home

search

Chapter 7 - The Slime, the Cult, and the Death of a Very Rude Door.

  There are three kinds of people in this world: those who knock, those who break the door down, and those who convince the door to open itself out of sheer confusion.

  Guess which one I am.

  The path ahead was a narrow spiral carved into the roots of the great tree—the one that reached into the heavens like a giant middle finger to common sense. Each step echoed with a wet squelch. The kind of sound you don’t want under your boots unless you're stomping grapes or someone's dignity.

  Behind me, the katana muttered something about “atmospheric pressure” and “sacrifices,” which I ignored. Honestly, I still wasn’t sure if she was cursed, possessed, or just really into chaos theory.

  Ahead of me? A door.

  Not just any door. No, no. This one had eyes.

  It blinked.

  “Don’t do it,” I muttered to myself.

  I did it.

  “HEY! UGLY! OPEN UP!”

  The door hissed.

  I hissed back.

  The katana groaned like a disappointed aunt. “You could try diplomacy.”

  “I did. That was diplomacy. This is international relations in my language.”

  The door suddenly shivered, and a mouth appeared. A literal mouth. Teeth and everything.

  “Only those of the Order may pass,” it growled in a voice that sounded like someone gargling rocks and regret.

  “Cool,” I said, flashing a symbol I had absolutely just stolen from the corpse of a cultist two floors back. “Order stuff. Look at me. I’m orderly.”

  The door paused.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  It sniffed me.

  I felt insulted.

  Then, slowly, it started to open—groaning, cracking, as if offended by its own obedience.

  I grinned.

  “I told you,” I said, stepping through, “diplomacy.”

  Behind the door was a room filled with what I could only describe as ritualistic nonsense. Candles floated in midair. Blood patterns writhed on the floor like they were doing interpretative dance. And in the center, floating like the world's worst birthday present, was a slime.

  But not just a slime.

  This one had horns.

  And a monocle.

  “Gentlemen,” it said in a British accent.

  I blinked.

  It blinked.

  We both judged each other silently.

  Then it exploded.

  Well, imploded first. Then exploded. Chaos slime physics. Don’t question it.

  The blast knocked me back into the door, which closed again—laughing. Yes. The door laughed.

  I stood up, coughing up glitter. I swear to whatever god abandoned this place, that slime explosion was glittery.

  “Why glitter?” I wheezed.

  “Chaos slime,” the katana said. “They self-destruct in fabulous ways.”

  “Of course they do.”

  Suddenly, footsteps echoed from the far hallway. Hooded figures. Chanting. Slow. Rhythmic.

  “Shit. Cultists.”

  I ducked behind an overturned altar that smelled vaguely of regret and burnt cabbage. They walked in, looking around.

  “He was here,” one said.

  “He saw the slime,” another said.

  “The door laughed again,” a third added with a shiver.

  “Blasphemy,” the tallest one spat. “Find him.”

  I didn’t wait for the rest.

  Using a trick I picked up from a thief who owed me money (and later, his left foot), I launched upward using the momentum of a loose chandelier and swung myself toward the corridor exit—grabbing the katana mid-air like a very stylish war criminal.

  The cultists shouted. One of them threw a knife.

  The knife bounced off my boot.

  The boot cried.

  Yes, my boot cried. I don’t know how. It might’ve been the slime residue. Or the trauma.

  “Catch him!”

  I ran.

  Left. Right. Left again. Then through a tapestry that turned out to be hiding another slime. This one was asleep.

  Not anymore.

  With a squeal, it launched itself into the cultists’ faces, giving me just enough time to find the nearest window and leap.

  Yes.

  I leapt through a stained-glass window.

  It was a depiction of a holy figure slaying a demon. I rewrote that narrative mid-flight.

  As I landed (barely), the katana laughed for once. “You’re going to die in the most embarrassing way.”

  “Maybe,” I panted. “But I’ll look cool doing it.”

  We hit the ground running—literally—straight into another group of weirdos. These ones looked less cultist and more… accountant?

  “Who are you?” one asked, adjusting his glasses and clipboard.

  “Who are you?”

  “We’re from the Department of Slime-Related Incidents.”

  “…That’s a thing?”

  “Sadly.”

  “Then take a note,” I said, drawing the katana, “This one’s going on record.”

  I charged.

  They screamed.

  Another door appeared.

  This one was polite. I kicked it anyway.

Recommended Popular Novels