The Country of Beastfolk and Demi-Humans

High above, far beyond where any human hand could reach, a kite wheeled across the sky, letting out its piercing cry.

The blue went on forever, and white clouds gave color to that monochrome expanse.

A dazzling sun and a cool breeze.

The earth underfoot was unpaved; through the soles of leather boots came only the firm feel of packed ground.

Every so often, the small jolt of stepping on a pebble shot up through her boots, and the long-gray-haired woman walked along the rough, weed-trimmed-and-nothing-more road while yawning.

Her long hair was bundled with a red ribbon and tied high on her head, and even then the tips reached down as far as her waist.

Her body was slim, but well-fleshed in the right places; the bosom her white blouse and leather chestplate failed to conceal carved a deep cleavage, and with every step the shadow of it swayed softly.

Even hidden by thick trousers, the richness of her rear was plain to see, and the line of her hips was startlingly high.

Cinched by a man's plain, thick belt, her waist was so narrow it made you wonder where her organs even fit, and through the gap between trousers and blouse her belly showed faint hints of abdominal muscle.

That slender body carried almost no needless fat, and anyone who looked could tell at a glance that it had been trained to the absolute limit.

Beneath the gray bangs, her eyes were gold. Sharp, calling to mind a beast of prey, never letting their guard down even in a quiet moment.

She was not the prim and proper sort of lady, but to call her a peerless beauty wouldn't have been an exaggeration.

And this beauty had two things on her that no human did.

One was the pair of large ears beside the red-ribbon-tied bundle of her hair. The other was the large tail that swayed gently against her rear.

Both were gray, the same as her hair.

Beast — and more specifically, wolf, ears and tail, proving that this woman was no mere human, but a beastfolk with physical abilities far beyond a human's.

Her age looked to be just under twenty. Her expression brimmed with youth and vitality.

And on her back, a greatsword so large it seemed completely out of place for a woman to handle.

A blade that no grown man could swing even with both hands she carried lightly, walking without effort.

Setting that greatsword aside, her appearance was that of a lightly-armored swordswoman.

"Fornelis. You're in awfully good spirits today, aren't you."

"Not really… well, the two of them look happy, so."

Beside the gray-haired beauty — Fornelis, walked a woman whose golden hair, beautiful as actual gold, was woven into a single braid.

The woman's voice carried a soft, gentle tenderness, and the lightly-armored swordswoman answered in a brisk, cool tone. Her slightly low voice gave listeners an androgynous impression, and combined with the rough weapon on her back, made her seem strong-willed.

She was indeed strong-willed, the kind who pushed to the front lines in battle and held them as a shield, but she also had a heart that loved flowers, was fond of children, and from that side of herself, she sometimes felt a touch of envy over her androgynous, slightly low voice.

Especially since the golden-haired woman walking beside her was so much more "feminine" than this gray-haired swordswoman, that envy only deepened.

This other beauty too was no less peerlessly lovely than the gray-haired swordswoman.

She wore thick priestly robes patterned in blue and white, and in her hand was a [Mithril] staff lavishly worked with ornate decoration.

The long golden braid hung over her left shoulder, ornamented with a rose-shaped hairpiece.

Her somewhat large eyes had a slight droop at the outer corners, deep blue in color.

Each time the golden-haired priestess walked, the long braid and the red-rose ornament swayed.

Only, the body hidden beneath those thick robes was sparse on flesh, and the chest in particular, when she walked beside Fornelis, came up so flat the difference was glaring.

The skirt of her robes was long enough to hide her ankles, but a deep slit cut up the left side, and through it her shapely legs sheathed in white stockings peeked out.

She stood about half a head taller than Fornelis, which only emphasized how slender she was compared to the swordswoman.

If the impression Fornelis gave was of a body in the flesh, the priestess gave the impression of something out of a statue or a painting, a kind of completed, sculpted beauty.

"Still, it really is a lively scene, don't you think, Fornelis?"

"Heh, you're right. They sure don't look like a party of heroes out to slay the [Demon King]."

The two beauties' gazes were directed forward at two figures.

One had black hair.

In this world, that color was a rarity — when she'd first heard the words, she'd suspected the talk of bards, or even an old fairy tale, so detached did it feel from reality.

The summoned-from-another-world [Hero], called to save the world.

She hadn't believed it at first.

A world ravaged by the [Demon King] and the monsters he spawned.

Even wrapped in a transparent blue sky, the earth beneath was always stained with human blood.

Goblins, lizardmen, griffins. Every kind of monster. Demonic beasts that bred without limit.

Villages were attacked by sundry monsters, towns were destroyed, capital cities burned.

One day.

The largest forest kingdom in the beastfolk lands where Fornelis lived, [Grabalt], was attacked by monsters.

Grabalt, surrounded by deep forests and swamps, was a natural fortress. It had been attacked by the [Demon King]'s armies before, and it had a proven record of weathering invasions thousands strong.

But while it was an impregnable fortress to ground-walking monsters like goblins and lizardmen, against sky-flying monsters like griffins it was completely exposed.

For beastfolk who couldn't use magic, flying monsters were the worst kind of enemy, and they could only fight back with bows and slung stones. The fact that Grabalt had survived up to that day was thanks solely to its long, abundant experience in battle.

Even with their disadvantage against airborne foes, they had fought through and survived to that day, and that confidence was their strength.

Anxiety dulls movement, while confidence makes one stronger. Call it self-delusion if you like, but it was by never giving up to the last that the beastfolk had always seized victory.

But there are some things that aren't enough alone.

If you turned your gaze from the swarm of demonic beasts that seemed ready to fill the whole sky, you'd see the goblins, though slow, pushing their way through the swamps to bear down on Grabalt.

Not ten or a hundred. Thousands, tens of thousands… or even more. A vast horde.

It was as if an earthquake had struck: the trees of the forest shook, and beneath them the red eyes of the monsters glittered hungrily, countless eyes seething in the forest's darkness like a carpet.

Even with Grabalt's entire force of more than ten thousand warriors rotating in shifts to fight while they rested, the battle stretched on for five days. Fatigue piled up even on the beastfolk and their superior physiques, and the unending tide of monsters slowly broke their spirits.

What they managed to defend was only the castle. More than seventy percent of the villages scattered throughout the forest were burned, and the residents fled into the castle. What had happened to those who hadn't made it in time — even the young Fornelis had understood.

The swords the dwarves had prepared shattered, the spears broke, the arrows ran out.

Food and water alone they had stockpiled in abundance, but every morning and every night, the sound of goblins, the larger orcs, and the still-larger ogres battering the gates of Grabalt with their siege rams stripped away appetite and sapped the warriors' will.

From the walls, all four directions overflowed with monsters, and winged monsters covered the sky like locust swarms.

Everyone pictured the kingdom's fall, and yet still meant to resist until the very last instant — and only a small handful of people, the strong-hearted ones, could actually think that way.

When some had even begun to commit suicide, reinforcements finally appeared.

Only two of them.

That was the only reinforcement that the magic kingdom of Fonteau, itself attacked by monsters just a few months before Grabalt, could send.

A young witch with silver hair that gleamed like stars in a night sky, and the first black-haired [Hero] anyone had ever seen.

The two of them broke through the tens of thousands of monsters to reach Grabalt, and from there they linked up with Grabalt's army to push the monster forces back, and saved the kingdom.

That moment of awe, Fornelis would never forget so long as she lived.

And then the [Hero]'s party, now a group of three, went on to save the holy city where scholars and clergy gathered, where the golden-haired woman lived, and so they had come to be where they were now.

Along the way they rescued towns and villages attacked by monsters, freed people captured by monsters as food or labor; now the word "[Hero]" was a synonym for hope, and wherever they went people fell over themselves to offer aid.

Even Fornelis's and the priestess's seemingly modest gear was in fact considerably expensive: fine pieces specially prepared for them.

A massive sword forged from rare melted [Mithril], a chestplate woven from the fur and pelts of powerful monsters. Boots. Their clothes were simply clean, but their gear could turn back the flame and poison breath of monsters, and was lighter and tougher than steel armor.

"On good terms, or bad? Leticia and the others, they're always quarreling."

"Oh? But it's so lovely — enough that I almost get jealous."

"Hm."

The only man among the four of them was, before their eyes, in the middle of what could only be called an argument (though "argument" might be too strong; it was more of a charming little squabble) with the remaining member of their party.

She was a girl with beautiful silver hair parted high on her head into two ponytails tied with green ribbons.

She wore a light outfit in green tones, prioritizing freedom of movement. Over that she'd thrown a fresh-spring-green mantle that concealed her small body.

The ears that peeked through her silver hair weren't human or beastfolk; they were the long ears characteristic of elves. But compared to the ordinary elves Fornelis knew, they were slightly shorter… proof that the girl was a half-elf, born between an elf and a human.

She'd heard that because of this, she'd lived a constrained, awkward existence back in her home country, even though she held the rank of princess.

Whether it was because she was a hybrid of magic-rich elves and magic-skilled humans, or whether the silver-haired witch — Leticia, was simply talented in her own right, her mana was exceptional even among the spell-skilled elves; even the most basic fireball spell could sweep more than a dozen goblins aside in a single strike.

The mystery was why a half-elf, a girl elves themselves looked down on, was traveling with the [Hero] who sought to save the world.

At first Fornelis had been suspicious of those two's relationship.

Being neither human nor elf, and a princess to boot, born of mixed blood, it would have been no surprise for her to be hated by her whole country.

Elves were an exclusionary race, and prized above all else their long-held traditions.

In other words, with her new blood — human blood, half of it, Leticia would have been hated by all the most powerful high-elven lineages, the oldest bloodlines among elvenkind. And for such a person to have come out of the royal family had to have been a major problem for the elves as a race.

Indeed, until reinforcements had arrived, even Fornelis, daughter of Baldur, chieftain of the wolf-beastfolk and ruler of the beastfolk country, hadn't known of her existence.

The same went for the golden-haired priestess walking beside her. Despite her high status as a cleric, she too hadn't known about Leticia, an elven princess of mixed human blood.

If she'd been treated that way, it would be only natural for her to hate her country, hate the world, Fornelis thought.

Yet in reality, Leticia neither hated her country nor wished for the world to fall — instead she traveled with the [Hero] who would save the world.

— Fornelis thought, suddenly.

Surely it was someone like her who ought to be revered as a [Saintess].

And the one to whom that [Saintess] could be honest about her own feelings was the black-haired young man walking at her side.

He stood about a head taller than Leticia.

Handsome he wasn't, probably. Even Fornelis, who wasn't versed in male looks, thought him plain-faced.

To say he had no distinguishing features at all might be a touch harsh.

He was, however, deeply good-natured. A truly good person.

He had wept, grieved, and gotten angry for so many people's sakes.

When the forest kingdom of Grabalt had been under attack. When they'd gone to save the holy city.

Surely too when he'd fought in the magic kingdom of Fonteau — he must have been angry then as well.

Angry for the innocent commoners being trampled by monsters.

That kind of person. He'd get angry for total strangers, people he didn't know by name or by face, didn't even know the sound of their voices. And he'd be sad for them.

So surely he'd been angry for Leticia too… and once Fornelis thought of it that way, she could understand why this proud, slightly sharp-tongued silver-haired witch let her guard down enough around him to bicker like that.

"Still. I do wish he'd look this way a little more, too."

"You're traveling together; that's a terribly luxurious complaint."

"Heh… you're right."

Things like love, romance, subtle feelings: Fornelis claimed to be poor at reading them. She gave the priestess's words a wry smile.

She had noticed that this golden-haired priestess was in love with the black-haired [Hero]. But knowing too where the [Hero]'s own feelings pointed, she couldn't bring herself to say the next thing.

Fornelis let the silence stand with a vague, wry smile, then stretched out her body to ease the stiffness of long walking.

That lithe, predator-of-prey body bent into a bow, and her ample chest crushed against the leather chestplate. Her stretched-out form pulled her blouse upward, and her belly showed itself from the hem, exposing her small, charming navel completely.

Seeing this, the priestess covered her mouth with a hand and laughed primly.

"That's unseemly, Fornelis."

"Ugh… it's because this thing is so short. Next town we get to, I'll have to get new gear made."

"…………"

Her youthful, not-yet-twenty body was still growing even as they traveled, and her chestplate began to feel tight between one town and the next.

Of course armor was meant to be adjusted to fit the body, but Fornelis always thought there had to be a limit to how tightly you cinched it.

It was a complaint particular to her, to the beastfolk race who, up to now, had relied on their own bodies and weapons alone in battle, never wearing armor.

And in contrast to Fornelis, that worry was utterly foreign to the priestess in her loose-fitting robes.

After a sidelong glance at the deep, distorted cleavage of breasts squeezed against the chestplate, the priestess let out a small sigh she hoped Fornelis wouldn't notice.

When Fornelis turned to look at her curiously, she sighed again, with the look of someone tired.

The era when the [Demon King] still lived.

The land overflowed with monsters; the people despaired day after day, clinging to the [Hero] as their one and only hope.

For Fornelis, traveling alongside that hope, those days had been… painful at times, sad at others.

But also, they had been bright enough that she could call them precious.

A hero who would save the world, and comrades she could call her closest friends. The most radiant time of her life. The most fulfilling.

It had not faded; it remained in her as memory.

Over a decade — no, nearly twenty years — had passed since then, even now.

 

*

 

That country held two things that could rightly be called "treasures."

One was a weapon used by the [Hero] who had brought down the [Demon King]: the [Hero]'s sword, which had felled all evil.

And the other was Fornelis, the beauty-princess of the wolf-beastfolk who had traveled with that [Hero].

Beneath the sun her gray fur shone dully; her body was forged like a sharp blade.

Powerful, beautiful sword skill honed through fierce battles with the monsters the [Demon King] had spawned, and physical ability rare even in the long history of the beastfolk race.

She could not overcome the beastfolk's particular weakness, the inability to use magic, but her physical abilities had been the equal of any adult's even when she'd been a child. By the end of the journey she was said to have matched the [Hero] himself in swordcraft and martial skill: a warrior princess.

She was the most famous figure in this forest kingdom of Grabalt, and even now in her thirties she still took up the sword as the captain of the knight order, a heroine in her own right.

She was the king's daughter, but as a woman she held no right to the throne in Grabalt. So she had resolved to spend her life on the battlefield instead, and that strength of will stood out even among the beastfolk who lived and breathed for combat, earning her popularity from men and women alike.

The long, beautiful gray hair was bound at the high crown of her head with a white silk ribbon so as not to be a hindrance, yet still it reached past the middle of her back.

The cool, almond-shaped eyes were the warm gold of sunlight on the earth, the polar opposite of her white skin and gray hair. A high nose, a fine-cut chin, and a poised expression that lent her a noble air; the weak-spirited would shrink back from a mere meeting of eyes.

The large ears set high on her head, characteristic of the wolf-beastfolk, and the fur-rich tail at her rear were both gray as well.

It went strikingly well with the thick, jet-black clothing she wore — a practical military uniform built to withstand actual combat.

And even from over the thick clothes, the swell of her chest was rich enough to seem as if two large fruits had been packed inside.

That bountiful swell, almost out of proportion with the slim, tight build of her body, carved odd creases into the front of her uniform, and shook seductively as if to provoke a man's baser instincts at the slightest movement. The effect was like newly-made confectionery.

But the chest that drew men's eyes was, for the gray-haired woman herself, not at all welcome.

Having men direct their baser feelings at her was not pleasant, and more importantly, it was a hindrance in battle.

For all that her upper body drew the eye, the unfeminine, matching black trousers were belted to the very limit, and the abdomen beneath was so thin you'd wonder where her organs went.

The black-leather boots were equally austere, as if reflecting her strict, disciplined nature. Which was exactly why her feminine beauty, the richness of her figure, came across to men's eyes as even more alluring.

The way her plain working uniform stirred such base feelings in onlookers was, in a way, a kind of sin.

Marriage might have put some brakes on it, but no such happy gossip ever floated up around Fornelis, the beastfolk heroine.

Because for her, the kind of partner she could spend her life with had to be "someone stronger than herself."

It was a value-system that came naturally to the beastfolk who lived in the forest kingdom of Grabalt, but since no one stronger than the woman who had traveled with the [Hero] and felled the [Demon King] could possibly exist, she was still single.

(It's not as if I have any desire to marry.)

She tried to bluff to herself, but past thirty, she'd come to harbor a little (something like) interest in the idea of marriage.

The one saving grace, perhaps, were the "duelists" who turned up day after day.

She was no better at the subtleties of romance than she had been on the journey with the [Hero], but knowing there were men still chasing after a woman past thirty wasn't actually a bad feeling.

She knew well enough that she'd led a plain swordswoman's life.

And there were more than ten men a week who challenged her, hoping to defeat her and make her their wife.

Surrounded by forest, with monsters now few, days spent on hunting and farming alone must have been tedious.

The sight of men coming at her, trying to make this strong, proud heroine "theirs", was a kind of entertainment now.

A few years back a place like an arena had even been built and made into a public "spectacle", and Fornelis thought even that wasn't so bad.

If she could relieve Grabalt's people's boredom with her own swordcraft, well then.

"Captain. The arena is ready."

While Fornelis stood idly in the shadows of an out-of-sight waiting room, a member of the knight order spoke up.

A deserted stone waiting room. Her high voice echoed off the walls.

Fornelis had picked up the soldier's footsteps with her large wolf ears long before she'd entered the room, but pretended she'd only just noticed and turned her gaze toward the voice.

"Mm. I see."

She pushed off the wall.

Two knights had come to fetch Fornelis from the waiting room. Female knights wearing iron breastplates over the same black military uniform Fornelis wore.

Originally, "knight" had been a position men alone could hold.

But after Fornelis had traveled with the [Hero], made her name in battle, and helped save the world, more women had come to admire her and aim to become knights.

And so the number of female knights around the knight-princess had grown, until there were now hardly any male knights — that, too, was one reason why no light gossip floated around her.

But never mind that.

The two female knights removed their helmets, held them at chest level, and bowed, stepping aside to clear the way.

"Thank you. I'll be off, then."

"Ha! Best of luck!"

"Best of luck!"

A woman with sharp eyes and chestnut hair that fell in waves to her shoulders, and a tall woman with golden hair parted into two side-braids.

The chestnut-haired woman had rounded ears, like a raccoon-dog's, set on her head, and a matching round tail at her hips.

In contrast, the golden-haired woman had slender, sharply-pointed ears whose tips were black, and a similar tail, fox-like.

Both proved their beastfolk heritage, and in their eyes was clear admiration for Fornelis.

"Here you are."

The fox-eared woman stepped forward and held out Fornelis's weapon. A massive wooden sword so heavy that even she, trained as a knight, had to lift it with both hands.

Of course, a poorly-placed strike with it could still kill.

But Fornelis stood in the arena with that oversized weapon, and her opponents who would cross blades with her accepted that fact.

To try to make Fornelis, the country's foremost beauty and a wielder of the greatsword, "yours", the wager of one's life was a given. That was common sense in this country.

She had no taste for senseless killing, but there was also an element of her using this oversized blade to weed out those who would "risk their lives in coming for her", only those.

"Captain. The bets today are mostly on you again."

"Honestly… we're not making any profits like this."

"It's not as if we're doing this for money. It can't be helped, can it?"

The greatest spice of any entertainment is, after all, the movement of money. Even in Grabalt, where most of the land was forest, currency had spread, and there were no small number of people who bet their daily earnings on the duels' outcomes.

Even if they spent nearly everything they earned, food was everywhere in the forest. Nuts and berries, beasts — for Grabalt's people, most of whom were hunters, money was a thing for buying brief moments of excitement.

There wasn't much attachment to it, and so the arena could thrive.

Clack, clack. As they walked along the stone corridor, Fornelis spun the massive sword with a single twist of her wrist, as if to check its balance.

A small breeze stirred, and three heads of hair swayed slowly.

The fox-eared knight, who must have been the sort who cared about her appearance, quickly smoothed her slightly mussed bangs back into place with a hand.

The raccoon-eared knight, on the other hand, didn't seem to care about appearances and followed after Fornelis without a thought… and once she fell into step beside her, the fox-eared knight set about smoothing her hair for her.

"… Hey."

"You're going out in front of people, so look the part, all right?"

"…… Everyone only cares about the captain."

"That's not true, you know? There are plenty of men watching you, too."

"… Eh?"

"Probably. About three of them."

"…………"

The raccoon-eared knight, realizing she'd been teased, pulled a face, but the fox-eared knight wasn't fazed by it and lightly massaged her stiff cheeks with her palms.

When the shorter raccoon-eared knight was treated that way, she looked like a sulky child being coaxed back to good humor, endearingly so.

Watching her subordinates out of the corner of her eye, Fornelis arranged her own bangs a little.

That she felt a little envious was her secret.

As captain, there were no subordinates who could comfortably banter with Fornelis. To begin with, even being one of the savior-of-the-nation hero's subordinates was held to be a great honor, and there were even those who treated her as something close to a sacred figure.

In that sense, these two were among the few subordinates she could relax around.

"Don't chat too much. Focus on the job."

"H-ha, yes!"

"Acknowledged, Captain."

The two of them answered, then fitted on their helmets, hiding their faces. Fornelis thought that if they were going to hide their faces, then bothering to fix their bangs had been pointless, but she kept it to herself.

Tension and trust. She gave a wry smile at the two contrasting responses and passed through the stone corridor that led on from the waiting room.

Stepping from the dim passage out into the sunlight, her vision was blinded for an instant in white, and then her sight resolved on the citizens cheering from the spectators' stands.

Beastfolk and demi-humans. Some humans, too.

(My ears hurt…)

Fornelis, beastfolk and with hearing keener than human or demi-human, gave a small grimace at the cheering that seemed to shake the ground itself.

Today too, she stood at the center of the wide arena, bladeless wooden greatsword in hand.

From end to end, roughly fifty paces for a person on foot. Around the circular wooden arena were spectator seats, and now there were even people willing to pay extra to sit close to the arena.

The most popular spectacle in entertainment-starved Grabalt.

That was the duel for the right to marry the warrior princess Fornelis.

As preliminaries, named mercenaries and knights would fight each other for the right to challenge Fornelis, and those bouts were quite popular too.

And recently, the rare monster had been caught and brought to the arena to do battle; that kind of entertainment had even started up.

Fornelis herself thought monster-versus-monster fighting was going a bit too far, but boredom was something that darkened and clouded human desires.

Massive sums of money moved on monster trading, and those sums flowed into the populace's hands through the arena's betting.

Was it a duel for money, or a duel to test one's strength? By now, even that line had begun to blur.

"I'll win today for sure!"

While she was still pondering the state of the duels, a loud voice yanked her thoughts back to the present.

Standing serenely in the breeze with her long gray hair tossing, Fornelis faced, across the arena floor, a young man whose face still carried boyishness, cutting an aggressive figure.

He couldn't have been twenty yet.

About the age she'd been when she first set out with the [Hero], Fornelis thought every time she saw him.

Yes, every time.

This wasn't the first time he had stood before Fornelis in this arena.

By Fornelis's count, it was his third.

In reality it was his fifth, but on the first and second attempts he'd been knocked unconscious before even a single exchange of blows, and so they didn't remain in her memory.

The third time he'd taken one strike, and the fourth he'd managed to parry one back, earning him the courtesy of having his face remembered.

By the beastfolk value-system of taking "someone stronger than oneself" as a partner, this was someone whose name, let alone face, shouldn't even register in her shortlist.

The pose of someone whose hope outstrips his actual skill looks foolish to onlookers, and at his declaration the beastfolk in the spectator seats jeered.

But none of those jeers reached the young man's ears.

"I see."

Focused only on Fornelis before him, he leveled the tip of his ordinary-sized wooden sword at her.

It was a poor-looking weapon next to Fornelis's greatsword, less small than miserable, but the spirit of "I'm definitely going to win" stirred Fornelis's heart.

There were many who came at her hoping to make her "theirs", but few who came purely "to win".

That was probably why. Feeling pleased with the young man's pure gaze, Fornelis let her mouth relax, by a degree only those close to her would recognize, even though she herself didn't notice.

At the same time, she knew this was an opponent she couldn't bring her full power against, yet she didn't intend to let her guard down or hold back.

She knew she had an inflexible personality, but when it came to "battle", regardless of who the opponent was, she didn't hold back. That was her pride.

Especially in a sword-fight.

A strong gust of wind blew.

Dust rose faintly, fluttering the hem of Fornelis's black uniform.

Her long ribbon-tied hair swayed widely, and for an instant her bangs blocked her vision.

A duel here had no "begin" signal. Once you stepped into the arena and faced your opponent, that was the signal that combat had begun.

The weapon was a bladeless wooden sword, but a bad hit could still kill, and to enter with the mindset of a "sparring match" was beyond foolishness, into outright stupidity.

The young man had learned that in his second duel with Fornelis.

"Here I go!!"

But still too naive, thought the heroine, who continued to train even after defeating the [Demon King].

Aiming for a momentary opening wasn't bad, but declaring an attack was foolish.

Her view had been blocked for just a single instant. In that instant, the young man closed in to within "one more step". Young as he was, he was beastfolk, after all.

His physical ability was far beyond what a human or elf could manage; the speed and power of his step were easily a match for a human knight's. But that was only if the opponent was a human knight.

If the opponent was a beastfolk youth, and on top of that one whose "coming at her" she could see plainly, there was no panic.

Before he could plant his final step, Fornelis stepped back one pace.

His timing thrown off, the young man couldn't kill his momentum, and his wooden sword's strike aimed at her head missed cleanly. The tip grazed her bangs.

Without so much as blinking as the wooden sword passed right before her, Fornelis hefted with one arm a greatsword grown men needed both arms to wield.

The strike landing on the young man's sword was as expected, but it failed to knock the wooden sword from his hands.

It wasn't that she'd held back. He had honed himself, purely, and endured it.

In the middle of the duel, Fornelis let her mouth relax further with a "ho."

His face twisting in pain, the young man re-gripped his wooden sword and counterattacked immediately. Carried by the momentum of being repelled, he swept his sword up and brought it down at Fornelis, who was still raising her greatsword — but that too was parried away by the haft of her blade.

"Not bad. You've been training hard, it seems."

"Hgh."

At her plain words of praise, the young man let slip a sound of frustration.

He simply didn't have the skill to match her, and the lack of composure in his voice made that plain.

In fact, Fornelis was blocking the young man's attacks without effort and hadn't even broken her breathing. Meanwhile, the young man's breathing was ragged from extreme tension, and after only two exchanges sweat already beaded on his forehead.

To catch his breath, he leaped backward — and the next instant, Fornelis, greatsword hoisted on her shoulder, closed the distance he'd opened in a single step.

"Wha?!"

"Block."

A single word.

Fornelis poured strength into her arms without hesitation. Beneath her uniform her muscles swelled, and her body seemed to grow one size larger.

The pressure was so terrible the young man's body locked up, and without thinking he brought his wooden sword in front of his face by pure instinct to brace for the strike.

He'd stumbled trying to step back, almost falling, and so his guard was up while off-balance, but Fornelis didn't hold back even now.

She swung the greatsword down at the head of the off-balance young man and slammed his larger-than-her body to the ground.

There was no scream.

The moment he was hit he couldn't kill the momentum and took the impact to his head, knocking him unconscious. And then, unable even to break his fall, his back smacked into the ground hard enough to put him out cold.

Once the result was clear, it was over before the spectators had even finished their idle chatter.

When one spectator who'd noticed the result raised a cheer, the rest of the crowd followed in turn.

In response to the cheers, Fornelis waved a hand around the arena. The performance drew rough male cheers and high-pitched female screams.

Fornelis, with her dignified aura, had no shortage of female fans, and even today nearly half the arena was filled with women.

She waved at those women too, but inside, without letting it show on her face, Fornelis sighed.

That she wasn't fighting seriously was obvious to anyone watching.

(Tedious.)

A single phrase. But pure, and simple, in feeling.

The days of traveling to defeat the [Demon King] had been fun.

She'd seen many deaths, and that had been painful — but even so, it had been fun.

A great enemy. Countless enemies like a swarm of locusts. And to face them alongside the [Hero] from another world and the comrades she could call her closest friends.

Those days were precious, dear, but she could never return to them.

The [Demon King] had fallen, the remaining monsters had been demoted to playthings of entertainment, and the younger generation grew up never knowing the [Demon King]'s threat.

So, boredom.

Boredom upon boredom — without her even being aware of it, a sigh slipped from her.

A deep, heavy sigh.

(Tedious.)

After every battle, it was always like this.

While her sword was raised she could forget this boredom and feel her blood quicken, but once it was over, the excitement cooled, and proportional to its heat her thoughts turned to homesickness.

Telling herself this was bad, looking only to the past and turning her eyes from the future, she pulled herself together and, pushed along by the cheering, made her way off the arena floor.

As the daughter of the king, Fornelis had the duty of entertaining the people like this, and after the duel there was still work for her to do as a member of the knight order, as a swordswoman.

City patrols, dealing with complaints from the citizens, and so on.

Trivialities. Not work that a world-saving hero should be doing… but work somebody had to do.

By thinking that way, Fornelis staved off her boredom.

She knew how precious this peace was, how dear, and yet still she longed for upheaval; perhaps that was the beastfolk in her nature.

Her large beast ears caught the bustle of the populace, but not the footfalls of upheaval.

Even though a world-shaking crisis was already pressing in close.

The sky was perfectly clear. The same color as the sky in the dreams she always had, those not-peaceful but precious days.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow. She believed the world was at peace.

 

*

 

"Hmm… what's all this, now?"

Watching the line of carriages, the woman with an old person's speech tilted her head.

By appearance alone, she was barely tall enough to reach a grown beastfolk man's belly, and beneath the black undershirt and the technician's many-pocketed leather jacket her chest showed almost no swell at all.

But somehow the old-woman-like speech sounded natural coming from her, and none of the beastfolk around her thought it odd.

It was because they knew this woman: that she was far older than they were, old enough to be addressed as "granny," really.

The woman's name was Shamia.

Red-copper hair, and topaz-colored eyes that held deep intelligence. As she watched more than a dozen carriages pass before her, she had spoken those words.

Ahead of them was a checkpoint.

Shamia was in charge of one of the checkpoints set on the border between the magic kingdom of Fonteau and the forest kingdom of Grabalt, and she was at a loss about how to deal with this group calling themselves refugees from Fonteau.

Naturally.

A handful of travelers, even a dozen or so, would normally come with a travel permit issued by Fonteau.

This time it was easily more than ten times that number, judging by the carriages and the people packed into them, well over a hundred. And not one of them carried any kind of travel permit.

Naturally, no valuables either. Even the number with anything resembling proof of identity was vanishingly small.

That being the case, the natural suspicion was that they were some group fleeing trouble. But on this scale, that too was strange.

In any case, these self-styled refugees were claiming the royal capital of the magic kingdom of Fonteau had been destroyed by something as common as a slime. Shamia and the others at the checkpoint couldn't quite bring themselves to believe it.

"Slimes destroying Fonteau, can you really believe such a story?"

"As if — a country full of magic-mad elves could be destroyed by slimes, which are weak to magic of all things."

The hulking beastfolk with bear-like round ears spoke to her, and Shamia answered with exasperation.

She was not beastfolk but a demi-human, a dwarf. Like elves, dwarves could sense the presence of spirits and benefit from their blessings in their smithcraft.

Shamia, no exception, could also sense spirits, and so too could elves.

The decisive difference between dwarves and elves was simply "whether or not they can use magic."

Dwarves could not use magic, but in exchange they had smithing talent — they bore the strong blessing of the fire-spirits the elves found awkward.

The adorable-looking Shamia had been swinging a hammer since childhood, and had a grip strength impossible to guess from her slim arms. On her back hung a massive hammer at odds with her cute appearance, and that was the weapon she fought with.

With the war against the [Demon King] over, there were fewer occasions for smithing, and now her days were spent in tedium at the checkpoint, occasionally checking the IDs of travelers passing through.

There were more than a few dwarves who thought things had been better in the [Demon King]'s era, and Shamia was one of them.

For dwarves, smithing was part of life, indispensable, not to be missing.

Awake or asleep, smithing had filled her thoughts — and then, the moment the fighting ended, that craft was no longer needed.

Even when monsters appeared, they were few, and existing weapons sufficed. Iron and silver went to building homes and furnishings; what dwarves hammered now were kitchen knives, plows, hoes. And cooking pots.

For Shamia and the dwarves, elves were objects of both envy and jealousy.

Elven magic was still valued after the war ended, but the dwarves' weapon-craft was steadily losing its place.

The bear-eared beastfolk smiled wryly at her jealous remark.

"Magic-mad elves aside, with this many refugees, keeping them at the checkpoint will be hard, Captain Shamia."

"I know, you fool — but if they're a band of thieves, letting them into the country is also a problem."

"With this many of them, and this conspicuous? I'd say that's a problem in itself, them being thieves."

A different young man, this one with a tiger-striped tail, joined in.

At his words, Shamia gave another "hmm" and worried over it.

Suspicious, yes, but if they were this conspicuous, they'd find it hard to act inside the country in turn. Were they really refugees, or was it a lie?

To begin with, could a country really be destroyed by mere slimes —?

For Shamia, no — for most people living in this world, slime was a byword for "weakest."

Small, weak. Their liquid bodies might shrug off physical attacks, but they had a weak point, the core, and it was visible right through the mucus.

As long as it wasn't grown unusually large, even a magic-less beastfolk or dwarf could put one down easily, and even a fully grown one could be driven off with little more than a torch's flame.

Cowardly and weak. That was the world's general opinion of slimes.

"Excuse me…"

"What is it now —"

"If at all possible, could we have some food? Among our group are children, and at least for the children, some food…"

The woman who had spoken to Shamia had silver hair.

She stood about half a head taller than Shamia. But compared to the originally short Shamia, the woman was still young for an elf.

Her once-beautiful silver hair, ungroomed, was disheveled and dirtied with dust. Her clothing too had been a frilly dress, but it was now stained with dust and some unidentifiable mucus.

The exhausted shadow on her face still held a trace of her beauty, suggesting that this woman was of noble birth.

Even though her whole body was dirty, her spine was kept ramrod-straight, and she pushed her chest out, the chest of what had probably once been a pink dress. Shamia thought this was an elf with proper upbringing and good manners.

And, at the same time, that her bosom was large.

The dwarves' aesthetic considered a meager build natural, and the absence of unneeded flesh beautiful; but even with that aesthetic, Shamia could tell this elven woman would be a peerless beauty if she could just get a proper bath.

When the woman's presence registered, the others, including Shamia, swallowed their complaints and straightened up.

"Ha — but, our checkpoint has limited food too…"

"Just enough for the children would do. Could you possibly arrange something for us?"

But even so, the checkpoint's food rations were limited.

When the words "the children" were used, however, Shamia and the others, possessing decent sensibilities, felt the urge to do something.

— And.

"S-sorry…"

A faint gurururu sound. From the elf's belly. The growl of an empty stomach.

"A question, if I may."

"Yes."

"… Is it true that Fonteau was destroyed by slimes?"

When Shamia asked, fumbling with unfamiliar polite speech, the woman lowered her eyes sadly, but nodded firmly.

"Most likely the next target will be here, Grabalt."

"… The slimes will?"

"Geographically, we are closer."

At her words, Shamia raised her head and called out to the soldier on the watchtower, whom she'd had keeping an eye on the Fonteau side since the refugees' arrival.

"See anything?"

"No, sir! Nothing at all!"

"… So he says."

"If they don't come, that's for the best. If only Fonteau… then at least our fighting force is preserved."

She said this, then let out a breath.

"As I said before, we wish for an audience with Grabalt's king, Lord Baldur — as soon as possible. If you can't share food, that's all right. But please, allow us to pass."

"…………"

Shamia folded her arms and looked around at the beastfolk standing nearby.

Every one of them wore a troubled expression.

A hard story to believe, but somehow, it was persuasive. Her hunger was real, and the look on her face when she pressed on toward Grabalt's royal capital even past that hunger was convincing enough.

Before she realized, the suspicion she'd held had faded, and the feeling that this might be true was raising its head.

That was how earnest the woman's words had been.

"For now, what little we can manage, we'll prepare a meal. Hey."

"Are you sure about handing it out like that?"

"Can't be helped, can it. We can hardly leave children to starve… Set a watch on them, all the same."

"Roger that."

It was hardly the tone of respect owed to a superior, but soldiers stationed at a remote checkpoint were like this. Shamia chose to think of it as the easy familiarity that came of trust without rank; that was how she preferred to see it.

Setting that aside.

"And bring out the express horses. Tell King Baldur that he has guests coming."

"Understood. I'll go."

The volunteer was the young man with the tiger-striped tail. The hulking bear-eared beastfolk moved off to prepare the food.

The right people for the right job. The lithe, swift-reflexed beastfolk and the strong, sturdy beastfolk each moved toward what they were good at.

"If so, on that express horse let me —"

"Out of the question. Entry is permitted, but first take a meal and rest. We can't manage a bath, but there's a river out back. You may cleanse yourself there."

At her words, the woman bowed deeply.

That an elf — within Shamia's biased mental image, an arrogant elf who thought only of magic, would bow her head, surprised the usually-stoic dwarf.

"Thank you."

"Wh-what's the matter… you're crying?"

So much that she'd cry over it, Shamia thought, surprised in turn… but if the country really had fallen, then…

A bad premonition flitted through her mind.

"In any case, first, rest yourself. And don't try anything funny — we'll be watching."

That said, Shamia left the spot.

The several hundred refugees were being held in an open area on the Grabalt side, past the checkpoint.

It would have been hard to keep that many people inside the checkpoint itself.

While inspecting the situation, Shamia called over another beastfolk.

"One more express horse. Send it toward the Fonteau side."

"Is that all right? Crossing into another country without permission…"

"Somehow I can't take this for a lie. And if it's true the royal capital was destroyed, the country must be in chaos. We need a sense of how bad that chaos is."

"Understood. I'll send one of the fast ones."

"Mm — tell them to be careful."

If it was all groundless worry, fine.

Even so, those convincing words had given the subordinate a small, but real, sense of unease.

"Um…"

Some time later, while Shamia was watching the refugees, the elven woman from earlier approached her.

Her expression was a touch brighter than before; she seemed to have a bit of life back in her.

A simple meal, but the first in a long time, had restored some of her stamina and spirits.

"Thank you for the meal… um…"

"No need to thank me — though, yes. May I ask your name?"

It was a question to clear up Shamia's earlier suspicion that this might be some noted noble. The woman, realizing belatedly that she hadn't introduced herself, hurriedly bowed her head.

"My apologies, Lady Inspector. I am Meltia — Meltia Fonteau. Daughter of Leticia Fonteau."

She lifted the skirt of her dress elegantly and gave a graceful bow.

The motion was refined; even Shamia, who didn't know courtly etiquette, could tell it wasn't something thought up on the spot. It was deeply ingrained, not the sort of movement one could acquire overnight.

And then, realizing the implications of the name, Shamia hurriedly stepped back one pace.

She hit her back hard against the wood-frame house used by the soldiers at the checkpoint, but didn't even register the pain.

"… W-wh-what?!"

That was the sound that came out of her. Shamia was struck speechless with shock, and the beastfolk man beside her gave an unhinged-sounding shout.

Shamia couldn't decide whether to trust the declaration.

Leticia, of course, was the queen of Fonteau; even Shamia knew that much.

She knew her daughter's name too.

Whether this was a "false claim" or "the truth" she could not tell, but then Meltia slipped a ring off her finger and held it out to Shamia.

"Here. As thanks for the meal… please sell it and share the proceeds among the checkpoint staff."

"…………"

The ring she held out was set with a large ruby. And, because Shamia was a dwarf who had spent long years working with iron and jewels, she could tell at a glance — it was a piece of considerable value.

"This is all I have on hand at the moment, which is, I'm afraid, less than I would wish to give…"

"Mm, mm… mn…"

With the hand opposite the one that had received the ring, Shamia roughly scratched at her head.

Her red-copper hair tangled, and her nails caught hard enough to leave a faint sting. Even so, it was that pain that told her this conversation was real.

"Wh-what do you mean by this?"

"It's thanks. Truly. You shared food with us."

"For thanks, this is awfully valuable, isn't it… mn."

"You truly did save us. The children can finally laugh again. The people of the kingdom could finally rest at ease — this is the very least I can offer, and even so, it pains me."

It seemed to be her honest feelings.

The elven princess Meltia's words warmed Shamia's heart, and the hearts of the beastfolk listening.

"With that, please excuse me. I'm tired, so I would like to rest a little."

"M-mm…"

Shamia couldn't manage a proper reply, and saw Meltia off.

But just before her back disappeared from view, Shamia spotted a black-haired woman keeping close to the silver-haired princess — and her doubt vanished.

Black hair.

That was a hair color that didn't exist in this world.

A color only the [Hero], summoned from another world to save the world, had carried.

And only one person had inherited that hair color.

Leticia Fonteau's other daughter. Meltia's younger sister, Mariabelle.

The [Hero]'s blood-kin, whose name held both "Maria," said to be the holy mother of another world, and a chime of bells that announced her coming as fortune.

"They're the real thing."

"Eh… those refugees, you mean?"

"Idiot! Don't you ever use that word about them again!"

"Eh?! You were the one who said it first, Captain…"

"Hngh."

That was true too.

Wanting to take her earlier words back, Shamia held her head in her hands.

"In-in any case. For supper we'll have to put out everything we've got and properly entertain them."

"That's overdoing it… more importantly…"

"What?"

"If the princess is the real thing, then doesn't that really mean Fonteau was destroyed by slimes?"

"…………"

At those words, Shamia drew in a sharp breath and turned her gaze toward where Meltia had gone.

A cold sweat ran down her spine.

That an elven kingdom, skilled in magic, could be destroyed by slimes, which were poor at handling magic, no one would believe. No one could.

… No one would want to believe.

Because it was the kind of unsettling fact that would shake the very foundation of this world.

"For now, I doubt anyone else is going to come through today. Close the checkpoint gate."

"Just in case, you mean."

"Mm. Just in case."

To begin with, dwarves and beastfolk who couldn't use magic couldn't possibly stand against a slime that had destroyed an elven kingdom.

So why, then, had the elven princess come all the way to the beastfolk country?

The thought flickered across her mind, but for now closing the gate and adding more watchmen took priority, and Shamia left the spot.

 

*

 

There were those who scorned this country, surrounded by deep forests, as "untamed land."

The forest kingdom, Grabalt.

A country where beastfolk, with the ears and tails of beasts and their gifted physical abilities, and demi-humans who communed with spirits and turned that miracle into technology, lived.

More than seventy percent of this country's land was covered in forest, and the ground was always shadowed.

Beneath the forest's canopy the ground was muddy, swarming with insects, and the soil gave off a strange stench.

In places the sun didn't reach, lakes had turned stagnant, and the beasts here were far tougher than the ones around the [Hero]-prosperous Fonteau.

Even beastfolk and demi-humans, with their superior physical ability, rarely set foot in such land; only warriors recognized by their tribe were allowed into the forest.

Therefore the forest's map was inaccurate, and anyone learning of this would naturally scorn it as "untamed land."

In fact, no one in Grabalt knew its forest in full. Not the king, not the long-lived fairies, not even adventurers whose business was exploration; there were countless places they could not enter.

Sometimes it was a place forbidden by faith. Sometimes it was a steep ravine where any human stepping in would risk death.

Even within the connected forest, a single step in and someone without local knowledge would lose all sense of which direction they were going in or which side they'd entered from, within half a day.

Those who got lost in this way couldn't find their way out, and starved to death, became food for beasts, were poisoned by toxic plant-tainted water, or took their own lives.

People trying to improve the map. People committing crimes elsewhere and fleeing into Grabalt. Curiosity-seekers who pushed into the forest out of interest.

There was no shortage of such people, and the end was about the same for all of them.

Grabalt was a country with much untamed land.

In old times before maps were drawn, the habitable parts were few, and reaching them required following set routes that only the natives knew.

A vast territory, with only a handful of entry checkpoints.

Inconvenient, yes, but to reach the royal capital, there was no choice but to pass through one of those checkpoints. Even for elves, gifted in magic and able to sense the spirits' will, the same held.

But that was the law of "People" (beastfolk, demi-humans, humans) who lived in this world.

To beasts and insects accustomed to Grabalt's climate, and — to monsters, that didn't apply. Especially not to the mutant-species Black Ooze, which absorbed everything around it.

In the dim forest. Hot, humid air: tropical land that gave any traveler unpleasant discomfort.

Rainwater never dried; the ground turned to mud, and just walking in it sapped a person's stamina.

On tree branches the sun didn't reach, moss clung thickly, and hideous insects that fed on the moss gathered in swarms.

Those insects chirped: ri-ri, gi-gi.

From everywhere in the forest.

Tree trunks, leaves, in the earth.

From every direction, above, below, and to the sides, came the insects' voices.

Creatures with no natural predator, that multiplied and multiplied, whose numbers only dropped through lifespan and disaster.

Mud water on the ground spawned flying insects, maggots crawled in the bones of those who had wandered in and died, and on broken, rotted timber countless eggs had been laid.

The clothing of the bones that occasionally rolled on the ground no longer held its form. You couldn't even tell if they had been men or women. The scant remaining cloth was filthy from wind, rain, and mud, but you could just barely make out that it was the colors of Grabalt's military banner.

Had they chased bandits into the forest, or stumbled in drunk?

Grabalt's people never strayed from the highway into the forest.

Because they couldn't come back.

To the point of being mentioned in folk songs, some of Grabalt's beastfolk feared the forest. Because in the forest dark, where even sunlight didn't reach, you lost all sense of direction.

It was as if monsters called from the darkness, luring those who fell to the temptation of the unknown straight to their deaths.

Even in midday, the dark felt like a moonless night, and the insects' voices and the rustling trees were like the echoing whispers of devils.

A wind blew, and the forest's green leaves rustled and roared.

For just a moment — for the briefest of moments, the leaves moved enough to let the sun's light into the forest.

In the dim dark. A space whose dimness alone could erode the human mind and rob it of calm in an instant — through that space, something moved. And there, catching the sun's light, it was.

The insects sang.

The trees rustled.

A little more loudly than before. As if warning of its presence.

As if afraid of having their silence (preserved for decades, centuries) disturbed.

But it paid no mind.

To begin with, it didn't have the "awareness" to spare for such things.

It just moved on.

By purpose — no, by instinct.

It just chased.

By instinct.

It had no formal name.

People simply called it slime. And among slimes, this one bore the species-name of Black Ooze.

Its awareness, its purpose, was a sliver. Having taken in thousands of lives, perhaps tens of thousands, and absorbed their knowledge and consciousness, it still held only a few aims.

Eliminate threats.

Take in all living things, and multiply its kind.

Just those. In that process, drain mana, absorb life, gain knowledge, and little by little, little by little — grow its strength as a monster.

The mutant of the original "weakest."

That was the Black Ooze.

Having raped hundreds, thousands of elven women and made them bear children, the count of its offspring rivaled the army of the slain [Demon King].

Its individual offspring were weaker, but the numbers literally grew day by day.

Naturally.

The slime that had literally "swallowed" Fonteau's royal capital had captured most of the women living there, kept them, raped them, seeded them, and made them bear children.

By rights, slimes have no reproductive ability, and their lives are limited to a single generation.

Long-lived, far more so than humans or even elves, but lacking any special abilities; their semi-transparent bodies exposed the core, their weak point. They were physically a bit resistant, but a trained human with an iron weapon could break the core; if you could use magic, if you had a torch, you could easily evaporate the slime fluid… in theory.

But the mutant Black Ooze had the property of absorbing the abilities, mass, and knowledge of what it took in.

Born in the abandoned mithril mine, the Black Ooze had first absorbed insects. From them it gained an extremely weak paralytic poison.

A poison so weak that, on its own (used by small insects), it couldn't even affect humans, who normally were vulnerable to poison.

But having gained mass by absorbing the insects, bats, and rats living in the mithril mine, the Black Ooze's paralytic poison grew stronger; today it was powerful enough to easily kill a human.

It would weaken its prey with this poison, then devour or capture them. That was the Black Ooze's way of hunting.

What was unfortunate for humanity was that the first thing the genderless Black Ooze took in as it grew was a "man."

An old man whose reproductive function had long since failed, but the Black Ooze had absorbed knowledge from him, recognized itself as male, and learned that it could impregnate women and breed.

It had learned.

And so, thinking like an organism with the simple drive to multiply its kind, the Black Ooze began to hunt more aggressively for more women.

By taking in the male knights — the adventurers and knights who came to subjugate the monsters, it gained knowledge of the magic kingdom and of its existence, and went on to attack the country in pursuit of more women. The kingdom of elves had scorned a "mere slime" and fallen within a few months of the Black Ooze's birth.

By absorbing the countless wastes a [Hero]-enriched country had thrown away, things people had deemed unneeded, the Black Ooze and its children gained the mass to invade.

To the Black Ooze, elves were also high-quality food.

Their powerful mana. Their magical knowledge. The bodies that birthed mana.

All of it became the Black Ooze's strength, became mass, and evolved it to wield mana, something slimes, by rights, should never have possessed.

And now — the Black Ooze pushing through the forest was chasing a faint trace of mana.

Crawling along the ground, taking in the insects and rotted leaves it touched on the way.

Its movement was slow. Slower than a human unaccustomed to the forest. But it pushed steadily, tirelessly, through the dim forest.

The insects sang.

The trees rustled.

But slowly, their voices took on a wary edge… and some fell silent.

To the Black Ooze, every existence apart from itself was just high-quality fodder.

The insects, drawn by the stench of everything the Black Ooze had absorbed, would touch its surface and be drawn into its body and dissolved.

Likewise, the leaves and branches it touched while crawling were absorbed and dissolved. After the Black Ooze passed, only muddy bare ground remained.

It was almost like a road. Its advance creating a road, the Black Ooze pressed on.

Not through the checkpoint the beastfolk had built, but through the deep forest where any living thing setting foot would die — where even local inhabitants couldn't find their way back.

It was, perhaps, a blind spot.

The checkpoint, built when relations with Fonteau had deepened. Without going through it, even beastfolk and demi-humans of Grabalt couldn't reach the inhabited villages or the king's castle; long experience had taught them that, and it had become a blind spot.

The assumption that any slime, too, would come at the checkpoint.

Invading from the rough-footed forest would take time; the highway would get a thing to Grabalt's royal capital far faster, as even a child knew.

In fact, when the [Demon King] had attacked Grabalt some twenty-odd years ago, the deep forest had been a major defensive asset.

Even monsters under the [Demon King]'s control had often lost their lives to the rotted mud waters, the poisonous flowers, and the poisonous insects of the forest.

Lakes in the dark had been natural traps; anyone who fell in couldn't climb out.

But to the Black Ooze, all of those were "just food."

Rotted mud water, poisonous flowers, poisonous insects.

Touch them and absorb them.

The poison, already potent enough to kill humans and elves, grew stronger still, and the mass it had built up from the thousands of men and wooden buildings of Fonteau swelled further.

Its appearance was still just an ordinary slime, large enough to be lifted with two arms by an adult.

But within its rolling mass were compressed slime fluid and a core, from which it could discharge effectively limitless mass.

That, too, was one of the Black Ooze's weapons.

Tentacles and bodily fluids it could spawn endlessly, beyond what its appearance suggested. With limitless mana and poison generated alongside, no opponent could stand against it.

— And still, the Black Ooze pushed toward the beastfolk country.

Seeking women.

And to neutralize the one weapon, the only one, by the count of the countless wills and pieces of knowledge swimming inside its mucus, that might be able to defeat it.

About twenty-plus years ago.

The weapons of the [Hero] who had defeated the [Demon King].

In Fonteau, the shield was preserved.

In the country of humans, where the goddess was worshipped, the armor was kept.

And in this forest-encircled country of beastfolk — the sword was stored.

That was the reason Meltia and Mariabelle, daughters of Fonteau's queen Leticia, had come with the refugees, heading for Grabalt.

To obtain the weapon that could fell the Black Ooze.

And the Black Ooze, having taken in Fonteau's knights, also knew of the weapon, and aimed for the same place.

Where the [Hero]'s weapon was stored.

The sacred ruins where the goddess of the world had first descended to earth.

Slowly. But straight.

Leaving everything else to its children.

Chi-chi, a squirrel scrambled up a tree to flee the Black Ooze.

Its movement was quick: to a human's eye it left a streak of yellow. In an instant the squirrel had climbed the tree, and then, relieved, gave another chi-chi.

But the next moment, something cut the air so fast that even the squirrel's motion was a blur, and by the time the motion echoed through the night forest, the squirrel was gone.

Zuzu.

Something crawled.

A something darker than the dark of the forest… the Black Ooze, dissolving the absorbed squirrel inside itself, resumed its movement.

From its oval body, more tentacles extended.

It had been a tentacle that had captured the squirrel just now.

Thin as a human index finger, but it whipped through the air like a lash, untraceable by the eye, and in the next instant was already holding the prey.

This time, a wild rabbit.

Then a snake. A wild bird.

By then, the beasts that had sensed something dangerous in the pleasant-smelling, moving thing had begun to flee.

The Black Ooze had been giving off a scent that beasts liked as it advanced through the forest.

An ability it had gained from absorbing all sorts of wild herbs and aromatics.

But no matter how much beasts liked the smell, the moment they felt the fear of death, they ran.

And the Black Ooze did not chase fleeing beasts.

They were just food. Beasts without mana held no value to the Black Ooze.

Even as food, it was just for adding mass; strictly speaking it didn't need them — but as beasts had instincts, so the Black Ooze also had instinct.

Self-strengthening was one of the few instincts the Black Ooze had.

And among those instincts, a strong drive was urging it onward, deeper into the forest, and the Black Ooze pressed on as the drive demanded.

Slowly, but ceaselessly. On and on.

The high sun tilted, dyed itself into evening light, and finally night fell — and still the Black Ooze advanced.

"… What's this?"

The dark night sky. When pale moonlight and starlight, not the sun's strong glare, dyed the sky — there came a voice in the dark forest where, properly, no voice should ever be.

Even the native beastfolk did not push through the forest at night. Direction-sense slipped, and people lost their way. There was no guide-light, and you couldn't see your own palm: pure darkness.

In that dark, someone heard the sound of the Black Ooze crawling, and reacted.

The mucus monster sensed that the voice's owner had directed her attention toward it and halted its advance. It hid in the tall reed grass and stilled all sound.

"I thought I heard something… am I imagining things?"

A high voice. Bell-like, lingering in the ear.

And it came from above the Black Ooze, more than once.

A liquid monster that didn't even breathe: by stopping in the deep forest, all sound went out of it.

The voice's owner was high above. Above the forest trees — far higher up.

In the night dark, where only moon and starlight gave reference, the night sky.

In that sky, a small thing that still seemed to glow faintly — a fairy.

She was smaller than any person the Black Ooze had ever seen, and she flew through the air.

Two pairs of wings on her back. Hair golden. Blue-green eyes shining with curiosity as the fairy descended into the forest.

The Black Ooze held still.

The tentacles' reach was already within range, but the inner consciousness warned: caution.

Fairies were quick, and second only to elves in skill with magic.

No, born from the earth itself, they could possess mana exceeding even elves'.

Having absorbed many elves at Fonteau, the Black Ooze sensed the mana the fairy held, and grew wary.

"Not an animal, is it? What is it, what is it?"

The fairy was a curious race, the kind that couldn't stop once interested even if it suspected danger.

Stimulated by the unfamiliar presence (different from wild animals, beastfolk, or demi-humans), her curiosity drew her down from the sky.

Had she just passed by, the Black Ooze would have lashed out from behind with a tentacle, but —

"Hueh?!"

To the fairy, the sudden attack came from grass she hadn't sensed anything from.

But the fairy's quickness in the air, with the wings on her back, exceeded the Black Ooze's estimate. And (though the Black Ooze had no way of knowing this) born-of-earth fairies are more sensitive to changes around them than any other race.

The extended tentacle cut empty air, and the golden-haired fairy hurried back up into the air.

A dress in deep maple-red was lit by the moonlight. The hem swayed with her sudden movement.

The skirt flipped high enough that beneath it, thighs about the thickness of a human index finger — but, sized for the fairy herself, well-fleshed in proportion — and her white-underwear-clad lower body were briefly bared.

Lithe, taut thighs and calves; the suggestive line of the joining, sheathed in a thin cloth.

At her own daring exposure (the small triangle decorated with little ornament, sensually revealing the parts that ought to be hidden), the fairy reddened her doll-like face in the dark.

"Wa, wa! What's this?!"

Her next action came swift.

Even without a magic-aiding staff, when the fairy raised her hand, the thin tentacle that had chased her froze instantly.

By freezing only the tip, it broke off at the middle and disappeared into the night forest.

Unlike humans and elves, fairies were born of the earth itself.

There was no kind of magic they were bad at, and merely focusing could let them invoke fairly powerful spells.

The catch was that their endless curiosity made it hard to concentrate; even with strong mana and talent, "studying magic" wasn't really their style.

"What was that? Honestly…"

Even after being attacked by a tentacle, there was no sense of crisis in the fairy's voice.

The brief exchange had stoked her curiosity rather than caution.

After staying still in the air for a while and confirming no new tentacles came, the fairy lowered her altitude again.

"Is something there? Should I call the others?"

Even as she said this, her face couldn't hide its delight.

To be the first among her kind to find "something rare" was a chance to be the center of attention among entertainment-starved fairies.

For curious, attention-loving fairies, the envy of others might count as honor.

So even thinking it might be a little dangerous, she'd try alone to find out what the "rare thing" was.

To confirm what had spawned the tentacle, but never taking on undue risk, ready to flee upward at any moment, the fairy descended into the forest.

By that time the Black Ooze had finished setting its trap.

The opponent was airborne.

But the Black Ooze sensed her approach from the wind flowing over its mucus body and the feel of the air.

The original old, experienced hunter's instincts had begun the Black Ooze, and at the root of that hunter's instinct was "set the trap, secure the prey safely."

It spread fine tentacles in every direction, hidden by the tall reed grass. Without the grass, viewed from above, it would have looked like a spider's web.

Furthermore, on the many surrounding trees, it wrapped different mucus traps around the trunks and branches.

Even an earth-born fairy couldn't tell from a distance: the tentacles were so finely camouflaged as the bark and branches.

It was a kind of trap used for catching rats that raided stored food. Sticky trap, bait placed on it, the rat dives at the bait and is caught.

No bait was placed now, but the entire ground and trees around had become sticky traps.

Unaware, the fairy let her two pairs of small wings beat in tiny flutters as she lowered her altitude, and finally entered the forest.

A forest that was already as dark as night in midday became, at actual night, a dark so deep that even keen-eyed beastfolk would be unable to see their own raised hand.

The fairy was no exception; the small intruder, pushed on by her own curiosity, peered into the dark and felt a faint flow of mana.

An unnatural flow.

A flow not found in the natural world — a monster's mana flow.

But the fairy, her sense of crisis dulled by years of peace, didn't grasp that this mana flow was that of a monster.

"Something's here… smells nice, but what is it?"

To soften her wariness, the Black Ooze emitted a complex bouquet of sweet floral scents from its mucus surface.

Several scents mingled together in a powerful aroma not found in nature, and the fairy, who only knew naturally occurring scents, had her curiosity stirred.

Thinking it must be some flower she didn't know, the doll-small fairy lowered her altitude further into the depths of the forest.

At last even the moonlight couldn't fully reach her body, and her small form vanished into the dark.

"Where is it…?"

By the time she realized, it was too late, but since she didn't understand what was happening, the fairy's voice held no sense of crisis.

Reaching out into the dark for the mysterious thing, her fingertips brushed something with strong stickiness.

Unable to see, the fairy moved her sticky-dirtied fingertips and thought it felt like very viscous honey.

Then she brought the liquid-dirtied fingertips near her face. The sweet scent grew stronger than before.

The aroma's intensity startled her for a moment, but recognizing it as a sweetness she'd never smelled…

"Wow, it smells nice."

She let out a small, delighted sound.

In the inch-ahead-invisible dark, the fairy reached out again.

Only her voice echoed in the dark night forest. Nothing could be seen. No one would know what she was doing.

The voice from the forest held an unmistakable note of glee; anyone who knew the fairy race would think she was up to some "play" even though they couldn't see her.

After a while, enjoying the sweet scent, the fairy felt her back tingle with a new curiosity.

(— If it smells this sweet, I wonder how it tastes?)

Unable to fight the curiosity, the fairy herself brought the Black-Ooze-stained fingertips to her mouth.

Not being able to see is a terrifying thing.

The fairy, not realizing it was a monster's mucus, brought the sweet-smelling fluid to her mouth without hesitation, and the next moment, hurriedly spat it out.

"Bleh?! Yuck… something weird was in it!"

Naturally.

In this forest it had absorbed countless wild animals and herbs, and only a few days had passed since.

Some "meals" were still being dissolved, and what the fairy had put in her mouth contained bitter weeds and an animal bone.

Like a butterfly drawn by a sweet scent, then disgusted by the bad-tasting nectar, she lost interest and hurried to draw back —

"Ouch — eh?"

Cursed with no night vision, she bumped into a tree branch.

Not just any branch… a sticky tree branch that the Black Ooze's tentacle was disguising as.

At that point at last, the Black Ooze, which had stayed perfectly still even with its prey right in front of it, resumed its activity.

It retracted the tentacles spread along the ground and extended tentacles toward the branch where the fairy was caught.

In an instant, seven tentacles formed. Each one was slightly thicker than a human's pinky finger. To the fairy, they were the thickness of her own wrist.

"Eh, what? What?"

The fairy, blinded in the dark, couldn't react to the tentacles and was easily captured, wrists and ankles bound.

Her back wings, wet with the tree-branch-camouflage mucus, couldn't perform their function, and her confused head couldn't manage a proper spell.

But, sensing the danger she was in, the fairy thrashed with all her small might to break free.

"H-hey?! Let me go!"

Still her voice held no real tension.

She still didn't even understand "what" was attacking her.

But as her red dress's skirt was peeled up to almost mid-thigh by the tentacles, her composure started to slip.

The mucus-soaked wings had grown heavy, no longer able to keep even one fairy aloft.

At that point, she realized she might be in a fairly dangerous situation.

Her cheeks tightened, her eyes went wide.

When she realized that the "something" in the dark was a horrifying, dreadful thing, all escape was already lost.

"H-hey… No, what is this pose? Stop!"

Her legs pulled into an M-shape, her underwear was boldly exposed in midair.

What peeked from beneath the red dress's skirt was a white pair of shorts with a single charming red ribbon. At the bold exposure of her underwear, the fairy's cheeks reddened in the dark, and she let out a sound of protest.

The tentacles' cold, emotionless feel was disgusting; aware of goosebumps prickling on her fine skin, the fairy thrashed harder, and her dress was disordered all the more.

The skirt was fully pulled up, the shoulder-cloth slipped, and the strap of the bra supporting her chest was exposed. Once part of the lace-trim white bra matching her shorts came into view, the fairy stopped struggling, panting.

"Ngh… The squishy feeling is gross…"

Even though the tentacles still emitted a pleasant floral scent, the disgust of the texture was making the fairy half-cry.

Then, the wind blew.

The trees swayed, and a little moonlight filtered into the forest.

A pale blue light — to eyes used to the abyssal dark, even that dim light was a strong glow, and the forest floor and the source of the scent caught the fairy's gaze.

"Hii."

A scream of throat-tightening fear escaped.

In the fairy's line of sight was an oval mass of mucus shining wetly in the moonlight. The shape was something she recognized.

A slime.

But its size was far larger than any slime she knew.

The ones she knew were about the size of a doll: the same as a fairy, or even smaller.

But the slime currently binding her was massive enough to swallow her whole, like a great boulder.

The Black Ooze ignored her recognition of it and tried to pull the fairy, still caught in branch-camouflaged tentacles, closer.

"No!"

Not knowing what would be done, but feeling sick about it, the fairy reflexively cried out and channeled mana into both arms.

In the dark she hadn't been able to see what bound her, but knowing now they were slime tentacles, she had countermeasures.

She emitted cold from her whole arm, not just her palm, and froze the mucus tentacles, breaking them easily.

But if she did the same with her wings, fragile, more delicate than her arms, she might destroy her wings along with the tentacles. She hesitated.

The result was an awkward partial freedom, and she ended up flapping about in midair.

"Aw, come on —"

To the Black Ooze, a thing as small as a fairy thrashing was nothing, but it didn't want to injure a valuable host.

Out of consideration for her small body, the Black Ooze produced a paralytic poison far less concentrated than what it used on humans or elves, and tainted the fairy with it.

"Ueh?! Yuck?!"

Hit with the paralytic poison, the red dress took on a darker color.

The loose garment, now soaked, clung to her body, revealing the shape of her bountiful chest, generous for her small frame.

"Wh-what?"

Then, gradually, her body was robbed of freedom.

The strength drained from her thrashing limbs; she couldn't resist the tentacles' movement — but.

"Hold on, you have poison too?"

That reaction was brief.

Even the Black Ooze, with its hazy self-awareness, was startled enough to slow its tentacles.

The fairy easily neutralized the paralytic poison that had taken down so many elves and humans.

She wasn't poison-resistant like beastfolk.

This too was a form of magic.

Just as humans and elves had focused on destructive magic, fairies were skilled in healing magic.

Humans wielded large bodies and fought monsters; fairies, small-bodied, supported humanity, and they had developed different magical systems over time — but for the Black Ooze, which had only studied destructive magic from humans and elves, the fairy's antidote magic was completely unknown.

"You, let me go already!"

Noticing the tentacles had paused, the fairy thrashed.

Both hands were free, but her wings and both legs were still caught. And her legs were spread open in the embarrassing pose of a child peeing, her underwear fully on display.

If she struggled in such a humiliating pose, the wet-clinging dress emphasized her chest, which would soft-shake to please any onlooker — under normal circumstances.

But the Black Ooze, taking interest only in the fairy as a host body, gently and slowly pulled her in.

Another wind blew, and a portion of the Black Ooze's bulk disappeared into the dark.

Living things rely on sight more than they realize.

Even an earth-born fairy was no exception; with sight gone, fear set in, though it varied by individual.

Though her opponent was just a large slime, even the fairy, who thought of it this way, felt her heart waver as the opponent's form sank into dark, with the worry of "what will be done next."

"Ugh… honestly. Someone come help meee."

Her voice was trembling, fully half-cry.

The fairy who usually played pranks with curiosity and cheer, faced with hostility against her, was just a small powerless being now.

Her face was the unease of a helpless maiden, and as she neared the Black Ooze, the strengthening floral scent made her wrinkle her nose.

However sweet, too much of a scent becomes poison.

Indeed, because it was sweet, she couldn't feel disgust, but her brain rang warning bells that the scent was too strong, disrupting her senses.

Instinct and reason split.

Instinct accepted the dizzyingly sweet scent; reason screamed warnings.

With this, with various feelings tangling inside her, the fairy's small body was finally brought before the front of the Black Ooze.

Pitch black.

Dark.

And there, before her, something was moving.

"U, uuu…"

The fairy gave a muffled gasp like a faint scream, but it didn't reach beyond the forest, nor up above the trees.

Her thought, dulled by fear, didn't think to call out loudly for help.

Her captive legs trembled unnaturally, and the bright voice and expression that had been so vibrant fell silent.

What would be done — anyone who knew what a monster was could imagine.

To be killed.

Killed and eaten.

That was a monster's basic behavior, and thinking she was about to be the same — the fully-exposed white shorts at her crotch formed an oval damp stain.

The terror had caused a small wet — and from her reaction and scent, the Black Ooze sensed her fear.

Had it been observing the fairy who used an unknown magic system?

Sensing she'd lost the will to resist, the Black Ooze moved to its next action.

The doll-small body it had pulled close was taken in.

"Hi, hii?!"

Her legs, her hips, her arms, her body — they were drawn into a filthy mucus mass darker than even the dark of the forest.

The clothing dirtied with paralytic poison fully soaked through with slime mucus, and her underwear too lost its proper function.

The fairy, taken into the Black Ooze's body, was left only with her head and long golden hair exposed, like an ornament.

"No, what is this?!"

By rights, she should have resisted before this happened.

But her body, locked by fear, didn't obey her will; only her arms could thrash a little.

Once taken into its body, she could no longer freeze it and shatter it, or heat it and evaporate it.

If she did, she'd take the same damage, fully enveloped, onto herself.

"No. What is this, what is this?!"

When she felt a fresh impact in her whole body, the fairy let out an erotic-sounding gasp she hadn't intended.

In the occasional moonlight piercing the trees, what was illuminated was a figure utterly swallowed up to the chin by the translucent slime, bound in posture.

Only her head exposed, the figure was almost comic, like a fairy-shaped ornament.

Inside the Black Ooze, you could see her bowl-shaped breasts and slim, tight waist through the wet, clinging dress.

The skirt swirled up in the mucus, exposing the cute ribbon-decorated white shorts fully. Even her navel was bare.

Her beautiful legs, with no excess fat, were fixed in an unbecoming spread-open pose.

"No — wait, no way?! You're not… going to eat me?!"

The shocked voice held, in a sense, even more shock than being killed or eaten alive.

In the mucus, the crotch of her shorts seemed to move, and her supposedly underwear-protected genitals began to move on their own.

The wet shorts perfectly transparently revealed even slight movement, mirroring the motion of her mound.

With no proper foreplay, that area was of course tightly closed, but the fairy's astonished cry, as that area gradually began to open.

"No, no way?! Stop that, stop it!"

The fairy, with only her head still free, twisted to look back at the Black Ooze and called out.

While she did, the filthy mucus pushed its way through the cloth of her shorts and into her body, that strange sensation she felt sharply.

The sensation of having a foreign body push its way deep inside while still clothed surpassed "skin-crawling": it was, literally, like having her body run through, a violent feeling.

So as not to damage the fairy's small body, the mucus didn't flood in all at once. Even a small amount of mucus had the fairy gradually clenching her teeth to bear the pain.

Of course.

Fairies were born of the earth — meaning they were a race that propagated without needing sexual congress.

Such things, while knowable, weren't normally needed… some fairies, in a span longer than an elf's lifetime, never once had sex.

And this fairy, too, was a virgin who had never experienced sex before.

The unbroken passage tightened, trying to push out the mucus against her will, and the act made the foreign sensation inside even more pronounced.

A pressure as if her internal organs were being pushed up, and the pain of having a place she'd never even touched on herself bored into.

(I-it hurts this much?!)

Her screams grew fewer; the fairy bit her lips to bear the pain.

Sensing this, the Black Ooze halted the mucus trying to bore into the vagina, and changed its target to the foreskin-protected pearl of flesh just above the entrance.

"Ngh, ngh."

Instead of the still-undamp vagina, it shifted to a different location.

The Black Ooze's mucus shifted its aim to the barely-emerging clitoris and slowly pulled the foreskin back, careful not to cause pain.

"Hiu, ihya — wh-what? What is this?!"

The exposure of her clitoris, which she'd never touched herself. Just from that, an electric-like surge of strong sensation dulled the fairy's tongue, and her speech became halting.

A body that knew almost no pleasure took the stimulation as pain, and inside the mucus the small body convulsed repeatedly.

The fairy contorted her well-shaped face and stuck out her tongue, unable even to bite her lip; she could only pant like an animal, in ragged "ha, ha" breaths.

"Stop, stop?! No, no, give me my body back?!"

Her mind didn't accept the stimulation as pleasure, but the fairy race's adult body, adult from birth, responded properly to it.

A small bump that had earlier been barely visible at the crotch of the shorts emerged, plump and adorable.

The stimulus-erected clitoris was toyed with by the Black Ooze's mucus, rolled left, right, up, down.

"Ha, hi. Hahi, hau."

The pain-clouded face gradually softened, and color rose in her cheeks. Floating tears welled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

From the corner of her parted lips drool spilled, and behind those neatly aligned white teeth, threads of saliva stretched as she opened her mouth.

Her mouth let out hot breaths, and saliva trickled along with them.

She didn't notice the change in herself.

While she believed she was still enduring the slime's brutal caresses, her sexually-untaught but matured body was unraveling on its own.

When her mucus-coated clitoris was teased with varying pace, the fairy threw her chin back, and only from the neck up convulsed.

Her jewel-like blue-green eyes briefly rolled back white, and behind her eyelids stars scattered.

She didn't even notice the sensation of her mucus-soaked long golden hair lashing her cheeks, and she easily climaxed.

"Ha, ha, ha…?"

She didn't understand what had happened to her body. She didn't even realize she had climaxed.

She just panted like a tired dog and looked up, trying to figure out what had just happened.

But.

"Ha, w-wait… wai… ngh"

Before her breathing recovered, the mucus defiling her sex resumed — no, it hadn't stopped even after her climax; it continued to stimulate her genitals and clitoris.

With finger-like delicate movements, the mucus stimulated her clitoris through the underwear. Not with the slick feel of mucus, but with the hard texture of the shorts, the sensitive pearl was rubbed.

Realizing she wasn't yet used to deep stimulation, it kept the shallow back-and-forth at the entrance of her sex, gradually loosening her tight inner walls.

"Igi, higa — ah, ah, aaaagu?!"

At the stimulation of her most sensitive spot, the fairy's broken cries spilled out, and she tried to twist her lower body away to deflect even a fraction of the impact.

But fully taken into the Black Ooze, even that small resistance wasn't allowed; locked in a crab-spread pose, she could only let out unbecoming screams.

The mucus- and love-juice-soaked crotch cloth was useless now, only outlining the invisible mucus-tentacles' motion.

Then the mucus clung to the clitoris that, with even a little caress, was beginning to peek out of the hood — and pulled it fully out.

"Hiii?! Hahi, hahiii?!"

At the spine-piercing electric sensation from her clitoris, the fairy let out her loudest cry yet. Another climax.

She no longer understood what was happening to her.

Wracking her head sickly from side to side, scattering long hair, throwing drool and sweat in arcs, she just made sounds.

The mischievous, cheerful fairy was gone now; she had become merely a broken-toy form.

Her mouth, busy with screaming, abandoned the role of breathing; her cute nose desperately flared wide, drawing oxygen into her lungs: the picture was nothing if not ugly.

Her intelligence-lit blue-green eyes were half-rolled back white; she shook her broken face.

The slime-encased small but beautifully-formed body didn't even twitch; only the shorts and the lewd flesh beneath them responded to the mucus's motion.

The doll-pretty fairy was, literally, fixed like a doll, and from the neck up alone, kept letting out shameful cries.

(W-wait, wai… can't endu… can't. Can't endure?!)

Even in thought her tongue refused to obey; gradually even thinking became painful.

She couldn't close her fists, couldn't curl her toes, couldn't close her thighs, couldn't put strength into her limbs.

She couldn't do anything.

She couldn't even clench her teeth; she could only receive the pleasure with her matured body and untrained nerves.

"Hia?! Gi, gii?! Hyaa, haie. Yahe, yahee?!"

(Help me, help me, help me)

She wanted anyone to help her.

Take her out of this pain.

That was her only thought, but when she tried to cry out, it turned into a moan instead.

She let out noises no one could decipher, her doll-pretty face distorted with tears, drool, sweat, and snot.

(St-stre — strength's draining…)

Without her noticing, she climaxed, and once climaxing made her flesh open up, more mucus entered deeper.

The deeper the Black Ooze's mucus went, the greater the pleasure, forcing more climaxes upon the fairy.

She couldn't escape the cycle; tasting pleasure for the first time, there was no way she could endure.

Climax, climax, climax.

At some point, the fairy realized she could put no strength into her body.

Fatigue, yes.

But the sense of strength draining from her core was… what was that?

"Stop, st-sto-op?! Just a bi-it pleeease?!"

The pleasure given to her was robbing her of thought.

The fairy had her mana drained as climax came in waves, but she couldn't grasp what was happening to her body.

It was terror.

She was being raped.

She was being violated.

And at the same time, something was happening to her, and she couldn't even think what.

Every time she climaxed and her consciousness whited out, the fairy felt her own personality flickering away, and she cried out in fear, and even that cry mingled with moans and was swallowed up by the dark forest.

There was no one here to hear her cries.

By now, why she had come so deep into the forest alone… even that reason she couldn't remember.

But.

"He-elp! Soome-one, hee-elp meee!!"

She used every bit of voice she had to call for help, but no response would come, and even if it did, the fairy now couldn't notice it.

The Black Ooze, not particularly caring about her reactions, gently relaxed the stiff fairy's body while absorbing the unique fairy-type mana, so unlike human or elven mana.

It felt no particular emotion about it.

Calmly.

Mechanically.

Drowning women in pleasure, raping them, making them bear children.

So.

The Black Ooze continued to rape the fairy in its body, and at the same time resumed crawling through the forest.

"Forgi, forgive meeee?! I'll do anything, I'll listen to whatever you say! Forgi-ve me, heeelp?!"

Even as the fairy screamed, the movement didn't stop.

Beasts startled by the screams fled deeper into the forest, but absorbing the fluids of a fairy with such powerful mana was many times more valuable to the Black Ooze, so it didn't care.

Love juice trickling from her vagina, sweat, tears, saliva, snot.

All of them were absorbed by the Black Ooze.

"What, what did I do, I didn't do anything. Meeee."

Why?

There was no reason.

If pressed, only that the fairy happened to be female.

If she'd been male, she'd have been taken in, suffocated, and dissolved bones and all and absorbed; being kept alive was perhaps a kind of mercy.

"I-igh?! It's coming again, somethiiing?!"

After a climax she couldn't even count, the fairy's eyes rolled completely back.

Whites of her eyes showing, her head fell limp, and her wildly-tossed long golden hair fell into the Black Ooze's mucus with gravity.

But.

Even fully unconscious, the fairy's head twitched in small jerks.

Of course.

The Black Ooze wouldn't halt its caresses just because she'd fainted. Even now her clitoris and vaginal walls were being stimulated.

In the slime body, the white shorts moved busily, and beneath them, her clitoris, grown stone-large and hard, was rolled like a toy in every direction.

Painfully erect, the clitoris was tossed about brutally. But the fairy felt no pain at it.

Even unconscious, her beauty had broken down obscenely; moans poured from her mouth.

Her small nose flared wide to take in oxygen; her lips hung slack. With her head bowed, her tongue lolled out and shook in time with the convulsions, and the saliva that spilled was absorbed by the Black Ooze, which had taken her body up to her chest.

Each time the clitoris was moved in the mucus, the fairy's head spasmed, and faint moans like groans escaped her downturned, hidden mouth.

"Ho, o — o, oOH"

Another spasm.

Bikun, bikun. Like a broken toy. Like an electric-shocked creature.

Strong, intense, sickly violent shakes. The deep climax took control of her body even unconscious, and within the slime body, not only the toyed-with clitoris but her nipples too erected fully.

For a body that could fit in a human palm, her bosom was bountiful and her nipples small. But those nipples too, reacting to the stimulation given to her body, swelled large; even her areolas plumped with arousal.

Targets multiplied for the Black Ooze's mucus.

Kneading the rich bosom, pinching the areolas, rubbing the tiny dimple at the nipple's tip — the entrance to the mammary ducts.

"Ha, hohi… hiu, hi, ii — gh."

The fairy's body trembled in small pikun, pikun shudders.

From her slack, expression-emptied face, every bodily fluid — even nasal mucus from her nose, dripped, and the fairy kept trembling with pleasure.

Still the Black Ooze did not stop the caresses.

Without stopping the caresses, it also kept moving. Through the depths of the forest. Slowly, slowly.

Echoing the fairy's moans, the worst of monsters pressed on.

 

*

 

"Are you all right, Mariabelle? Not in pain?"

The silver-haired princess, unaware that such a threat was approaching, asked her black-haired sister sitting beside her in a voice that carried a touch of fatigue.

Allowed at last to catch their breath at the checkpoint, the sisters were resting their travel-weary bodies.

Owing to Grabalt's climate, this place surrounded by forest had clear air, and for the sisters with a quarter elven blood, it was a deeply calming place.

The sisters, born between the [Hero] summoned from another world to save the world and a half-elf, were here.

Especially the younger sister, who had inherited the [Hero]'s blood most strongly. The princess, the only black-haired one in this world, was cleansing her body in the river behind the checkpoint.

They had no time to be held up here. They knew that, but unfamiliar with the land, they couldn't proceed through Grabalt without a beastfolk guide. As a princess she had visited this country a few times, but always retainers had driven the carriage.

A map of Grabalt was in her head, but it was no match for the experience of local inhabitants.

Knowledge from a desk doesn't help in reality; she'd learned that in this disaster.

Moreover, the refugees who'd fled Fonteau with them. They couldn't possibly proceed alone, leaving them behind.

So they waited at the checkpoint for the reply from the express messenger Shamia had sent to Grabalt's royal capital, and meanwhile they were living with the refugees in the open area at the edge of the checkpoint.

But after ten days had passed, even the sisters showed faint signs of impatience.

The dread image of the slime that had destroyed their country.

It could not be forgotten; even now they dreamed of it.

When that slime would invade Grabalt, no one knew, and the dread of it added to their impatience.

To calm themselves, the two had come to the river behind the checkpoint.

The open area was beautiful with the blue of the sky, and lowering one's gaze, the forest's entrance came into sight, lushly green. Even the forest where sunlight couldn't reach, an elf's eyes could see somewhat into.

It was a lively world of nature, unlike Fonteau.

Beasts walked, flowers bloomed, breezes flowed.

The [Hero]'s knowledge had certainly enriched the lives of the elves in Fonteau, but on the other hand it had cost many natural things, Meltia thought.

Felling the forest, using the timber as fuel to forge iron, and creating many products of civilization.

It was a tiny growth compared to the "civilization" of the [Hero]'s world, but even so, life had changed dramatically in this other-world.

A world where monsters' threat faded turned to using iron not for weapons but for living, sewer systems, water pipes, mana lamps lighting the night.

Literature and music enriched Fonteau's people; abundance bred kindness toward others, and kindness brightened the country, drawing travelers and merchants from other lands and enriching human resources.

But — Meltia and Mariabelle, descended from elves who in ancient times had claimed to be guardians of the forest, while staying at the checkpoint, felt the splendor of that abundance and the preciousness of the lost nature alike.

The river they bathed in now was the same.

With waterworks installed, the Fonteau people no longer fetched water from rivers.

When was the last time she'd seen a clear, clean river like this? she thought, when she first took a dip here.

Rich nature.

Its preciousness slightly soothed their country-destroyed despair.

Mariabelle had fled with only the clothes on her back, so she took off her high-heeled, travel-unsuited heels and put both feet in the river.

The coolness stung the chapped heels of one unaccustomed to traveling.

The dress, black like her hair, set off the whiteness of skin untouched by sun, and the hem rolled up to wet in the river revealed slim, white legs that any man would be entranced by.

Her supple legs without excess fat, with thighs that nonetheless had a clear feminine roundness.

With both feet in the river, Mariabelle settled on a nearby rock and boldly exposed her thighs.

It was an action assured no men were watching nearby.

When she sat, the dress flipped up a moment with the slight force, and beneath it white underwear whiter than her white skin briefly peeked, but with only her sister nearby, she paid it no mind.

Without a corset, her waist was startlingly thin; above, only the faintest swell at her chest. The black dress hid her chest tightly; skin showed only below the hem of the skirt, at the neck, and at the wrists.

Her chest had almost no swell, but she stood about a head taller than other women her age.

Originally not one to voice her opinions much, and depressed from being driven from her country, her face wore a wistful shadow.

It lent Mariabelle a settled impression, all the more emphasizing her beauty.

The elder sister, on the other hand, wore a bright, cute pink dress.

It had grown noticeably dirty from the long journey, but the originally well-made dress preserved its beauty somewhat even soiled.

In contrast to Mariabelle, she had her mother's silver hair and bountiful chest. Her chest was boldly exposed, carving a deep cleavage.

It wasn't a richness born of plumpness; her arms and neckline exposed by the dress had no extra fat, yet her chest was startlingly bountiful for so slim a frame.

Her body was if anything more developed than other women her age, but her height was almost the same as Mariabelle's. If anything, just slightly shorter.

In her half-elf ears, slightly shorter than full elves', she wore earrings set with purple stones with mana-enhancing effects. Two purple-stone rings on her fingers.

These had been found while sorting through carriage luggage after arriving at the checkpoint.

The owner was unknown.

She hadn't kept tally of everyone they'd fled with, and during the flight slime attacks had taken some lives.

Or perhaps some had fled the band under cover of night.

The more people, the higher the chance of being found, Mariabelle and Meltia knew this too.

So they'd come to realize someone might have used the band as a decoy to escape… by the time they'd reached the checkpoint, they'd learned that bitterly.

The items left behind by such people, the refugees thought, and gave the ornaments to Meltia, who had the highest mana.

Both because she was a princess of Fonteau, and so that the mana-boosting items would protect them.

Meltia, still getting used to the unfamiliar feel of the rings and earrings, used her slim fingers to check Mariabelle's wound.

"—!"

"Ah, come now. You don't have to hold it in."

Smiling wryly at her sister, who bit her lip in pain while staying silent, Meltia sat down beside her.

In her hand was a leather pouch of medicinal herbs that Shamia of the checkpoint had given them.

Shamia had been deeply moved upon learning that Meltia and her sister were the real descendants of the [Hero], and had been generous with food, salve, and clothing to whatever extent she could.

She'd said that long ago — the [Hero] and Leticia — Meltia and Mariabelle's parents, had saved her life. As thanks, she was being generous to their daughters, and to the refugees from Fonteau.

"Sister."

"Hm?"

When Meltia lifted Mariabelle's wet right foot to check the scrape on her heel, her sister called her. To that voice Meltia gave a slow, gentle reply.

Meltia was anxious too. But she couldn't let it show.

She was the elder sister, and if anything happened to her mother — she would be the next in line for the throne.

Even anxious, she was raised never to show it… and more, as the elder sister, she didn't want to show weakness to her younger sister.

"Can I really be Father's substitute?"

"Yes. You'll certainly be all right."

It was what was demanded of these sisters — no, mostly of Mariabelle, who had inherited the [Hero]'s blood most strongly.

What the refugees of Fonteau hoped for from her.

To recover Fonteau as the [Hero]'s daughter.

And as a daughter, to recover Mother Leticia, who was (assuming so) still captive in Fonteau.

It was their hope.

There was no way to be sure she was alive, but only that horror: men taken in and killed, women raped.

Hearing that story, the sisters' hope was that perhaps Mother too, like other women, was held in the slime's prison.

It might be a reality crueler than death, but they couldn't believe that their beautiful, wise, strong mother would choose death herself.

So the sisters had decided.

To save their country no matter what.

What needed to be done to do that, they'd thought about it ceaselessly since the day they had fled Fonteau being swallowed up by the Black Ooze and innumerable giant slimes.

A slime that had defeated Leticia, Fonteau's most skilled mage.

They had no hope of matching it themselves — but the younger sister had one thing superior to her mother or sister.

That was "the [Hero]'s blood."

Even Leticia, the [Hero]'s wife, couldn't use the "[Hero]'s relics": the shield, armor, and sword the goddess had entrusted to the otherworld [Hero].

In particular, Mariabelle, with the black hair inheriting the [Hero]'s blood most strongly, was exceptional with these, and her elder sister Meltia knew it better than anyone.

When she'd been very young.

The [Hero]'s shield kept in the castle.

For Mariabelle, who had no memory of her father, the shield was the one thing through which she could feel a connection to him.

No one had taught her.

By instinct alone, Mariabelle sensed the shield in the castle's basement, and even without telling her mother, slipped into the treasure vault and touched the shield.

A shield that ordinary people couldn't even touch, that even strong magic-users couldn't lift. It was a famous story that several elves had used body-enhancement magic to even carry it into the treasure vault.

But the young Mariabelle had touched the shield, lifted it from its pedestal, and embraced its cold weight more than once or twice.

After a while she'd been thoroughly scolded by Leticia, but it had led them to realize Meltia and Mariabelle had heroic talent.

But the gear was meant for fighting the [Demon King].

In a world without the [Demon King], it wouldn't be used; it would be kept safely sealed in the treasure vault… or so it was supposed to be.

"You and I will save Fonteau, save Mother. First we'll ask Grabalt's king to lend us Father's sword… that's the issue."

"Yes. To save Mother — we must reach Grabalt's royal capital quickly."

But it didn't come true.

The messenger sent to the royal capital still hadn't returned. To go to Grabalt forcibly now would only get them lost, and would inconvenience Shamia, who'd been so kind to them, and they understood that.

Even for country and mother's sake, not wishing to inconvenience others: whether it was a virtue or fault, who could say.

So the two of them, with various inner conflicts, passed their days.

Meltia checked Mariabelle's foot wound, washed it with river water, and applied an herb that helped scrapes.

Mariabelle's white, slim foot tensed; her hand grasping her skirt-hem tightened.

"Ngh."

"Sorry, did it hurt?"

"N-no. I'm okay… I have to bear at least this much."

Smiling at her bravery, Meltia applied the herb, then wrapped a thin cloth over it so it wouldn't peel off. When Meltia silently lifted her gaze to check her sister, Mariabelle had her eyes shut tight like a child, bearing the pain.

That charming reaction was so dearly loved that, in this situation, Meltia smiled.

"Mariabelle. Anywhere else hurting?"

"I'm okay, big sister."

"All right. Then, let's wash your body a little."

"Yes."

The two royal sisters always had attending maids accompanying them at bathing.

From washing the body, drying the limbs with cloth, dressing in underwear and dress.

All of that they'd entrusted, but now to entrust such things in a time like this would be unreasonable, they knew.

So in this way, at least during the river-washing they would use it as their sisters' alone-time, and during it Meltia would attend Mariabelle.

This wasn't because she was the younger sister — Meltia, conscious that the wording was crude, was thinking of how Mariabelle as the "[Hero]'s daughter" should be treated specially.

Not as the princesses, the sisters.

The "[Hero]'s daughter." Particularly the princess Mariabelle with black hair like the [Hero] would have to be the figurehead inspiring soldiers fighting with her on the front when retaking Fonteau.

She had no battle experience, but she'd studied warfare.

What needs to be prepared for war: soldiers, food, equipment, strategy.

That isn't everything, and there were things she still needed to learn, she was aware… but the most important thing was the banner.

Not the military banner, but the figurehead leading the army as hero and hope.

Some twenty-odd years ago, when fighting the [Demon King], her father the otherworld [Hero], her mother the great mage Leticia, the beastfolk swordswoman Fornelis, and the human priestess had stood at the head of the army, always fighting at the front and inspiring soldiers.

The psychological lift of feeling they weren't being thrown away, that they were guarding the back of heroes, had multiplied the soldiers' strength many times over, she'd been taught.

A hero must be special.

As her father and mother and their companions had been.

If Mariabelle was to be the banner, Meltia thought she couldn't stand beside her sister.

Mother, Fornelis whom they would soon meet, and the human priestess too.

They'd fought together with father, but it was not standing beside him, it was supporting his back, she'd learned at the magic academy.

So she'd do the same.

That's fine, Meltia thought. If it meant saving Mother. If it meant saving the country, she'd be fine being her sister's foil.

But the key person, Mariabelle, didn't yet have the resolve.

That bled through in her question earlier.

— Could she really do this herself.

The answer didn't yet come.

No one could know it.

The future is infinite, and nothing in it is decided.

"Come, Mariabelle. Can you stand?"

"Yes."

When Meltia said so, Mariabelle stood, and her silver-haired sister stepped behind her.

She undid the dress's buttons one by one carefully.

Parting the long black hair down to her waist left and right revealed an unblemished nape; with each button undone the area of white skin grew.

When the back was bared to mid-back, Meltia let out a sigh.

"What lovely skin."

"Is it? I can't really tell, myself."

In Fonteau, well-maintained skin had not been ruined by travel and made Mariabelle's beauty stand out.

Like polished gems, the smooth skin felt good to the touch, and even with some pressure no mark remained on the springy skin.

The faint downy fuzz was pleasing — as Meltia thought this, Mariabelle shrank slightly.

"It tickles."

"Heh, sorry."

Said without sounding sorry, Meltia slid the black dress off the shoulders and pulled out the right arm.

When the upper body emerged into broad daylight, the underwear whiter than her pure-white skin was gradually revealed.

The lace underwear was decorated with lots of frills to make the tiny chest look more bountiful, and several frills formed cute floral patterns.

The bottom too.

When she pulled out the left arm and let the dress fall by gravity, pure-white shorts the same as the bra-supporting underwear emerged.

These too were decorated with many frills, with the side strings tied into ribbon bows. The cloth area was small enough that nearly half of her small rear was exposed.

The sister's underwear-clad form, more cute than beautiful overall, Meltia watched from behind, and let out another sigh.

"Then I'll begin, Mariabelle."

"Please, sister."

Her gaze was caught for only an instant.

Meltia, with the clean cloth she'd prepared alongside the herb pouch, dipped it in the river water, and slowly, surely. Mindful of not letting the skin redden, she wiped Mariabelle's beautiful body.

It would be nice to be naked in the river, but as royalty she thought that wasn't quite proper. Even with no one watching.

Meltia wiped the nape, then the shoulders, and undid the back-clasp of the underwear to wipe the entire back. Mariabelle, even with her sister, was embarrassed to have her thinly-fleshed chest seen, and crossed her arms before her chest to hide it.

With the clasp undone and the underwear strap dangling behind, her whole body tensed, and force was put into the well-shaped rear; the small-area shorts pinched in with cute creases.

Watching the slight distortion of the sunlight-reflecting lace's sheen, Meltia finished wiping Mariabelle's back.

"Mariabelle. Now, could you raise your right arm?"

"Y-yes."

Now the sides.

When she raised her right arm, hairless armpit was, even between sisters, exposed to another's eyes.

A faint blush rose on Mariabelle's white skin, and sweat beaded on the dry skin not yet wiped by the wet cloth.

Expressing the feeling of embarrassment in her whole body, Mariabelle still bit her lip.

It seemed wrong to ask her sister, who was doing this for her, to stop because she was embarrassed.

When she bit her lip to bear it, the wet cloth came up her wrist, her arm, and slowly approached the armpit.

Mariabelle's face felt like it would catch fire from embarrassment, and she closed her eyes, but doing so deprived her of sight and made her even more sharply aware of the cloth's movement and Meltia's body heat.

"Ah, mm."

"Tickles?"

"A b-bit."

The left arm holding her chest and underwear tightened. The thin but still-fleshed chest changed its shape, and the slight angle change exposed the right breast fully — the pretty pink tip of which was completely revealed, though Mariabelle, eyes closed, didn't notice.

It was a small nipple suiting the small chest. The areola too was small, and the never-touched nipple was a pretty pink.

The ticklishness slightly hardened the nipple, raising its peak above its usual height.

"Ha, ah… nu."

"There. It'll be over soon, bear with it."

At her sister's words, Mariabelle nodded with a small nun, and as said, the stimulation at her armpit soon ended.

Even though she couldn't bathe, she cleansed herself daily in the river. Also, since the refugees would need to use the river later, she couldn't spend too much time.

After the right finished, the left side. Here too Mariabelle squirmed slightly and writhed, and finally the armpit-washing was over. Anyone watching would have grown excited from this alone.

Meltia then re-dipped the cloth in the river water and moved on to the lower body decorated with the pure-white string shorts.

She wiped the nearly fatless belly, washed the well-shaped navel, and like the chest, gently kneaded and wiped the thin-fleshed rear.

The shorts changed shape from the kneading, but soon returned to their roundness. The springy, fine-skinned bottom shone beautifully when wiped with the wet cloth, accentuating Mariabelle's figure.

Finally finishing wiping the slim legs, Meltia clasped the bra fastener back, and immediately afterwards re-dressed her in the black dress.

Reverse procedure of before.

Through the dress legs, then the arms, and then buttoning up the back.

After seeing her white skin, the black dress looked like the color of a moonless night, Meltia thought.

But it suited Mariabelle, suited her younger sister well, she also thought.

Finally, when she finger-combed the black hair, the cleansing was complete.

"Now you, sister."

"It's fine. I'll wash slowly with the others later."

"… Really?"

"You don't need to worry about that — let's just think about saving the country, all right?"

When Mariabelle turned around after being cleansed, her face held sadness.

The black eyes peeking from beneath her bangs gazed straight at Meltia.

Mariabelle was special.

As the [Hero]'s daughter, as a hero, she had to be special.

Being special meant being "different from those around her," a figure to be revered.

At minimum, Mariabelle the "[Hero]'s daughter" and "[Hero]'s successor" would adopt a different lifestyle, and as the sister who wasn't black-haired, Meltia would live like everyone else.

Simple, but by doing this the Fonteau refugees would feel that Mariabelle was different from themselves, and now they had begun, little by little, to regard Mariabelle as special.

As royal. As the [Hero]'s daughter.

To borrow the "[Hero]'s weapon" kept in the beastfolk country and reclaim the kingdom. Save Mother.

For that, she could bear even exposing her body amid the refugees.

"Lady Mariabelle, Lady Meltia!"

Just as Mariabelle realized this and steadied her feelings, they were called from a distance.

A woman's voice. They both recognized the face. One of the refugees.

"The express messenger to Grabalt's royal capital has just returned!"

"Truly?"

"Yes! Lady Shamia is asking for the two of you."

At that report, their hearts leaped.

Finally, another step forward.

The two of them quickly left the spot and headed to Shamia.

The report was simple.

The two were recognized as Fonteau royalty, and invited to Grabalt's royal capital.

At the same time, thirty knights would accompany the messenger as escorts. They would also escort the refugees.

Unlike Fonteau's knights, plain steel armor and helms without ornamentation. The red mantle on their backs bore the crest of the Grabalt royal house, and on each waist sword was a different crest.

Some of the sword crests Meltia and Mariabelle recognized.

Unlike Fonteau, in Grabalt there were many races, and the crests of their tribes were on the swords.

"Lady Shamia. Thank you so very much for your kindness."

"No. Meeting the two of you was my own happiness."

The petite red-haired dwarf replied in an excited, slightly-raised voice rather than her old-woman speech, while Meltia peered out from the carriage cargo bay guarded by knights.

Beyond her, the other [Hero]'s daughter clad in black — Mariabelle's figure.

Mariabelle didn't say words of gratitude. That was something Meltia had told her.

Meltia would speak the words of thanks. Mariabelle would simply show herself as a special being.

In fact, this had effect; Shamia, not having spoken with Mariabelle, who inherited the [Hero]'s blood strongly, could only imagine her appearance from a distance.

She hadn't exchanged words with her, and the number of times she'd heard Mariabelle's voice over these few days she could count on fingers.

The sanctity of being the [Hero]'s daughter and her strange hair color combined to make her a special being in the dwarf captain's mind.

"Then I pray you reach the royal capital safely."

"Lady Shamia, everyone… please be safe. If you see slimes, don't push yourselves."

"Thank you for your concern."

With those final words of thanks, the carriage carrying Meltia and the others moved off toward Grabalt's royal capital.

The long line gradually receded, and Shamia watched until they were completely out of sight.

"… Captain, you talked super weird back there."

"What's gotten into you all of a sudden. I do what needs doing when needed."

Naw. Captain's polite-speech, or, like, young-people-speech, gives me chills down the spine. Like Granny's forcing herself to talk like us, kind of off.

"You knew that and still you say it, you rude little…"

But while she'd normally lightly punch his stomach or kick his shin here, today Shamia was in good spirits.

Over these past ten-plus days, she'd been able to attend to the descendants of the hero who had saved her country; she'd been remembered by the elder sister.

Whatever her appearance suggested, for a dwarf nearing a hundred years of life that feeling was wonderful, and Shamia was excited enough that she'd sleep well for the next few days.

"Still, in the end the slime never showed itself, huh."

The wolf-eared beastfolk said.

It was something Fonteau's refugees, Meltia and the others, had said repeatedly. The slimes that destroyed the magic kingdom might attack, they'd said.

But while they had stayed, the slimes hadn't shown themselves.

Just in case, they'd closed the checkpoint gates and pulled out some [Mithril] weapons that could likely defeat slimes from the warehouse.

One ax and five swords.

Now rare [Mithril], if used by someone with even a little mana, amplified it and aided in magic.

What could be invoked was basic, weak magic, but for slimes that was more than enough, was the thinking of warriors who knew "ordinary slimes."

Shamia, with one such [Mithril] weapon, swung the small ax lightly.

It looked like a simple ax a woodcutter would use. Only its blade, slightly silver-tinged compared to iron or steel, glinted seven-color faintly in sunlight reflection.

The blade was sharpened, but not very sharp; it looked less a weapon than a decorative blunt object.

It would be a stretch to cut beast meat with it, was the consensus of those with combat experience, but the real value wasn't there.

Shamia's main weapon, a large hammer, was on her back, and she'd hang the ax at the belt.

Holding the auxiliary weapon up before her, she focused strongly.

Fire, arise.

The faintly seven-color-glimmering blade glowed dimly, and the next moment, the blade glowed red-hot.

The air shimmered an instant; heat reached her skin faintly.

"Hmmm. Can't throw fireballs, but it works fine."

"I'll test the other swords later. They were dusty in the warehouse so I worried, but [Mithril] doesn't seem to care."

"It seems so. [Mithril] weapons from old ruins are said to work right away too."

These weapons hadn't been bought with army funds; they were spoils from defeating thieves who ransacked ruins and bandits who attacked caravans during the [Demon King] era.

Not properly cataloging spoils, and storing them carelessly, was common for the beastfolk.

The beastfolk who valued their bodies were indifferent to weapons — and weapons of [Mithril] in particular. Especially during the war with the [Demon King]'s army.

These dull-edged decorative blades had been thrown into storage as useless in real combat.

In fact, Shamia's ax, and other decorative swords, though [Mithril] in make, were of dubious use in real battle.

The blades were thick from heavy ornamentation; durable but not made for "cutting."

For actual use, they were weapons needing magic. And the magic produced was far weaker than what an elven or human mage could manage.

Originally, the kind kept as ornamentation in noble households, Shamia and the others believed.

They distributed these weapons among the checkpoint's soldiers; those who didn't get one stood on the watchtower. There, fire arrows, arrowheads wrapped with oil-soaked cloth, were prepared.

Despite all the preparations, the slimes Meltia had spoken of didn't appear.

On the day Meltia and the others left the checkpoint, only tension built; the day ended.

The next day. And the next.

The third day after the princesses departed.

Just as the slime watchfulness was beginning to slacken, the soldier sent out to investigate the Fonteau side returned.

He sat astride his horse with a vacant expression, not answering when his comrades called to him; he returned to the checkpoint and turned eyes with faint light to the suspicious Shamia and the others.

It was Shamia who noticed the wrongness in his face.

The female dwarf, whose tiny appearance belied long years lived, tilted her head at her changed comrade.

"What's the matter?"

"Ah, no…"

"You were gone quite a while. Tired, eh?"

"Ah… ah. Tired, I think."

At the wolf-eared beastfolk's words his vague — really, parroting, reply made his comrades begin to feel the wrongness too.

He was clearly different from when he left to scout Fonteau. And not the change of fatigue.

How to put it… less listless than weak-willed.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. Um, my memory is hazy."

At Shamia's words the man began to speak haltingly.

He had memory up to arriving at one of Fonteau's villages, and from there until yesterday he had been unconscious, he said.

The village's position was half a day's ride from the checkpoint. Even with a night, simply about seven days prior.

From then to yesterday he'd been unconscious, and from then returned to the checkpoint.

He took mucus stuck to his clothes out of a leather pouch and showed Shamia.

"Slime, this. Mucus, or just a bit of it."

"So you. Got attacked by a slime and lost consciousness?"

"M-maybe?"

He wasn't confident.

Naturally. He hadn't realized he'd been attacked, and he'd been unconscious for seven days.

A regular human, immobilized for seven days, would die of dehydration or starvation. Fortunately his beastfolk physique saved him; he was just somewhat off.

"This guy's been weird too. When I tried to return, he wouldn't listen to me at all."

He pointed at the horse he'd ridden.

Military horses are trained to obey their rider; unless something serious occurs, they don't defy their handler.

Conversely, when an obedient military horse defies, an abnormal situation has occurred, but Shamia and the others could feel nothing odd about the horse beyond fatigue-listlessness.

"For now, rest today. Are you hungry?"

"No. I'm fine. I drank a lot of water on the way."

"I see. Scouting, well done. Anything else you forgot to mention?"

At Shamia's question the man shook his head.

Then, as if noticing something, he rubbed his belly.

"What, you really are hungry? I can prepare dried meat right away…"

"No, not at all."

"All right. Then rest well. If you're still off tomorrow, no need to push it, rest."

"Yes."

The man said this, then returned to the wooden barracks assigned for men.

While Shamia and the scout had been talking, his comrades unloaded camping equipment and preserved food from the saddle… and noticed something.

"Captain, this."

"What is it?"

"The preserved food, it hasn't gone down at all."

Because he was unconscious, was the immediate thought.

But considering even after waking he hadn't been hungry, and he returned to the checkpoint, it was certainly strange.

The village where the man had been unconscious — possibly attacked by slimes — was half a day to a day on horseback.

The food gone down was one meal, that being what he'd used to reach the village.

Which meant the scout had spent about eight days without eating, Shamia thought, and was suspicious.

"Slime, eh… normally, those don't keep prey alive when they attack…"

"That's right. Lucky, probably, but why was he 'kept alive,' I wonder?"

All the soldiers not on watch tilted their heads, but no answer came.

What was unfortunate here was that the Black Ooze's nature hadn't been properly conveyed.

Or, that might be too cruel a word.

The Black Ooze kills and absorbs men, and rapes women to make them bear children.

There were no exceptions, and even the strongest mage in this world — Leticia, the worst enemy of the Black Ooze, was not killed but raped to bear children.

It was monster instinct.

Rape women. Multiply the kind. Just that thought.

Therefore, those who knew the Black Ooze's nature could not escape its tentacles — that is, the refugees who came through this checkpoint had all watched Fonteau's fall from afar; not one had directly experienced its threat.

They didn't have information on what abilities the Black Ooze had, on how it had defeated Leticia.

They had only seen, while fleeing, men killed and absorbed, and women raped throughout the royal capital.

The most important thing: Meltia and the others hadn't been able to tell them.

That the Black Ooze absorbs the knowledge of what it takes in, as well as the mass.

Not knowing this, Shamia and the others tilted their heads at their comrade's changed state, but settled their feelings since he'd returned safely.

That night.

Even with their hearts heavier from the Fonteau princesses' fear and the unsettling slime sense around their attacked comrade, Shamia and the others took turns on watch at the checkpoint.

The watch was always three people.

Two on the watchtower, and one patrolling inside the checkpoint to relay messages to comrades if needed.

Of those at the checkpoint, two non-combatants and the one in poor health were excluded from the rotation.

Watches changed three times per night, and the first shift was Shamia and two beastfolk soldiers.

The beastfolk took the watchtower, and Shamia patrolled inside. In her right hand a torch; her left hand on the hilt of the ax at her hip.

The torch's light lit her red-copper hair and profile, picking out her face, youthful for someone nearing a hundred, in the night dark.

What she wore was light gear for ease of movement.

Her chest, needing no support, was covered with a black undershirt; her upper body wore a pale-green sleeveless jacket. Lower, a short skirt and black spats: light wear.

Over the jacket she wore the chestplate, and instead of leather boots, iron greaves. Iron protectors at the elbows and knees too: light armor.

Grabalt's nights were still warm; naturally she'd wear something like this.

"Now then, let's make the rounds."

Alert, but with a touch of boredom, Shamia muttered to no one in particular.

Night patrols were done daily, but with several days of high alert, when nothing happened on consecutive nights, a little laxness sneaking in was perhaps natural.

In night dark, beastfolk with night vision were better at standing watch, and Shamia with stamina was better at patrol. The right people for the right job.

While going about the not-very-wide checkpoint, Shamia thought about dinner.

Nothing particularly different from usual.

Only, the just-returned soldier hadn't eaten on health grounds, and the horse he'd scouted with also hadn't eaten its feed, she'd been told.

Was it right to dismiss it as illness or coincidence? That was the question.

(If he's still off tomorrow morning, maybe send him back to the capital and have a doctor see him.)

A soldier was still a citizen.

She couldn't make light of his life. If this were an epidemic, she should act fast, Shamia thought.

Or had the country-destroying slime poisoned him… she'd thought, but laughed at her own paranoia.

Slimes weren't known to carry poison.

She held the [Mithril] ax in her hand, then lightly tossed it up and caught it deftly.

The torch's warm light shone in the night dark, and idle Shamia played with the ax, wondering what to do tomorrow.

— Insects sang, distantly.

The disgusting insects of the forest surrounding the checkpoint.

Just by voice they were cute, but the various-sized insects were considered gross even by tough beastfolk and demi-humans, and some carried poison.

Living in Grabalt was a battle against insects and poisons — against nature.

The fight against the [Demon King] and monsters was dangerous, but nature's threat was equally so.

(Bothersome stuff.)

Inappropriate perhaps, but that was Shamia's feeling on the slime situation.

Naturally.

Country-destroying slimes were unheard of, and a mucus blob monster was simply a tedious foe for a magic-less dwarf.

Weak in strength, splatters when hit and dirties clothes, the worst threat being one grown a bit large that might swallow livestock.

Slimes' mass is determined by the size of their internal core.

Small core, less mucus; large core, more. Less mucus means thinner, fewer tentacle weapons.

No thought or knowledge; merely reacting to nearby movement with tentacle reach.

That was all.

That was the common view among warriors who knew slimes.

So.

Even if the warning came from a kingdom's princess, the [Hero]'s daughter — Shamia had let her guard down somewhere in her heart.

A mere slime.

Even slightly larger, even numerous, closing the checkpoint gates would handle it, she'd thought.

In fact, if this had been an ordinary slime, even slightly larger, Shamia and the others could have handled it.

In the end, slime was a monster with a weak point. Smash its core to maintain its mucus body and you win.

"… Hm?"

She thought she heard a voice.

Among the loud insect sounds in the silence, a human voice.

She thought she'd misheard.

It quickly fell silent.

But it seemed she'd heard it, and just patrolling the same route was boring, so Shamia stopped walking and looked in the direction of the voice.

There was the men's barracks. A sturdy log house, well-built with timbers.

Through the windows leaked the light of a Fonteau-made mana lamp put into use a few years prior.

By now the soldiers waiting for the next watch should be napping inside.

(A big sleep-talk?)

She thought, but the face of the soldier who'd returned that day surfaced in her mind.

Not exactly a bad premonition.

Just, suddenly bothered.

Earlier his state was odd, so let her check he was sleeping properly, with that level of thought Shamia headed toward the barracks.

She gently opened the door so as not to wake the sleeping comrades.

The first thing she saw was the mana lamp's light.

After confirming this and opening the door more widely, the night wind came inside. With it, the room's "smell" hit Shamia, and she grimaced.

It stank.

A smell of not having bathed for days.

The room's air, the longer it spread, the stronger the bad scent grew, and Shamia covered her nose with the hand not holding the torch.

"What's this smell?"

She hesitated for an instant, but Shamia stepped inside and looked around.

Nothing odd in the room.

Beds prepared with a few extras beyond the male soldiers' count, and the men's small comforts. Snacks they'd eaten before sleep, a bottle of liquor left open with a half-open lid…

The bedsheets were rumpled — and her comrades' forms were not there.

It was then that Shamia realized the anomaly… that there was no one in the room.

Her thinking, dulled by the stench, snapped awake.

Without examining the room further, Shamia leaped outside for safety's sake.

"Hey, somebody —?!"

Suddenly, a thunderous crash of something breaking.

She immediately recognized it as the men's barracks window being broken. From the opposite side of the entrance where Shamia stood.

The watchtower duo heard it too; in night dark not the watch torch but fire arrows prepared earlier appeared in the dark.

The fire arrow planted in the ground lit the broken area, but from the watchtower and from where Shamia stood, the details weren't clear.

"I'll check! Cover me from there!!"

"Got it! From back of the building we can't see, please be careful with the check!"

When Shamia raised her voice, the reply came back.

Cautiously, she moved the torch to her left hand and the [Mithril] ax to her right.

When Shamia moved to the back of the building, she couldn't comprehend what she saw.

The man who'd returned earlier today was standing.

Beside him, three soldiers lay collapsed.

The problem was the returned man's face and mouth. His eyes were rolled back white, completely out of his senses — and from his mouth, something flowed in thick, drooling streams.

What it was, Shamia couldn't comprehend.

Her thinking stopped.

Comrade-safety, danger, escape.

She couldn't even think those — and after a while, she noticed the white-eyed man wasn't standing; he was being held up by mucus.

There was a will to it.

It understood that "making him stand forcibly gave more terror to whoever saw it."

The slime. The Black Ooze had been learning.

Mankind's fear.

How to most efficiently neutralize.

How to most efficiently capture.

Simple.

If the slime species was on guard against, get into a vessel that wasn't on guard against.

That is, a flesh vessel.

That is, a humanoid.

Human, beastfolk, demi-human — the slime's enemy. Monster's enemy. Get inside humanity's body and use that flesh-vessel to infiltrate humanity's society.

Then sturdy doors, high outer walls, obstructive watches couldn't stop slimes from entering.

Because "even the person himself doesn't know there are slimes in his body."

And the number of slimes that came out from inside the man was three.

About the size of a human head; not particularly large… ordinary, was Shamia's impression. But if they'd been inside a person, that was different.

With her whole body in goosebumps, Shamia unconsciously stepped back several paces.

While she did, the slimes inside the body completely came out, and the white-eyed man fell forward. Not even convulsing — his airway had been compressed expelling the slimes, and he died.

And touched by the expelled slime mucus, the three men, paralyzed and unable to move, had tentacles extending toward them.

The men were still asleep.

They couldn't understand what was happening.

Asleep and paralyzed by poison, they didn't regain consciousness, and the strong poison stopped their hearts as well.

Shamia couldn't accept that the four were dead.

Their chests weren't moving with breath, and they didn't react when slimes crawled on them.

But the comrades she'd just had supper with were dying this easily — the mind of someone who'd accepted the peace after the [Demon King]'s death and fear-free life rejected the comprehension.

No matter how excellent the gear, without resolve it's meaningless.

Belatedly, Shamia raised the ax she held.

A fatal slowness.

The moment she raised it, what she'd recognized as ordinary-sized slimes flicked tentacles at speed her eyes couldn't track.

The tentacles wrapped around her [Mithril] ax, binding her up to the wrist.

"It's slimes!"

At that moment, she finally raised her voice.

She raised her voice to alert of the slime attack and tried to break free of the binding, only to realize her right wrist had no feeling.

(W-what is this?!)

Her grip loosened, the [Mithril] ax fell, rolled with a dry clatter on the ground.

The tentacles came off with the weapon, but the right hand wouldn't regain feeling.

She wanted to wipe the mucus on her hand off but with the long-lived dwarf's intuition, touching the mucus seemed risky.

Shamia hurriedly wiped her right hand on the barracks wall and stepped back, putting distance between herself and the slime.

"Tch."

The three already-dead bodies of her comrades. Their heads were being swallowed by the slimes.

The torch light leaking from the broken window made the sight clear.

She had to help somehow, that's normal thinking.

Shamia thought so too.

She should have fled here. She should have recognized the opponent's threat.

But she couldn't run, nor could she save her comrades; she stood frozen. Her right hand robbed of feeling by the paralytic poison, her hoped-for [Mithril] weapon lay on the ground, smeared with slime mucus.

Touching that would paralyze even her good left hand.

It was a trap the slime had prepared.

Not understanding what robbed her right hand of feeling, Shamia looked at the [Mithril] ax and tried to think of how to counter.

She saw the slimes finish swallowing her comrades' heads.

… Shamia steeled herself and jumped forward. There was no leeway to wait for her watchtower comrades.

She grabbed the [Mithril] ax fallen on the ground — and dropped it again.

Not understanding what had happened, forgetting even the slimes, she looked at both hands.

Both hands had lost feeling, she realized.

The slime's paralytic poison.

Shamia had her hands robbed of freedom — before she could fully grasp the fact, a tentacle stretched at the trapped pitiable female dwarf struck her head, robbing her of consciousness as well.