Traveling alone had a rhythm.
Tamura discovered it somewhere between his second and third day away from the cave, as the forest gradually thinned and the land began to open into gentle plains. The rhythm was not measured in distance, but in comfort—how far he could go before the scenery stopped being pleasant.
He stopped there.
That day, it was near a shallow crossroads where two dirt paths intersected beside a low hill. One path bore signs of frequent travel: flattened grass, cart tracks, the faint smell of oil and iron. The other was quieter, winding toward a cluster of stone ruins half-swallowed by vines.
Tamura chose neither.
Instead, he settled on the hill.
From there, he could see travelers pass without being part of them. Humans, demi-humans, the occasional monster tamed enough to pull a cart. None paid attention to the small blue slime resting in the grass.
Perfect.
The system chimed softly.
> "Daily Sign-In Complete."
Tamura did not move.
> "Reward Acquired: Skill — Cultural Replication (Minor)."
He frowned.
Information unfolded in layers—patterns, symbols, practices. The skill allowed him to recreate simple cultural artifacts he had observed or remembered: basic recipes, games, songs, written formats. Nothing advanced. Nothing industrial.
"…So you want me to be a hobbyist," Tamura said.
He tested it immediately.
Using memory alone, he formed a flat, flexible sheet from compressed plant fiber, then etched lines into it with controlled heat. The result was crude but recognizable.
A board.
Grid-based. Familiar.
"Shogi," Tamura murmured. "Or something close enough."
He left it to dry and turned his attention to cooking.
Food, he had learned, was the fastest way to turn strangers into people.
By mid-afternoon, the smell began to spread—slow-cooked meat, herbs layered carefully, grain thickened into something between soup and stew. Nothing exotic. Just… inviting.
Travelers slowed as they passed.
A pair of adventurers stopped first—young, cautious, weapons worn but not bloodied.
"…Is that food?" one asked.
"Yes," Tamura replied.
"…For sale?"
"For sharing."
They stared at him.
Tamura gestured to a flat stone. "Sit if you want. Or don't."
They sat.
Word spread quietly. Not as rumor, but as instinct. A merchant joined. Then another traveler. A demi-human with fox-like ears hovered at the edge before cautiously approaching.
No names were exchanged.
Bowls were improvised. Portions measured carefully.
The first bite changed everything.
"It's warm," the merchant said softly, as if surprised.
The fox-eared woman closed her eyes briefly. "It reminds me of home."
Tamura listened.
Stories emerged—not of politics or wars, but of roads taken, villages passed, meals missed. Small things. Human things.
He said little.
When asked where he was from, he answered honestly.
"Nowhere important."
No one challenged that.
As the sun dipped lower, the group dispersed naturally, leaving behind thanks and a few coins Tamura did not ask for but accepted anyway.
One person stayed.
The fox-eared woman lingered, watching Tamura clean up with precise efficiency.
"You're not like other monsters," she said carefully.
"I'm not trying to be," Tamura replied.
She hesitated. "Are you… dangerous?"
Tamura considered the question.
"Yes," he said. "But not to you."
That seemed to satisfy her.
She introduced herself—Lunaria. A traveler. A courier between towns who preferred roads others avoided.
"Food like this," she said, "makes people talk. You could make a living."
"I already am," Tamura replied. "Just not that kind."
She smiled faintly.
They parted without promises.
As night fell, Tamura lay beneath the stars, processing the day.
Cultural Replication wasn't power.
It was connection.
He thought of Rimuru, probably negotiating, organizing, carrying burdens willingly.
Tamura turned onto his side, letting the sounds of crickets replace distant ambitions.
If food could bridge worlds, then perhaps he didn't need to choose between solitude and companionship just yet.
For now, this was enough.