Chapter 5: Lazy Mornings and Slime Chaos

The forest stirred with the first blush of dawn, its canopy bathed in a honey-gold light that caught on dew like molten glass. The scent of smoked meat curled through the air, a promise and a challenge to Allen's still-sleepy stomach.

“Agh… my muscles are going to feel sore today,” he groaned, cracking his neck as he sat up from his bed of moss and bracken.

The moss beneath him pulsed faintly, reacting to his movement like a living mattress. The camp was peaceful—the kind of deceptive calm he’d learned could shatter in an instant. Monica and Miyu lay curled together beneath a crude blanket of stitched leaves, their breathing slow and synchronized.

Across from them, Protag-kun twitched in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible—Allen caught the words “final boss” and “half-price bento.”

But it was the scene by the fire that made him pause. Mei sat cross-legged, her silhouette framed by the dancing flames. Steam curled from the simple clay pot she stirred, rising to meet the crisp morning air.

"Morning."

"It's good to see that you are already awake."

Beside her, Cinnamon perched like a tiny sous-chef on his hind legs, whiskers twitching as he watched the bubbling stew with the solemnity of a head chef. His cheeks bulged ever so slightly — no doubt hiding a secret spice or breakfast roll “for later.”

It was a strange kind of normal. But it was theirs.

Allen splashed cold river water on his face — shivering as the enchanted stream briefly glowed in response — then wandered to the fire, pulling a handful of wild green onions from his orc-leather satchel.

“Smells good,” he said, kneeling beside Mei. “Want help with a salad?”

Mei turned, her smile as warm as the firelight. “That would be lovely, Allen. I’m making a stew with some of the orc meat — it’s surprisingly tender. We’ll save the rest to turn into jerky. Cinnamon’s already planning the spice blend, though he refuses to tell me his ‘secret ingredient’.”

Allen returned with a bundle of greens and nuts, slicing them with a makeshift blade carved from a dire wolf fang. He drizzled the salad with a syrupy vinaigrette improvised from forest berries and tree sap. The result was tangy, with a hint of citrus—unexpectedly refreshing.

Mei sampled a bite and gasped. “Oh wow, Allen, that’s delightful. If you continue improving like that, you’re going to make a wonderful bride.”

He knew she was teasing, but the comment still flustered Allen. A familiar ache tightened in his chest as he wondered how his parents were doing. He worried if time moved differently here, if they’d even noticed he was gone.

As the girls began to stir, Mei sent Allen on a new mission: wake up Protag-kun for breakfast.

“Come on, man,” Allen said, giving his shoulder a firm shake. “It’s time to wake up and eat.”

No response.

As Allen leaned in closer, a pair of arms shot out and wrapped around his torso. Protag-kun, still lost in slumber, had latched onto him like a koala to a eucalyptus tree.

“My body pillow... there you are,” he mumbled into Allen’s chest, drool trailing down his chin.

Allen tried to pry him off, but the self-proclaimed hero held fast, murmuring nonsense about comfort stats and cuddle buffs. Allen was almost certain he was making the numbers up on the spot.

At that moment, Monica returned from the river, her eyes immediately locking onto the scene. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. She cupped her hands together, whispering a prayer under her breath.

“Oh, power of yaoi, give me strength to face this glorious day,” she muttered, her fujoshi instincts kicking into overdrive. The way her eyes lit up, Allen was fairly sure she was mentally storyboarding an entire doujinshi then and there.

With a long-suffering groan of martyrdom, Allen did the only thing left to do—he smacked Protag-kun lightly on the skull. The resulting thwack sent the boy flailing upright like a startled cat.

“Hey! What gives?” Protag-kun barked, rubbing the growing lump and glaring in bleary indignation. His hair stood in wild tufts, as if each strand had staged its own rebellion against mornings.

Mei just giggled — a sound as melodious as a wind chime swaying in a summer breeze. Even the firelight seemed to dance warmer when she laughed.

“I’m so glad we have a full house,” she said, her eyes sweeping the group with the genuine contentment of someone who’d spent too long eating alone. “It’s so lively!”

Protag-kun, wiping the last of the drool from his chin, groaned, “Why do we have to wake up so early? Back home, I didn’t get out of bed until one in the afternoon!”

With everyone gathered around the fire, breakfast became its own quiet ritual. The pseudo-pork stew was hearty, the salad crisp, and the company—though chaotic—comforting.

The only sounds were the crackle of flames, the clink of mismatched bowls, and the occasional outrageously loud slurp from Protag-kun. Cinnamon offered him a napkin with a squeak of judgment, his tiny nose twitching in what could only be disdain.

As the last spoonfuls vanished, Monica rose with a theatrical energy that suggested she’d been waiting all meal for this moment. She held her locket aloft—a starburst of polished silver on a ribbon that shimmered faintly in the morning light. When she pressed the central star, the ribbon began to glow with a warm orange hue, its pulse syncing faintly to her heartbeat.

Miyu clapped so hard her braids bounced. “Wow, Monica! So sparkly!”

Monica beamed, her cheeks flushed with pride. “Of course! I’m a magical girl,” she declared, striking a heroic pose—one hand on her hip, the other pointed dramatically skyward. Her locket’s ribbon pulsed at about 35% capacity, casting tiny sparkles onto the moss.

They’d learned the hard way that magical energy here didn’t just refill on its own. After days of trial, error, and one deeply regrettable mana-draining mushroom incident, they’d cracked the basics: a good night’s sleep restored about 10%, and a full meal added another 5%. Other factors—like emotional highs, proximity to mana-rich zones, or sheer narrative audacity—remained mysterious.

Allen regarded her with his usual neutral expression, his own locket hanging dormant at a steady 100%. He hadn’t transformed since their first day in-world. The reason? Frills. Ribbons. Dresses. He refused to join the club, no matter how many puppy-eyed requests or “accidental” outfit sketches Monica and Miyu showed him.

“You absolute tsundere!” Monica accused, her disappointment puffing into a cloud of glittering motes. She had pictured the two of them as a dynamic duo of justice — matching outfits optional, but definitely encouraged.

“I’m not a tsundere,” Allen grumbled.

“Classic tsundere denial,” Monica shot back, her arms folded with imperious flair.

Despite the teasing, the group knew the day’s real work was ahead. The orc army still loomed in the region, so for now they hunted smaller quarry — slimes, goblins, and the occasional dire wolf. Mei stayed behind to tend camp, waving them off with Cinnamon cradled like a furry general overseeing supply lines. He gave a short chirp that might have been “Don’t die,” or “Bring back snacks.”

Deeper in the woods, the air grew thick with mana. Glowing spores swirled around their boots, and the trunks themselves gave off a low, thrumming vibration. Monica inhaled deeply and raised her locket once more.

“By the power of friendship and justice—transform!”

A flare of orange light engulfed her. Ribbons of magic spiraled upward, clothing rearranging itself into frills and armored lace. Her boots clicked into place, her skirt flaring, and her eyes glinting with sharpened resolve.

“Oh yeah! Magical Girl Monica, reporting for duty!” she cheered, striking a pose any anime protagonist would file for copyright.

They’d even run the numbers: 1% magical energy equaled roughly one minute of transformation. At 35%, Monica had thirty-five minutes of combat sparkle before she powered down. Her locket chimed softly, beginning the countdown.

Allen’s 100% could, in theory, give him sixteen and a half minutes… if he kept the skirt. Mei’s theory was that opting out of the costume cut efficiency in half—1% granting barely ten seconds. Allen remained convinced a good stick and a bad attitude could handle any goblin that crossed him.

While their magical girl forms boosted agility, strength, and endurance, one mystery remained: magical projectiles. Monica had yet to fire a single radiant beam of love or justice. But she was hopeful — and loudly convinced — that with enough practice, and maybe the right dramatic monologue, she’d unlock her “finishing move.”

An hour of minor-monster skirmishes later, her transformation finally winked out. The frilly outfit shimmered, then unraveled into ribbons of light, leaving her back in travel-worn clothes—sweaty, dirt-smudged, and triumphant. Her ribbon flickered once before going dark, like a sigh of exhaustion.

Miyu rushed over with a waterskin, her eyes bright as sun-caught glass. “You were amazing, Monica!”

“Thanks for the water, Miyu,” Monica said, gulping and wiping her brow. Her locket’s glow had guttered to 0%, its gem now cloudy like cooling embers. “I need a bowl of Mei’s stew after this.”

While Monica caught her breath, the boys turned to a less glamorous but necessary job: harvesting monster cores.

In this world, monster cores weren’t just loot—they were crystallized mana nodes, formed near vital magical organs. Their location varied by species, often aligned with reproductive centers, which made extraction awkward at best. Male monster cores were located in the left testicle while female monster cores were located in the right ovary.

Slimes offered the smallest cores — clear and jelly‑like, faintly cool to the touch. Goblins yielded lime‑green orbs that warmed the palm, and dire wolves produced large purplish‑pink ones that hummed faintly when held. Female cores almost always glowed brighter, probably infused with higher magical resonance.

Allen crouched over a fallen goblin, his blade in hand, and grimaced as he made the careful cut. The body twitched once before going still.

“I swear,” he muttered, “if one more core is in a place I have to apologize to, I’m quitting.”

From the sidelines, Monica smirked. “You’re just mad this world doesn’t come with an auto-loot feature.”

They were still bickering when Miyu’s sharp cry cut through the clearing. “Guys! Look!”

A cluster of slimes oozed from the brush, their gelatinous bodies jiggling in sync. Soft green light pulsed within… until Protag-kun puffed out his chest.

“Slimes? Seriously? Weakest mobs in any game. I could beat them with a spoon.”

The slimes froze. Then, their color flaring to furious red, they quivered like boiling kettles. Without warning, they spat globs of hissing acid. Where they struck, moss blackened and curled, mana motes scattering upward like startled fireflies.

“Run!” Monica grabbed Miyu and dove behind a tree. Acid splashed, eating smoking pits into the soil.

“This is your fault, Protag‑kun!” Allen barked, hopping back from another sizzling impact.

“Monica! Transform and deal with them!” Protag‑kun squeaked, ducking behind her.

Monica thrust up her locket — but it stayed dark. “I can’t! Empty!”

“Then you, Allen!”

Allen's glare could have melted ore. “By the power of… something!” he yelled, sprinting forward—and promptly tripped over his own line. The locket gave a weak flicker, then died.

Protag-kun didn’t fare better; his foot caught on a root, sending him sprawling. The slimes closed in, acid bubbling. He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart pounding. He cursed every MMO tutorial he’d ever skipped.

One slime used that time to lunge.

“Explosion!” The word tore from him half‑desperation, half‑instinct.

The ground erupted in a blinding light and a deafening boom. The blast sent leaves spiraling, moss curling into charred spirals, and a cloud of birds fleeing in panicked flurries. When the smoke thinned, Protag-kun lay flat, dripping slime and soot. He stared at his trembling hands.

“I… did it,” he breathed. “I actually did magic.”

Monica peeked out from behind a tree, her eyes wide, her voice pitched somewhere between awe and disbelief. “No fair. How is it that you can cast spells?”

Miyu clapped. “That was so cool!”

Protag-kun sat up slowly, a grin blooming across his soot-smudged face. “I’m finally leveling up.”

He practically glowed with pride — mana motes even drifted toward him, like moths to a particularly smug flame. But while he basked in his breakthrough, Allen and Monica exchanged a look. Something in the air felt wrong.

The slimes were indeed exploding… but each detonation came sharper, hotter, more violent than the last. The moss underfoot lay scorched in curling black spirals. The air itself shimmered with residual mana, and the ever-present forest hum had warped into an uneasy thrumming, as though the trees wanted to step back.

Allen crouched beside a splatter of remains. The goo shimmered unnaturally, flecked with glowing orange veins that pulsed like a heartbeat.

“Wait,” he muttered, brow knitting. “That fluid…”

Monica stepped beside him, her eyes wide. “Allen?”

He snapped his head toward Protag‑kun. “Protag-kun, stop! The slimes are made of combustible fluid. The more magic you pump in, the bigger the—”

But the self‑declared hero was already in a dramatic stare‑down with the last slime. Hand raised, grin overconfident, ego inflated past any healthy safety limit.

“I got this!” he shouted. “Explosion!”

The slime vanished in a blinding burst, and a shockwave of goo turned the clearing into a splash-zone disaster. A thick, green paste splattered across them, dripping from hair, clinging to clothes, and sliding into places that made Allen question his life choices. The forest went utterly still, as if stunned by the audacity.

“Ew… I think some went in my mouth,” Protag‑kun gagged, coughing up a jelly‑chunk.

No one replied. They just stared. The silence was heavier than any scolding could be.

The hike back to camp was long, sticky, and punctuated by the wet squelch of boots — each sound a soggy reminder of magical hubris.

When they stumbled into the clearing, Mei glanced up from her work. Her melodic laugh rang out, high and bright, like wind chimes catching a sudden breeze. Cinnamon squeaked in delight, leaping from her lap to greet the returning disaster-squad with the enthusiasm of a mascot who lived for chaos.

They waded into the river. The water bit cold, but the relief was instant. As slime peeled away in thick, dissolving sheets, it hissed faintly, reacting with the cold current. The surface shimmered in concentric ripples, carrying fragments of green downstream.

Allen wrung out his shirt, muttering darkly. “Adding ‘slime splash radius’ to our survival checklist.”

Mei leaned to Cinnamon, whispering, “Fetch clothes for everyone, please.”

With a confident squeak, he puffed out his cheeks and produced garments from his enchanted pouch — dresses, skirts, and frilly tops in every pastel shade imaginable. Each emerged with a fruity scent and a faint jingle, as though the pouch had a strong opinion about fashion and wasn’t afraid to show it.

Protag‑kun stared at the lavender skirt with lace trim handed to him. Horror bloomed.

“I’m so sorry, boys,” Mei said sweetly, palm to cheek. “Before we were transported, I didn’t think we’d need to buy any pants.”

“This is why you don’t sling magic around recklessly,” Allen grumbled.

Over the next few days, Protag‑kun learned two enduring lessons: humility in the face of magic… and the tactical inconveniences of combat in a skirt. The most suspicious discovery?

Allen looked natural in one. Too natural.