Morning came with a crisp, golden light.
A pair of white warhorses thundered across the violet fields, pulling a black carriage through the vast open plains. The air was cool, the skies sapphire blue, and autumn whispered through the wildflowers.
Grey sat sideways on the carriage step, swaying with each bump in the road. One hand shielded her eyes from the sun. Bored, she leaned back and called into the carriage.
"Hey, Yeats, can I ask you something?"
"Go ahead."
"So... Yeats. That your real name, or just what your mom yelled when she stubbed her toe?"
Inside, the boy didn't even flinch. Still-faced, he flipped another page of his book.
Wordplay. In this world. Seriously?
Apparently, even in this realm, puns had found a way to survive. The Gold Lion dialect—one of the major common tongues—was just that flexible.
With a sigh, Yeats shut the book, revealing its front cover:
A Cultural Guide to Exotic Races
A relic left behind by this body's previous owner. It detailed the customs and peculiarities of other species—elves, dwarves, beastkin, the ever-hyper dragonoids, and so on.
The book was dense and informative… and once completely obscure.
Until the Church banned it.
Then it became a bestseller.
"Nothing screams 'worth reading' like getting blacklisted," Yeats muttered.
Grey drummed her fingers on the wooden wall again.
"So, what's this snow-white warhorse's name?"
She nodded toward the gleaming white steed pulling the carriage. Noble bloodline, flawless coat, ears twitching like silk.
"Radish."
"Radish?"
"You can call him Roach, Torrent, Gold Ship, or Red Hare. Depends on which world you last logged into."
(Truthfully? His name was Radish. Apparently, naming horses "Radish" was as common here as naming kids "James" back on Earth.)
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From the front seat, Farkas called out,
"Young Master, we're entering the hill country. Best to walk from here."
Yeats dismounted. Farkas held the reins in one hand, adjusting his sword sheath with the other. Grey followed, flipping her hand axe and catching it in a smooth, practiced motion.
"Nice weapon," Yeats noted.
"Took it off a bandit. Price was free." She grinned, flashing teeth.
Suddenly, Farkas stiffened.
"Something's approaching. Young Master, stay behind me."
A shape emerged from the path ahead.
A stone ram—its body plated in matte-black iron, with gleaming silver horns and glowing eyes like molten coins.
A living golem. It had no flesh, fed on minerals, and attacked with brutal charges. Tier-One adventurers could handle it solo.
Unfortunately, their fancy carriage made it an instant target.
"Watch this!" Grey shouted. "This is why you pay me!"
Whirl. Thunk.
Her axe cut through the air, spinning in perfect arcs before embedding into the narrow gap between armored plates.
CLANG—SKREEE—BAM.
The ram staggered, groaned like screeching metal, then collapsed in a cloud of dust.
"Marvelous!" Farkas clapped. "Young Master, you truly picked a gem of a bodyguard!"
Grey: "...Are you serious? Compliment me, not the guy who hired me!"
She stomped forward to retrieve her axe—but Yeats grabbed her arm.
"Wait. There's more."
From beneath the fallen beast, a black, slimy lump began to shift. Almost invisible at first—just a ripple in the earth.
Then it rose, stretching tendrils of goo toward the fallen ram.
A black pudding. A slime.
"Nooo, my axe!" Grey wailed.
"Black pudding," Farkas confirmed. "Eats metal, secretes acid, ignores people. Unless you're wearing full plate."
"This whole mountain must be rich in ore," Yeats added. "The petrifying rams eat the minerals. The pudding eats them. It's a tidy little food chain. Keeps bird monsters away too. Makes for a perfect nesting site."
"My axe…" Grey whimpered again
"We'll have to deal with it," Farkas sighed. "Can't move the carriage past otherwise."
Unfortunately, the local map had listed only mud jellies, not a high-rank pudding like this.
Maps aged quickly in the wild. New editions cost ten times more.
And brute force wouldn't help.
Slimes only multiplied when slashed.
"Anyone know magic? Fire spells?" Yeats asked.
Two awkward headshakes.
Yeats closed his eyes and took a breath.
No mage. No firepower. Just me, a butler, and a Dragonborn girl with no axe. Great.
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"Grey, grab the oil barrel. Pour it over the slime, then drag an oil trail back here."
"On it!"
Grey quickly stripped off all metal gear and approached the oblivious pudding, carefully tipping the oil onto its gelatinous body.
The slime barely noticed. Still happily digesting the ram.
Grey laid out the trail, pulled out a match—
FWOOOM.
Flames raced down the line and burst across the pudding, coating it in fire.
The monster hissed and sagged into a twitching puddle of blackened goo.
"Farkas," Yeats called. "Get a kettle of tea. Pour it on its head."
"Tea?"
"Tea."
"...Like… hot leaf juice?"
"Correct. Tea contains natural compounds that dissolve gelatinous magic creatures. Most holy water sold to newbie adventurers is just overpriced herbal tea."
Farkas and Grey stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
More weird culinary alchemy. What else was new?
But Farkas obeyed. Moments later, steaming tea splashed over the scorched slime, sizzling into its still-soft mass.
The pudding twitched—then stopped moving entirely.
Grey pulled out the remains of her axe.
Only the handle was left.
"There go my savings…"
"Don't worry. Morningfrost Ridge is full of bandits and pirates," Yeats said.
"Free loot for days—if we survive."
"The ram hasn't been fully digested," Farkas observed. "Its metal plates are intact."
"Oh?" Yeats' eyes sparkled. "Pull them out. I've got plans."
"What plans?"
"Stone Ram Teppanyaki."
Farkas: "Pardon?!"
"That's magic beast armor plating!" Grey gaped.
"You'll get metal poisoning if you cook on that!"
Yeats didn't answer.
Instead, he crouched by the melted pudding, slicing through its cooling remains.
"You're not… eating the slime, are you?!"
"Of course not."
Grey exhaled in relief—
"I'm harvesting its natural gelatin."
Grey: "…"
"Gelatinous monsters have internal organ structures," Yeats explained.
"You remove the non-edible parts, and what's left is extremely useful."
Grey buried her face in her hands.
"No one asked for that explanation…"
But Yeats was already collecting globs of crystal-clear gel into glass jars, smiling like he'd just picked wild strawberries.
"Alright. Let's move. We'll camp at the foot of the hill. I'm making dinner."
"Dinner? With that disgusting blob juice?" Grey asked, horrified.
"Not blob juice. Gel extract." Yeats corrected.
"There's no difference!"
"Farkas, please tell him this is insane!"
Farkas wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.
"Young Master is cooking again. I'm so proud."
Grey: "…"
"At this point, I'm legally allowed to sue for employment abuse."
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The fire crackled high as they set up camp.
The carriage rolled downhill, disappearing over the hilltop trail.
And deep in the shadowy woods behind them… a pair of glowing yellow eyes opened.
A dark shape stirred, wings spreading wide. Silent as smoke, it followed the scent of fire and food.
The hunt had begun.