With Slimebane Strike now active, If my calculations were correct( and they were) a single perfect strike at the weak point would now deal roughly forty points of damage.

Five good strikes. That meant exactly two hundred total. That meant the creature would exactly die, at 0 HP.

For a moment, I forgot the dripping acid, the smell, the sound. All that existed was the pristine geometry of execution: five intervals, five measured motions, five acts of divine precision.

I stepped into the rhythm—one, two, breathe—then everything narrowed to the tiniest of windows.

A telegraphed spit soared toward my visor. I bent at the knee, a perfect sidestep that felt less like a dodge and more like the floor itself agreeing to my plan. The mucus spat whistled past where my head had been a heartbeat ago. The Slime King overextended for its pseudopod; I angled off its arc, letting the mass whoosh by as I guided it with admittingly beautiful choreography.

Then I lunged at an oblique angle of my choosing.

[-40 HP]

Cavernous King Slime’s HP: 160/250

Yes!

Slimebane Strike Cooldown: 30 seconds

No.

The Slime King recoiled. The shockwave sloshed through its bulk like a pond struck by lightning. For the first time, the creature lurched back. Steam rose where my blade had passed clean through.

It was actually hurt.

Anabeth’s voice rang out. “I knew it!” she declared, almost trilling the words. “You have been concealing your true output all along! Look at that impact radius! Your strikes are clearly stronger now, and you’re still not drawing on any aether!”

‘Yes, of course! It is but a part of my plan,’ I tried to say.

“Indeed. Everything unfolds according to the design I ordained; resistances are regrettable, dispensable, and expected,” I said.

For once, I appreciated Ceralis’s interference. It filled the awkward silence while my skill cooled down. There was, after all, only so much one could do while pretending not to wait thirty seconds for divine reprisal to recharge.

“Behold!” Ceralis thundered through me before I could stop it. “As I demonstrate the extraordinary art of non-aetheric evasion, an ancient form lost to lesser minds!”

I pivoted half a step to the side, narrowly avoiding another sluggish pseudopod slap.

[-0 HP]

Flawless.

Anabeth tilted her head, unamused. “That’s . . . just what you’ve been doing.”

For a moment, I thought I’d lost her interest. Perhaps she’d finally realized this was just glorified slime-dodging with better lighting.

But then she added, “But it’s still splendid the fifteenth time I see it!”

‘Yes, of course,’ I said as I dodged another incoming swipe.

I actually said, “Of course it is! Each iteration refines perfection! Each motion a hymn to precision unburdened by mortal energy inefficiencies!”

Slimebane Strike Cooldown: 18 seconds

It occurred to me that in the old days, things rarely lasted more than a few exchanges. Jousts ended in a single hit. Sword matches, ten at most.  Even the dramatic ones ended with a bow and someone dramatically bleeding onto the parquet.

The good old days.

But this? This was thirty seconds of glorified cardio between meaningful decisions. Thirty seconds of dodging sentient gelatin with the stamina cost of a marathon.

Ceralis, of course, was thrilled.

“Observe,” he boomed through my lungs, “the sacred discipline of Interval Recuperation

! A technique once lost to all but the highest order of duelists!”

Unfortunately, the nearest wall was coated in something that could charitably be described as sentient phlegm. It made a faint shhlop sound as I pressed my shoulder against it.

I grimaced. ‘Sacred discipline,’ I muttered.

“Indeed!” Ceralis thundered for me. “Through mastery of divine breathing, even in the presence of odorous adversity, one reclaims the rhythm of the cosmos!”

Anabeth’s voice echoed faintly from her perch. “Are you teaching breathing techniques in the middle of battle?”

“Correct,” I wheezed.

“No! Efficient respiration under duress!” Ceralis corrected at full sermon volume.

Slimebane Strike Cooldown: 0 second.

[Slimebane Strike available]

I surged forward again, catching the line that marked the creature’s core displacement—

—and missed.

The blade sliced clean through a section of membrane that was definitely not vital.

DMG: (9 + 10) x 2 - 26 = 12

Cavernous King Slime’s HP: 148/250

No! My perfect math! I can’t get it down to exactly 0 anymore now!

[Slimebane Strike Cooldown: 30 seconds.]

“Magnificent!” Ceralis declared before I could swear. “A feint to instill terror through mercy!”

“I didn’t even know you feinted!” Anabeth chimed in. Right. This was her first time in a slime dungeon, and she probably hadn’t figured out its weak point yet if she hadn’t been paying full attention. I’d just announced my failure publicly to someone who wasn’t aware of it.

The creature jiggled indignantly and swung a pseudopod the size of a boulder at my head.

I ducked just in time, nearly slipping on the gelatinous floor. The effort alone cost me more breath than I wanted to admit.

Stamina: 49%

Now, another thirty seconds of time-wasting terror.

By the time the cooldown ticked back to zero, my arms trembled and sweat beaded inside my gloves. Luckily, the creature wasn’t smart enough to corner me, so I could just move around the cavern wall and stayed relatively safe.

[Slimebane Strike available.]

Stamina: 45%

I lunged again—this time true.

[-40 HP]

Cavernous King Slime’s HP: 108/250

Momentum carried me into another perfect arc, thirty seconds later.

[-40 HP]

Cavernous King Slime’s HP: 68/250

Yes. Progress. Predictable, mathematical, beautiful.

But even beauty has a cost.

Thirty more seconds of darting, sidestepping, and pretending that divine patience was part of my plan took its toll. Taking a breather between every step could only get me so far.

Stamina: 39% — Warning: Fatigue Imminent.

My vision blurred and my movement slowed just enough to mistime my next dodge, and  a stray pseudopod slammed into my side.

[-7 HP]

HP: 21/55

I stumbled, grimacing as the impact rang through my ribs. The hit landed like a cathedral bell tolling inside my ribs. The sound wasn’t external; it was in me, reverberating through bone and breath alike. For a second, everything inside my chest went liquid. My thoughts staggered out of sync with the rhythm of the fight, a beat too slow, too wide. I could feel the metal flex and settle against me, hot from friction and acid, the air inside the cuirass turning sharp with the smell of singed leather.

“Part of the demonstration!” Ceralis roared helpfully.

“Demonstration of what?” Anabeth called.

“Pain tolerance!” it thundered.

This is not good. Cheap tricks might not get me there. I need something to revitalize me.

Then I saw a viscous and effervescent vial dangling along her belt pouch, beside her jars of slime. It must be a potion of some sort. Surely a mage of her standing would not venture into a slime-infested cavern without some kind of restorative elixir. Surely that liquid shimmer wasn’t just for her research. Surely the Saints would understand a little . . . tactical borrowing.

Now I just had to trick her into thinking it was for demonstration purposes.

I straightened, still winded but attempting to radiate divine composure. “Lady Anabeth!” I called out, with all the urgency of a battlefield sermon. “For the sake of the lesson, hand me that vial you carry! The glimmering one!”

She glanced down. “This? It’s for preserving biological samples.”

“Exactly! A perfect medium for testing resilience and cross-disciplinary restoration under duress!”

She hesitated, brow furrowing. “You want to drink it?”

‘Not want, no. Must. For pedagogy.’

Ceralis, never one to miss a chance at escalation, thundered through me: “Observe, disciple! The sacred rite of Reconstitution through Alchemical Faith!”

[-7 HP]

HP: 14/55

The Slime King took its chance to land another well-aimed spit at me.

“Oh, but I must say—”

“Give, woman! Give!”

“Surely the Knight of the Order knows more than I,” she glanced down a final time, pulling the vial from her belt with exaggerated care. “Far be it from a humble scholar to question divine methodology.” Then she threw it over to me. It wasn’t a pebble, yet it followed the same perfect arc nonetheless.

I caught it against my gauntlet. “Does it have restorative properties?”

Anabeth called over, voice barely audible above the slime’s wet roar. “Yes, but—”

But I had already popped the cork, lifted the visor of my helm, and downed the content.

Then I learned the cold, hard fact of life: Do not drink random liquid you didn’t know the use of.

It tasted . . . slimy.

The first sensation was immediate: a slick, gelatinous mass slid across my tongue with all the enthusiasm of a dozen tiny worms staging a revolt. It smelled of sour swamp water and spoiled moss, and the texture was—horrifyingly—alive in a way my analytical mind could not comfortably classify. The burn followed, a viscous heat crawling down my throat like it had a sense of purpose, sticking to my esophagus like slime-flavored honey. Each gulp made me wonder whether my stomach was already negotiating a truce with this foreign entity.

[Status Effect: Internal Slime Growth — Minor. Duration: 3 minutes. Side effect: Minor Stamina gain and Partial Paralysis.]

“What is this?” I roared.

“That’s nutrient broth. For cultivating slime cultures!” She said. “It’s non-lethal to humans, but I wouldn’t drink slime. Maybe the followers of the Saints have different digestive needs!”

‘No, I don’t! I have no need for drinking slime juice!’

“Aha!” Ceralis cried. “He who incubates the enemy within to understand it!”

[Stamina Regenerated: +8%]

Stamina: 47%

[DEX - 50% for the next 3 minutes]

Temporary DEX: 11

This is ridiculous! Why wasn’t that a restorative potion? Why would she bring nutrient broth for the stupid SLIMES and not for us?

Then, with a calm that made my blood boil, Anabeth reached into another pouch.

“Unlike you, Ser Knight,” she said, voice dripping with casual smug, “I am not a follower of the Sainthood. I have a normal digestive system.”

Her fingers closed around a slender vial that shimmered warmly, clearly labeled Restorative Elixir.

“So I consume a normal restorative potion—”

YES! GIVE IT TO ME—

She popped the cork and drank it in a single motion.

NO!

“Oh yes,” she declared, stretching her arms with theatrical flair, “refreshed! My fatigue is as good as gone now!”

You did NOTHING!

Why did you need to restore your stamina!

[Status Effect: Severe Annoyance — Duration: Unknown. Side effect: Minor Cognitive Impairment, Increased Irritation]

The next pseudopod swung toward me with the lazy inevitability of a slow-rising tide, yet I was too slow to sidestep. My gauntlet raised on instinct, blade angled just in time to meet the mass.

[Parried!]

[-3 HP]

HP: 11/55

WARNING: Your HP is at or lower than 20%. If HP reaches 0, you will collapse.

The impact reverberated through my arm. Even parrying, the slime’s weight made my blade quiver in hand, the strike’s force partially absorbed by my armor but fully acknowledged by my nerves.

By the follicles of the Saints, I am now slower than a slime.

But hold on. I stared at the numbers. Why did I only take 3 damage?