Ambrose couldn't be bothered to respond to Isabelle's borderline nonsensical question and curtly said, "Are you so exhausted that your brain's turned to mush? If so, get lost and rest!"
With that blunt remark, he turned and left the laboratory.
Humans are so fragile. Just a few days of overtime, and they're already muddled.
Isabelle watched his departing figure, puzzled as to why her mentor had suddenly lost his temper.
"It seems that the subject of the undead is a sensitive one for him. Understandable. A young alchemy prodigy, now reduced to a wandering spirit in an ancient castle—it must be a painful memory he'd rather not revisit. How foolish of me to bring it up."
"Still, even in anger, he cares about my well-being. Such gentleness."
Isabelle sighed inwardly. It turns out, there are kind-hearted undead after all. She resolved that next time, she would avoid any mention of the undead.
Meanwhile, Ambrose vanished into the night, leaving the castle behind.
Hunting slimes wasn't as simple as it sounded. Though weak, their very frailty made them adept at hiding.
Unlike the gelatinous creatures depicted in fairy tales, the slimes of this world were more akin to lumps of decayed sludge, lurking in dark, damp corners.
Bright light and extreme temperatures were inhospitable to them; they thrived in shadows where moisture preserved their form, and the darkness provided ideal conditions for hunting.
Slimes lay motionless, waiting for prey to wander too close. Their viscous bodies could glide silently across the floor, drip from walls or ceilings, and squeeze through cracks, making them almost impossible to detect when hidden.
Once prey came near, they would launch an ambush. Enveloped by the slime's acidic body, most creatures were quickly dissolved and absorbed. However, this passive hunting method was inefficient, and slimes often subsisted on grime, fungi, and even garbage.
Ambrose had never delved deeply into slime studies and was momentarily at a loss. One or two slimes wouldn't be difficult to find, but he needed hundreds to restart his research. Wandering aimlessly wouldn't suffice—he needed a professional.
When in doubt, hire an adventurer. They usually got the job done.
Without hesitation, Ambrose flew through the night to the bustling South Cross Street of Alchemist City.
***
The weather had grown colder, heralding the arrival of winter in Alchemist City. On such nights, taverns were a natural draw for patrons.
Despite its habit of watering down drinks, the "Iron Slag Embers" tavern remained the cheapest in the city, attracting down-and-out mercenaries and adventurers alike.
Ten copper coins for a drink left most patrons simmering with anger, their frustrations often taken out on other things—slamming tables, shouting profanities, or groping passing barmaids. Grabbing a thigh was considered a minor loss; grabbing a backside was a win.
This was precisely the kind of place Ambrose sought.
As he entered, the wave of heat made him frown. Liches preferred the cold, and the warmth made his bones uncomfortably clammy.
The dwarves singing folk songs in the corner were another irritation. Couldn't they at least hire a human minstrel if not an elven bard? The dwarves' gravelly voices sounded like rocks scraping against each other—hardly suited for ballads.
The economic downturn had even affected tavern entertainment.
Ambrose shook his head and pushed through the crowd to the bar.
The orc bartender, busy wiping a glass, greeted him warmly. "A young mage! Haven't seen you here before. First-time customer? This one's on the house."
He slid a half-glass of cloudy ale across the counter. Even without a nose, Ambrose could sense the sour stench through his soul's fire—spoiled ale diluted with water.
Taking a measured sip, Ambrose placed a few copper coins on the bar. "I'm here for information."
It was customary to tip before asking questions.
The orc pressed a finger against the coins, his massive hand effortlessly pinning five at once before swiftly pocketing them.
"Generous guest, what would you like to know?"
Ambrose: …
A mistake. He should have spread the coins out.
Orcs had naturally large hands; five coins at a time was nothing to them. Humans, at most, could manage two.
Suppressing his annoyance, Ambrose inquired, "Where can I find a large concentration of slimes around here?"
The orc bartender, displaying commendable professionalism, promptly answered, "That would be the city's vast sewer system. But lately, it hasn't been safe. Strange mutations have appeared among the slimes."
"Mutations?" Ambrose pressed. "What exactly happened?"
The orc smirked. "Another drink? Just ten copper coins."
Ambrose placed the coins on the bar and warned, "This better be worth it."
Confidently pocketing the money, the orc provided the details Ambrose sought. "You know how alchemical waste needs special handling, right? It's costly. Recently, the city's finances hit a snag—you've heard about that, I assume—so…"
Like industrial pollution, large-scale alchemy produced hazardous waste. Disposal was both complicated and expensive.
The moment the orc mentioned this, Ambrose understood. Those lunatics had dumped the alchemical waste into the sewers, causing the slimes to mutate.
"It's not just slimes…"
Ambrose mentally listed the common alchemical residues. If all of them had been flushed into the sewers, it was only a matter of time before something truly monstrous emerged.
Now wasn't the time to retreat. He needed to collect the slimes before things got out of hand.
"Post a commission for me. I need a guide familiar with the sewers."
Initially, Ambrose had planned to simply buy the slimes. But with the sewers becoming increasingly dangerous, the price for adventurers had skyrocketed.
It made more sense to find a guide and catch the slimes himself.
Though a second-rate legend, a legend nonetheless, ordinary monsters were no threat to him.
The bartender grinned. "Lucky you! A team of adventurers is about to explore the sewers, and they just happen to need a mage. Join them, and you'll save on guide fees and even earn a handsome commission."
Ambrose scowled, his teeth clenched. "You shouldn't have said that."
The orc blinked in confusion. "Pardon? Did I say something offensive?"
Ambrose enunciated each word, "You shouldn't have said 'earn a handsome commission.'"
"What's wrong with those words?"
Ambrose sighed. "Once you said them, I had no choice but to accept."
End of Chapter