Hermes forced his eyes away from the melting corpse, the sight churning his stomach as he ducked into the next passageway. The air changed instantly, hitting him with a wall of stench so thick it felt like a physical weight. This was the village's main artery of waste—the sewers.
The air was toxic; nearby, he saw several rats lying belly-up, their tiny lungs having simply given up in the oxygen-deprived tunnel. Before he could gag, a cool, rubbery sensation crept over his face. The Slime had sensed his distress, tightening its form into an airtight mask and feeding a thin, precious stream of filtered oxygen into his nostrils.
"Watch your step, Master," the Slime's voice echoed directly in his mind. "The runoff is a cocktail of industrial chemicals and… well, human filth. It'll eat through those boots if you're not careful."
Hermes nodded, gingerly picking his way through the sludge. Just as he turned a corner, the Slime pulsed with a cold, warning vibration. "Master, wait. I count four 'sinners' in the next tunnel. Their heartbeats are too steady... they aren't friendly."
"Understood," Hermes whispered, his pulse beginning to race. "Give me a heads-up when we're within two meters."
He dropped into a low crouch, his muscles tensing as the muffled sound of low, melodic voices drifted from his left. He froze.
"Master, you're four meters out. Why did you stop?" the Slime asked.
"I have a bad feeling about this," Hermes breathed, a cold shiver crawling up his spine. The air in the tunnel felt heavy, charged with a disturbing, ancient aura that made his skin crawl. "Slime… I need a scan. Don't get close. Just tell me who—or what—is around that corner."
The Slime went silent for a heartbeat, its surface rippling as it sent out invisible pulses of mana. When it spoke again, its tone had lost its playfulness. "Analysis complete. Four targets. Race: High Elves. Age: Approximately one thousand and eighty years. Status: Lethally Hostile."
Hermes nearly choked on his filtered air. "High Elves? What the hell are they doing in a sewer?"
"They shouldn't be here at all," the Slime replied. "They were the elite of the Ratican Era—scholars and mages from the north who migrated to Italia for the climate and resources. The Empire welcomed them for their brilliance, but..."
'This isn't right,' Hermes thought frantically. 'They were supposed to be extinct! This wasn't in the game plot!'
"I thought they were wiped out during the Great Purge," Hermes hissed.
"They were supposed to be," the Slime theorized. "Perhaps a high-ranking official kept them as 'pets' or research subjects. Or maybe they've been hiding in plain sight, masquerading as humans for centuries."
"Why did the Empire turn on them?"
"Because the Empire decided that only humans were fit to rule the world," the Slime answered matter-of-factly. "Before the Great Colonization began, the Emperor wanted the world cleansed of anything... different."
Hermes felt the blood drain from his face. "Are you serious? It was just... genocide?"
"It was more than that, Master," the Slime added, its voice dropping to a somber note. "They were feared. Their leader was known by many names in the old tongue: The Wizard of Gehenna. The Dark Lord. The Great Demon."
'Gehenna...' The word triggered a distant memory for Hermes, something from the lore he had managed as Aljen. He rubbed his jaw, trying to piece it together. 'I've heard that name before...'
WHISTLE.
"MASTER, DUCK!"
A streak of frost cut through the air where Hermes's head had been a second before. "Fuck!" he yelled, rolling sideways into the open junction.
He came up panting, finding himself staring at four towering figures. They wore heavy black cloaks and porcelain-white masks. Embossed on their chests was a symbol that made Hermes's blood run cold: an ancient Celtic knot interlaced with a black skull and elongated ears.
"Second Root," Hermes spat, his hands trembling as he clenched them into fists. These were the same fanatics who had been hunting him.
"Who are you, intruder?" the leader demanded. His voice was like grinding glass, and as he spoke, the shockwave from the ice spell blew back his hood, revealing the unmistakable tip of a long, pointed ear.
"Let's skip the introductions, Elf," Hermes snapped, hiding his fear behind a mask of bravado. "How is your kind still breathing?"
The Captain froze, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "High Elves? A pathetic lie, little human."
"Captain," one of the others whispered, stepping forward. "Look at the mask. It's him. The target."
The Captain's posture shifted from guarded to predatory. He clutched his stomach, laughing with genuine, twisted joy. "What a wonderful surprise. It seems we're the luckiest dogs in the pack today."
"Master, they know you," the Slime warned, its form rippling as it prepared for combat.
"I can see that," Hermes whispered back, his palms slick with sweat.
The three subordinates began to fan out, flanking him in the narrow, filthy tunnel while the Captain crossed his arms, eyes boring into Hermes from behind his mask.
"Aljen the Merchant," the Captain crowed. "Are you lost? Or did you think the sewers would hide your scent from us?"
Hermes shrugged, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "Just doing some light sightseeing. Though I didn't expect to find the 'High and Mighty' Elves living in a pile of human shit. What's the matter? Did the 'Great Root' run out of garden space?"
The Captain didn't laugh this time. He drew a slender, shimmering blade and leveled the tip inches from Hermes's throat. "Careful, merchant. You are in no position to play the jester."
Hermes felt the cold steel of the Captain's blade near his throat, but internally, he was talking to the monster living on his skin.
"Hey, Slime," Hermes whispered, his voice barely a tremor in the humid air of the sewer. "Do you actually think we can take four of them?"
"Master, please," the Slime simpered, a predatory shiver running through the fabric of Hermes's coat. "I am simply waiting for your command. I can almost taste them from here. Their ancient souls... I can't wait to break them down into raw materials for you."
Hermes's face wrinkled in a mix of disgust and pity. You sadistic little creature, he thought. I actually feel sorry for these guys.
"Aljen the Merchant," the Captain barked, breaking Hermes's internal monologue. "Lower your guard and come with us. Now."
Hermes forced a gasp, playing the part of the startled prey to buy a few more seconds. He slowly folded his arms, trying to keep his hands from shaking. "And why would I do that?"
"Because our Liege wants you alive," the Captain replied, his white mask gleaming in the dark. "For now."
"And what's in it for me?" Hermes countered, his mind racing. "A gold pension? A nice cell with a view?"
"As I said," the Captain hissed, his tongue flicking out to lick the flat of his blade as a sickly blue light began to coat the steel. "You are in no position to demand anything. You are a ghost, Aljen. A dead man walking."
"Slime," Hermes hissed under his breath. "The activation word for the Demon Box. Quickly."
"Oh, Master, you already know it. It's written in your soul."
Hermes closed his eyes, centering the terror in his chest. "[Laquiem]."
The word hadn't even fully left his lips before the world buckled. In a silent, violent blink, the four High Elves were gone. The tunnel was suddenly, deafeningly quiet.
"Master, your timing is impeccable," the Slime purred, returning to its liquid state and resting on Hermes's shoulder. "A magnificent tactical stroke."
Hermes let out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders sagging. "How long do we have before the spell breaks?"
"Five minutes, Master. Exactly three hundred seconds of peace."
"At least the smell is gone," Hermes muttered, rubbing his temples. The vacuum created by the Demon Box seemed to have sucked the foul stench out of the immediate area. But as he turned to find the exit, his foot caught on something heavy.
A long, black industrial bag lay slumped against the damp stone.
"What the hell is that?" Hermes asked, pointing a trembling finger.
"A human body, Master," the Slime answered casually, its tone as light as if it were describing the weather. "A child, to be precise."
Hermes's heart skipped a beat. "A child?"
"Oh, it gets better," the Slime continued, its voice bubbling with a twisted kind of glee. "I count twelve of them discarded along this junction. It seems the 'sinners' of this village have been using the sewer as a dumping ground to hide their appetites from the authorities."
The realization hit Hermes like a physical blow. The kidnapping cases Chief Zamor had mentioned—the missing children of the district. They weren't missing; they were here, discarded like trash.
"This is... this is sick," Hermes spat, his anger finally overriding his fear. He stomped his foot against the concrete, the sound echoing hollowly. "Unacceptable."
"Master," the Slime whispered, its voice turning earnest, almost begging. "Before the Elves return... may I? They are already gone, but their essence is still fresh. It would be a waste."
Hermes closed his eyes, a hand over his face. He felt a deep, pounding headache forming. "Do whatever you want, Slime. Just... make it quick."
"Thank you, Master!"
Hermes watched in a trance of horror as the black bags began to dissolve into fine, grey dust. As they vanished, a haunting sound filled the tunnel—the faint, shimmering cries of children. It wasn't a sound of pain, but of a final, fleeting release.
"Yummy! Delicious!" the Slime whooped, its form glowing with a faint, healthy hue. "The souls of the innocent, seasoned by the cruelty of sinners... there is truly nothing like it."
Hermes kept his lips pursed, his stomach turning. What a monster, he thought. He doesn't see lives. He just sees ingredients.
"Master," the Slime suggested, its voice dropping to a conspiratorial giggle. "Do you want to play a game with the Elves inside the Box? I can set up a Battle Royale. A 'Death Game' with a very simple rule: Kill or be killed. The lone survivor gets to return to the world of the living."
"But the spell only lasts five minutes," Hermes noted, his voice hollow.
"Exactly. Which means they have to finish each other off in under two minutes," the Slime giggled. "It adds such a lovely layer of desperation, don't you think?"
Hermes stared at the space where the Elves had disappeared. Holy shit, this creature is terrifying. I'm just glad it's on my side. "And what happens if they don't comply? Or if one wins?"
"It doesn't matter," the Slime declared, its voice suddenly turning grave and cold. "None of them will see the sunrise. Whether they win or lose, they are already marked as ingredients for your world domination, Master. Their lives ended the moment they crossed your path."
The sheer weight of the Slime's declaration sent a chill through Hermes that no sewer draft could match.
"Master? You've gone quiet. Is something wrong?"
"No," Hermes said quickly, turning away and moving toward the faint light of an exit. "Nothing. Do what you want. Enjoy the show."
"Thank you, Master! I'm so glad to see your vicious side returning!"
Behind him, inside the pocket dimension of the Demon Box, the butchery began. Shouts of betrayal and the clash of steel echoed in a world that didn't exist. These men had been brothers-in-arms for a thousand years, yet in ninety seconds, that bond was shredded by the primal need to survive.
In the end, the Captain stood alone, drenched in the blood of his kin, gasping for air as he waited for the world to reappear. "I... I will live," he sobbed, his mind breaking. "I'll avenge you all..."
But the exit never came. His eyes turned glassy, his heart simply stopped, and his soul was plucked from his chest like a ripe fruit.
"Fantastic," the Slime whispered, savoring the taste of a thousand-year-old soul as Hermes stepped out into the night air.