In the vast, unforgiving expanse of Arora, magic is not a gift—it is a ghost. It is a flickering candle in a world of roaring storms. Deprived of the easy path of sorcery, the inhabitants of this world turned to the absolute refinement of the self. Humans forged their bodies into living weapons, perfecting martial arts that could shatter stone and sword techniques that could slice the wind. The Elves retreated to the ancient canopies, their archery becoming so precise it was whispered they could pierce a falling leaf from a mile away. In the deep mountain veins, the Dwarves hammered away, creating craftsmanship so legendary that their blades never dulled, regardless of how much bone they struck.
At the heart of this world sat the Arorian Kingdom. It was a bastion of steel, a massive realm of towering spires and scarred walls that had repelled legions of demons and armies of elves alike. It was a kingdom built on the blood of heroes. Yet, even the greatest warriors of Arorian looked toward the south with shadows in their eyes. There lay the Arorikund Valley.
It was a place of "junk"—a wasteland of evolutionary nightmares and strange, nameless horrors. Many warriors had marched into that valley seeking glory; none had returned with anything but the stench of death.
The Valley of Death
The silence of the Arorikund Valley was never truly empty. It was a heavy, oppressive thing, filled with the hum of toxic insects and the distant, wet sounds of things crawling in the dark.
Suddenly, the silence shattered.
The rhythmic, frantic thud of boots hit the mud. A man, dressed in the tattered remains of a scout's leather armor, tore through the thick ferns. He was a mask of agony. Blood, dark and viscous, leaked from a jagged gash across his chest, soaking his tunic until it clung to him like a second skin. His breath came in ragged, wet rattles—the sound of a man whose lungs were filling with his own life.
He stumbled, his vision blurring as he reached the edge of a black-watered river. His strength evaporated. With a final, choked gasp, he collapsed into the mossy bank. His eyes rolled back, catching one last glimpse of the dark canopy above before his world turned to black.
From the shadow of a nearby rock, the ground began to ripple.
It wasn't a beast. It wasn't a man. It was a mound of translucent, oily slime—a shimmering, dark mass that moved with a sickening, liquid grace. It oozed over the mud, drawn to the heat of the dying man. When it reached him, it didn't bite; it began to flow.
The creature draped itself over the scout's body. It worked like a living acid, breaking down leather, bone, and meat with silent, terrifying efficiency. There was no scream—only the soft hiss of dissolving tissue. Bit by bit, the man was erased. His memories, his DNA, his very essence were absorbed into the dark, gelatinous mass.
The creature, satiated and heavy, began to slither back toward its lightless burrow. But then, a spark ignited within the slime.
The First Thought
A ripple went through the creature's body. It stopped. For the first time in its existence, it didn't just react—it questioned.
'' haa''
The thought was a lightning bolt in a dark room. This creature was a glitch in the ecosystem. It was a bottom-feeder, a mindless consumer meant to exist only as a stomach on the forest floor. It was never supposed to gain a soul.
'' ..why am I here? I don't know.''
The memories of the scout were mixing with the creature's instinct. It began to wander, its liquid body shifting aimlessly through the dirt. It felt lost, not in the forest, but in its own mind. Then, something new happened.
A single drop of rain fell from the grey sky, hitting the creature's center. It was cold. Bitterly, piercingly cold.
'' it's cold''
It felt a strange vibration—a shiver. It dragged itself under the roots of a massive, ancient tree, looking down at its shapeless form. For the first time, it felt "vulnerable." And then, a sound erupted from inside it—a deep, violent growl.
"..."
Confused by the noise, the creature formed a fist of hardened slime and punched itself directly in the middle of its mass. Thud. The growl didn't stop. It only felt a new, sharp sensation: pain.
"I guess I should do something about this," it thought, its "voice" vibrating through the air like a hum.
The shadows between the dark oaks shifted. Two burning embers of crimson light ignited in the gloom. A low, guttural snarl vibrated through the trees, followed by a roar that shook the very leaves. The forest went silent as every small animal fled for its life.
Emerging from the darkness was a Red Dire Wolf. It was a nightmare of fur and muscle, its coat the color of dried blood. It was an F-Rank predator, known for agility that could outpace an arrow. It saw the pile of slime as nothing more than a strange snack.
"Food" the creature thought.
Suddenly, the shiver down its spine turned into a surge of power. The creature's body began to boil. Slime turned into muscle; translucent film turned into green, leathery skin. Bones snapped into place with the sound of breaking wood. Within seconds, the small mound of slime had expanded, rising seven feet into the air.
A massive, hulking Orc stood where the slime had been. Its tusks were jagged, and its eyes burned with a newfound, savage intelligence.
The Dire Wolf lunged, a blur of red fur and yellow fangs. It aimed for the Orc's throat.
The creature didn't panic. It felt the wolf's movement as if it were moving through water. As the wolf snapped its jaws, the creature raised a massive, tree-trunk arm.
CRUNCH.
The wolf's teeth sank into the Orc's forearm, but the creature didn't flinch. Instead, it used its other hand to grip the wolf by its scruff. With a roar of its own, the creature's free hand shifted, the fingers fusing together into a jagged, bone-like blade.
One swift, brutal slash.
The Dire Wolf's body went limp as the blade tore through its chest. It hit the ground with a heavy thud, blood staining the moss.
''It's hurt, food haha''
The creature let out a deep, booming laugh, its voice still sounding slightly wet. It knelt over the carcass and began to tear into the meat. It expected the same satisfaction it felt from the soldier. But as it chewed, its face twisted into a mask of pure disgust.
''It's more sourer than I thought. Eww''
It spat out a mouthful of fur and gristle. It was bitter, wild, and foul. As it wiped its mouth, it felt something hard wedged between its tusks. It reached in and pulled out a small, leather strap with a metallic plate attached to it.
The creature stared at the object. It was a dog collar. Engraved on the metal in human script were four letters: B-L-O-P.
"Blop,"
the creature whispered, the name feeling strange on its Orc tongue. "Blop... Blop. Blop. Blop."
The name felt right. It sounded like the noise it made when it was just a pile of slime.
How could a creature like this gain a soul? The mystery of its birth was dark, but the future was even darker. Blop stood up, his Orc form casting a long shadow against the trees.
Suddenly, he froze.
The sound of the wind changed. From deep within the forest, he heard a new sound. It wasn't the heavy paw-step of a monster or the rustle of an animal. It was light, rhythmic, and calculated.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Blop turned his head, his red eyes peering into the dark. Someone was coming.