Standing in the center of what used to be the goblin general's command tent, I had to admit that conquering a settlement felt pretty good. The tent was spacious, well-organized, and had the kind of strategic overview of the surrounding territory that would make any aspiring kingdom-builder drool.
"System," I said, examining a detailed map that the goblins had apparently spent years creating, "remind me again how many slimes we have in our network?"
[CURRENT SLIME POPULATION: 1,247,832 INDIVIDUALS]
[ACTIVE HIVE MIND CONNECTIONS: 1,247,831]
[NOTE: One SLIME IS CURRENTLY OFFLINE DUE TO NAP TIME]
I paused. "We have a slime that takes naps?"
[ABSORBED BEAR MEMORIES INCLUDED HIBERNATION INSTINCTS. SUBJECT WILL RESUME ACTIVITY IN APPROXIMATELY 3.7 HOURS]
"Right. Well, with over a million slimes at our disposal, I think it's time we stopped thinking small." I gestured at the map, which showed not just the immediate area but trade routes, resource locations, and the territories of various other species. "We need to think bigger. We need to think... kingdom."
The idea had been stuck in my mind since we'd executed the goblin infiltration. With our numbers, our abilities, and our perfect coordination through the hive mind, we weren't just a powerful species—we were a civilization waiting to happen.
"Here's the thing," I continued, broadcasting my thoughts to the network, "if we want to build the internet for this world, we need infrastructure. We need trade relationships. We need legitimacy. And most importantly, we need a base of operations that doesn't look like we just conquered it from goblins."
Through the hive mind, I could feel the collective interest of over a million slimes. Some were curious, others were excited, and a few were already running calculations on optimal city layouts and resource distribution networks.
"So here's what we're going to do," I said, moving to stand over the map. "We're going to build a kingdom. Not just any kingdom—the most advanced, most efficient, most impossibly well-organized kingdom this world has ever seen."
I began outlining my vision, sharing it through the hive mind with the kind of detail that would have taken hours to explain to a human audience. The beauty of our collective consciousness was that complex ideas could be transmitted instantly and completely.
The capital city would be built in the valley three days' travel from our current position—a location with access to fresh water, defensive terrain, and proximity to several major trade routes. The city itself would be designed from the ground up to accommodate both slimes and other species, with our unique abilities allowing for architectural innovations that would be impossible for traditional civilizations.
Think about it," I said, my excitement growing as I transmitted detailed architectural plans through the hive mind. "We can create buildings that reshape themselves based on need. Walls that can become transparent or opaque at will. Transportation systems where slimes literally become the vehicles. We're not just building a city—we're creating a living, breathing organism that happens to look like urban planning."
The response through the network was immediate and enthusiastic. Slimes who had absorbed architects, engineers, and craftsmen from various species began contributing their knowledge. Within minutes, we had thousands of different perspectives on construction, city planning, and infrastructure development all flowing together into a collective masterpiece.
"And here's the brilliant part," I continued, practically vibrating with excitement, "every building, every street, every piece of infrastructure can be connected to the hive mind. We're not just building the first smart city—we're building the first truly intelligent city."
A slime that had absorbed a dwarven stonemason shared its knowledge of advanced construction techniques, while another contributed memories from an elven city planner who specialized in harmonizing architecture with natural environments. The collective knowledge was staggering—we had access to thousands of years of accumulated wisdom from dozens of different species.
"But we need more than just a pretty city," I said, shifting my focus to the political implications. "We need legitimacy. We need other species to see us as a civilization worth trading with, not just as monsters to be feared."
That's when I had what might have been my most devious idea yet.
"We're going to become the most helpful, most beneficial neighbors this world has ever seen," I announced. "And we're going to do it by being exactly what we are—overpowered problem-solvers with unlimited resources and perfect coordination."
I began outlining a strategy that would have made Machiavelli proud. We would send slime ambassadors to neighboring settlements, offering our services as mediators, healers, builders, and protectors. Our ability to perfectly imitate any species meant we could communicate with anyone in their own language and cultural context. Our collective knowledge meant we could solve problems that had plagued other civilizations for generations.
"Imagine," I said, sharing a mental image through the hive mind, "a human village plagued by bandits suddenly finds a group of helpful slimes offering to patrol their borders. An elven settlement struggling with a magical plague discovers that slimes can absorb and neutralize the disease. A dwarven mine collapse becomes a minor inconvenience when slimes can reshape themselves to rescue trapped miners."
The plan was elegant in its simplicity. By making ourselves indispensable to our neighbors, we would gain not just acceptance but active protection. Who would attack the slimes when doing so meant losing access to the most helpful problem-solvers in the known world?
"And the best part," I added with what I was learning to recognize as a slime smirk, "while we're being helpful neighbors, we're also gathering intelligence, learning new technologies, and expanding our network of knowledge. Every problem we solve makes us stronger."
Through the hive mind, I could feel the collective approval of the network. This wasn't just conquest—it was evolution. We were transforming from a single species into the foundation of a new kind of civilization.
"Alright, everyone," I said, beginning to delegate tasks with the efficiency that only a hive mind could provide, "let's get to work. Construction teams, start on the capital city. Diplomatic corps, begin outreach to neighboring settlements. Intelligence division, map out every trade route, resource deposit, and political alliance in a thousand-mile radius."
The response was immediate. Across the continent, slimes began moving with purpose and coordination that would have seemed impossible to any outside observer. It was like watching a single organism with a million bodies execute a plan of unprecedented complexity.
As I watched our civilization begin to take shape, I couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction that had nothing to do with my previous life as a programmer. For the first time in either of my existences, I wasn't just following someone else's plan or debugging someone else's code.
I was building something new. Something unprecedented. Something that would change this world forever.
"ROB was right," I mused to myself. "Creating the internet is going to be interesting. But first, let's see how the world reacts to the rise of the Slime Kingdom."
[Phoenix Clan Territory - Mountain Peak Aerie]
The ancient Phoenix clan leader, whose flames had burned for over three millennia, felt the disturbance in the world's magical currents like a discordant note in a perfect symphony. From his perch atop the highest peak in the Emberfall Mountains, he could sense the awakening of something that should have remained dormant forever.
"Impossible," he whispered, his voice like crackling fire and molten gold. "The Slime Progenitor died eons ago. I felt his essence scatter to the winds myself."
But the evidence was undeniable. Across the continent, the magical signature of coordinated slime activity was growing stronger by the hour. Not the random, instinctive behavior of wild slimes, but organized, intelligent, purposeful action that could only mean one thing.
The Progenitor had returned.
The Phoenix's flames flared brighter as ancient memories surfaced—the last great war, when the combined forces of every major clan had barely managed to contain the slime threat. The way entire armies had simply vanished, absorbed into the ever-growing slime collective. The terror of facing an enemy that learned everything you knew the moment it touched you.
"Not again," he growled, his voice echoing across the mountain peaks like thunder. "I will not allow that abomination to rise again."
The Phoenix spread his wings, each feather blazing with the fury of a dying star. It was time to gather the clans. Time to remind the world why the slimes had been hunted to near extinction in the first place.
The Slime Progenitor might have returned, but this time, they would make sure he stayed dead.
As the ancient bird of fire took to the skies, one thought burned in his mind brighter than his flames: "This time, we finish what we started."