On the seventh day, See woke up.
I was sitting near the ice wall, in the middle of a conversation with Veldora about the theoretical applications of magicule compression, when a sound from behind me made me turn my sensory awareness.
A gasp.
A cough.
The rustle of a body shifting on stone.
I turned.
See was awake.
Her eyes — blue, dazed, unfocused — blinked open, staring at the cavern ceiling with the confused expression of someone who had expected to die and was deeply surprised to find themselves alive.
Her hands moved, pressing against the stone floor, pushing herself up, and as she rose, the full extent of her nakedness became apparent — her breasts swinging free, heavy and pale, the nipples pink and stiff from the cold, her body fully exposed, the blonde hair between her legs matted and damp.
She looked around.
The cavern.
The crystals.
The shattered stone door.
The ice wall.
Not at me.
She did not see me.
I was a slime on the floor — insignificant, overlooked, beneath notice.
“Where am I?” she whispered.
Her voice was hoarse, cracked, the voice of someone whose throat had been dry for days.
“Here,” I said.
She screamed.
A full, genuine, terrified scream that echoed through the cavern and made Veldora’s eyes snap open behind the ice.
“A talking slime?!” She scrambled backward, pressing herself against the cavern wall, her arms crossing over her chest in an instinctive, futile gesture of modesty.
“What — what are you?
Where — how—”
“Calm down,” I said, and I made my voice as deep and steady as a vibration-projected voice could be.
Calm.
Commanding.
The voice of someone who knew things she did not.
“You have been unconscious for seven days.
You were dying.
I saved your life.”
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
“You — saved me?”
“The dissolution compound in your body was breaking down your cellular structure.
I synthesized healing compounds from materials in the forest and administered them.
You would be dead without my intervention.”
She stared at me.
Her arms loosened slightly, the panic giving way to confusion, to the dawning realization that she was alive when she should not be.
“Who are you?” she breathed.
I looked at her.
I looked at the ice wall, at the golden eyes watching from behind it, at the shattered seal and the cavern and the body of a woman I had created, written, killed on a page in another world.
I thought about the truth.
I thought about telling her everything — the transmigration, the fanfiction, the system, the absurd, perverted, impossible reality of my existence.
I did not tell her the truth.
“I am a being who was sealed, much like the dragon behind that wall,” I said, and my voice carried the gravity of a lie told with absolute conviction.
“I have been trapped.
You freed me — not physically, but through your devotion, through your act of breaking the seal.
I was released.
And in gratitude, I saved your life.”
Her eyes went wide.
Her gaze darted to the ice wall, to the golden eyes, to the vast shape of the dragon behind the barrier.
Then back to me.
Back to the small, blue, translucent slime on the floor.
“Lord Veldora?” she whispered.
“You — you are Lord Veldora?
But — how — you have become a slime?”
Her whole body trembled.
The nakedness, the cold, the exhaustion, the overwhelming, mind-breaking revelation that her god — the being she had worshipped her entire life, the being she had sacrificed two men to free — was apparently a small blue slime on a cave floor.
Her lower lip quivered.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Come,” I said gently.
“Sit.
You are weak.
You have been through much.”
I hopped — my body contracting and launching itself a short distance through the air — toward her.
She flinched, then steadied, then slowly, hesitantly, lowered herself back to the floor.
I hopped again.
This time, I landed on her.
On her chest, to be precise.
My small, round, gelatinous body settled into the soft valley between her breasts, resting against the warm skin, the weight of me — negligible as it was — pressing into the soft tissue.
Her breasts were full and heavy, the skin warm and soft, and my body settled into the space between them like a stone settling into a riverbed.
She looked down at me.
I looked up at her — or rather, my sensory awareness oriented upward, taking in the view from my new position.
Her face, tear-streaked, trembling, framed by tangled blonde hair.
Her collarbone, with its small black mole.
The swell of her breasts on either side of me, the pink nipples stiff and visible in my peripheral perception.
Internally, a very different thought was running through my mind.
‘I just want to fuck this bitch.’
But I could not say that.
Not yet.
Not to a woman who thought I was her god.
“My Lord,” she whispered, and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.
“You have returned.
You — after all this time — I feared—”
“Fear not,” I said, and my voice was warm and resonant and entirely, calculatedly fake.
“I have returned.
The seal trapped me, transformed me, reduced me to this form.
But I am here.
And I need you, See.
I need your help.”
Her name — spoken by what she believed to be her god — hit her like a physical force.
She shuddered.
Her hands came up, trembling, and cupped my body gently, cradling me against her chest, pressing me into the warmth between her breasts.
“Anything,” she breathed.
“Anything, my Lord.
I am yours.
I have always been yours.”
‘Perfect.’
“The seal has weakened me,” I continued, maintaining the deep, philosophical tone.
“I need to see the outside world.
I need to understand what has become of the land I once knew.
I need you to guide me, to help me navigate this world as I recover my strength.”
“Of course.
Of course, my Lord.” She was nodding, her face radiant with a devotion that bordered on ecstasy.
“I will help you.
I will take you outside.
I will show you everything.”
She stood.
I clung to her chest, my body adhering to her skin, nestling deeper into the valley between her breasts as she rose to her feet.
She took one step, then another, then looked down.
And realized she was naked.
“My Lord — I — my clothes — they dissolved — I cannot—”
“It is fine,” I said.
“Clothing is unimportant.
You are a priestess.
The body is a vessel, not something to be hidden.”
I was pulling this directly from my ass, and it was working beautifully.
She trembled.
Her hands moved as if to cover herself, then stopped.
She lowered her arms, standing straight, her naked body exposed to the cavern air — the full breasts, the flat stomach, the blonde hair between her legs, the long legs — all of it on display, because her god had told her it was fine.
“Walk with me,” I said.
“Show me the cave.
Show me the path outside.”
She walked.
I rode on her chest, nestled between her breasts, my body warm against her skin, my sensory awareness drinking in every detail — the sway of her hips as she navigated the uneven floor, the flex of her thighs, the way her breasts shifted with each step, the heavy, fluid movement of flesh that my body pressed against from its privileged position.
She was exhausted.
I could feel it — the tension in her muscles, the slight stumble in her step, the way her breathing labored as they moved through the tunnel system.
The dissolution had taken a toll, and seven days of unconsciousness had not restored her fully.
“You are tired,” I said.
“The body needs rest.
We will find a place to sleep soon.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
The tunnel narrowed, then widened, then opened.