"Great Sage, pull up the map."
Morning sunlight pierced the dense canopy, illuminating the dew-soaked leaves of the Italian forest.
Rimuru casually snapped a branch off a nearby tree. He drew a few drops of pure water from the wood, using it as a catalyst to violently gather the ambient mana (the Greater Source generated by nature) from the surrounding air.
He formed a sphere of pure, highly pressurized mist to scrub the grime and dried blood from his blonde hair and face.
Feeling somewhat human again, he unrolled a physical map of Europe on the damp grass and tapped two locations with his finger.
[Trajectory analysis: You are moving further and further away from Germany.]
"The Executors they sent yesterday were already elite. Next time, they're going to deploy their absolute 'Trump Cards' against me." Rimuru traced a line down the map with his nail.
"If I keep wearing Svelten's face, it solidifies the illusion that I'm the White Knight. The Church will naturally assume my primary objective is to rendezvous with my master, Altrouge."
Rimuru closed his eyes, visualizing the geopolitical chessboard of the magus world.
"Not to mention, the intel network says Altrouge didn't retreat to Northern Europe after she finished tearing up Ortenrosse's territory. She's still pushing south…"
[Hypothesis: You suspect she is actively hunting you?]
"Maybe. But from the Church's perspective, she's definitely coming south to rescue the White Knight. If I break cover now and immediately turn back north, I run the risk of running face-first into Altrouge, or walking right into an ambush the Church has set along the most logical retreat path."
Rimuru tapped a spot on the Adriatic coast.
"We have to detour. We'll loop through Croatia. It's a massive tourist hub. Millions of transient civilians. It's loud, chaotic, and the perfect place to scrub our scent."
He rolled the map back up, his expression grim. "Honestly, if the Black Princess pushes me any harder, I'll just sprint straight into Vatican City and drag her into the crossfire!!"
[...]
[Current priority update required...]
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I need to stockpile some blood. I can't risk buying it off the black market for the next few days… the Church will be monitoring the underground supply lines…"
…
A few days later. A small border town in Croatia.
Rimuru walked silently through the night, his posture finally relaxing. Just as he had calculated, the Church's eye of Sauron had been completely drawn away by the escalating movements of Altrouge and her supposed "White Knight."
He had spent the last few days resting, steadily moving closer to the Croatian border, and finally reclaiming a shred of his old, laid-back traveler persona.
The absolute best part of not being actively hunted by zealots? He could finally sit down and properly address his internal injuries!
The night hung heavy over the quiet town. Rimuru pushed open the heavy wooden door of a tavern. The peeling sign outside pulsed with faint magical energy, radiating a subtle hypnotic field designed to turn away mundane locals.
It was the late 1980s in a remote border town. Calling it a "bar" was generous; it was more of a rustic pub with a few extra leather sofas thrown in.
But for a magus on the run, a hidden watering hole like this was the perfect place to gather intelligence.
Rimuru walked down a long, dimly lit corridor and pushed through a second set of antique wooden double doors. He stepped into a haven of low lighting, clinking glasses, and muffled laughter.
The sign above the bar read: Paradise of Desire.
It was a bold, unabashedly gray-market establishment.
For a magus, "indulging in desire" wasn't necessarily a good thing. It didn't just mean carnal pleasure. It meant letting go of the rigid self-control required to handle Mystery, risking getting lost in raw mana and worldly vices.
In a bar like this, the most popular items weren't exactly traditional mana-transfer rituals. It was the enchanted, mana-laced alcohol served at the counter, and the discreet trade of various bodily fluids in the back booths.
And by bodily fluids, they mostly meant blood. Not... other things.
Thanks to his Vampiric Impulse, Rimuru had become intimately familiar with the underground blood trade. He was almost getting used to it.
However, compared to the oppressive, paranoid atmosphere of the gray-market bars he had visited in Germany, the vibe here was surprisingly upbeat. The magi scattered around the room seemed relaxed, almost festive.
The atmosphere was infectious. After half a month of running, fighting, and bleeding, Rimuru suddenly felt an intense urge to just... let go.
Even a bit of traditional "mana transfer" didn't sound terrible. As a slime, he didn't exactly have hormones driving him to rut, but the energetic exchange of a magical contract still felt incredible.
But mostly, he just wanted to relax.
Rimuru ordered a drink and sank into a plush leather sofa in the corner. He nursed his glass, too lazy to initiate conversation, and let his mind wander over his plans to track down Zelretch.
Despite having changed his face again, this time mimicking the utterly average, forgettable features of a low-ranking Executor he had eaten, his underlying aura still drew attention.
It didn't take long for a "swallow", a freelance magus looking for a patron or a quick transaction, to spot him.
She smoothed her hair and slid onto the sofa next to him.
"Hello. Mind if I join you for a drink?"
The language was unfamiliar and guttural, pulling Rimuru from his thoughts. He glanced at her. She was young, maybe twenty-three or four, prime years for a magus before the physical toll of their craft started showing. Her internal mana flow was sluggish, indicating low-tier circuits.
Rimuru raised an eyebrow. He sifted through the Great Sage's linguistic database, identified the dialect, and replied in flawless German.
"Of course. Please, make yourself comfortable. Are you Serbian?"
Serbian and Croatian were nearly identical, but political separation had introduced subtle dialectal shifts. The fact that she was using a specifically Serbian inflection meant she wasn't a local.
As for whether she understood German? Rimuru didn't doubt it. Any European magus worth their salt used structural analysis to memorize the foundational languages of magecraft: German, and the stubbornly isolationist British English.
He was right. The woman blinked in surprise, then switched to heavily accented, somewhat clunky German.
"Oh, my! You have a good ear. But you certainly aren't Croatian either, are you?"
Obviously, Rimuru thought, hiding a wince at her butchered pronunciation.
….
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