The village’s sewers had been built with unusual generosity of space, wide enough for a small group to walk abreast without scraping shoulders on damp stone. At first I’d thought it a sign of foresight or civic pride. Then I learned what gong farmers were, and suddenly the design made grim, practical sense.

  If you expect people to haul waste for a living, you give them room to breathe. Preferably upstream.

  It did raise several questions about what the surrounding fields were being fed, questions I elected not to pursue too vigorously. Different races, different biologies, different… outputs. I was not about to become the scholar who quantified manure potency by species. Some truths did not improve the soul.

  “Let’s see…”

  I opened once again my quest missive.

  Slimes are primal creatures of very low intelligence, running primarily on the instinct to consume. Small slimes offer limited threat, while large slimes can cause problems. Sometimes, slimes form what is known as a nest: where slimes will spawn from the ambient mana consumed from a large slime. When this occurs, depending on the color of slime. Issues can occur. This is not the case here, they’ve simply multiplied in our sewer line and are now a pest, obstructing both the maintenance team and the gong farmers. The reported color is the weakest, red. Red slimes have no special traits to assist them, other than a warm slow acting acidic slime that all slimes share. Easily spotted in most environments. We will pay a single copper crown per confirmed kill via a trophy, which you can sell to whomever will buy it from you. – Chancellor Ard

  I rolled the parchment back up and tucked it away.

  Red slimes. Weakest variant. No nest. Sewer tunnels. Acidic goo.

  “Okay. So… Sophitia. How do I use magic?” I asked, shifting the cane slightly in my hands. The weight of it felt different now, like it had been waiting for me to actually start asking questions.

  You ask this now, my liege-lord? Now would be the time to learn, yes. You have already heard the chant for my curse in your head, have you not?

  I hesitated, then nodded. Flesh to stone… Iron to bone…

  “Flesh to stone. Iron to bone. What bends must rest. What rests is kept. Time sets its hand. Remain—One with the land.”

  The words still lingered, resonating in my skull like wind through hollow pipes. Even hearing them silently, I could feel the weight behind each phrase, a slow pressure that seemed to stretch through the air around me.

  That. Yes. That is the essence of it, Sophitia said. But hearing it is only the first step. Now, you must understand how to wield it. Magic is not simply the sound of words—it is intention given shape, will made tangible.

  I frowned. “Okay… I get that for you. But for me?”

  Now, you must see a specific target, my liege-lord. The closer you are to the core of that being, the more your spell can take hold. For the Calcifus Curse, the core is… well, the vital center of what makes a thing alive. For humans, that is obvious; for slimes… less so. But even a creature born of pure instinct has a center, a point of weakness you can touch with your will.

  I swallowed. My first targets. Slimes. Red, harmless slimes, supposedly. “So I just… look at it? And it dies?”

  No, my liege. It does not die. Not yet. What you impose is a slow, creeping judgement. Flesh stiffens, bone calcifies, the very essence of movement becomes reluctant, hesitant. The process is gradual, deliberate, as all true punishments must be. You are not ending life—you are shaping it, bending it to your will.

  I blinked, frowning. Shaping it? That sounds… wrong.

  It is not wrong, she replied, her voice calm yet edged with a weight I could feel pressing against the back of my mind. Consider the nature of the Calcifus Curse. My curse does not kill. To those unfamiliar with its mechanics, it may appear lethal—some even classify it as “death magia”—but it is not so. It only ends when weakness meets circumstance. A being resistant to the petrifying effect will endure the transformation and remain alive, encased, immobile, yet sentient, until time or circumstance releases them. Death only occurs if the being is naturally fragile to petrification, or if one shatters the statue that your curse has wrought.

  I swallowed, the weight of that sinking into my chest. So… it could be mercy. Or it could be absolute ruin. I could freeze a creature in perfect stasis—or doom it entirely with a careless blow. The line between punishment and execution was as thin as the glimmering surface of crystal.

  Sophitia’s presence pressed closer, a silent affirmation.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The curse is designed to teach control, not cruelty. It punishes the reckless and rewards precision. Its effect is gradual because that is the essence of justice—not instant, not chaotic, but inevitable and undeniable.

  I exhaled slowly. The idea of wielding such power—slow, deliberate, morally ambiguous—made my stomach tighten. And yet… There was a thrill in knowing the weight of life itself could be guided, held, and reshaped through intention alone.

  “Remember,” she murmured, a subtle echo threading through my thoughts, “you are not a murderer. You are an arbiter. The curse bends the body; the mind, the spirit, remain untouched—unless, of course, your intent directs otherwise.”

  I nodded, trying to steady my thoughts. The words felt heavy on my tongue, heavier in my chest. An arbiter… The thought of controlling the flow of life without spilling it entirely was unnerving, intoxicating, and terrifying all at once.

  “I understand.” I sighed. We both knew the truth however.

  I had no idea what I was really doing.

  ***

  The sound came first.

  A patient, endless dripping. Water falling from curved stone to stone, each drop striking the tunnel floor with a hollow note that echoed long after it should have died. The sound layered over itself, a slow percussion that made the passage feel alive, as though the earth itself were breathing in measured intervals.

  The smell followed close behind.

  Manure, mildew, and rot blended into something almost intentional, an olfactory concoction brewed by neglect and time. It clung to the back of my throat, thick enough that breathing through my mouth offered no relief. The walls glistened faintly, slick with moisture and grime, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of indifference.

  Then there was the sloshing.

  Not the clean movement of water, but something heavier, viscous. A wet, elastic sound as a smaller mass bounced and dragged itself through the refuse-choked stream that crawled along the tunnel’s center. Each impact sent ripples across the surface, disturbing floating scraps of waste and debris.

  The slime was red.

  The color reminded me of cranberry sauce from winter festivities back home, glossy and semi-translucent, wobbling with each movement. The comparison made me uncomfortable, but it also grounded me. Compared to everything else lurking in forgotten places like this, red slimes were practically benign.

  Overall, it appeared harmless.

  They are, Sophitia’s voice echoed in my mind, calm and instructional as always. Red slimes are pests at worst. Annoyances. If you encounter yellow or anything above it, then you should be concerned.

  The creature’s form was semi-ovular, its body bulging and contracting as it hopped along the stream. A single antenna rose from its crown, ending in a diamond-shaped pattern that refracted the dim light in faint crimson hues. It was large, roughly the size of two basketballs fused together, yet its movements were oddly delicate, as if it were testing the world rather than conquering it.

  Suspended inside the gelatinous mass was its heart.

  A large, round gemstone, white and luminous, rotating slowly as the slime moved. Even without Sophitia’s guidance, I knew exactly what it was. Countless hours spent hunched over controllers and keyboards had burned the image into my mind.

  The core.

  For me, it was the only thing that mattered.

  I planted my feet and drew in a slow breath, centering myself. The tunnel faded from focus as intent gathered behind my eyes. Words formed not in sound, but in certainty.

  Solidify.

  Ravage.

  Ruin.

  Become the Arbiter.

  The end.

  The incantation followed, ancient and deliberate, each syllable sinking into the air like a verdict.

  “Flesh to stone.

  Iron to bone.

  What bends must rest.

  What rests is kept.

  Time sets its hand.

  Remain.

  One with the land.”

  The spell answered.

  From my palm, a nail of green crystal surged forth, curving as it grew, twisting like a living thing before launching itself forward. It pierced the slime’s surface with a wet resistance, sliding through the red mass until it struck the core dead center.

  The reaction was immediate, though not as dramatic as I had expected.

  The slime shuddered, its movements growing sluggish, its hops uneven and labored. The gemstone dulled slightly, light trapped beneath a creeping veil of petrification. The creature did not freeze solid, did not turn to stone in an instant.

  Honestly, I had hoped it would.

  Instead, it struggled.

  I tightened my grip on my cane and moved.

  The dash was instinctive, my body carrying me forward before doubt could surface. My boots splashed through the stream as I closed the distance, the stench momentarily forgotten. I swung with both hands, driving the cane straight into the slime where the core hung trapped.

  The impact was decisive.

  The gemstone cracked with a sharp, brittle sound, splitting cleanly in two. The cohesion of the slime failed instantly, its body collapsing into a formless heap that spread across the stone floor like spilled jelly. The antenna sagged, then dissolved into nothing.

  Silence reclaimed the tunnel, broken only by the familiar drip of water.

  I straightened, exhaling slowly as the tension drained from my shoulders. Green fragments retracted into my palm, leaving only a faint warmth behind.

  One down.