The gnome settlement of Ironforge—yes, really, they actually named it Ironforge—was exactly what you'd expect from a fantasy species obsessed with craftsmanship and technical precision. Imagine if someone took a Swiss watch, scaled it up to city size, then built it into the side of a mountain with the kind of architectural ambition that only comes from having access to magic and absolutely no sense of "maybe this is impossible."
"Well," I said, looking up at the massive gates carved with intricate runic patterns that seemed to pulse with their own inner light, "they certainly don't do things halfway."
My diplomatic team consisted of twelve slimes, each one perfectly mimicking a different species to demonstrate our versatility and cultural awareness. We had a human form for general diplomacy, an elf for magical discussions, a dwarf because gnomes apparently got along well with their slightly taller cousins, and various others for specific technical conversations.
The gnome who met us at the gates was about four feet tall, with a magnificent beard that had been braided with tiny metal ornaments, each one inscribed with runes that probably served some practical purpose. His eyes were the kind of bright, curious blue that suggested he took apart magical devices for fun.
"Welcome, travelers," he said in accented Common, his gaze lingering on our mixed-species group with obvious interest. "I am Tormund Gearwright, Master of External Relations. We received your message about a potential trade arrangement."
"That's right," I replied through my human-shaped form, gesturing to the carefully prepared sample cases our dwarf-form was carrying. "We represent the Slime Kingdom, and we believe we have something that might interest your people."
Tormund's eyebrows shot up. "The Slime Kingdom? We've heard rumors... stories of a new power rising in the eastern valleys. Most interesting." He studied our group more carefully. "And you say you have something to trade?"
"We do indeed," I said, opening the first sample case to reveal a small vial of refined slime essence. "This is a substance that can fundamentally alter the properties of any material it comes into contact with. We believe it could revolutionize runic craftsmanship."
The demonstration that followed was probably the most satisfying sales pitch I'd ever given in either of my lives. We took a simple iron bar provided by the gnomes and applied a single drop of slime essence to its surface. Within seconds, the metal began to change, its molecular structure shifting to become not just a better conductor of magical energy, but a more stable storage medium as well.
Tormund's eyes went wide as he ran his runic analysis tools over the transformed metal. "By the Deep Forges," he whispered, "this is impossible. The magical conductivity has increased by over three hundred percent, and the structural integrity..." He looked up at us with the expression of someone who had just witnessed a miracle. "How is this possible?"
"Trade secret," I said with what I hoped was a mysterious smile. "But we're willing to share the finished product in exchange for knowledge. Specifically, we'd like access to your comprehensive runic reference materials."
What followed was three weeks of the most intensive negotiations I'd ever been part of. The gnomes, it turned out, didn't just have a book of runes—they had an entire library dedicated to runic theory, practical applications, historical development, and experimental research. Their Master Runecrafters had spent centuries developing a system of magical programming that was essentially the fantasy equivalent of computer science.
The negotiations were complicated by the fact that runic knowledge was considered sacred by gnome society. They didn't just trade it away to anyone who showed up with interesting materials. We had to prove not only that we could provide valuable slime essence, but that we would use their knowledge responsibly and contribute back to the field of runic research.
"The thing is," Tormund explained during one particularly lengthy discussion, "our runes are the foundation of gnome civilization. The [Heat] runes that warm our homes, the [Light] runes that illuminate our workshops, the [Preserve] runes that keep our food fresh—everything depends on this knowledge."
"I understand completely," I replied, and I really did. As a programmer, I knew the feeling of having specialized knowledge that seemed magical to outsiders but was actually the result of centuries of accumulated expertise. "We're not just looking to take your knowledge and disappear. We want to build a long-term partnership."
That's when I made the offer that sealed the deal.
"What if we could provide you with a manufacturing partner?" I suggested. "Our slimes can perfectly replicate any runic inscriptions once they understand the pattern. We could help you mass-produce runic devices while also conducting joint research into new applications."
The gnomes huddled together for what felt like hours, their beards bristling with animated discussion. Finally, Tormund returned with a proposal that was both generous and shrewd.
"We will provide you with our complete runic reference library," he said, "in exchange for exclusive access to slime essence and a formal research partnership. Additionally, we want to establish a permanent gnome quarter in your kingdom, where our craftsmen can work directly with your... people."
"Deal," I said immediately. It was exactly what I'd been hoping for.
The handover ceremony took place in the gnomes' Great Library, a cavernous hall carved from the living rock of the mountain and filled with thousands upon thousands of books, scrolls, and stone tablets. The complete runic reference collection filled forty-seven volumes, each one bound in materials that had been treated with preservation runes to last for millennia.
"Here," said Master Runecrafter Dulgan Ironscribe, a gnome so old his beard had turned completely white and been braided with what looked like actual iron wire, "is the accumulated knowledge of our people. Use it wisely."
I accepted the books with appropriate ceremony, though internally I was practically vibrating with excitement. Through the hive mind, I could already feel the anticipation of our Research Division as they prepared to dive into the most comprehensive magical programming manual ever created.
The journey back to our kingdom took ten days, during which I spent every spare moment reviewing the runic materials. The gnomes hadn't been exaggerating—their system was incredibly sophisticated. They had runes for every conceivable purpose, from basic elemental effects to complex logical operations that could create magical devices with behaviors as intricate as any computer program.
"This is it," I announced to the hive mind as we approached our kingdom's borders. "This is how we bridge the gap between magic and technology."
By the time we arrived home, I had already identified the key runes I would need for my devices. The [Clean] rune was elegant in its simplicity—it created a field that repelled dirt, grime, and foreign substances. The [Protect] rune established a barrier that could absorb and disperse kinetic energy, perfect for keeping delicate electronics safe from users who might not know their own strength.
But that was just the beginning. The real breakthrough came when I discovered that the gnomes hadn't just catalogued existing runes—they had developed a theoretical framework for creating entirely new ones.
"This changes everything," I announced to the Research Division as I dove deeper into the materials. "We don't just have to work with existing magical effects. We can invent our own."
The process was surprisingly similar to programming, except instead of writing code that manipulated data, I was designing symbolic patterns that manipulated the fundamental forces of reality. The [Connect] rune was my first original creation—a symbol that could establish and maintain magical links between objects across arbitrary distances.
The breakthrough came when I realized that runes could be combined in ways that created emergent properties. A [Connect] rune linked with a [Preserve] rune and a [Channel] rune created a magical effect that could maintain stable communication channels indefinitely. Add in a [Protect] rune and the connection became virtually impossible to disrupt.
"I'm not just creating magical devices," I realized with growing excitement. "I'm creating magical programming languages."
The [Charge] rune was even more elegant. Instead of requiring external magical energy to power devices, it could draw ambient mana from the environment and convert it into usable power. Combined with the [Store] rune, it created magical batteries that could power devices for months without maintenance.
The [Imbue] rune was perhaps the most complex, allowing me to embed entire spells into objects so they could be activated by non-magical users. A sword imbued with a fire spell, a shield imbued with protection magic, a communication device imbued with translation spells—the possibilities were limitless.
"Progress report on the capital city," I requested, taking a break from my runic research to check on our other projects.
The response that came through the hive mind was even more impressive than I'd expected. Our kingdom now covered over 512,000 square kilometers, making it one of the largest political entities on the continent. But size wasn't what made it remarkable—it was the infrastructure.
We had residential districts designed for every species we'd encountered, with buildings that could adapt their internal configuration based on the needs of their inhabitants. The homes weren't just houses—they were living spaces that could reshape themselves to provide optimal comfort for their residents.
The laboratory district was a marvel of magical engineering, with research facilities that could create any environment needed for experimentation. Want to test how your invention works in arctic conditions? The lab could simulate them perfectly. Need to see how magical effects behave in zero gravity? We had chambers that could nullify gravitational fields entirely.
The palace—though I insisted on calling it the Administrative Center—was the crown jewel of our architecture. Built into a natural hill at the center of the city, it looked like it had grown from the earth itself. Inside, it contained everything needed to coordinate a civilization: communication centers connected to the hive mind, strategic planning rooms with three-dimensional magical displays, and diplomatic suites designed to make representatives from any species feel welcome.
"And the entertainment district?" I asked, because even revolutionary civilizations needed to have some fun.
"Fully operational, sir. We have restaurants serving cuisine from over thirty different cultures, all prepared by slimes who absorbed the memories of master chefs. The theater complex can accommodate audiences of up to fifty thousand, with slimes performing everything from classical elven poetry to dwarven drinking songs."
The movie theater was my personal favorite innovation. Since we didn't have a film industry, we'd created one from scratch. Slimes who had absorbed the memories of storytellers, actors, and artists collaborated to create entirely new forms of entertainment. They could shapeshift into any character, memorize complex dialogue perfectly, and create visual effects that would make Hollywood weep with envy.
"What's currently showing?" I asked.
"'The Dragon's Dilemma,' a romantic comedy about a dragon who falls in love with a knight but is too shy to reveal his feelings. 'Dungeon Crawlers,' an action-adventure about a team of unlikely heroes exploring ancient ruins. And 'Slime: The Musical,' which has been surprisingly popular with non-slime audiences."
"Slime: The Musical?"
"It's a comedic retelling of our recent history, focusing on the goblin infiltration operation. The audience loves the part where the fake goblin general gives his rousing speech about 'slime honor' while secretly being three slimes in a trench coat."
I had to admit, that did sound entertaining.
The SlimeTech stores were perhaps the most important development from a long-term strategic perspective. We'd started with over two hundred different types of ready-made runes, each one designed to solve common problems that other species faced. Need to keep your food fresh indefinitely? We had preservation runes. Want to communicate with someone who speaks a different language? We had translation runes. Tired of your weapons breaking during combat? We had durability enhancement runes.
"Sales figures?" I inquired.
"Exceeding all projections, sir. We're processing over three thousand transactions per day, with customers traveling from as far as eight hundred kilometers away to visit our stores. The most popular items are the household convenience runes—lighting, heating, cooling, cleaning."
"And the more advanced items?"
"The communication runes are starting to gain traction among merchant guilds and military organizations. The defensive runes are popular with adventuring parties. The medical runes are in such high demand that we've had to limit sales to prevent shortages."
It was gratifying to see our innovations having such a positive impact, but it also highlighted the challenge I was facing with the internet project. Creating the technology was the easy part—creating content and user base was proving much more difficult.
"Status report on the internet development?" I asked.
The response was frustrating but not unexpected. We'd successfully created a magical network that could connect devices across unlimited distances. We'd developed user interfaces that were intuitive for dozens of different species. We'd even created basic applications like messaging, information sharing, and entertainment platforms.
But an internet without users is just an expensive communication system, and users without content have no reason to stay connected.
"We have the infrastructure," reported the Internet Development Division, "but we need diversity. Our slime-generated content is technically perfect, but it lacks the authenticity and variety that comes from different perspectives and experiences."
That's when I made the decision that would define the next phase of our kingdom's development.
"Initiate the Human Outreach Program," I announced to the hive mind. "It's time to actively recruit residents from other species, with a focus on content creators, artists, scholars, and innovators."
The plan was ambitious but necessary. We would send diplomatic missions to human settlements across the continent, offering not just trade agreements but actual citizenship in our kingdom. We'd provide incentives for teachers, writers, musicians, inventors, and anyone else who could contribute to the diversity of our growing civilization.
"But sir," came a concerned response from the Security Division, "increased immigration means increased security risks. More outsiders means more potential for espionage, sabotage, or cultural conflicts."
"I know," I replied. "But isolation won't protect us from the threats we're facing. The Phoenix Clan is already building alliances against us. Our best defense is to become so valuable to so many different groups that attacking us becomes politically impossible."
It was a risky strategy, but it was also the only one that aligned with our ultimate goal. We weren't trying to build a slime empire—we were trying to build a truly inclusive civilization that could serve as the foundation for a connected world.
"Besides," I added with what I hoped was confidence, "if we can't handle a few human immigrants, how are we supposed to revolutionize an entire world?"
The month that followed was a whirlwind of activity that pushed even our hive mind's multitasking abilities to their limits. Diplomatic missions departed for human settlements across the continent. Construction crews worked around the clock to expand our residential districts. The Research Division continued refining runic technology while the Internet Development Division prepared to onboard thousands of new users from dozens of different species.
And somewhere in the back of my consciousness, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were running out of time. The Phoenix Clan's alliance with the demons represented a threat we weren't fully prepared for, and our growing visibility made us an increasingly attractive target.
"One crisis at a time," I reminded myself as reports flowed in about successful diplomatic contacts with human cities. "First we build the internet. Then we figure out how to survive the inevitable war."
It was going to be an interesting few months.