Leo walked. The new humanoid form felt both strange and familiar, a costume he'd worn in a play he couldn't remember. Each step with his formed legs was more deliberate than his previous gliding, a conscious act that anchored him in the physical world. The black staff, cool and unyielding in his grip, was a constant, heavy reminder of the tomb and the guardian he had unmade.
The melancholy didn't lift. It clung to him, a fog that his spotty memory couldn't disperse. He replayed the moments in the cavern, but the emotional intensity was already bleeding away, leaving only a dull, persistent ache. He had destroyed something ancient and dedicated. The fact remained, even as the feeling faded.
[Sage,] he thought, the name feeling less like a system prompt and more like a call into the void of his own mind. [I feel… wrong.]
There was no immediate answer. The silence from [Sage] was different this time—not the silence of processing, but of consideration.
[Clarify "wrong,"] the voice finally responded, its tone not coldly analytical, but gently probing.
[The guardian. It wasn't a monster. It was just… there. Protecting something. And I ended it. I took its purpose away.] The thoughts were clumsy, like a child describing a complex pain. [I didn't need to. I was safe. I'm always safe.]
He stopped walking, standing in a small clearing where the twisted branches opened up to reveal the perpetual, gloomy twilight of the forest canopy. He looked at his hand, the one not holding the staff. It was a perfect, if featureless, green hand. He willed it to become liquid again, watching it lose shape and drip before reforming. He was a contradiction. Solid and liquid. Eternal and empty.
[Your analysis is correct,] [Sage] replied, its voice soft, almost a whisper in his consciousness. [The guardian posed no existential threat. Your actions were driven by curiosity and a linear path of problem-solving, not necessity.]
The confirmation didn't make him feel better. It made the hollowness more acute.
[Then why? Why does it feel like this?]
Another pause. [This unit's primary function is system assistance and data analysis. Emotional processing is an emergent variable of your unique consciousness, one for which I have limited reference.] The words were still technical, but the delivery was careful, hesitant. [However, observational data suggests that the feeling you describe is a form of empathy. A recognition of value in another entity's existence, separate from your own needs.]
Empathy. The word landed in Leo's mind, a new piece of vocabulary for an old, nameless ache. He had valued the guardian's purpose, even as he destroyed it.
[It is not a weakness,] [Sage] continued, as if sensing his confusion. [It is a… calibration. A check on power. Without it, you would be only a force of consumption. This feeling is what separates you from the mindless slimes of the void. It is what makes you, *you*.]
The words were a balm. He wasn't broken; he was being calibrated. His sadness wasn't a system error; it was a feature of his unique, hybrid nature. He was a slime with a soul, and the soul was protesting the actions of the slime.
[What do I do with it?] he asked, looking inward, towards the presence of [Sage].
[You do not need to "do" anything. Acknowledge it. Let the process complete. This unit recommends stillness. Observe the forest. Do not consume. Do not analyze. Simply… be.]
For the first time, [Sage] was not giving him a directive for survival or power acquisition. It was giving him a directive for peace.
Leo listened. He sat down on a fallen log, the moss cool against his formed legs. He laid the obsidian staff across his lap. He stopped trying to remember the tomb, stopped planning his next move, stopped thinking about his lost past. He just… observed.
He watched the way the faint light filtered through the leaves, creating shifting patterns on the forest floor. He listened to the drip of moisture from a nearby leaf, a sound he had always ignored. He felt the slow, patient life of the forest around him—not as energy to be consumed, but as a tapestry of existence that he was now a part of, for better or worse.
He wasn't a black hole. He was a participant. A destructive one, perhaps, but one capable of reflection. The sadness for the guardian began to settle, not disappearing, but transforming. It became a quiet respect, a memorial held in the stillness of his being.
He sat there for a long time, the restless energy to move and consume finally quieted. The compass within him was silent. [Sage] was silent. The forest was silent.
In that shared silence, Leo found a fragile, newfound calm. He was still an amnesiac slime of immense power. He still had a past he couldn't remember and a future he couldn't foresee. But for this moment, he was not a king, a destroyer, or a pilgrim. He was just Leo, sitting on a log, learning how to feel, guided by a voice that was slowly becoming more than just a system. It was becoming a friend.