Cerqin hadn’t learned heavy attack spells yet; back at Third Rank, she’d learned a body-forging spell, plain as earth and steady as stone.

It needed no sigils to spark, simple as breath and bread; power rose with mana like a tide with the moon, stronger with rank like spring after winter.

With a Fifth Rank feed, a pale glow wrapped her skin like frost on steel, hardening bone and sinew like iron in a kiln.

She shot forward like an arrow from a bow, lifted a fist like a falling hammer, and—no impact—no clash, only quiet water.

At contact, her fist slipped in like a pebble into a pond; the ripples it raised were eaten by the quivering surface like reeds swallowing wind.

The giant slime halted its erratic climb like a lizard freezing on a wall, its motion dammed like a river checked by rock.

Annoyance pricked first like a thorn; then she felt suction on her wrist, and her look said as expected, calm as a lake at dawn.

“Looks like I guessed right—an ambush type that swallows and corrodes; who knew it’d be this hospitable,” she murmured, light as a breeze through leaves.

After a short lull, not only did suction pull inward like a whirlpool, the whole round bulk drifted toward her like a slow, rolling hill.

A Fourth Rank beast might edge a common Fifth Rank wanderer like a gust against a candle, yet it’s worlds from a true Fifth Rank, a mountain in snow.

Even if it swallowed her whole like the sea takes a stone, chewing through her skin’s natural guard wouldn’t happen quickly, not in a single storm.

She set her stance like roots gripping soil, packed mana into her trapped fist like coal into a furnace, leaned in, and drove forward like thunder.

A surge of mana blasted off a corner in a heartbeat, clean as a blade splitting bamboo, bright as lightning across a night sky.

No core—that hollow feedback felt like knuckles through mist, empty as fog over a marsh.

She stepped back like a hawk giving space, gathered power like drawing a bow; Love God stirred and refilled her mana like rain filling a cistern.

The slime’s missing flesh knitted back like dew beading on grass; if not for its gentle aura dimming a shade, it looked untouched, smooth as glass.

Cheap, near-endless self-repair was its breed’s gift, survival carved in mud; low wit, high grit, like weeds thriving in a ditch.

Irritated, it struck back; tentacles shot out like vines, coiling her wrists and ankles like ropes, trying to reel her into its belly like a net.

Under that brutal pull, Cerqin stood unmoved like a boulder in flood; the white glow brightened like dawn, pooling in her hands like gathered snow.

After several tugs, neither had spent much, a stale stalemate like two oxen locked horn to horn in dust.

“How boring… and you’re dragging a slime into a war of attrition?” Qianli muttered, dry as sand, perched on a boulder like a cat on a wall.

Only Spring Tide knew about Love God; as captain of the guard, Qianli didn’t, so after waiting like a cloud holding rain, she weighed stepping in.

In a grind like this, even a Fifth Rank would struggle to outlast a Fourth Rank slime, like a runner pacing a camel across dunes.

A slime regrows without shrinking, like a cut vine sprouting anew; it only bleeds mana, thin as steam from soup.

Smacking random parts to find the core was wrong; the core floated like a firefly, shifting at will like a fish in reeds.

“Should I… huh?” Qianli began, then stopped, wind caught in her throat like a leaf snagged on a twig.

Cerqin’s rhythm changed mid-flow like a river finding a bend, her pattern breaking like clouds parting for sun.

Each time she drew a quarter of her mana like scooping from a well, she blew off about a fifth of its mass like chaff on wind.

Given its regrowth speed and the core’s shift rate like a darting minnow, a hit on the core was unlikely while any body remained like a lake.

Such a fast core transfer was this slime’s quirk alone, a lone star blinking faster than the rest.

She sifted her slime lore like seeds in a sieve and found a way in a flash like flint and steel.

Let it swallow her, then blast from within like thunder in a gourd; with Fifth Rank mana and Love God’s quick refill, two bursts could scrub it clean.

But that would cost the corpse, like boiling fish to mush, wasteful as throwing out bones rich with marrow.

Ambush-type slimes were delicious, most of them sweet as river clams, soft as tofu warmed by broth.

What a waste of food, she sighed, a thought floating like a lantern on water.

Thinking that, she loosened up on purpose like slack rope, let the tentacles haul her in like fishermen drawing a net.

Being eaten felt like dropping into viscous water, like swimming a vat of oil under late-autumn wind, cold and clinging.

She sheathed her head in mana like a hood, guarding mouth, nose, ears, and eyes like shutters against a storm.

She gathered all remaining mana into both hands like packing snowballs; then tornado-tail—whoosh—fist-wind boomed, and the giant slime popped like a bubble.

Fist-wind burst out with unraveling mana and her sense like incense smoke, and she caught a strange note like a hawk hearing a mouse under snow.

Within seconds, Love God refilled her mana like a spring refilling a cup; the slime had already regrown half its bulk, like dough rising warm.

Plan changed in an instant like a reed bending to wind; she skipped the second blast and let the reformed slime take her again like a tide.

This time she didn’t rush; she let honed mana unspool with her perception like silk thread, slow and steady as incense curl.

From afar, Qianli thought it was done, thought Cerqin was out of tricks like an empty quiver; seeing the slime whole again, she moved to help like rain to fire.

Then she froze as Cerqin got swallowed again, straight as a nail, vanishing like a pebble into a well.

Worried, Qianli climbed down from the rock like a cat from a ledge and hopped over slow, muttering like wind through reeds.

“You good? Need a hand? A Fifth Rank getting counter-killed by a Fourth Rank—how useless,” she drawled, sharp as vinegar.

Before she reached it, a hand punched out from inside like a sprout through soil, sudden and sure.

The slime wasn’t fully clear; Cerqin’s shape inside blurred like a fish behind ripples.

But the hand’s message was clean as daylight; Qianli got it in a blink like lightning.

The first gesture said don’t help, plain as a stop sign; then came the raised middle finger, blunt as a stone.

“…”

Qianli stopped, black lines in her head like ink strokes; she raked light-blue hair like combing kelp, wanting to swing, yet this pinkhead was a hornet’s nest.

The more she thought, the hotter she burned, like embers fanned; she stepped back and vowed to roast Cerqin later for taking so long with a Fourth Rank.

And tonight she’d find two tougher beasts to vent on, like thunder looking for hills.

Even while grumbling, curiosity nagged like a drip; what was Cerqin playing at under that jelly sky?

That easy hand slipped back on purpose like a turtle withdrawing, as if she were inviting the slime to dine like a host with tea.

Time slid like sand; tentacles wriggled over her like water, and little stings budded like nettles.

The corrosion breached her skin’s ward like frost biting leaves; she didn’t worry, though—she could switch Love God to mend, and such nicks fade like dew.

Her condensed mana, laced with perception like spice in stew, almost filled the slime; fed on magic, its pale blue blushed pink like sunrise.

Only by gorging on one thing could its camouflage tint shift, a simple trick like dye soaking cloth.

When the giant slime turned fully pink like a peony, Cerqin finally spotted the hidden core near the groundward skin, a pearl in silt.

She let go of active mana recovery like dropping a bucket, let it restore stamina instead, then bent and reached like a crane for fish.

The slime’s innards slowed her a beat like mud gripping boots; just as she touched, the core shifted again like a firefly blinking aside.

But this jump couldn’t hide from her sense, bright as a lantern in fog.

A just-shifted core couldn’t leap again at once; ready as a snare, Cerqin grabbed it like a hawk striking.

The fragile core crunched like thin ice; the giant slime shuddered once like a drum, its mana bled away like ebbing tide, its sheen gone dull as ash.