Journey of a Loser

Following Sera's directions, Mitchell headed down the cobbled street, weaving past crates, wagons, and the occasional grumpy donkey until he spotted the shop. 

A squat, wide building stood at the corner of a narrow intersection. Smoke drifted from a crooked chimney, and a faded wooden sign above the door depicted an anvil with a sword embedded through it. Just beneath it, painted in crude letters, read:

KARL'S BLACKSMITH – YOU BREAK IT, YOU BUY IT.

Mitchell winced at the heat wafting through the open windows. Metal clanged from inside like a battle was being waged with hammers.

He stepped inside and was immediately greeted by an intense wave of warmth and the rhythmic pounding of steel on steel. The interior was surprisingly clean, organized racks of swords, spears, and armor lined the wall.

At the center of it all was a short, broad-shouldered man bare-chested under a leather apron, arms like tree trunks, and a reddish beard standing on a crate, hammering away at a glowing hunk of metal. His thick arms flexed with each swing, soot covered his face, and his beard looked like it had been soaked in oil and fire. Sparks danced around him as he worked, completely ignoring Mitchell's entrance.

"Uh… hey?" Mitchell called out.

No response.

"Excuse me! Hi! Hello! Customer here! I was told to come here!" He shouted louder.

The dwarf stopped mid-swing, raised his head, and turned with a scowl so intense Mitchell almost backed out of the shop. "What. Do you. Want." The dwarf barked.

Mitchell flinched and raised both hands instinctively. "Sorry! I was just trying to get your attention. I, uh, need a weapon. And some armor. Cheap, if possible."

The dwarf blinked. Then snorted so hard it could've been a laugh—or a warning. "You're wasting my time," He grumbled, turning back to the forge. "Go see a street vendor if you want cheap garbage."

"The adventurer told me to come here." Mitch explained.

The dwarf rolled his eyes so hard. "Seth!"

A voice called back from another room. "Coming, Master!"

A moment later, a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out from a side room, wiping his hands with a cloth. He looked to be in his mid-to-late twenties, with short brown hair, sun-darkened skin. What immediately caught Mitchell's eye, though, was the small metal collar around his neck. A slave.

Mitchell's words caught in his throat.

"Customer," Karl muttered. Then the dwarf turned back to his work and resumed hammering like Mitchell had ceased to exist. "Wants cheap crap. Get him fitted. Don't waste too much time."

Seth bowed lightly. "Understood, Master." Then he turned to Mitchell, polite smile in place. "Welcome. I'm Seth. I'll help you get what you need."

Mitchell shifted awkwardly as Seth approached, eyes flicking back to the collar.

Seth noticed immediately. "Yeah," He said, casually tapping the metal band around his neck. "I'm a slave."

Mitchell winced. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," Seth interrupted, voice light, not offended in the slightest. "You're new, right? Most folks from villages stare at first."

Mitchell scratched the back of his head. "Yeah… I guess I didn't expect it to be so, uh… casual."

"Well, I'm lucky. Really," Seth said with a shrug. "I racked up a nasty gambling debt—got too cocky at the cards. Didn't have the coin to pay it off, so…" he gestured to the collar, "...here we are."

"That's awful," Mitchell said, genuinely unsure if he should feel pity, horror, or confusion.

Seth just chuckled. "It's life. Could've ended up in the mines or the pits. But Master Karl saw I had strong arms and some skill with smithing, so he bought me and made me his assistant instead."

He led Mitchell toward a side rack of armor pieces, gesturing for him to follow.

"I do repairs, light work, and customer fitting. Not a bad gig, all things considered. Karl's grumpy, but he feeds me and doesn't beat me—so I'll take it."

Mitchell followed, still unsure what to say.

The idea of slavery being so… normalized rattled him.

"Don't worry," Seth added, pulling a simple iron short sword from a rack. "We've had way worse customers. So how much are you willing to spend?"

Mitchell cleared his throat. "So, uh… I've got fifty copper. Total. Can I get, like… a decent sword and maybe something that qualifies as armor?"

Seth raised an eyebrow, then gave a half-smile. "Fifty, huh? Alright. Give me a sec."

He walked over to a large wooden barrel stuffed with discarded weapons—most of them either chipped, dulled, or questionably shaped. Mitchell watched as Seth rummaged through it like a man searching for treasure at a yard sale.

After a minute, Seth emerged, holding up a bronze short sword. It looked serviceable… if slightly worn.

"This guy's seen better days, but the blade's balanced and not complete garbage." Seth said, offering the hilt. "It'll hold up against critters, so long as you don't try cleaving through armor. Price: twenty-eight coppers."

Mitchell took it carefully, testing the weight. It wasn't fancy but it felt solid in his hand.

Seth wasn't done. He walked to a nearby shelf and pulled out a scuffed, slightly faded half chestpiece made of reinforced leather. "This," He said, dusting it off, "Is the cheapest we've got. Little snug, slightly scratched, but the straps still hold. Seventeen coppers."

Mitchell did the math and glanced at the small pouch tied to his belt.

"…That's almost all my money."

Seth nodded. "Yep. But if you're heading out on quests, it's better to be poor and alive than rich and bleeding."

Mitchell sucked in a breath. "I guess I don't have much of a choice."

He handed over the coins, his entire worldly wealth reduced to five sad coppers jingling at the bottom of the pouch. Seth accepted them and handed him the armor.

Mitchell put it on or tried to.

The leather half-chest was clearly not made for someone with a gut. He struggled with the straps before managing to wedge himself in, adjusting it with a series of awkward tugs and silent swearing. "…Snug," He muttered.

"Yeah," Seth said, failing to hide a smirk. "It'll break in."

Mitchell sheathed the sword at his side, adjusted his ill-fitting armor, and gave a nod. "Thanks. I'll, uh… try to return and buy better gear."

Seth crossed his arms. "That's all we can ask for."

Mitchell after thanking Seth, he stepped back into the city streets and made his way back to the Adventurer's Guild. The bronze short sword at his side clanked against his hip, reminding him with every step that he was now armed, and broke.

The moment he entered the guildhall, the familiar sounds of clinking mugs, loud laughter, clashing steel, and the distinct smell of sweat mixed with wood smoke. The request board loomed in the back, cluttered with papers and adventurers shoving elbows to get a look.

Mitchell, wanting no part of that chaos, headed straight for the front counter, where Sera stood at her usual station, casually flipping through parchment slips and speaking with a much taller adventurer who seemed entirely too proud of the giant fang strapped to his back.

So, Mitchell did the only thing he could: he waited.

It felt like forever, but eventually, the adventurer ahead of him left with a smug grin and a heavy coin pouch. Sera's blue eyes flicked up and landed on Mitchell as he stepped forward.

"You're back," She said flatly, though not unkindly.

"Yeah!" Mitchell nodded. "I'm ready to take on my first quest."

She raised a brow. "You know you don't have to come to me for that, right? Any posted F-rank request is open to you now. Just take one, do the job, return with proof, and report in."

Mitchell blinked. "Wait, really?"

Sera sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Yes. You're not a child that we have to hold his hand.

"Oh," Mitchell said, deflating slightly. "Well… I would use the board but I can't exactly read the quest sheets. Remember? Not exactly fluent in Aulean."

Her expression softened slightly with understanding."Right. Fair enough." She reached beneath the counter and pulled out a thin stack of parchment, flipping through them with practiced ease. 

"Let's see… most of these are gathering herbs, cleaning trash from wells… ah. Here." After a moment, she pulled one out and set it in front of him, tapping the quest sheet. "F-rank. Basic pest control."

Mitchell leaned in. The script was still complete nonsense to him—elegant, swirling Aulean characters that may as well have been squiggly worms doing a dance.

"You'll be heading to the east side of the city," Sera explained. "There's a small river that runs through the outskirts. Slimes tend to gather along the banks and get into the irrigation ditches."

"Slimes?" Mitchell asked, perking up. "Like, little bouncing blobs?"

"Roughly. Most are weak, slow, and non-lethal, but they dissolve material to feed—so if one grabs your armor, it'll ruin your gear. Or melt your hand. So don't touch them barehanded."

Mitchell made a face. "Right. Avoid direct slime contact. Got it."

She nodded. "The goal is to gather their inner cores. You'll find them after the body disperses. They look like cloudy marbles, about this big." She held her fingers a few inches apart.

"And they're worth money?"

"Two copper each. The more you bring back, the more you earn."

Mitchell did the math in his head. I'd need 25 just to get my armor money back. Oof. "Got it," He said, steeling himself. "Guess it's time to earn my keep."

As he turned to go, Sera called out one last thing. "Try not to lose any fingers. Slimes love those."

Mitchell paled slightly but kept walking. "Comforting. Super comforting."

And with that, he pushed through the doors of the guild once again—sword at his side, nerves in his throat, and a vague hope that slimes were not dangerous.

—--------------------------------------------------

Mitchell approached the eastern gate of Varnhelm, now a little more confident—though he still tugged at the stiff collar of his leather chest piece every few seconds. The guards posted at the gate gave him a quick once-over as he arrived. "Heading out?"

"I've got a quest," He said, puffing out his chest slightly and presenting his guild license like a VIP badge.

One of the guards, an older man with thinning gray hair under his helmet, squinted at the slip. After a brief pause, he gave a short grunt of approval. "First-timer, huh? Keep your weapon sheathed inside the farmland zone, and don't go swinging it near livestock. Farmers get twitchy."

"Understood!" Mitchell nodded, trying to sound like someone who wasn't still getting used to wearing a sword without tripping over it.

The gate creaked open, and Mitchell stepped through.

The air outside the city was noticeably fresher. No blacksmith smoke, no tavern. The cobbled path quickly transitioned to packed dirt, and the noises of the city faded behind him. He followed a dirt path that ran parallel to a low stone wall, eventually leading to a gentle slope.

Before long, he saw it.

The river stretched across the landscape like a sparkling ribbon, its water clear and slow-moving. It wasn't especially wide or deep, but it gleamed in the sunlight and wound past the farmlands. 

A stone bridge arched gracefully over the water, connecting the eastern road to the farmlands beyond. From his position, Mitchell could already spot scattered barns, grazing animals, and rows of crops stretching into the distance.The fields were lined with fences and scarecrows, and he could just barely make out the shapes of farmers moving among the crops.

He paused for a moment, taking it in. "Wow," Mitchell muttered. "This is… kind of peaceful." He took a deep breath. The scent of river water, grass, and tilled soil filled his lungs.

A short dirt trail led down from the bridge to the grassy banks of the river low enough that slimes could comfortably spawn in the moist areas and lurk near the edge.

Mitchell made his way down the gentle slope to the riverbed, grass crunching under his shoes as he scanned the area. The ground here was soft—damp from the river's flow—and dotted with small patches of moss, reeds, and the occasional buzzing insect.

He narrowed his eyes. "Alright, slimes. Where are you hiding?"

His mind wandered as he walked, thoughts bouncing through familiar nerd territory. 'I wonder if they're gonna be blue. They're always blue in anime. Blue and jiggly. Maybe I'll tame one and it'll become my sidekick or something. I could name it... Blobbo.'

Suddenly, movement.

Mitchell froze as he saw it.

Just a few feet ahead, something small rolled slowly across the riverbank. A round, glistening ball about the size of a tennis ball, squishing and shifting slightly as it moved.

"…Oh my god," He whispered, a grin spreading across his face. "It's real."

The slime was indeed blue—not a bright, crystal blue like in video games, but more of a dull, watery hue. It shimmered in the sunlight as it slid along the wet grass, leaving a faint trail of moisture behind. It didn't bounce or wobble dramatically. In fact, it moved kind of like a slug.

Mitchell tilted his head. "Huh. I mean, it's not exactly a Dragon Quest slime, but close enough."

He carefully unsheathed his sword.

The bronze blade made a satisfying shhhk sound, and for a moment, Mitchell held his breath—fully expecting to fumble the weapon, drop it, or swing like an idiot.

But his hands adjusted naturally. His fingers found the proper grip. His stance instinctively shifted.

He blinked. "Whoa… I actually know how to hold this."

'Swordsmanship, F-rank,' He realized. 'So that's what it means.'

It wasn't perfect. His grip still felt slightly off, and his stance wasn't winning any competitions—but he didn't feel like a complete amateur. He didn't even have to think about it; the knowledge was just there, like muscle memory he never earned.

He glanced at the slime again.

It was minding its own business. It hadn't noticed him.

"Sorry, buddy," Mitchell whispered. "Time to earn two coppers."

With a deep breath, he raised the sword, focused his footing… and swung.

Schlk.

The blade sliced clean through the slime's gelatinous body with a wet squelch. The creature gave a faint shudder, then collapsed into two twitching halves that slowly dissolved into a translucent puddle—leaving behind a small, cloudy orb at its center.

Mitchell stared and blinked. Then a massive grin broke across his face. "I did it," he said, breathless. "I actually did it."

He raised the sword slightly, inspecting it with wide eyes. "I just killed a monster. I killed a slime! My first real fantasy world kill!"

He glanced around the empty riverside. "Thank god no one saw it."

Still grinning, he bent down and carefully scooped up the slime core—cool and wet in his palm, about the size of a jawbreaker. He tucked it into a small pouch at his side.

"One down. Twenty-four to go." Mitchell Alvarez, former nobody, was now a professional slime slayer and he never felt prouder.

Mitchell then carefully leaned down to retrieve the slime core, taking extra care not to let his fingers touch the half-dissolved remains. The acidic goo sizzled faintly on the damp earth, and he wasn't about to find out what it would do to human skin.

Using a bit of cloth from his bag, he gently scooped the orb into one of the pockets of his backpack, then turned to inspect his bronze sword. A faint shimmer coated the blade's edge.

"…Huh. Acid slime juice probably isn't good for metal."

He knelt by the river, dipped the blade in, and gave it a careful rinse, wiping it down with the cleanest patch of his sleeve. The weapon was cheap enough already—he wasn't going to let it corrode on day one.

Once clean, he stood and continued his riverside patrol.

—-----------------------------------------

He continued along the riverbank, eyes peeled. The area was peaceful—birds chirped, the wind rustled through the grass, and every so often, frogs croaked from the reeds.

Unfortunately, the slime population wasn't exactly booming.

Over the next hour, he found three more—each slightly larger than the first, but still easy to handle. He even started getting into a rhythm: spot, stalk, swing, scoop, repeat.

By the end of it, his backpack jingled faintly with four slimy marbles. Not enough to cover what he'd spent on gear, but eight copper coins was still money he earned.

"…I actually did a quest," He said to himself, proud and a little smug. "No injuries. No unexpected monster attacks. This world might not be so bad after all."

Just as he entertained the idea of maybe finding one more slime before heading back, something flickered in the air.

A familiar shimmer.

Fwip.

A glowing piece of parchment spun lazily down from above, landing just in front of his face.

Mitchell's stomach dropped.

"No… not now."

He snatched the paper out of the air.

It was that same handwriting. Elegant and mocking. Regal in the way only someone with too much time and too much power could manage.

—-----------------------------------

Aww. Look at you being all proud and content.

I had a laugh watching you scream and run from the Spiked Badger.

Adorable.

But unfortunately… you've started to bore me.

But don't worry. This beautiful, generous, and very entertained goddess shall spice up your life.

Try not to die, monkey.

—XOXO, Vel'Eina 💋

—-----------------------------------

Mitchell's face turned pale. He looked around wildly, clutching the parchment. "…Spice up my—oh no."

The note disintegrated in a swirl of glittering dust.

He went on high alert, heart hammering in his chest.

Eyes scanned the treeline. The river. The bridge. The crops beyond.

Everything looked peaceful. Quiet.

Then "Gabu."

A sound came from behind him.

Mitchell spun just in time to see a crude wooden club swinging toward his face.

"WHOA—!"

Mitchell dove to the ground, rolling awkwardly through the grass as a crude wooden club slammed down where his head had just been. He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, and spun around. His heart pounded as he scrambled to his feet, sword flying into his hand.

Standing before him were five goblins.

Short, green-skinned humanoids about the size of children—if children were feral, snarling, and carrying splintered weapons. They wore filthy rags, scraps of fur, and rusted belts. One had a rope tied around its waist like a sash. Another was chewing on something that looked suspiciously like a frog leg.

"Seriously? Goblins?" Mitchell shouted.

One goblin hissed and licked its chipped blade.

One of them let out a high-pitched cackle and waved a jagged stick like a sword.

The others hissed and spread out, flanking him.

Mitchell backed up instinctively.

They advanced slowly, weapons raised.

Mitchell's hand tightened around his sword. "Of course it's goblins. Freaking isekai starter enemies. Because slimes weren't enough."

He backed up a step, eyes darting. "…You know what? I take it back. This world sucks."