Chapter 1: The Cost of Admission
The sun is an inefficient heat source.
I learn this within five minutes of joining Rimuru Tempest's traveling circus.
It beats down on the dusty road leading to the Dwargon gates with a persistence I find deeply offensive. If I still had skin, I'd be sweating through a bespoke three-piece suit.
Instead, I am a gelatinous blob sitting in a wooden cart.
I don't sweat. I don't even have pores. Heat expresses itself as a gradual loss of viscosity, my body loosening microscopically as ambient mana presses against my structure. Sound reaches me as vibration through magicules, not air. Smell is irrelevant. Touch is a matter of pressure and density, not nerves.
I could be cut in half and feel nothing—though I would strongly object on principle.
Notice. Internal temperature remains stable. External environment: sub-optimal. Suggestion: Consume 0.5% magicule reserves to manifest a cooling barrier.
Shut up, Azathoth, I think, my internal voice dripping with the sarcasm I can no longer project through a mouth. We are "budgeting," remember? Until I find a way to monetize this damp cave-system of a world, we don't spend assets on vanity.
Correction. Comfort is a primary directive. Current discomfort levels are trending toward a 12% decrease in cognitive efficiency.
The Manas is right. It's always right. That's the problem with sentient skills—they use your own logic to bankrupt you.
I look ahead. Rimuru—or "Boss," as the goblins call the fellow slime currently leading this circus—is bouncing toward the gate. He looks… enthusiastic. Disgusting.
He's worried about "making friends" and "diplomacy."
I'm worried about the fact that I haven't sat in a chair with ergonomic lumbar support in three weeks.
"Hey, Shinji! You okay back there?" Rimuru's voice rings out, telepathically chirpy.
I ripple my surface in a way that I hope conveys I am contemplating the heat death of the universe, but probably just looks like I have a mild case of indigestion.
"I am assessing the logistics of this queue," I reply via [Thought Transmission]. "The wait-time is a direct assault on our projected ROI for this trip."
"It's a gate, man! We just gotta wait our turn."
He doesn't get it. He was a contractor; he's used to bureaucracy.
I was an heir. I don't wait in lines—I buy the building the line is standing in.
We reach the front.
Two Dwargon guards, looking like over-armored fire hydrants, look down at the blue slime (Rimuru) and the slightly more iridescent, darker slime (me).
"State your business," one grunts.
The air is thick with the smell of unwashed monsters and cheap iron. My internal Deadpool is currently screaming about the lack of hand sanitizer in this century.
Analysis. Threat level: low. Guard equipment: low-grade steel. Market value: negligible.
"We've come to hire a blacksmith!" Rimuru says, bouncing.
Suddenly, a group of human adventurers pushes forward. Scruffy, smelling of stale ale, and radiating the kind of mid-tier arrogance that usually gets people fired in my father's boardroom.
"Move it, monsters," the lead human sneers, reaching for a sword handle. "Non-humans shouldn't be clogging up the 'Fast Lane.'"
I feel a ripple of genuine irritation. Not because of the speciesism—I couldn't care less about social justice—but because he just stepped on a patch of dirt that kicked dust onto my translucent flank.
Warning. Hostile intent detected. Initiating [Analytical Appraisal]… Resolution: low. Target strength: insignificant.
Azathoth, give me a price tag on that sword he's holding.
Calculation complete. Material: iron. Quality: mass-produced. Estimated value: 15 silver coins. Energy conversion yield: 0.0002%.
Not even worth the effort to eat.
But the audacity? That's a debt that needs settling.
This isn't Azathoth's doing.
I feel the distinction clearly—the cold observation of the Manas watching from above, while something warmer and far more indulgent stirs within me.
This is Croesus.
Not a weapon.
Not a command.
A pricing instinct.
[Transaction Domain]
A faint, shimmering geometric aura pulses out from my slime body, barely visible to the naked eye. To the guards and Rimuru, the air just feels suddenly… professional. To the adventurer, the world becomes a high-pressure closing meeting.
"Fees," I pulse.
I can't raise my voice. I can't posture. Intimidation, for me, is not volume—it's inevitability. Pressure applied evenly, patiently, until resistance becomes inefficient.
"Wh–what?" the man stammers, his hand freezing on his hilt. He feels the economic pressure—a heaviness in his limbs, a sudden drain on his stamina, as if he's just worked a double shift.
"You have entered a restricted negotiation space without an appointment," I broadcast, my internal persona laughing while my external body remains perfectly still. "The fee for the disruption of my silence is… that canteen on your belt."
"My water?"
"The leather is decent. Hand it over, or the interest rates on your continued health will spike."
The man looks at the two slimes. One is waving a friendly nub.
The other—me—is a silent, dark orb of pure, focused corporate spite.
He fumbles the canteen and drops it.
[Capitalist's Inventory]
A small rift opens and swallows the canteen before it even hits the dirt.
Item acquired: Common Leather Canteen (Grade D). Value: 2 silver. Logic: asset seized for breach of peace.
"Good," I pulse. "Now, get in the back of the line. Your credit is no good here."
The adventurers scramble backward, looking pale.
Rimuru looks at me, his face conveying a mixture of confusion and awe.
"Uh, Shinji? Was that really necessary?"
"Efficiency, Boss," I reply, settling back into the cart. "If we don't establish a brand identity early, people will think they can walk all over us."
I pause.
"Now, can we move? This sun is still at 100% output, and I'd like to see if this 'Dwarf King' has any air conditioning."
Notice. Current magicule reserves: 99.8%. Location: Dwargon Gate. Status: proceeding.