(I guess she said something like "species skill"? So it's for all species? So it means I'm not special… *sigh* …exactly what I should've expected from myself. *sigh* Okay. Focus on different things now.)
No looming pressure from predators today.
No violent mana spikes tearing through the undergrowth.
Even the air—if I can still call it "air" when I don't breathe—feels steady. Gentle currents weave between leaves and roots without any urgency, without hunger.
A calm day. Like the ones before it.
I let absorption happen.
Not greedily. Not desperately clamping down.
Just… correctly.
Mana touches my surface and spreads evenly, guided by that subtle internal pressure I've started calling refined Slime Biology. No chaotic pooling in the core. No wasteful surges toward the edges. No microscopic leakage back into the dirt. Everything moves with intention—even if that "intention" isn't conscious thought, but something learned, something shaped by repetition.
So *this* is what it's supposed to feel like.
Calm.
The realization creates space inside my mind—space that hasn't existed since the accident.
I remember sitting beside a hospital window. Thin winter sunlight spilling across white tiles like spilled milk. Machines humming their soft, mechanical lullaby. A nurse adjusting an IV line, smiling the way people smile when they don't know they're talking to someone already half-gone.
I remember the strange peace that arrived after the worst of the pain finally crested. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt. But thinking… thinking didn't.
I wasn't afraid then.
I don't want to die, I had thought.
Not dramatically. Not with rage or tears.
Just… fact.
The same thought lives in me now—but it doesn't burn anymore. It steadies.
My will feels different today. Not clenched teeth. Not white-knuckled grip. Just… present.
I extend a thin pseudopod outward—barely more than a film—brushing soil rich with ambient mana. The passive pull activates… but weaker than before. Controlled. I can feel the exact threshold now: how close mana has to drift, how dense it has to be before the draw strengthens.
Efficiency.
Before, Slime Biology would devour anything within reach, needed or not. Now it *prioritizes*. Low-density wisps trickle in slowly, almost politely. Higher-density motes draw a stronger—but still regulated—current.
I'm absorbing *better*.
That difference matters more than I expected.
I retract the pseudopod and rest again, letting the newly taken mana circulate fully before allowing my body to settle. No instability follows. Shape holds naturally. Cohesion feels firm, like cooled gelatin instead of warm syrup.
I test again—this time circulation speed.
I nudge the flow faster.
Mana responds instantly, cycling through my mass with almost no resistance. A faint heat bloom rises—not dangerous, just noticeable. Faster cycling = quicker integration… and quicker mental fatigue if I push too hard.
I slow it back down.
Balance returns like a sigh.
So that's the tradeoff.
(Okay. Let's list what Slime Biology actually does for me now:
- Passive surface absorption → still automatic, but throttled and selective
- Directed internal circulation → new/refined, I can steer speed and path
- Stability under intake → critical. Prevents overload, prevents dissolution
Not flashy. Not a combat move. Not "power."
Just survival… at a higher resolution.)
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little disappointed.
Then movement catches me.
A faint, irregular vibration through the soil—small, directionless. Not a predator. Not sapient.
Another slime.
I sense it before I "see" it: a weak, unfocused mana draw wandering without pattern. Sloppy. Leaking energy in every direction like a torn bag of sugar. When it finally drifts into my perceptual range, it's barely holding together—a pale, almost colorless blob, shape constantly shifting, edges fraying and re-forming into the dirt.
Mindless.
Purely hungry.
Dangerous exactly because it has no self-preservation.
It brushes a mana-rich root and immediately overreacts—swells unevenly. One lobe balloons while another thins to transparency. It doesn't notice the imbalance.
I don't move.
I watch.
It wanders closer to a small crystal-veined stone—far too rich for something this unstable. The pull overwhelms it. Mana floods in faster than its core can process.
The slime convulses once.
Cohesion fails.
It doesn't explode dramatically.
It simply… collapses.
The mass loses tension. Splits into smaller droplets. Then smaller still. Residue seeps into the soil. Mana dissipates into the forest like smoke.
No sound.
No final twitch.
Just inefficiency claiming another victim.
Something cold and heavy settles inside me.
That was going to be me.
If I hadn't figured out circulation instead of blind suppression…
If I hadn't refined Slime Biology…
If I'd kept treating my body like something to brute-force instead of something to *understand*…
I would've destabilized eventually.
One bad mana surge. One over-rich patch of ground.
And then—nothing. Just another stain in the dirt.
I extend the tiniest tendril toward the residue.
Instinct says absorb.
I do.
Clean. Stabilized. Smooth. No resistance. No overload.
The mana slides into me like it belongs there.
I pull back.
For the first time since waking up in this body, I feel something close to gratitude toward the voice that keeps announcing itself.
Not because she's kind.
Not because she's helpful.
But because she's indifferent enough to let me fail—and therefore let me learn.
(Thanks for the non-existent tutorial, Grand Design lady.
I'm still going to curse you every time you show up.
But… yeah. Thanks.)
The forest stays quiet.
I stay quiet.
And for once, the quiet doesn't feel like waiting to die.