Episode-250

Words : 1532 Updated : Oct 1st, 2025

Chapter : 499 It was a special kind of hell, a purgatory of gelatin and boredom. Lloyd’s life, both of them, had been defined by high-stakes, high-intensity challenges. He had wrestled with complex engineering problems that pushed the boundaries of known physics. He had commanded divisions in battles where a single decision could mean life or death for thousands. He had faced down assassins, monsters, and angry princesses. He was a man accustomed to conflict, to strategy, to the sharp, exhilarating thrill of a challenge met and overcome. This... was none of those things. This was work. Tedious, repetitive, utterly devoid of any intellectual or tactical stimulation. Bind. Squeeze. Jolt. Pop. Over and over again. The slimes offered no resistance, no variation. They simply bounced, gurgled, and died, their gooey demise a constant, unchanging punctuation mark in the endless, silent sentence of the grind. His mind, a formidable instrument accustomed to complex calculations and strategic foresight, began to rebel against the sheer, soul-crushing monotony. He tried to occupy it, to distract himself from the tedious reality of his task. He ran through the schematics for the Radiance laundry powder production line in his head, mentally optimizing the gear ratios for the new pulverizing mill. He composed and then discarded a dozen different opening lectures for his next class at the Academy, trying to find the perfect, provocative question to throw at his students. He even, in a moment of sheer desperation, tried to recall the lyrics to the bawdy sea shanty about the farmer’s daughter and the scarecrow he had overheard in the market. He couldn’t remember the third verse, a fact that was, for some reason, deeply and profoundly irritating. Hours passed. Or at least, what felt like hours. In the timeless, perpetual midday of the Slime Plains, the only clock was the slow, agonizing crawl of the kill counter in his mind’s eye. [Slimes Killed: 567/1000] [Slimes Killed: 578/1000] [Slimes Killed: 589/1000] His body began to ache, not from injury, but from the sheer, repetitive strain of maintaining his focus, of constantly manifesting and controlling the steel chains. His Void reserves, though not being drained by massive attacks, were being slowly, relentlessly, siphoned away, a low-level but constant expenditure that left a dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes. Fang Fairy, his beautiful, powerful storm goddess, was now sitting on the ground, her legs crossed in a posture of serene, meditative boredom. She no longer even bothered to lift her hand to unleash the lightning. She would simply flick a finger, a gesture of almost contemptuous indifference, and the necessary jolt of energy would leap forth, dispatching another cluster of the jiggly abominations. They were no longer a warrior and his spirit partner in glorious combat. They were two factory workers on a very long, very strange, and increasingly sticky, assembly line. Master, her silent thought was a hum of pure, unadulterated ennui. The lifeform designated ‘slime’ appears to possess a level of tactical ingenuity roughly equivalent to that of a puddle. Is it possible that we could simply... ignore them? Perhaps they will bounce themselves into oblivion out of sheer, existential pointlessness? A tempting theory, Fang Fairy, Lloyd sent back, his own mental voice a dry, weary rasp. But unfortunately, the System seems to require a more... proactive... approach to their eradication. We need to reach the one thousand mark to secure the next reward. Just a few hundred more to go. Then we can take a break and contemplate the sweet, sweet release of unconsciousness. He gritted his teeth, forcing his aching mind back to the task. He cast his chains again. He ensnared another dozen slimes. He gave the mental signal. Fang Fairy flicked her finger. A dozen more pathetic, sizzling pops. [Slimes Killed: 998/1000] [Slimes Killed: 999/1000] One more. Just one more cluster. He gathered the last dregs of his focus, his will feeling frayed, stretched thin. He manifested the chains one last time, the steel feeling heavy, sluggish, reluctant. He snagged a final, small group of the bouncing blue blobs. Now, he commanded. Fang Fairy, with a silent sigh that seemed to resonate through their very bond, delivered the final, merciful jolt. [Slimes Killed: 1000/1000] The kill counter vanished, replaced by a new, glorious notification. [Kill Quota Met: 1000 Glistening Slimes Eliminated.] [Reward: 100 Farming Coins (FC) Issued.] [Current Farming Coins: 100 (Previous) + 100 (Reward) = 200 FC] Two hundred. The number glowed in his mind, a testament to his own insane, stubborn, and brutal, endurance. He had done it. Chapter : 500 He collapsed. Not onto a bench, not into a chair. He simply folded, his legs giving out completely, and slumped onto the soft, impossibly green grass of the Slime Plains, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps. Fang Fairy, her duty done, dissolved into a swirl of moonlight and silver, her presence retreating back into their shared core to begin the long, slow process of recovery. He lay there, alone, exhausted, and covered in a thin, sticky film of evaporated slime goo. But he had done it. Two hundred Farming Coins. He was still three hundred short of his goal, but he had proven the viability of the Farm. He had proven his own endurance. The war was long. The grind was hell. But he was winning. One pathetic, jiggly, and deeply, profoundly, satisfying, slime at a time. The Southern Reaches were a world painted in warmer hues. The harsh, martial greys of the Ferrum Duchy’s heartland gave way to rolling hills of vibrant green, to fields of golden wheat that shimmered under a sun that felt gentler, more benevolent. The air here was softer, carrying the scent of sea salt from the distant coast and the sweet, heavy perfume of the lush, semi-tropical flowers that grew in wild, riotous profusion. The Kruts family estate, perched on a cliff overlooking the sparkling Azure Strait, was not a fortress like the Ferrum manor. It was a villa, a sprawling, elegant structure of pale, cream-colored stone and terracotta tiles, its walls draped in flowering vines, its courtyards filled with the gentle, musical splash of fountains. It was a place of art, of culture, of a quiet, ancient wealth that was built not on iron and war, but on trade and the sea. In a sun-drenched, open-air pavilion overlooking the glittering expanse of the strait, Lady Faria Kruts sat before a small, portable easel. A light, warm breeze, carrying the scent of salt and jasmine, stirred the loose, rebellious strands of her crimson-violet hair. Before her was a blank sheet of fine, textured vellum. A stick of charcoal rested, forgotten, in her long, slender fingers. Her amethyst eyes, usually so sharp, so focused, so filled with a fierce, competitive fire, were distant, unfocused, staring out at the endless blue horizon, but seeing something else entirely. She was supposed to be sketching. Her mother had suggested it, had insisted upon it, with a gentle but firm concern. “You are distracted, my love,” the Marquess-Consort had said, her voice a soft, melodic counterpoint to her daughter’s restless energy. “Your mind is a turbulent sea. Go to the pavilion. Let the sea air calm you. Let the charcoal ground you. Find your center again. Your art has always been your anchor.” And so, Faria had come here, to her favorite spot, the place where she had created some of her finest, most passionate landscapes. She had set up her easel, taken up her charcoal, and prepared to lose herself in the familiar, comforting discipline of her craft. But the art would not come. Her mind, usually a sharp, clear instrument, was a chaotic, jumbled mess. Every time she tried to focus on the sweeping curve of the coastline, on the dance of light on the water, another image would intrude, sharp, vivid, and deeply, profoundly, unsettling. She would see a dusty, repurposed mill, the air thick with the clean, invigorating scent of rosemary. She would see a pair of dark, intelligent, and surprisingly amused, eyes, watching her as she passionately argued the merits of earth-tone underpainting. She would see a rough, but brilliant, charcoal sketch of a woman transformed, a story told in a few, clean, devastatingly effective lines. She would hear a quiet, calm voice, a voice that held no hint of artistic pretension, explaining the principles of high-contrast lighting and aspirational narratives as if it were a simple, logical engineering problem. She would clench her jaw, trying to banish the memories, trying to force her focus back to the sea, to the sky. But then, another memory would surface. A dark, terrifying, goblin-infested forest. A silent, white-masked figure moving with the impossible, preternatural grace of a predator. A spear of pure, solidified lightning, beautiful and terrible, obliterating a nightmare from existence. She sighed, a long, frustrated sound, and let the charcoal stick drop from her nerveless fingers onto the stone floor of the pavilion. It was useless. She couldn’t concentrate. Her mind, her very soul, felt... disordered. Unsettled. Ever since she had returned from the Ferrum capital, from her strange, intense, and utterly, comprehensively, bewildering collaboration with him. Lloyd Ferrum.

Episode-250

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