That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime, Vol. 2

by Fuse

  This completely unexpected gift allowed Gabil a moment to survey his surroundings again. There was a great commotion from afar, indicating something else going on. Probably had something to do with that rumble from before, Gabil imagined. But Gobta knew what it really was—a signal from Benimaru that the ogres were on the scene.

  “Oops! Guess we’re getting started. Ummm, you’re Gabil, right? Bring your allies together and get back in defensive formation!”

  “Mm. Yes. I know.”

  Each had no idea what the other was talking about, but they still had the mental capacity to unite toward a common goal. They both hurried off, both with a new responsibility to handle.

  Outside of Gobta and Gabil’s scope of attention, Ranga was sizing up the orc general.

  “You wish to get in my way?” the fighter said, spear pointed straight at the wolf, a little unnerved by these new events but still in control of his wits. “Who are you?”

  These wolves were a concern to him, certainly. The orc general had a feeling that the low rumble from before was a sign of even clearer danger, but he couldn’t simply leave the wolves unchallenged.

  “I am Ranga,” came the low, half-growled reply, “the faithful servant of Sir Rimuru!”

  The two glared at each other.

  “Rimuru, you say? I’ve never heard the name, but if this Rimuru seeks to defy us, we will destroy him.”

  Now the orc general had no interest in Ranga. If he wasn’t aligned with a demon lord or high-level magic-born whose name he was familiar with, he felt free to kill him without regret. That rumbling roar suddenly seemed a lot more important to investigate.

  He distractedly thrust his spear forward, attempting to skewer Ranga and end this fast. Ranga effortlessly reared back, dodging the strike.

  “Crafty little dog!”

  Now the orc general gave Ranga a closer look. Then he noticed—this wasn’t any regular wolf at all. What? Come on. Just a simple magical beast… Why am I letting him worry me so much…? He assumed his sudden trepidation was just his mind playing tricks on him.

  “How dare some lowly animal bare its fangs at me!” he shouted, giving orders to his team of elites. The orc knights fanned out, surrounding Ranga in a perfectly timed maneuver. Following their general’s direction, they focused each of their spears on the wolf. There was no point challenging some animal to a one-on-one duel, he thought.

  Ranga chuckled. He hadn’t felt this heartened in ages, able to release his full instincts as an apex predator.

  With a howl as long and loud as he could muster, he unleashed his aura. After spending so long in the shadow of Rimuru, he had been heavily exposed to his beloved master’s aura and used it to picture himself as the magical beast he was. Something drove him to pursue this form of himself, and now Ranga realized it was time for his instincts to awaken.

  He could feel the power surging within. His muscles grew, propelling him to his full, sixteen-foot-tall frame. His claws enhanced themselves, his fangs transformed into steel-like daggers—but what stood out most were the two horns that now grew from his forehead.

  This was the form of his master, the one he saw in the past. The tempest starwolf. And now he had evolved into that.

  The howl made the orcish soldiers shudder, but they felt no fear from it. Their orc general was right by their side, and the Ravenous skill had dulled their hearts. Ranga gave them a disinterested snort as he glanced at their leader. This was no threat to him now. He could feel his true strength, and it was time to show it off.

  Sensing the flow of power, he focused his magic on his horns. The orc general picked up on this higher-level transformation, and he knew the danger involved. He hurriedly ordered his soldiers to spread out, but he was too late.

  A flash of light ran across their ranks. Then the sound came—the crack of thunder as pillars of electricity shot up from the ground to the heavens, accompanied by a small army of tornadoes.

  Ranga had obtained the Dark Lightning skill—and while he couldn’t directly control lightning the way Rimuru could, his two horns allowed him to define its range and power. And he had something else—the extra skill Control Wind. This was, in a way, an inferior version of the Control Particles skill Rimuru had picked up. It let Ranga raise and lower the local atmospheric pressure to generate wind gusts, and combining it with Dark Lightning provided a lethal one-two punch.

  Ranga knew that—his instincts told him so—and he used it on his foes without a moment’s hesitation. Control Wind was his now, and he used it to generate a staggering pressure difference in the air above. This was the area he used Dark Lightning on, and the ensuing beams of electricity filled the exact area he wanted. The result was a writhing maelstrom of upward and downward air currents, eventually gathering themselves into a single massive vortex.

  This led to several large tornadoes, exuding electricity as they ran roughshod across the battlefield like a great death-dealing storm. The orc general was instantly rendered into a pile of carbon, and his nearby soldiers were quickly picked off by the storm and thunderbolts.

  Once the tornadoes left the scene, there were no more orcs nearby. Ranga’s broad-range attack skill—Deathstorm—thus made its first impact on the world.

  Ranga watched contentedly as his tornadoes stormed across the land. It had not affected any of the lizardmen, and even at maximum range and force, they did nothing to damage him. It emptied his magical reserves, of course, but not enough to render him immobile.

  He wagged his tail, realizing it had worked perfectly. He let out another long, happy howl, more than enough to terrorize the orcs observing from afar. Ranga watched them flee in a panic, sitting down as he silently refilled his magic. The battle wasn’t over yet. He would have more opportunities to contribute. There was no need to hurry things along.

  Gobta appeared to be doing well, too. The lizardman force was starting to gather itself back together under the watchful command of Gabil. The goblin riders had rejoined Gobta, and together they were mowing down the orcs that had so tormented the lizardmen and goblins not long ago. It wouldn’t be long before Gabil’s men were a coherent force again.

  And now—they could see Benimaru and his friends, walking in from far away. Ranga nodded to himself. Victory seemed assured now.

  Gelmud was looking into his crystal ball. He didn’t like what he saw.

  “Damn those worthless bastards!”

  In a fit of rage, he dashed the orb against the ground, shattering it into a million pieces. It had been showing the proceedings in the forest from the eyes of an orc general—Gelmud had chosen that vantage point to take in what he expected to be the ultimate realization of all his ambitions. But now, the last of his intact crystal balls was a murky shade of black. All three of the soldiers he had entrusted orbs to had died in combat.

  Gelmud had been pushing forward with preparations for the upcoming ceremony for the past three years. A ceremony to mark the birth of a new demon lord.

  It had all been left in Gelmud’s hands to arrange, and the assignment filled him with glee. If all went well, it’d create a demon lord who would listen to his orders. It was too tempting a treat to ignore.

  The demon lords of the world had forged a pact with one another that defined the Forest of Jura as untouchable, not belonging to any dominion. That was, however, just a formality, and small-scale interventions into the wood were a daily occurrence. Gelmud himself had several different operations under way below the surface.

  What he was doing was planting the seeds of conflict across the forest.

  Gelmud was personally giving names to the most powerful among each race that dwelled in the wood. Naming a creature consumed a great deal of magical energy, draining his powers for months at a time. It was a dangerous game to play, but the “named” treated Gelmud like a parent and listened to anything he told them.

  Slowly, carefully, he had been building a small clique of protégés for him to manipulate forest-wide. Some had been uprooted from the grou
nd before they could fully sprout, but others had fully blossomed. Some were goblins, some lizardmen—and there were other races involved, too, all participating in the war as named monsters. It was poisoning the well to cull the weak from the herd—powerful against powerful, the survivors fated to be evolved into a demon lord.

  Gelmud’s plan had been going without a hitch.

  These great wars among entire races shouldn’t have occurred until three centuries after Veldora’s disappearance. Whether sealed away or not, triggering a war while Veldora was still alive was playing with fire. It could break the seal itself, in fact.

  So he had taken his time, gathering more pawns under his control and adjusting the power balance among the races. And now that Veldora had vanished far earlier than he anticipated, the whole thing was starting to fall apart.

  But luck hadn’t fled Gelmud’s side yet. An orc lord was born—and while he hadn’t been expecting that, he did successfully bring it over to his side. It was Gelmud’s trump card, and now that plans were going well and truly awry, Gelmud had no choice but to play it. It would be better to let things work out naturally with a plan like this, but the way he saw it, he had no other choice. It was a bit like fixing the entire tournament, he knew, but he decided that the orc lord would be the next demon lord, no matter what.

  The lack of time had forced him to speed up the plan a little, and Gelmud still didn’t have enough strength to bring the higher-level races of the forest under his rule. He had wanted to sow some seeds among the ogres and treants as well, but that had fallen by the wayside this time.

  To be exact, the ogres turned down the naming offer. He had tried to negotiate with them, but they steadfastly refused. As a warring race, the ogres were reluctant to quickly change allegiances. They were high level, yes, but Gelmud concluded that they could not be controlled.

  The experience riled him enough that he decided to have the orc lord target the ogres first. The way they easily steamrolled over the ogre homeland assured Gelmud that he was on the right track. He had sent a magic-born employee over to keep tabs on things, but it wound up being unnecessary. The orc lord was growing steadily, and even his underlings were now nearing A rank. It made Gelmud rest a lot easier at night.

  Rubbing out those annoying ogres first eliminated the last seed of anxiety for him. The treants were harmless as long as their lands were not directly threatened. He could take his time crushing them. Everything was proceeding as planned.

  He had once feared the demon lords who ruled over him, but now, it was Gelmud’s turn to man the strings. It wouldn’t be long now—and when he topped it all off with the lizardmen’s destruction, all he’d have left to tackle were those stupid goblin weaklings. And once the orc lord had supreme control over the forest, Gelmud intended to have him keep going and destroy a human city.

  It would be his declaration to the world that a new “demon lord” had been born, and that declaration would be supported by facts once he wiped away the dryads and treants from the forest.

  Soon, very soon, Gelmud would have a demon lord doing whatever he wanted. He would take his rightful place as one of the most powerful rulers in the world. He could see it all so clearly in his mind, but now…

  He hadn’t bothered to renew the contracts with the people he spent a fortune to hire.

  Gelmud’s master was the one who introduced him to the Moderate Jesters. They were a creepy little band, and while they offered a wealth of powerful magic-borns to him, the plan was going so well that there just wasn’t much work he could offer—not without revealing his entire plan, which he wanted to avoid.

  They had warned him to mind his business around the dryads. That was why he devoted so much effort to building an arsenal of magic-resistant armor and equipment. Problem solved, as far as Gelmud was concerned.

  The orc lord’s army had conquered the majority of the forest. One more step, and everything would be theirs.

  But now…

  Just as the orc lord was about to enjoy his new life as a demon lord, an unexpected presence had thrown a wrench into the gears.

  All of a sudden, one of the crystal orbs went black. One of the five orc generals, the commanders who answered directly to the orc lord, had been killed. Gelmud grew confused, then panicked. He realized that if things went awry, not only would there be no place in the table among the world’s elites for him—his master might decide he wasn’t worth having around any longer.

  The realization came to him at around the same time his third crystal ball went silent. All hope seemed lost for his ambitions—and for himself.

  Gelmud flew outside, casting a flight spell to propel him forward.

  There was no time to bother formulating a plan now. He had to get to the marshlands, and he needed to be fast.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE DEVOURER OF ALL

  It was a sight to behold.

  I kept up my vigil on the battlefield from above, taking in the reality unfolding on the ground. Flashes of light ran from corner to corner, blowing away dozens of orcs at once. A loud roar rumbled in the sky as a black dome-shaped something appeared, then disappeared after a few seconds and left nothing but a bunch of glass fused into the earth.

  All the orcs there must have been burned into nothing. I could tell what had happened easily enough, but I felt like my heart was still having trouble accepting it. Before it could, tornadoes swirled across the field, sending gale-force winds in all directions and burning the orcs alive with bolts of lightning. It looked like one of the black-armored orcs had either been incinerated or torn apart.

  My honest appraisal of all this: What the heck?

  With every swipe of her sword, Shion was cutting down great quantities of orcs. Her blade was glowing a dim shade of purple, infused with her aura. A flash of the same color shot through the air with every slash, cutting orcish soldiers in half with the shock waves. The sword was no kinder to those it physically struck—some literally exploded. A single slash had a range of twenty feet or so, slicing through everyone unlucky enough to be in its path.

  She smiled a graceful, fetching smile as she danced her way through the hordes. The attacks just kept coming, uninterrupted, and not a single orc could lay a claw on her.

  Her strength was simply overwhelming.

  But there were a couple other guys in battle that made Shion look like a rank amateur. Those were Benimaru and Ranga.

  Let’s tackle Benimaru first. What was up with that freaky black dome thing? I had a vague idea when I first saw it, I’ll admit. A combination of my Control Flame, Dark Flame, and Ranged Barrier, I guessed. He used a barrier to freeze the space, Control Flame to accelerate the particle motion inside, and then Dark Flame to convert the excited particles into searing flame. It’d instantly cook everything in the enclosed space, like Ifrit’s Flare Circle except with an even larger range. It disappeared in the space of two seconds, but with temperatures this high, that was enough.

  It was a scarily efficient killing device, and the neat thing was how, unlike a nuclear bomb, it didn’t affect the outside area one bit. Not a single shock wave or burst of energy leaked out from the barrier. He must have ranged it carefully to control the temperature inside, and I could only imagine how hot it must’ve been. No way anyone could’ve survived.

  The only real problem, I supposed, was the way he took this incredibly dangerous skill—he developed it himself, I later heard, naming it Hellflare—and tossed it around with hardly a second thought, apparently.

  Now for the other guy—er, wolf. Ranga.

  Transforming into a tempest starwolf out of nowhere was kind of freaky, I thought, but it was the skill he immediately unleashed afterward that really threw me.

  I suppose that was how you were supposed to use Dark Lightning, without placing any limits on it. And he even controlled the wind to enhance its effects. Dang. What was that?

  Understood. I believe the individual Ranga combined Dark Lightning with the extra skill Control Wind, taking advan
tage of the differences in temperature and atmospheric pressure to create bursts of up-and-down-flowing currents, thus creating whirlwinds.

  Huh. Neat. I don’t get it.

  So he generated tornadoes to attack a wider range than he could with just lightning? Well, it sure worked. It knocked out an entire section of the orc horde.

  It consumed a ton of his magic, though, so I doubted a second strike was coming any time soon. Which, I mean, if he could rapid-fire stuff like that, I think we’d need to redefine everything about how war even worked on this planet.

  Gauging all of this made me realize something. The brakes I had subconsciously been applying to myself all this time—they had nothing like that. No concept that some skills were a little too dangerous to unleash and just lobbed them willy-nilly at enemies. That was a given in the survival-of-the-fittest world they were born in, I imagined, and really, maybe I was the one being weird about it. It’d suck if I held back and my friends paid dearly for it.

  Over in my old world, there was this tacit agreement that, yes, we’ve got all these devastating weapons and stuff, but we can’t actually use them. They were more for deterrence. But was that really the case? What’s the point of spending so much money on weapons you could never use? Taking all that time to develop them? They’re meant for launching when the times call for it, no? And if you’re not supposed to use them on innocent citizens, did that suddenly make it okay to use them on the battlefield? I think if you got your brains blown out in a war, you probably wouldn’t care much about the exact murder weapon that did the deed, wherever you wound up.

  Maybe that was the whole point. You needed to show people that you were strong if your weapons were ever going to serve as a deterrent. Maybe there was nothing wrong with that at all, actually. Look at Ranga, for one—he’s just sitting there, observing, and nobody’s daring to go near him. They’re as deterred as they can get.