The Slime Doesn't Die from Mana Transfer

A fantasy world without healing magic? No matter how Russell thought about it, that just wasn’t scientific.

“So what do you do if you get hurt or sick?”

Russell asked.

“Isn’t that obvious?”

Rozelite replied matter-of-factly.

“You go see a doctor, of course.”

Full marks. Of course you see a doctor when you’re sick.

The logic was so natural it almost threw Russell off.

But calming down, he thought again.

They might not have healing magic, but there was “repair potion” that worked like health flasks. In a way, it was a substitute for healing magic, wasn’t it?

“Oh, that’s right, Mister Slime.”

Rozelite suddenly remembered something.

“I heard from my teacher once. About twenty years ago, the world did still have magic that could heal wounds. But then something happened, and all magic of that type stopped working.”

“Stopped working?”

Russell was intrigued.

Magic… could stop working?

“I don’t know the details. That’s all I heard.”

Rozelite herself wasn’t clear on it.

And that was only natural. Like a kid born into the smartphone era wouldn’t bother learning about pagers, no one bothered studying magic that didn’t exist anymore.

Russell shelved the thought. The urgent matter now was finding a place to stay.

“In any case, let’s head back to the Adventurers’ Guild.”

Russell analyzed.

“They’re half-official. They have a duty to take care of victims. You already showed up there earlier, so the staff shouldn’t make trouble again. At the very least, just asking which inn is cheapest should be fine.”

“Mhm!”

Rozelite nodded.

They returned to the guild’s dimly lit hall.

The air here smelled of ale, sweat, and leather—a stark contrast to the herbal scent of the church.

The adventurers drinking in the corner were still there. Their voices dropped a little, and their eyes darted toward Rozelite.

At the counter, the receptionist was writing. She looked up absently when someone entered—but when her eyes fell on Rozelite, her smile froze.

Her eyes widened like copper bells, staring at Rozelite as though at a corpse crawling out of its grave.

“Y-You… weren’t you just sent to the church? You vomited so much blood!”

She craned her neck to check behind Rozelite, as if expecting Winnie or the guards to be escorting her back.

Rozelite tilted her head.

“Hm? I’m fine now. The nun gave me some potion. I drank it, and I feel much better.”

She patted her stomach lightly.

“See? Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

The receptionist’s face twisted—fear, confusion, and “is-this-even-possible” disbelief all mixed together.

“Th-that’s… good then…” she muttered stiffly.

“And Miss Winnie? She didn’t come back with you?”

“Winnie said her commission was done, so she left,” Rozelite answered sweetly.

“Big Sister, do you know where I can find a cheap inn? I don’t have much money, so I need someplace affordable.”

The receptionist still looked stunned, like she was staring at some rare creature.

After hesitating a moment, she said:

“For inns, head out, turn right, then left at the third street.”

“Thank you, Big Sister!”

Rozelite chirped.

She turned and left the guild.

Outside, the sky had grown darker, snow falling again.

Cold wind carried flurries into the seams of her bearskin shawl, as though scraping flesh off her bones. Rozelite hunched her shoulders and turned right, as directed.

“Mister Slime,” she whispered inwardly, “when do you think I’ll finally get to go home?”

“Actually, I just remembered something Winnie mentioned,” Russell’s voice rang in her mind.

“This is remote, but merchant caravans from the capital pass through now and then. We might be able to join one heading south, back to the capital.”

“Really?”

“Pretty likely. But we should be careful. First priority is finding a safe place to stay and letting you heal.”

“Mhm!”

Rozelite nodded firmly, her steps lighter.

“When we get to the inn, I want a hot bath. I feel like I reek of mud and snow…”

“You could use one,” Russell said casually.

“…Mister Slime, are you saying I smell bad?”

“Not that bad. But not good either.”

All that nonsense about girls being spotless and fragrant—it didn’t exist in reality. After days of trekking outdoors, even without sweat from the cold, she couldn’t smell fresh.

Not that Russell minded.

Rozelite’s cheeks flushed red, and she walked faster.

Russell couldn’t help but chuckle.

After the corner, they could already see the inn up ahead.

The thought of a steaming bath, then stretching out on a soft bed, excited Rozelite.

“Keep walking. Don’t stop. Just listen to me.”

Russell’s voice suddenly sharpened.

“You’re being followed.”

“Eh?”

Rozelite stiffened.

“Someone’s been tailing us since the guild. Two intersections now. Probably thinks you’ve got money and wants to profit. In a place like this, if you vanished, no one would care.”

Rozelite forced her trembling legs to move.

Maybe it was imagination, but she really did hear faint footsteps behind her. She didn’t dare look back.

Fear crawled her spine like a cold snake.

“What do I do, Mister Slime…?”

“Don’t panic. Listen. There’s an alley up ahead. Go in.”

Her eyes darted forward.

There it was—darker than the main road, walls of low houses closing in, clutter and garbage piled within.

“Turn in. Leave the rest to me,” Russell said.

Rozelite’s body was tense, her steps unsteady, but she slipped into the narrow alley piled with debris.

The walls cut off the light, leaving only a dim strip of sky overhead. The stones underfoot were wet, cold, smeared with filth.

Behind her, the footsteps quickened.

“Give me control,” Russell commanded.