The ash lay thick around him, fine enough to cling, coarse enough to drag his jellylike form with every movement. It was suffocating in a way breathless creatures shouldn't feel—dryness, heat, and the faint sting of an atmosphere that rejected weakness. Ezekiel Ashbourne—Zeke—lurched forward, a blob of awareness wrapped in translucent mass. Every push to move was an experiment. Every stumble taught him more about what he had become.
He stretched. His form extended in one direction, tapering into a thin pseudopod. But as soon as he tried to pull the rest of himself along, the limb collapsed, snapping back like an overstretched band. The recoil hurled him backward, smacking him into the ashen ground. Dust puffed around his body, embedding further into his slimy skin. He could not cough, but he felt the irritation all the same. His whole being rippled with discomfort.
"I can't… even crawl," he muttered inwardly, though no sound emerged.
Time was a shapeless blur. The volcanic plain stretched on without measure. The haze of smoke above obscured any sky, leaving him disoriented. Had it been minutes since he first awakened? Hours? Days? There was no measure, no rhythm of heartbeats or breath to ground him.
The hunger lingered. Fire-mites had dulled its edge but not its presence. Worse yet, another danger gnawed at him: dehydration. His form quivered as the air leeched moisture from him. His edges wavered, thinning. He was shrinking, drying. The realization carried a cold, primal fear—if he lost too much, he would crumble into brittle husk, scattered like the ash itself.
"No. Not like this. I just… came back."
Desperation lent him strength. He stretched again, slower this time. He pressed one side of his body forward, flattening it, then dragged the bulk after it in a sluggish roll. Awkward, clumsy, but progress. He bounced, he sagged, he spread, and then pulled in again. Inch by inch, he learned. Failure after failure, collapse after collapse, but slowly the pieces of movement came together. There was no grace to it, no coordination—only stubbornness.
And then, faintly, he sensed it: wetness.
Not water as he once knew it. It trickled as a thin stream of darkened ash-mud, carrying the faint pulse of micro-organisms. His awareness latched onto it instinctively, like a starving beast scenting blood. He dragged himself closer, scraping over brittle stone until he reached the edge of the trickling flow. The stream was so minute a human might have missed it. But to a Prime Slime, it was salvation.
He pressed his body into it. The sensation was immediate—coolness spreading, particles entering his form, tiny motes of essence swallowed. His hunger dimmed further, but more importantly, his body stabilized. The shriveling edges regained some shape, plumping out as absorbed essence and liquid bolstered him. His awareness brightened with relief.
[Skill Activated: Assimilate]
The micro-organisms vanished into him, processed into raw mana and moisture. It was not enough to banish hunger, but it was life. He felt his mass expand, and his inner pool of energy ripple with new strength. He pulsed faintly, sending vibrations through the ashen soil as if to test his newfound vitality.
"I can… live. Even like this."
The thought struck hard. He had been human. He had known books, knowledge, the touch of sunlight. Now he was slime, crawling through ash to drink filth. Yet the conviction did not break him. Instead, it rooted deeper. He had survived the transition. He would endure.
Movement became easier. His rolls steadied. He learned to contract one side and expand the other, to balance momentum with control. The clumsy bounces became deliberate. He stretched, paused, then rolled smoothly into the ashstream again. Every motion was crude, yet each was a fragment of mastery. A body without bones could still learn to crawl.
He experimented. What if he thinned his body to a film? It spread wide, clinging to ash, sluggish but stable. What if he compacted? Denser, heavier, able to roll faster but less able to stretch. Instinct urged him to test each possibility. He was no longer just surviving—he was adapting.
The hunger pulsed again. The stream was weak, its organisms faint. He consumed more, but the diminishing returns frustrated him. Still, with each absorption, his mana pool grew incrementally, and the System took notice.
[Level Up: 2 → 3]
The familiar rush seared through him, etching new numbers into his mind. His form pulsed brighter for a moment, his movements steadier. For the first time, he felt a thin thread of strength in his jellylike mass. Not enough to fight, not enough to claim dominance—but enough to keep living.
"This… is mine. This life."
He lingered in the ashstream for a long while, absorbing steadily. The volcanic air still threatened to dry him, but with essence flowing in, the risk lessened. He could not rest—not truly—but he found the rhythm of survival. Move, drink, absorb, endure. He was prey, but prey that refused to die quietly.
The world around him whispered of danger. The distant crack of stone, the faint rumble of magma shifting below. Predators were out there, beasts far stronger than fire-mites or ashstream organisms. The thought chilled him, yet sparked something else—anticipation. He had always been one who sought knowledge, sought growth. And this body, disgusting though it seemed, offered a new kind of study. Every failure was a lesson. Every pulse of mana was data. He was no longer only Ezekiel Ashbourne the scholar, nor only Zeke the slime—he was both, and he would learn this world piece by piece.
The hunger stirred again. He rolled onward, deeper into the ashfields. The stream branched, trickling through small channels. He pursued them, spreading across stone and ash, feeding where he could. Each consumption reinforced the same thought: I will not die here. I will not waste this chance.
When exhaustion came—if exhaustion could be said to exist without muscles or blood—he let himself drift beside the stream, letting essence seep in slowly. His form dimmed, sluggish but stable. For the first time since awakening, there was something resembling peace. He was alive, and he had learned to crawl.
System Update
Status
Name: Ezekiel Ashbourne
Race: Prime Slime (Unevolved)
Level: 2 → 3
Affinity: None (absorptive state)
Stats
STR: 1 → 2
AGI: 1 → 2
VIT: 3 → 4
WIL: 3
RES: 2
MNA: 5 → 8
CTL: 1