your boyfriend's dick before I get there.
—Ken
P.S. If your boyfriend touches the minibar, I'll have him deported back to Narnia, or wherever the shit he came from.
Rimuru didn't speak for a long while. He just sat there, ankles crossed, arms looped around his knees, the glow of the iPad washing faint blue across his tired face. The screen was still on, but he wasn't looking at it anymore. He looked… relieved. Like something heavy had just dropped from his chest.
Then, without lifting his gaze, he said quietly, "He believed me."
The wind rolled lazily past them, catching at the leaves above and the zipper of the half-open duffel. Somewhere in the distance, a bicycle bell chimed. Rimuru's voice was quiet, but there was something weightless in it now. Breathless.
"He said he pulled some strings. Got hold of footage—surveillance from when we came through the gate. Cross-checked my email with the timestamp and location. Saw me stumble through like I'd been flung out of an interdimensional vending machine."
He then exhaled a small, crooked laugh and leaned his head back until it thumped gently against the bark of the tree behind him. "Anyway. He knows it's me. He's not mad. Well— he is , but he believed me. That's what matters."
There was a pause, and then Rimuru turned his head toward him, cheeks colored faintly from the cool air and the warmth of something more fragile.
"He got us a place," he murmured, a little shy now. "Hotel Toranomon Hills. That's… Downtown Tokyo. Fancy stuff. We've got the suite till the tenth."
Goblin Slayer gave a slow nod. "That's good."
Rimuru bit his lower lip, with a smile blooming small, but bright. "And there's more… He said when he gets back to Japan, he's gonna set us up. With papers."
The ashen-haired man then tilted his head, before asking him, "What kind of papers?"
"Birth certificate. Passport," Rimuru replied without missing a beat, as if he'd already rehearsed this part in his head a dozen times. "It's… sort of proof. That you exist. At least legally. In this world, I mean."
Goblin Slayer looked at him carefully, as though trying to parse the weight behind the words.
"A birth certificate says when and where you were born. Who your parents were. That sort of thing," the slime went on. "A passport's more like a… Citizenship thing. Proof that you belong to a country. Lets you travel. Get a job. Rent a place."
Goblin Slayer shifted slightly, silent, but the lines around his eyes softened. "He'll get those for us?"
Rimuru nodded. "Yeah. Said he would. Said we're family, so… He'd take care of it."
He leaned forward then, finally powering down the tablet, cradling it to his chest like a pillow. "It's weird. I think I was expecting him to not answer at all."
Goblin Slayer didn't speak, but the way he sat beside the slime— calm, steady, present— was enough.
Rimuru then exhaled slowly, thewith glow of the iPad screen dimming as he let it fall gently into his lap— that time on purpose. The tremor behind his smile was faint, nearly invisible, but it was there. He traced the edge of the screen absently with his thumb, trying to gather himself, before turning his head slightly.
"… Hey," the slime murmured, his voice thinner than before, though touched with something lighter now. "I was thinking… Maybe you and I should… G-Go out, or something…"
Goblin Slayer's gaze shifted toward him. "Go out?"
Rimuru tilted his head back, letting his eyes wander toward the boughs overhead, their edges pale gold beneath the early morning sun. "Yeah, I mean—" he breathed out a short sigh, almost a laugh. "I don't know. It's not every day someone wires you a million and a half yen and books you a five-star hotel."
"What did you have in mind?" The ashen-haired man asked— his tone soft, curious but measured.
Rimuru blinked, before looking away with a slight tilt of his head. "I'm not sure. I guess…" He trailed off, with his gaze unfocusing a little, as the thought took shape in his mind— something quiet and nostalgic working its way across his features. "I… I guess I kind of miss Starbucks."
The gray-haired man looked at him plainly. "What is that?"
"It's a coffee chain," Rimuru said, while still smiling faintly. "Pretty popular worldwide. You see one on practically every street corner in Tokyo. I used to stop by one almost every morning on my way to work. Just part of the routine, I guess."
"Is it good?" Goblin Slayer asked.
The slime let out a short breath. "Most people here say it's crap. Overpriced, too sweet, too commercial. But somehow, it's still packed every morning. I always liked it, but maybe it's just the nostalgia talking."
The gray-haired man nodded, with his red-eyed gaze drifting slightly toward the trees. "… But is it better than McDonald's?"
That actually pulled a small laugh out of Rimuru. "It's way better than McDonald's, Ren! It's not even close, man."
That seemed to register something in Goblin Slayer's mind. A faint curiosity, quiet but not disinterested. "Then I'd like to try it."
The slime smiled, warmer that time. "Alright. Let's do it then."
Goblin Slayer nodded, before glanceing toward the edge of their makeshift camp, where their duffel bags and bundled gear lay in the dappled light. "What about the tent? And our supplies?"
Rimuru followed his gaze, lips pursed in thought. "Hmmm… Let's bring them with us. We can drop everything off at the hotel afterwards."
"Why?" Goblin Slayer asked, not suspicious— just calm, practical.
The slime's expression shifted, the warmth dimming slightly but never vanishing. "Just in case my brother changes his mind. I don't think he will, but… I've learned not to assume anything goes right, not twice in a row. Better to have everything with us, just in case."
Goblin Slayer absorbed that in silence, then gave a quiet nod of agreement.
Rimuru finally set the iPad aside, resting it gently on the corner of his sleeping bag, and rose to his feet with a soft stretch. "Let's hit the restroom before we go. We can wash up a bit, freshen up. Wouldn't hurt to look a little more presentable if we're headed into Minato."
Goblin Slayer stood with him, his movements precise and economical. "That's fine."
They both moved instinctively, each taking hold of their blankets and beginning to fold them without needing to speak.
Rimuru worked faster, half-focused, thoughts already spiraling through a to-do list in his head. He was halfway through securing the last fold when he paused, glancing toward the olive green duffel at the foot of the other man's mat.
"… Hey," he said suddenly, voice lifting just a little, "now that we've got money, I was thinking— we could go back to Kobayashi's. I could buy back your helmet, and your sword."
He looked over in time to catch the gray-haired man's reaction— a pause in motion, a slight lift of his head.
Goblin Slayer then turned to meet Rimuru's gaze, eyes calm but slightly softened, and offered a small, quiet smile. "… Thank you," he said, with a sincerity that gave the words more weight than their brevity allowed. "But no thank you."
Rimuru blinked. "Wait— really? You're sure?"
He didn't immediately answer. He finished folding his blanket, placing it carefully into the bag, and pulled out their toiletry kit, before finally replying back with, "I'm sure."
The slime continued to watch him, confused. "I… I thought those meant something to you."
"They did," Goblin Slayer said simply. He then set the bag down, before reaching out his hand toward Rimuru's blanket— wordless and steady. "But I don't need them anymore."
Rimuru handed it over without looking away, as he asked, "Why not?"
The ashen-haired man settled the blanket gently atop the others. "Because you were right. Carrying a sword in this world draws unwanted attention."
The slime then felt a strange twist of emotion in his chest— somewhere between pride and loss. "And your helmet?"
Goblin Slayer's eyes lingered on the zipper of the duffel as he thought. Then, with the same calm cadence as always, he replied, "I've been thinking about what you said. About how I can't just survive here. I have to live here, too."
There was no dramatics in the words. No grand admission. Just a quiet truth, spoken like a man who'd been thinking about it for longer than a single night.
"I thought about that while I fell asleep," he continued. "I should sell the rest of my armor. Trade it for something that won't stand out."
Rimuru stared at him, startled not just by the pragmatism, but the willingness to change. "That's… Honestly kind of impressive. I didn't expect you to adjust so fast."
Goblin Slayer glanced up at him then— something faint, but almost fond in his expression. "I've had worse transitions."
The slime exhaled softly, his gaze trailing down to his own clothes— the blue long coat, the gold-accented boots, and the beige-fuzzy scarf wrapped around his neck. "… I guess I stand out too, huh?"
"You do."
Rimuru laughed under his breath. "I didn't even notice… But that's probably because you stood out more than I did yesterday."
"Then perhaps we both need new clothes," Goblin Slayer offered.
The slime grinned. "Yeah… Let's go shopping later. Get you something that doesn't come with steel plating."
The gray-haired man gave a slight nod, before unzipping the flaps of their tent and gazing towards the trees within the park.
While staring out into the early morning darkness, Rimuru's thoughts drifted, spiraling again— not toward plans this time, but toward something darker.
He hesitated, before turning slightly toward the man beside him once more. "… Hey. You still okay hearing about my nightmare?" He asked. "I want to talk about it now, while it's still fresh. I don't want it hanging over my head all day."
Goblin Slayer met his eyes without hesitation. "We should discuss it while making our way to Starbucks."
The words were simple. But they steadied something in Rimuru's chest, anchored him in a way he hadn't expected. He then gave the other man a quiet nod— the gratitude not loud, but real.
"Thanks Ren," the slime said, genuinely.
"Anytime," Goblin Slayer said, while grabbing the tolietry bag and beginning to crawl out through the opened flap of the tent.
Rimuru then followed suit, with the faint weight of that nightmare still hovering just behind his eyes— but no longer crushing.
Not now. Not with someone like Goblin Slayer beside him.