Slime True Immortal

When it came to pioneering the Astral Realm, those ancient elves were professionals.

When Chen Yu brought the star chart to Viola, she was lying on a lounger in the Dryad Plaza, basking in the sun.

The weather had been unusually nice these past days; the long stretch of snow had finally cleared. Sunlight poured down, melting much of the drifts and revealing the dark brown layer of fallen leaves beneath. A few patches of winter ferns were even pushing out fresh shoots.

Viola squinted, her bare feet gently swinging at the edge of the lounger, looking like a cat sunning itself on a windowsill.

“Viola.” Chen Yu hopped onto the tree root beside her and spat the star chart out from his gel body.

A sleep-mumbled voice came from the lounger, “Your Majesty, this is siesta time. Even a Grand Sage needs a nap, it’s the sage’s legal right.”

“I got an ancient star chart from Orion that dates back to the Astral exploration era. Take a look for me.” He ignored Viola’s murmur and made the star chart hover in front of her.

Only after hearing Chen Yu’s purpose did Viola slowly sit up and take the chart, unfolding it to study it for a while.

“If I remember correctly, this star chart was left behind when the Dawn Council first pioneered the Astral Realm three thousand years ago. The expedition teams weren’t large back then; they were led by several Original Elves.”

“As for what it looks like now… three thousand years have passed, I have no idea what’s become of it.”

She handed the scroll back to Chen Yu, reclined again in the lounger, and wore an expression of contentment.

Chen Yu hopped onto the lounger and muttered, “It’s a first to see a sage as lazy as you.”

Viola yawned, “Well, you’ve got to soak up the sun to grow, sleep a little longer.”

Chen Yu examined the star chart again.

“Was this really made from ordinary monster hide? For it to last three thousand years without rotting seems a bit exaggerated.”

Viola idly swung her feet and replied with an air of natural pride, “Of course not. Even a dragon-hide wouldn’t last three thousand years intact.”

“There are clerks in the Temple who every twenty years either recopy badly damaged books and scrolls or repair them with magic.”

“The star chart you have has probably been transcribed onto multiple carriers over the centuries, but the runes and coordinates were imprinted unchanged.”

Chen Yu swallowed the star chart into his belly, squatted on the lounger’s armrest, and asked the question that brought him here: “How can you accurately open a fissure that leads to the original coordinates?”

Ripping open a fissure itself wasn’t hard for him.

With his current strength, he could tear a hole in the Material Plane at will, but where such a ripped fissure led was pure luck.

Who knew which region of the Astral Realm the other end connected to? He might tear straight into the stomach of some massive beast.

That method was great for banishing enemies, but far too unstable for exploration.

What he needed was a way to generate a fissure that could precisely anchor to coordinates, at least one that could find the star chart’s initial coordinates.

Viola thought for a moment, tapping the armrest with a finger. “That’s not difficult. I recall the Council used to possess a door-opening magic that could precisely anchor Astral coordinates, but it required a Legendary Mage to cast.”

“The principle behind that spell is complex: the caster uses their own mind-power to lock a known coordinate in the Astral Realm, and then tears open a fissure from the Material Plane that leads straight to that coordinate.”

“Uh, that’s easier said than done.” The gel on the map bulged slightly, sounding a bit worried.

Where am I supposed to find a Legendary Mage? I’m the only legendary in the Empire right now.

Going to the Dawn Council to exchange notes might be a bad idea. Word is the Council’s attitude toward the Empire is ambiguous; they haven’t sent an envoy to present credentials, but they’re not exactly hostile either.

At least in the short term, cooperation between the Empire and the Dawn Council is impossible.

He suddenly remembered something, his little eyes lighting up.

“Hey, are there Astral creatures that can pinpoint Astral coordinates?”

Viola blinked her emerald-green eyes as if recalling something.

She knew their Majesty had a peculiar devouring ability: from ordinary monsters to Abyssal demons, swallowing them could strip away their innate talents.

She readjusted her recline, put her hands behind her head, and her tone brightened.

“Most Original creatures that inhabit the Astral Realm have a unique Astral-perception talent. Even if they accidentally strand in the Material Plane or get stuck in a dream, they can find their way back home by following that intuitive sense.”

“The essence of that perception is using mind-power to pierce the planar barrier and resonate with the Astral Realm. If a return route to the homeland exists — essentially a silver-thread left by predecessors — their thoughts can follow it back.”

Mind-power?

Chen Yu pondered inwardly.

His Divine Sense was a denser, keener extension of consciousness than mere mental strength or soul perception.

In essence, wouldn’t it be a more advanced form of mind-power?

If ordinary Astral creatures could use their mind-power to trace a silver-thread back home, then his Divine Sense, which could spread out over hundreds of kilometers, ought to be able to do the same.

“Maybe it’s worth trying. But there’s another problem: even if I have Astral perception, I still need to know where the silver-thread of the star chart’s initial coordinates is. How do I touch it?”

Viola turned her head, glanced at the semi-transparent slime squatting on the armrest, yawned again, and mumbled, “Simple. Look closely at the star chart. Is there a circle of runes around the coordinates? The Council’s explorers used those runes for navigation.”

“By meditating and resonating with those runes, you’ll naturally sense the silver-thread pointing to the coordinates on the chart.”

“Even if you randomly tear a fissure open in the Material Plane, if your mind-power is strong enough, you can sense the initial coordinate across great distances by following the silver-thread.”

Chen Yu listened, opened the star chart again, and used his Divine Sense to scan the arc-shaped symbols at the edges that he had previously dismissed as decorative flourishes.

He hadn’t expected the chart to have such a use.

This thing really was a treasure.

Those ancient elf explorers had already established most of the foundational Astral exploration technology three thousand years ago; he had simply failed to understand it before.

That meant he didn’t need to run around the Astral Realm swallowing Astral creatures to steal their perception talents.

He specialized in meditation, and Divine Sense was his strong suit.

With both ready, he could start immediately.

Having grasped the basic method for locating Astral coordinates, Chen Yu bid farewell to Viola and transformed into a streak of green light, flying toward the fissure leading to Winterhold.

Passing through the fissure, he found a patch of snow on the plains outside Winterhold where no one would disturb him, and plopped down.

Compared to the Material Plane, the planar barrier here was thinner, making it easier for him to sense the Astral Realm.

Chen Yu reshaped his gel into an obsidian dragon claw and ripped upward.

The claw tip, brimming with horrific force, seemed to pierce some invisible woven fabric. Space itself trembled under his fingertips, producing a low, muffled tear like canvas being ripped in half.

The fissure began to split where his claw cut, spilling the Gray Mist from the etheral layer. The mist surged and billowed at the tear’s edge, forming a slowly rotating, irregular vortex.

Thus an unstable planar fissure with a randomly oriented Astral exit was born.

He tried to follow Viola’s method and sent his Divine Sense into the fissure.

In an instant he felt his consciousness merge into a silver ocean vaster than any sea he had ever seen.

In that ocean there was no up or down, no far or near, and no reference point for any Material Plane being to locate itself.

His Divine Sense used the fissure as a starting point and spread chaotically in all directions, tinting every inch of silver void with golden traces of perception.

Unfortunately, even after extending his Divine Sense hundreds of kilometers, he still did not touch anything in that silver void.

The Astral Realm was far emptier than he had imagined. The dream fragments, dissipated mana clouds, and Astral creatures that were said to float near the Material Plane were so sparse at this scale as to be almost nonexistent.

But the good news was he had confirmed one thing: Divine Sense could indeed extend in the Astral Realm like mind-power.

All that remained was to find the route hidden within the star chart’s runes. By following it he could search for the original coordinates the elves had marked three thousand years ago.

He refocused and began meditating on the arc-shaped ring of runes.

The angle and sequence of each arc were broken down and recombined in his Divine Sense, projecting an invisible set of directional cues.

It didn’t feel complicated, more like someone had drawn a faint guiding line on a blank map with ink.

Soon he felt his Divine Sense being pulled toward a distant terminus. It stretched into a line and began to follow the trajectory through the Astral void, traversing unknown depths.

Yet the end remained empty.

The distance seemed too great; his Divine Sense could not reach the initial coordinate.

He attempted to send a gel avatar into the Astral Realm to float along the silver-thread toward the initial coordinate, but contact was lost quickly because the distance was too vast. He had no way of knowing its status.

He didn’t intend to wait. He extended his dragon claw and tore open a second fissure.

This time the exit orientation had indeed changed. He extended his Divine Sense along the silver-thread again, but the perception was even more vague, and the coordinate felt farther away than before.

He ripped open a third fissure and continued probing.

He refused to believe his luck would be so poor continuously. If he was willing to do the tedious work, sooner or later he would locate the initial coordinate.

With that mentality, Chen Yu dove headfirst into endless Astral exploration.

...

Time dripped away in monotonous searching.

Before he knew it, two full months had passed. Autumn was on the horizon, yet the harsh winter that had blanketed the continent for over half a year showed no sign of abating.

Cold winds blew from the northern icefields, sharp as blades, cutting off most life on the land.

But the scene on the Golden Tassel Plain in the eastern part of the Slime United Empire was entirely different.

Under Queen Louisa’s careful governance, the White Horse Kingdom had slowly risen from the ruins of war.

Displaced farmers gradually received reclamation notices issued by the Restoration Army and returned from hidden hills and forests to the lands their ancestors had farmed for generations, carrying what seeds and tools remained.

Large swaths of fallow farmland were reclaimed; refreshed soil lay dormant beneath a thin snow cover until warmed by the gel greenhouses and awakened.

Seedlings sprouted tender green shoots in unison, thriving under the winter sun.

It looked like a year of good harvests was coming, even in the middle of winter, which made farmers declare it a miracle. They frequently went to the village chapels to pray to the Slime God and the sun, giving thanks for the blessing.

Yes, since the Empire expanded into the eastern continent, the faith of the Great Slime Religion had spread as well, especially among farmers and adventurers.

Farmers’ faith in the Slime God wasn’t born of complex gratitude for the Slime Emperor saving the kingdom; it was simple: the gel greenhouses were miraculous. They prevented seedlings from freezing and promoted robust growth.

Farmers attributed any agricultural techniques beyond their understanding to miracles, and the source of miracles was naturally the Slime God who brought them hope.

They secretly called this deity the “Harvest Sacred Order,” picturing him as a perfect round green jelly whose radiance nourished the crops and ensured bountiful yields.

Adventurers’ belief in the Slime God was even more straightforward.

At first it spread because new slime members in their parties prayed a little prayer every morning before departure. Others, idle, mimicked the ritual.

Later they discovered these slime teammates could sense danger beforehand. When the path ahead seemed clear, the slimes would insist they stop.

Moments later, a pack of monsters starved by the Winter Year would burst out ahead.

In truth, those slime adventurers were simply receiving, via the Gel Network, early warnings from nearby outposts about monster activity.

Human adventurers didn’t think that way. They credited it to a lucky blessing granted to believers by the Slime God.

This explanation spread quickly through the Adventurer’s Guild and sparked a faith craze.

Whether mercenary or adventurer, one had to pray to the Slime God before departure for peace of mind.

Chen Yu, however, was unaware of the Great Slime Religion’s booming growth. He remained wholly absorbed in Astral exploration.

He had made no progress locating the initial coordinates, but his dormant Fourth Dao seemed to be stirring with new insights.

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