The moment that axe started its descent, I knew—I was done for. There was no outrunning this, no dodging it. The monstrous swing was coming for me, and it would be the end.

The air crackled with the sheer power of his attack, a force so intense it felt like the very world around me was about to be cut apart.

But even in the face of that paralyzing terror, some deep, primal instinct surged within me.

It wasn’t rational—it was raw survival, the sheer, desperate will to live.

I couldn’t just stand there and let it happen. I had to do something—anything.

With what little mana I had left, I summoned four slimes. I knew it was futile, knew that no matter what I did, it wouldn’t be enough. But I had to try. I had to at least give myself a chance.

The slimes appeared in front of me, their gelatinous bodies quivering as they formed.

I barely had a second to think before I forced them to shapeshift, using the last scraps of my mana to transform them into their defensive forms.

It was a pathetic attempt, a pitiful barrier against the unstoppable force that was bearing down on me.

But it was all I had.

The axe came down with the weight of doom itself. The air split with a deafening roar, the crimson aura around the blade flaring as it promised nothing but destruction.

BAM!

The axe collided with the slimes, and for a fleeting heartbeat, I dared to hope they might hold. But that hope was snuffed out almost instantly.

The attack was too powerful, too overwhelming. My slimes didn’t stand a chance.

They disintegrated before my eyes, their forms bursting apart as the axe cleaved through them like they were nothing. The barrier I had so desperately thrown up was obliterated in a single, merciless swing.

And then, my world exploded in pain.

Time seemed to warp around me, every agonizing second stretching into an eternity as I grappled with the horrific reality of what had just happened. My mind couldn’t keep up, couldn’t process the full extent of the damage.

I saw it before I felt it—my right arm, severed cleanly, spinning through the air above me. Blood arced in a gruesome spray, painting the space around me in violent streaks of red.

And then the pain hit me like a sledgehammer.

"AGH!!!!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat as the agony ripped through me. It was all-consuming relentless torment that shredded every nerve in my body.

"L-LEON!" Lila's voice cut through the chaos, high-pitched and filled with terror. She had seen it all, her tiny body trembling with fear as she watched me stagger under the impact.

Everything around me blurred—sights, sounds, even the pain seemed to dull for a moment, as if my mind was trying to shield me from the full horror of it all. But there was no escaping it, no blocking out the reality of what had just happened.

I stumbled, my vision dimming as blood poured from the ragged stump where my arm had been. My knees threatened to give out.

Through the haze of pain, I locked eyes with him. The brute stood there, towering over me, his lips curled into a savage grin as he watched me struggle. His expression was one of pure, sadistic pleasure.

"GAHAHAHAHA!" His laughter echoed through the grotto, cruel and mocking, cutting through the fog of my agony like a knife. He reveled in my suffering, taking sick joy in every second of it.

Blood poured from the stump where my arm used to be, a relentless stream of life draining from my body with every passing second.

The cold began to creep in, spreading from my fingertips to the very core of my being.

It wasn’t just the cold of the dungeon, it was the cold of death, inching closer, wrapping itself around me like a suffocating shroud.

Throught it all, i could see it —the portal, shimmering just a few feet away. It was so close. I was so close...

I staggered forward, my feet dragging across the stone floor.

The portal was right there, so close I could almost reach out and touch it.

But even if I made it through, even if I somehow stumbled into the light, what then?

My arm was gone, my blood was spilling out onto the cold, unforgiving ground. I could feel my strength waning, my body shutting down, my consciousness slipping away.

What was the point? What was the point of fighting anymore?

I had given everything, thrown everything I had at this, and it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.

I could feel it—my soul, that fire inside me that had pushed me forward, that had kept me going through every trial, every battle, was flickering out. The will to fight, to survive, was slipping away.

I was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of the pain, tired of the endless struggle that never seemed to end.

Maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was better to just let go, to stop fighting and let the darkness take me. At least then, the pain would stop.

In that desperate moment, with my vision dimming and my strength all but gone, I whispered a plea, barely audible even to myself. "Save me..."

I didn’t know who I was pleading to—some god, the universe, maybe just the air around me. But in that instant, something unexpected happened, something I had completely forgotten.

A sudden shift—a sensation near my face—caught my fading attention. The slime, the one I had used as a makeshift helmet, the one I’d nearly forgotten about in my panic, suddenly stirred to life.

Without warning, it peeled itself off my face and launched toward my severed arm, moving with a speed and purpose that shocked me into a fleeting sense of awareness.

The brute paused, his steps faltering as he watched the scene unfold with the same confusion and awe that gripped me.

The slime didn’t stop at just covering the wound—it extended itself, stretching its gelatinous body to catch my severed arm before it even hit the ground.

It wrapped around the limb, pulling it back toward my body with a resolve that defied explanation.

I could barely comprehend what I was seeing.

As the slime brought my arm back to the stump, it began to work like some kind of living adhesive, pressing the severed edges together with a firmness that made my breath hitch.

The agony was indescribable, but so was the shock. Was this real? Could this really be happening?

But then, the slime did something even more extraordinary. A thin tendril extended from its body, snaking its way toward my bag.

Both the brute and I watched, transfixed, as the tendril fished out three small vials—the last of my health potions.

My heart pounded in my chest, disbelief mixing with the sharp, gnawing pain. The brute’s sneer twisted into confusion, clearly as bewildered as I was.

The slime pulled the vials back into itself, and I could only watch in stunned silence as the corks popped off, the red liquid within draining into the slime’s body.

Its usual green hue began to shift, deepening into a vibrant, glowing red.

The changes was quick, almost violent, as if the slime was taking on the properties of the potions it had absorbed.

And then, before I could fully grasp what was happening, the slime surged into the wound, plunging into my flesh with a force that tore a scream from my throat. "Aghr!!!!"

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The pain was beyond the clean cut I'd felt previously—an excruciating, burning sensation as the slime forced its way into the torn muscle, clamping onto the severed bones, weaving itself into the very fabric of my being.

It was like having a thousand needles driving into every nerve at once, my vision flashing white with the sheer intensity of it.

But beneath that pain, something miraculous was happening. I could feel it—the slime was working, not just to hold my arm in place, but to heal it, to connect it back to my body in a way that defied everything I knew.

The brute stood frozen, his savage grin gone, replaced by a look of utter disbelief. I could feel the slime inside me, its tendrils stretching through my veins, knitting the flesh together, plugging the wound, stopping the blood from pouring out any further.

My hand—my severed hand—moved. My pinky twitched, a tiny, almost imperceptible motion, but it was there.

In that agonizing, unbearable moment, the slime had done the impossible. It had saved me.

My breath came in ragged gasps as I stared down at my arm, barely able to comprehend what had just happened.

The pain was still there, searing and relentless, but so was my arm—reconnected.

That single moment was all I needed. The fleeting hope I’d lost surged back, filling me with a final, desperate struggle to push through.

The brute’s swing was still in motion, everything that had happened so far lasting only a few seconds, though it felt like an eternity.

He was still off-balance from his previous attack, and I knew I had a chance—a slim, razor-thin chance—to make it out alive.

The portal was within arm’s reach, just a hair’s breadth away.

The brute, realizing the situation, tried to regain his momentum.

With a growl of frustration, he hurled his body into a wild swirl, turning his downward swing into a brutal 360-degree strike. His axe descending once again on me with murderous intent.

This was it. Do or die.

I mustered every ounce of strength I had left and threw myself toward the portal, leaping with everything I had.

The brute saw my move and knew his swing might miss its mark, so he used his own momentum to jump after me, his axe still slicing through the air.

Time felt as if it had slowed even more, each heartbeat echoing in my ears as we both hurtled toward the portal.

The cold, unwelcoming atmosphere of the grotto blurred and twisted, the world around us shifting in an instant.

And then we were out.

The cold dungeon gave way to the warmth and bustle of Arn’s marketplace, the familiar noise of daily life crashing back into reality.

I could feel the eyes of the people around us, their day interrupted by the sudden, jarring appearance of two battered, bloodied figures emerging from the portal in the midst of their peaceful city.

The brute’s axe was still coming, still aimed squarely at my chest. I could see the smirk on his face, a twisted grin of victory. He thought he had won, that this was the end.

But as his axe bore down on me, something happened.

My own lips curled into a faint, defiant smile.

BOOM!

Just as the brute’s axe was about to meet its mark, a shockwave erupted between us. A deafening boom echoed through the marketplace, and I found myself sprawled on the ground, gasping for breath. My chest was still intact, my heart still beating.

Standing between me and the brute was a woman clad in a intricate uniform, her bright orange hair tied back in a ponytail that gleamed like fire in the sunlight.

Her stance was firm, noble, her left hand behind her back, and her right hand gripping a sword that had intercepted the brute’s deadly swing.

I recognized her instantly—she was the high-ranking government officer from back then, the one that was overseeing the skill acquisition ceremony. The same person who couldn't stop laughing when she saw my ooze skill.

The brute’s smirk twisted into a snarl as he realized his blow had been blocked. He glared at the woman, fury boiling in his eyes.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. Her voice was calm, authoritative, and edged with barely concealed disdain as she addressed him.

"Ragnok," she said, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade, "what do you think you’re doing right now?"

The brute—Ragnok—stared at her, his rage momentarily stilled by the sheer force of her presence. But the smile had vanished from his face, replaced by anger.

The woman’s gaze locked onto Ragnok with an intensity that could cut steel. "You know the rules," she said, her voice cold and unyielding. "Do you really want to continue, knowing what’s about to happen if you do?"

Ragnok’s eyes bore into me, filled with a ferocious, unrestrained hatred.

It felt like he was trying to tear me apart with his glare alone. The silence that followed was suffocating, the tension so thick it was nearly unbearable.

I could see it in his eyes—he wanted nothing more than to kill me right then and there. But he wouldn’t. Not because he lacked the strength or the will, but because he couldn’t.

The reason was simple: the law of Arn’s City.

Violence was strictly prohibited within the city’s boundaries, a rule enforced with absolute severity.

I had read about this law once, buried in the pages of an old book in the city’s library while trying to learn more about the lore of this world back on earth, when i was just a player.

It had caught my attention back then, not just because it was a rule, but because of the history behind it.

Years ago, Arn’s City had been a place of chaos and bloodshed. Murder, looting, and ambushes were common, especially near the dungeon’s entrance.

Adventurers who had risked everything in the dungeon would be attacked the moment they stepped out, their hard-earned rewards stolen, their lives taken without a second thought.

It was a lawless battleground, where the strong preyed on the weak without consequence.

But that all changed when the government stepped in. They decided that enough was enough and implemented a strict law that forbade violence within the city limits.

The penalty for breaking this law was—death. It was a clear message to everyone: Arn’s City was a place of order. Anyone who dared to spill blood within its walls would pay the ultimate price.

And it wasn’t just words. The government stationed powerful enforcers near the dungeon, officials whose strength rivaled that of high-ranking adventurers.

Their presence was a constant reminder that the law was not to be trifled with. Even someone as powerful as Ragnok had to think twice before making a move.

I could see the struggle in his eyes, the rage warring with the reality of the situation. He knew the consequences, knew that if he acted now, he would be signing his own death warrant. But that didn’t make his desire to kill me any less intense.

The woman standing between us—her stance unwavering, her sword still pressed against Ragnok’s axe—was one of those enforcers.

Her very presence was enough to keep him in check, to remind him of the law that governed this city.

Ragnok’s glare didn’t soften, but he slowly withdrew his axe, the tension in the air beginning to ease.

The woman didn’t move, her eyes never leaving his, waiting to see if he would push the boundary.

After what felt like an eternity, Ragnok spat on the ground, his face twisted with contempt. "I know what you look like." he growled, his voice low and threatening.

He turned on his heel, stalking away with a murderous aura still clinging to him.

The woman watched him go, her expression unreadable, before finally turning to look at me.

There was a flicker of something in her eyes—disdain, perhaps, or maybe just pity—but she said nothing. She didn’t need to.

The message was clear: I had been saved by the skin of my teeth, and only because of the rules of this city.

As Ragnok disappeared into the crowd, the adrenaline that had kept me standing began to drain from my body.

The pain that I had somehow managed to push aside now crashed over me like a tidal wave, overwhelming and relentless.

My vision started to blur, the world around me dimming as I struggled to stay on my feet.

I could feel my consciousness slipping away, the strength that had kept me going evaporating into nothing.

My knees buckled, and I swayed, unable to bear the weight of everything that had happened.

The last thing I saw before everything went dark was the woman’s face, her expression stoic as she watched me fall into unconsciousness.

Then, everything went black.

----------------------------------------

At that very moment, back on Earth, a ripple of tension spread across various places.

In a bustling bar downtown, a group of men and women sat huddled together, their eyes glued to a holographic screen floating in the center of the room.

The usual raucous laughter and banter were replaced with a strained silence, broken only by nervous mutters.

"Did you see that? He barely made it out alive!" one man whispered, his fingers gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white.

"I don’t know how much longer he can keep this up," a woman murmured, worry etched into her face. "If he doesn’t make it... what will happen to us?"

"Shut up!" another snapped, leaning forward, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. "I’ve got money riding on him. He can’t go down!"

"Bet all you want, but money won’t matter if he fails," an older man grumbled, shaking his head. "We’ll all be in the same damn boat if he doesn’t pull this off."

In another corner of the city, a group of teenagers crowded around together, their expressions a mix of excitement and dread.

"Did you see that? He’s got some serious luck on his side!" one of them exclaimed, his eyes wide with adrenaline.

"Lucky? More like cursed." another shot back, her voice laced with anxiety. "He’s barely holding on, and that brute almost took him out!"

"Come on, he’s been quite the resilient one so far." a third chimed in, trying to keep the mood light but failing miserably. "He’s gonna make it, you’ll see."

As the scene played out, countless others across the globe watched with bated breath, their emotions ranging from hopeful to fearful.

In some places, people were betting, while in others, silent prayers were whispered, each person acutely aware that something far greater was at stake.

Meanwhile, in a large, dimly lit office, a man sat behind a massive oak desk, his hands clasped tightly together as he stared at the holographic projection in front of him.

The image showed Leon lying on the ground, barely conscious, with the woman in armor standing over him.

A knock on the door broke the heavy silence. A tall figure entered, stepping into the light that filtered through the large office window.

"Mr. President." the figure said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of urgency. "Leon managed to survive this time."

The president let out a slow breath. He stood up from his desk and walked over to the window, gazing out at the sky.

The skyline was dominated by a massive holographic image of Leon, projected into the sky like a beacon for all to see.

"How long do you think he can keep this up?" the president asked quietly, not taking his eyes off the image.

"It’s hard to say," the figure replied, stepping closer. "He’s resilient, but this... every step he takes could be his last."

The president nodded slowly, deep in thought. "We’ve placed our hopes in him. I wonder if he knows how much is at stake...it’s almost too much for one person."

He glanced down at the holographic display beneath Leon’s image. The words scrolled across the sky, a constant reminder of the stakes:

[Your champion has been chosen]

[The impending threat has been halted]

[Humanity’s fate hinges on unlocking the Gates of Obsidia]

[ The World's outcome is tied to your Champion]

The president’s gaze hardened as he read the message. "Obsidia... The gateway to our salvation or our doom?"

The president returned to his desk, his eyes never leaving the image of Leon.

The world was watching, waiting, and hoping. And all of it rested on the shoulders of one man, struggling to survive in a world that was far more than it seemed.

As the president sat back down, he whispered to himself "What is happening... ?"