For the first time since awakening, Zeke felt the ache of exhaustion more than hunger. The battle with the salamander had torn him ragged, and his reckless attempts at wielding the flame inside him had scorched him further. Though the fire had given him power, it also left him fragile, trembling. He needed more than food. He needed a place to retreat, a space where the world's predators could not reach him.
The ashlands were not kind to such needs. Everywhere was open, exposed. The plains stretched on without end, broken only by jagged ridges and fissures belching haze. Zeke slithered forward, pressing himself low, aware of every vibration beneath him. Each tremor might signal another predator. He could not afford another battle—not now.
At last he found what he sought: a narrow fissure at the base of a ridge. It was small—barely wide enough for his body to squeeze through—but to him, that was a gift. Predators larger than him would struggle. He quivered at the entrance, torn. Every instinct screamed to stay in motion, to never linger, never risk being cornered. But another instinct, new and sharp, pressed against that fear: the need for shelter.
He slipped inside. The fissure narrowed immediately, forcing him to stretch thin, scraping against the stone. His jellylike body elongated painfully, edges tearing as sharp stone gouged him. He nearly recoiled, panic flaring. But instinct hardened into resolve. If he retreated now, he would remain prey without safety. So he pushed on, twisting and flowing until he spilled into a hollow beyond. The chamber was small, but it was enclosed. Enough.
Relief rippled through him. He pulsed faintly, stretching his body across the floor. Moisture seeped into him from shallow depressions, soothing the shriveling edges. Steam clung to the air, drifting in wisps, and the walls gleamed faintly where condensation ran. The floor was uneven, pitted stone that cradled thin pools of liquid. Warmth radiated from the rocks, not burning but steady, as though the chamber itself breathed with hidden heat. For the first time since his awakening, he did not feel immediately threatened.
"This… can be mine."
But safety was fragile. The fissure behind him gaped open. Any prowler could stumble across it, sniff his scent, and enter. Zeke quivered. No—this den was only his if he made it so.
He stretched toward the fissure, gathering the faint slime that seeped naturally from his body. He oozed it across the stone, layering it like a crude mortar. The first attempt sagged instantly, sliding back down into a useless puddle. He hissed inwardly, irritated.
Again. He pressed harder this time, but the layer cracked as it dried too quickly. Another failure. He tried to pack the slime in thick, but the weight collapsed in on itself. Failure after failure. Each attempt wasted energy. Each collapse gnawed at his fragile patience.
Yet he refused to abandon the effort. "I have no claws. No tools. Only this body. So this body will build."
He altered his approach. Instead of piling the slime thick, he spread it thin, letting the warmth of the chamber set it first. Then he layered fresh coats atop the hardened shell. Slowly, painfully, a film began to hold. The fissure narrowed, its jagged maw sealed by crude lining. Light still leaked faintly through cracks, but it was no longer wide open.
The process was agony in its own way. Every layer demanded reshaping. He had to stretch into long, flat sheets, then compact again. He had to roll thin, then curl tight. Each change scraped him raw, but each also taught him something. He learned to thin without tearing, to stretch without losing cohesion, to compress without collapsing.
By the time he sagged back, the fissure was sealed enough that only a narrow slit remained—a gap small enough for him to slip through, but tight enough to deter anything larger. It was not perfect. It would not stop claws or fire. But it was a barrier. And barriers mattered.
Exhaustion overcame him then. He slumped across the floor, letting faint moisture seep in. For the first time, he felt something resembling peace. This was not victory. It was not power. But it was survival. And survival was enough.
"This is… mine. My place."
The word home whispered faintly across his thoughts. It startled him. Home. He remembered fragments—a small desk, the scratch of a quill, sunlight across bookshelves. Faint warmth of belonging. The memory slipped, but the echo remained. This chamber, crude though it was, stirred the same feeling. Fragile, but real.
The System stirred faintly.
[Amorphous Body Lv.1 → Lv.2]
The shift rippled through him in ways he had not expected. His form, once clumsy, responded with fluid grace. He stretched, and his edges no longer tore. He compressed, and the pressure distributed smoothly. It was as if his body had learned to remember its shape, to flow without fighting itself. Every movement carried less strain, as though his substance was silk instead of clay. For the first time, he did not feel like a pile of accidents trying to imitate a body. He felt… whole, in a way, however humble.
Zeke pulsed faintly, letting the change wash through him. It was small, but it was something. Proof that survival itself had meaning. That persistence could shape him as much as battle.
The fissure sealed behind him, the chamber warming him, the faint pools feeding him. Here, he was not only a wandering slime. Here, he had roots—however shallow. The world outside was cruel, but inside this fragile chamber, he could endure.
And though he knew the ashlands would not let him keep it forever, he clung to that fragile peace. Because for the first time, he had a shelter.
System Update
Status
Name: Ezekiel Ashbourne
Race: Prime Slime (Unevolved)
Level: 5
Affinity: Fire (Basic)
Stats
STR: 3
AGI: 3
VIT: 6
WIL: 3
RES: 5
MNA: 14
CTL: 1
Skills
Active Skills:
Split (Lv.1): Divide body into fragments; fragments are weaker and drain stamina.
Assimilate (Lv.3): Absorb weak matter or energy to recover energy; chance to retain minor traits. Now steadier in absorbing elemental essence.
Passive Skills:
Amorphous Body (Lv.1 → Lv.2): Immune to blunt trauma, flexible morphology. Now adapts more efficiently to tight spaces and prolonged reshaping. Movements flow with less strain.