Episode-245

Words : 1597 Updated : Oct 1st, 2025

Chapter : 489 The arrival of the King Slime had been a welcome, if profoundly messy, jolt of adrenaline in the otherwise soul-crushing monotony of the slime grind. The battle was a stark reminder of the true potential for danger lurking even in this seemingly whimsical corner of his private dimension. The creature’s gelatinous hide, tough as tanned leather, had absorbed Fang Fairy’s initial lightning jolts with a rippling shudder, and its whip-like pseudopods had a speed and power that demanded his full, undivided attention. The chaotic dance of dodging slimy tendrils while coordinating Fang Fairy's targeted strikes had been a genuine tactical challenge, a brief, exhilarating respite from the tedious assembly line of slaughter. In the end, however, even a king made of jelly was no match for a god of thunder. A single, perfectly aimed Spear of Justice, not the full-scale lance of annihilation but a smaller, faster ‘javelin’ variant, had been the decisive argument. The bolt of concentrated, azure lightning had punched through the creature’s central mass, striking the single, massive red eye at its core. The resulting explosion of royal-blue goo had been spectacular, splattering Lloyd from head to toe in a sticky, viscous, but thankfully non-corrosive, slime that smelled faintly of ozone and regret. The King Slime’s demise had been the final, definitive punctuation mark on the first stage of his mission. The moment its giant, goopy form had dissolved into a rapidly evaporating puddle, the progression bar in his mind had flashed, triumphant. [Slime Cull: 1000/1000] [Quest Complete!] A wave of pure, triumphant satisfaction, so potent it momentarily eclipsed the fact that he was now covered in the regal entrails of a gelatinous monarch, washed over him. He had done it. He had endured the mind-numbing repetition, the frustratingly slow progress, the sheer, comprehensive boredom of it all. He had won. The rewards notification chimed, a glorious, beautiful, and long-awaited sound in the quiet, slime-spattered field. [Foundational Quest: ‘Slime Cull’ Completed!] [Reward Issued: 100 Farming Coins (FC)] [Current Farming Coins: 100 FC] One hundred Farming Coins. He looked at the number glowing in his mental vision, a solid, tangible result for what had felt like an eternity of tedious, sticky labor. He had his first seed capital, his first harvest from this strange, new world. The System, with its usual, infuriatingly clever game design, immediately presented him with the next logical step, an offer glowing with the promise of immediate, tangible gain. [Farming Coin (FC) to System Coin (SC) Conversion Available.] [Current Balance: 100 FC] [Exchange Rate: 20 FC = 1 SC] [Convert 100 FC into 5 System Coins?] Five System Coins. The offer was tantalizing. It was a concrete reward he could use now, in the real world. Five more coins to add to his growing war chest. It represented half a day’s worth of his limited Gold Coin conversions, a small but significant boost that would bring him closer to ranking up his Void Powers, to unlocking the mysteries of the Black Ring Eyes, to preparing for the inevitable clash with the ghosts of his past. It was the smart, logical choice for a man who needed immediate power. It was the prize at the bottom of the cereal box, the instant gratification that made the grind feel worthwhile. He could take it, leave this strange dimension, and return to his life five coins richer. He deserved it. He had earned it. After hours of slaughtering bouncing, gurgling abominations, he deserved a reward. But as he stood there, covered in goo, the exhaustion a deep, resonant ache in his bones, the eighty-year-old investor, the man who had built empires of technology on the principle of long-term growth, did the math. And the math was... sobering. Five System Coins was a pittance. A convenience. A single drop in the vast ocean of what he would ultimately need. He thought of the System Upgrade menu, the tantalizing, greyed-out options that promised to transform this simple farming dimension from a plot of land he had to till by hand into a self-sustaining, ever-expanding engine of power. He remembered the cost of the first, most basic upgrade: 500 Farming Coins. He looked at his current balance. 100 FC. It was a start, but it was a long, long way from 500. To get there, he would have to repeat this entire, soul-crushing grind four more times. The thought was a wave of pure, unadulterated dread. More slimes. More goblins. More tedious, repetitive, mind-numbing combat. Or... he could take the easy five SC now and deal with the next grind later. The temptation was immense. His body ached. His mind was a fog of fatigue. The thought of returning to his quiet study, of a hot meal, of a real bed—even a lumpy sofa felt like a paradise right now—was an almost irresistible siren song. Chapter : 490 He looked out across the vast, green plains. The slimes were already beginning to repopulate the area he had cleared, a slow, inexorable, and deeply depressing tide of bouncing blue blobs. The work was endless. It was in this moment of profound exhaustion and wavering resolve that the Major General asserted himself. The soldier who had endured weeks of grueling, sleepless drills, who had pushed his body and mind to the absolute brink in the service of a greater objective, saw the situation not as a chore, but as a mission. The objective was not the 5 SC. The objective was the 500 FC. That was the strategic high ground. That was the asset that would pay dividends for the rest of the war. To sacrifice that long-term strategic advantage for a minor, short-term tactical gain was not just foolish; it was a failure of command. A failure of will. A new, cold resolve settled in his heart, freezing out the exhaustion, the boredom, the desire for escape. He would not take the easy path. He would not be tempted by the immediate reward. He would endure. He would grind. He would build his engine. He focused on the System prompt, on the glowing, tempting offer of five easy System Coins. Decline, his mental command was a shard of ice, sharp and absolute. The prompt vanished, leaving only his meager, hard-won balance of 100 FC. He turned his back on the Slime Plains, his gaze shifting towards the dark, menacing line of the Shadowfen Forest. The goblins were waiting. They were a higher-level mob, worth more FC per kill. The work would be harder, more dangerous. But it would also be more... efficient. Fang Fairy, his mental command was no longer a weary request, but a sharp, clear order. Recalibrate. We are not finished. We are relocating. Objective: Goblin Suppression. Harvest protocol remains in effect. Maximize efficiency. Minimize energy expenditure. The grind continues. A flicker of what might have been profound, divine weariness, but was immediately sublimated into unwavering, loyal compliance, flowed back through their bond. Acknowledged, Master. Commencing the prolonged and deeply un-stimulating process of pest extermination. Again. Lloyd ignored her silent, ethereal sarcasm. He took a deep, steadying breath and began the long walk towards the dark, foreboding trees. He felt... tired. So incredibly tired. But he also felt a grim, unshakeable sense of purpose. He was a farmer, yes. But he was planting the seeds of his own, inevitable, and absolute, victory. And the harvest, he knew, would be worth the pain. The dwarven clock on his desk continued its soft, implacable ticking, each click a tiny hammer blow against the fragile structure of Lloyd’s understanding of reality. Five minutes. He stared at the polished brass hands, at the small, almost insignificant, gap between where they had been and where they were now. He had spent what felt like an entire day—a long, grueling, exhausting day of relentless, bloody combat, of strategic planning, of profound mental and physical fatigue—and in the real world, in the world governed by the steady, unforgiving march of his mother’s clock, a mere three hundred seconds had passed. The implications of this discovery were not just staggering; they were world-altering. They hit him with a force far greater than any of the chimera’s physical blows, a shockwave that completely, comprehensively, re-wrote every strategic calculation he had ever made. He stumbled from his chair, his legs feeling weak, shaky, not just from the fatigue of his long, spectral day of battle, but from the sheer, vertiginous shock of this revelation. He braced himself against the edge of his desk, his knuckles white, his mind a roaring, chaotic vortex of disbelief and dawning, almost terrifying, elation. Time dilation, his internal scientist whispered, the words a reverent, almost fearful, prayer. A localized temporal differential. The flow of time within the Soul Farm is not congruent with the flow of time in the primary reality. The ratio... his mind raced, the engineer instantly, instinctively, running the numbers, ...what felt like at least twelve hours... for five minutes... that’s... that’s a ratio of roughly 144 to 1. One hundred and forty-four hours in the Farm for every single hour that passed in the real world. Six full days of training, of grinding, of practice, for every one day here. The thought was so immense, so powerful, so utterly, game-changingly broken, that he almost laughed, a wild, hysterical sound that caught in his throat. He had been worried about his enemies having a decades-long head start. He had been agonizing over the slow, tedious grind of accumulating power, of mastering his abilities. He had thought himself in a desperate, losing race against time.

Episode-245

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