That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime, Vol. 3 Read online

  Copyright

  That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime, Vol. 3

  FUSE

  Translation by Kevin Gifford

  Cover art by Mitz Vah

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  TENSEI SHITARA SLIME DATTA KEN volume 3

  © Fuse / Mitz Vah

  All rights reserved.

  First published in Japan in 2014 by MICROMAGAZINE PUBLISHING Co.

  English translation rights arranged with MICROMAGAZINE PUBLISHING Co.

  through Tuttle-Mori Agency, Inc., Tokyo.

  English translation © 2018 by Yen Press, LLC

  Yen Press, LLC supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First Yen On Edition: August 2018

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Fuse, author. | Mitz Vah, illustrator. | Gifford, Kevin, translator.

  Title: That time I got reincarnated as a slime / Fuse ; illustration by Mitz Vah ; translation by Kevin Gifford.

  Other titles: Tensei Shitara Slime datta ken. English

  Description: First Yen On edition. | New York : Yen ON, 2017–

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017043646 | ISBN 9780316414203 (v. 1 : pbk.) | ISBN 9781975301118 (v. 2 : pbk.) | ISBN 9781975301132 (v. 3 : pbk.)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PL870.S4 T4613 2017 | DDC 895.63/6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017043646

  ISBNs: 978-1-9753-0113-2 (paperback)

  978-1-9753-0122-4 (ebook)

  E3-20180717-JV-PC

  PROLOGUE

  THE DEMON LORD SUMMIT

  It was a vast, gorgeously designed chamber, the floor covered in a luxuriant carpet that must have taken a team of artisans several years to weave.

  The table in the middle featured wood carved from a fragrant tree, providing a pleasant, woodsy smell. It was large, round, and could comfortably seat a dozen or so—but despite the size of the room, only three chairs were placed around it. They were all the height of luxury, of course, the sort that even higher-end nobility would have difficulty procuring.

  One wall featured a mural of a fantastical scene—but was it really a mural? The elegant, deliberate artwork for the otherworldly creatures on it almost made it seem like they stirred slightly in their poses, from time to time. It was as if they could leap out from the wall and manifest themselves in this world at any moment. Which made sense—it was all the work of Bismarck, one of the great artists of the demon lord–controlled realms. He specialized in creating so-called Artifacts, visual masterpieces that were so realistic, it was as if his brush literally trapped these mythical beasts in a living state on the wall.

  Selling even one of the items that adorned this room would allow someone to live like nobility for a decade or so. Such was the quality instilled into each piece, enough to overwhelm anyone that walked into the chamber. But even as it did, the sort of person to visit this place knew the power of money—they had enough to buy any high-grade magic weapon they wanted or hire the best mercenaries in the land. They reveled in the assets they held, and a room like this was meant less to impress and more to rob the visitor of any desire to resist the will of their host.

  That was the role of this chamber, but the invitees assembling in the space in a few moments were not the type to be fazed by such public displays of wealth.

  This room was owned by a handsome man. He was thin, slender, and his eyes exuded intelligence even as they suggested he was rather high-strung. Even so, the demon lord Clayman had the force of will to make almost anyone follow his orders.

  His eyes slid across the room before he gave a satisfied nod and sat upon one of the chairs provided. There was a mask on the table with a smile molded on it; he picked it up, ran a hand across it lovingly, and placed it carefully away in a pocket. Every movement betrayed the methodical approach he took to all aspects of his life.

  He knew that his guests would be coming soon. Demon lords, the same rank as himself. And Clayman’s goal today was to rein in these self-willed, wayward creatures, showing them enough of an enjoyable time to bring them under his full control. He had selected an ostentatious-looking white dress suit for the occasion, and now he was checking the time on his pocket watch.

  Just as he thought that the appointed hour was near, he suddenly realized that someone was occupying another seat.

  “Yo, Clayman. Gelmud doin’ well for you?”

  He had his legs crossed as he calmly leaned his large, muscular frame back into his seat and casually engaged Clayman. But every move of his was just as supple and elegant as Clayman’s. This was no muscle-bound dolt—he presented the air of a battle-proven military hero. His own formal outfit was obviously a tad worn, but it didn’t make him seem unclean at all. If anything, it emphasized his wild side, building an atmosphere that made one hesitate more than a little to go near him.

  His unrefined manner of speech would seem to be a poor match for that, but it only served to make the man all the more charming. His well-maintained short blond hair, meanwhile, paired perfectly with the masculine contours of his face. His sharp, hawk-like eyes were burrowing into Clayman—he was keenly focused, perhaps out of distrust for his fellow demon lord.

  “Carillon?” Clayman asked. “You’re early, eh? I was planning to brief you on that today, actually. Certainly wasn’t expecting you to arrive first, though.”

  The man called Carillon shrugged. “No need for that treatment, now. I’m sure our little lady is busy with her own preparations,” he said with a smirk.

  Carillon was, indeed, a demon lord—perhaps more often referred to as the Beast Master, thanks to being king and leader of the lycanthrope race.

  “Heh. ‘Lady,’ now, is it? Hmm… Yes, maybe so. Ah, but we’d better not say any more of her for now. After all…”

  “She’s rather sensitive to people bad-mouthing her, yes.”

  The two gave each other a look, exchanging a slight laugh. Just as they stopped, the door to the chamber was suddenly thrown open. A single young woman stood there, looking around the room for a moment before realizing only Clayman and Carillon were there.

  “Were you guys just spreading rumors about me?”

  She was young, very young, oddly so for someone participating in a summit like this. Fourteen or fifteen, perhaps, and while appearances were often deceiving for magic-born people like her, she looked woefully out of place.

  There was a brace on her right shoulder, shaped somewhat like a dragon’s claw. But not “on” it, exactly—it was a
ctually floating in the air, leaving a slight gap between it and her body. Said body was, for the most part, barely clothed—just a loincloth and pair of undergarments made of thin cloth, along with a chest piece to cover the faintest suggestion of a still-developing pair of breasts. Whether meant for ease of movement or some other purpose, it exposed as much skin as the typical swimsuit would.

  Her large, strong-willed eyes shone blue, even as they revealed a bit of the immature youth left in her. The strength in them proved to the other two that this was no woman to be trifled with. Her platinum-pink hair was tied into two flowing pigtails on either side of her head, and there was a bold, dominant smile on her face. Jutting her modest chest outward, she glared at the demon lords she shared the chamber with.

  “Yo, Milim!” Carillon said with a hearty laugh. “No, no rumors. You’re usually so punctual with these things, is all. We were worried about you!”

  “Exactly, Milim,” Clayman added as he elegantly ferried a cup of tea to his lips. “Of course, I would never worry about you, myself.”

  They were both used to her, enough that they knew making bald-faced excuses was pointless. It would just rile Milim up even more. Instead they took pains to relax their approach, ensuring they prodded her no further. The two shared a slight sense of nervousness with each other over her, and nervousness was what it clearly was.

  There was a reason for this: Despite her looks, Milim was powerful. This sweet young demon lord, Milim Nava, was a member of the dragonoid race—one that bore the simple but effective nickname of Destroyer.

  With an annoyed sniff, she gave Carillon, then Clayman a dirty look. “Well, so be it,” she muttered when neither reacted. In the next moment, she was sauntering into the chamber—and someone else was behind her. A harpy—one with large, eagle-like wings.

  “Well, well, Milim,” Clayman admonished, eyebrows arched downward. “I believe I’ve made it clear that none besides demon lords are allowed in here. I’m afraid I can’t allow you to have your attendant accompany you inside. Even for you, there are certain rules that have to be—”

  “It is good to see you again, Clayman,” came the dejected reply. “I am not Milim’s attendant. I’m not here because I want to be, but if it’s a demon lord you want, then it’s a demon lord you have.”

  The harpy stood strong, not at all cowed by the powerful beings before her. She looked like a graceful woman, but anyone near her would immediately pick up on the unnervingly substantial aura that she exuded at all times.

  She was, after all, a demon lord herself—

  “Whoa, what are you doing here, Frey?”

  —Frey the Sky Queen, ruler of the harpy race. Just like Clayman, Carillon, and Milim, she was one of the pillars of strength that supported the entire world they lived in.

  “Hello, Carillon. And yes, you are correct. I had turned down the invitation because I was busy, but Milim…well, you know…”

  “Ha-ha-ha-ha! Oh, what’s the big problem? She was acting all moody and grumpy about something, so I brought her over to let off some steam. You don’t have a problem with that, do you, Clayman?”

  “No, not if that is the case…”

  This was the Milim that Clayman knew—eternally pushing her own desires on other people. But there was no reason to openly defy her. In fact, the optimist in him saw this as something to be welcomed. Once he told everyone about how his efforts with Gelmud were a complete failure, he was sure Milim would suddenly be quite a bit less cheerful. Frey should help smooth things over a little once he had to drop the bomb.

  So Clayman began to devise a new strategy.

  “Well? Can we have another chair for Frey, please?”

  Clayman nodded at Milim’s order. With a flick of a finger, a chair materialized where none was before—a perfect match for its surroundings, as if it had always been there and everyone just failed to notice. Milim and Frey each took their seats, sensing nothing unusual about this.

  There were four demon lords assembled around the table. Now it was time for Clayman, the Marionette Master himself, to flex his muscles a bit. He had a gift for controlling people, making them do whatever he liked, and now there was the hint of a smile on his face as he began to speak.

  The demon lord summit had begun.

  Clayman opted to kick things off with a plain and frank rundown of events. Gelmud was dead, killed by someone or other, and his plan had failed.

  “That bastard wanted things to go too quickly for his own safety, hmm?” Carillon offered. “Even if Veldora is gone, was there any need to move this operation up, really?”

  “You may say that, Carillon, but mayhem was bound to result sooner or later with Veldora, the supreme ruler of the forest, out of the picture. If a promising new seedling was fated to be plucked from the ground, wouldn’t it be far more satisfying for all of us if we were the ones who controlled that fate?”

  This made sense to the large man. With all the assorted influential races calling the forest home, there was never any guarantee that their own pawns would win the match. They also knew that actively cultivating an orc lord gave them the greatest possibility of victory.

  Another among them, however, was more dubious.

  “What?! So what happened to making the orc lord into a demon lord next?”

  “What I’m saying, Milim, is that we’re back to the drawing board on that. We needed Gelmud to control the orc lord, and now he is dead.”

  It hurt Clayman just as deeply to abandon this strategy. But as long as nobody noticed the connection between him and Gelmud, he would never hear about it later. At this point, the idea of hatching a new plan to handle either the orc lord or the magic-borns—whichever had survived—sounded far more interesting to him. And if he could interest the other demon lords in it, he could use that to add another effective card or two to his hand.

  Carillon sat silently, eyes closed, as he listened on. He must have his opinions, Clayman knew, but was apparently ready to listen to the entire story before making a final judgment. He was much more careful about these matters than the short-tempered Milim was.

  And it turned out, much more prudent.

  “But that’s so boring! And here I thought we’d have a new toy to play with before long. And remember all that bragging that bum Gelmud gave us, once upon a time? Too bad he turned out to be such a profound dolt, isn’t it?!”

  “Now, now, Milim, no need for such anger. Clayman hasn’t finished his story yet. Why not wait until then before you shout at him?”

  Just as Clayman expected, the sad news was enough to make Milim seethe at him. He was expecting to expend a great deal of effort soothing her from now on, but Frey seemed to be doing a good job at it. It came as a relief.

  Thank the heavens she brought Frey along with her, he thought, maintaining a breezy smile the whole time. And he meant it. As her Destroyer nickname implied, once Milim broke into a violent spree, there was no containing her. It would require Clayman to expend his full energies in response—and by that point, any dream he had of manipulating these demon lords without a fight would be lost. Milim’s behavior was easy to predict, at least, which meant he could steer her. But to Clayman, she was a double-edged sword. Steer her in the wrong direction, and he knew he’d face the brunt of the fallout.

  At least Milim bringing along her own tranquilizer in the form of Frey should make things much smoother for him. Plus, not only did she have no hand (or wing) in this operation, but she seemed to have no interest in it at all. That was key. Any other demon lord would’ve demanded a detailed rundown of the plan, from start to finish. Frey, meanwhile, was much more cooperative.

  “Milim,” Clayman said, “I feel Frey is correct. Take a look at these first.”

  He took out four spherical crystals, an eerie light burning in his eyes. His lips curled into a smile, anticipating how this would astound his fellow demon lords. Then he projected images into all four spheres, watching their reactions carefully as he did. Just as he thought, they were a
ll enthralled by what they saw. The final crystal in particular—showing Gelmud’s perspective—captured their complete attention.

  “Very impressive indeed, Gelmud, leaving these fancy baubles behind for us!” Milim happily shouted, voice booming across the room. The images left no clue about the orc lord’s final fate, but the way they suddenly cut off indicated to them all that Gelmud was gone.

  “All right. So this means Gelmud screwed up and got himself killed, yeah? Just like you said. But you didn’t tell us about these magic-born on purpose, eh?”

  Clayman nodded at Carillon’s observation. “Fascinating, isn’t it? And with Gelmud dead, there is no telling what may come after. But with all these high-level members of the magic-born races in one place, I feel it is safe to say the orc lord met his match, too. However—”

  “However,” Frey interrupted, “if he survived, he totally evolved into a demon lord, right?”

  She had taken the words right out of his mouth. Clayman knew she couldn’t have known about the plan, but she was intelligent enough to guess most of it.

  Well done, Frey… I must be careful around you, unlike these two simpleton warriors.

  He eyed Frey carefully, squinting a little. She acted distant, unaffected, but she was looking into a crystal sphere, as if pondering something. He couldn’t tell what was going through her mind, but it was clear she was no longer annoyed at Milim forcing her to tag along.

  This is a threat…but Frey looks like she has her own troubles to consider. She acted completely uninterested a moment ago, but now…

  Now Frey was starting to interest him. As far as their positions went, Clayman was right—she was more of a tactical leader than an on-the-battlefield fighter. Controlling her would be far from simple. She was too smart to be deceived that easily. But if whatever troubled her could be used to exploit some weakness… A new and sinister plan quietly unfolded deep in his mind.

  “Okay, so what now? You want one of us to go down and check it out?”

  “Ha-ha-ha-ha! First come, first served, is it?”

  “First come, first served for what, Milim?” Clayman interrupted. Figuring out what to do with the magic-born had to come first. He turned his thoughts elsewhere. “I doubt you would be satisfied simply with observing the scene, hmm? Everyone, calm down for a moment. We are dealing with the Forest of Jura, a region that is strictly off-limits.”