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Thanks for all your support! Please visit my Patreon for new artworks.
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Armed with a sword and a patched leather jerkin, Tavrik descended into the dungeon. At first, everything went well—he slashed through a few weak slimes, collecting the odd gem here and there. Their jelly-like forms splattered under his blade, and he smirked at the ease of it.
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As the last of his jerkin disintegrated, Tavrik could feel the slime pulsing against his bare skin, tightening around him, compressing and shifting. His muscles twitched involuntarily as the goo wormed its way into him. He gasped, but his breath was cut short—the slime covered his mouth and nose, yet somehow, he could still breathe, though it felt wrong, unnatural.
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Tavrik stumbled forward, his body wobbling unnaturally, like a puppet whose strings had been tangled. He made his way toward the dungeon's entrance, but with each step, he felt his will slipping away. The slime was no longer just on him—it was him. His thoughts grew slower, more distant. His body felt… different. Every movement made that strange squeaking noise, and his new rubbery form caught the light in odd ways.
Somehow, he knew that if he didn’t get help soon, he’d become a permanent resident of the dungeon—a slime lord, mindless and monstrous, trapped in a body not his own.
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