There it was: the quiver of cowardice. The very heresy of structure that betrayed the creature’s mortal anatomy.

  My fingers tightened around the hilt. The Slime King heaved forward, and I lunged to meet it, channeling every ounce of pious melodrama into a single swing.

  “Yes!” I proclaimed. “The doctrine of arithmetically justified violence!”

  Then the rest of the maths resolved itself.

  Ah. Saint Merin had proven me a closed system: all output cancelled within.

  Then the Slime King slapped me.

  Anabeth’s voice rang out. “Confirmed no aetheric resonance, Ser!”

  I staggered backward, helmet ringing, slime still dripping from my pauldrons. “I demand the next rock now!”

  She plucked the next sample from her satchel and hurled it past the creature’s gelatinous bulk. The shard arced through the air like divine geometry incarnate, sailing just above a pseudopod before dropping neatly into catching range. I simply just had to hold out my hand and it landed on my gauntlet.

  Saint’s breath. She calculated the parabola.

  Hold on. This is actually useful.

  Except I was currently being chased by a 300-pound custard demon.

  I threw the rock on the ground for now. I could always come back for it later.

  “Last one please!” I shouted at Anabeth. With another enthusiastic, “yes, Sir!”, she lobbed me the final rock. It followed the exact trajectory as the last one.

  I stared at the crystal in my gauntlet, then at the undulating green horror before me. Finally, a task that didn’t involve polite conversation, mapping, or algebraic heroics.

  However, dealing 25 damage by itself was a tough task. With my current swings, I was barely scraping 1–2 HP per strike. At this rate, I’d be doing way more dodging than damage, and that was only if Saint Merin’s divine patience held out. A single misstep, and this gelatinous abomination would have me dissolved into something vaguely custardy.

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  Something important surfaced at the back of my mind: earlier, when I’d used Swordform: Guard, it had seemed as though the skill had progressed a bit. I willed Ceralis to let me check my Knightly Swordform progress.

  Sure enough. I squared my shoulders, channeling every ounce of precise knightly technique I possessed. I wouldn’t cut at the weak point, as it was too far away and too risky, but close enough to make contact. A perfect strike along its gelatinous bulk would do.

  I lift my blade.

  It bit through the slime with an almost satisfying squelch, and Ceralis chimed:

  With this efficiency, I could muster 10 ATK from my weapon. With perfect STR, I could deal 20 damage before any multiplier. If I hit a weak point, I’d deal about 30 damage, which would translate to... 4 damage after going through the creature’s defense, which would mean I needed... 62 more precise strikes to slay the creature.

  Better than 1, I guess...

  I’d only need about seven good strikes to unlock Slimebane Strike, which would bring my attack against the King to a whopping 70, since the effect would stack. Then I’d be able to slay the creature in five strikes.

  Saint Merin’s mirrored armor be praised. I had a real chance.

  With renewed focus, I charged forward. The blade sang as it struck the quivering cluster of parasitic slimes marking the weak point.

  Another calculated step, another precise swing.

  I felt power. The strike flowed from my shoulders down through my hips.

  Before the recoil had even reached my elbow, I twisted the blade back.

  One more time.

  One more time.

  At that exact moment of impact, the pseudopod smashed into my breastplate with an impact that leached motion itself.

  Every breath came syrup-thick. I’d forgotten to manage my fatigue level.

  I retreated several paces, out of the slime’s immediate reach, holding my position behind a cluster of fallen rocks.

  From somewhere behind the safety of a boulder came Anabeth’s voice, “Still zero sign of aetheric resonance, Ser! Excellent showing of choreographed mediocrity!”

  I forced my breathing to steady. The creature was closing in. No time left for breathing exercises.

  Alright, you faithless custard. Let’s resume the sermon.

  It tried to lunge, but I was faster. The moment its mass overextended, I cut through the fold beneath its core.

  I grinned. Ha! Foul creature, you are mine now.

  The Slime King’s surface rippled uneasily. It, too, understood the implications of arithmetic.

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