Bartholomew Buttercup considered himself a master of the mundane. His days at Bottomley, Bottomley, and (you guessed it) Bottomley were a symphony of beige – beige walls, beige reports, and the beige existence he’d meticulously cultivated. His pulse rarely exceeded his typing speed, and his most daring act was occasionally using a different brand of Earl Grey tea.

  It was on one such beige Tuesday, during his lunch break ritual of a lukewarm tuna sandwich and the latest issue of “Accountant’s Monthly,” that destiny, in the form of poorly secured garden statuary, decided to intervene.

  Bartholomew was enjoying a rare moment of sunshine on a park bench, carefully positioned to avoid any potential pigeon incursions, when he heard a faint creak. He looked up just in time to witness the slow-motion tumble of a particularly garish garden gnome. It had a pointy red hat, a perpetually surprised expression painted on its ceramic face, and an unfortunate trajectory aimed directly at Bartholomew’s head.

  His last thought, a fleeting and utterly Bartholomew-esque concern, was, “Oh dear, that looks rather… unsanitary.”

  Then, darkness.

  When Bartholomew’s consciousness flickered back to life, the first thing he noticed was a distinct lack of solid form. There was no familiar pressure of the park bench beneath him, no gentle breeze ruffling his thinning hair. Instead, there was a sensation of… wobbling. A cool, slightly viscous feeling permeated his… everything?

  He attempted to sit up, a maneuver he’d performed thousands of times, but his limbs refused to cooperate. In fact, he seemed to lack limbs entirely. Panic, a sensation as foreign to Bartholomew as competitive eating, began to bubble within him.

  He tried to speak, to call out for help, but the only sounds he could produce were a series of indistinct, wet gurgles. It was like trying to communicate through a mouthful of particularly enthusiastic jelly.

  With a monumental effort of… well, whatever a sentient blob used for effort, Bartholomew managed to shift his awareness downwards. What he perceived was a translucent, vaguely emerald-hued mass. He could see the slightly blurred outline of the park bench through his own… being.

  A horrifying realization dawned upon him, slow and viscous like himself. He was a slime. A sentient, apparently mobile, and distinctly jiggling slime.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  A faint, translucent window flickered into existence above his wobbly form:

  [Bartholomew Buttercup (Slime)] [Level: 1] [HP: 10 (Extremely Squishable)] [MP: 0 (What Would a Slime Cast?)] [Form: Gelatinous] [Passive Skill: Mildly Absorbent]

  Bartholomew gurgled in what he hoped was a sound of profound dismay. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he thought, the sentiment somehow translating into a series of pathetic, watery noises. “This is just… typical.”

  His initial attempts at locomotion were a masterclass in ineptitude. He tried to will himself forward, and instead, he mostly just… wobbled in place. Imagine a half-filled water balloon attempting a sprint. He bounced awkwardly, jiggled with surprising enthusiasm, and occasionally found himself adhering slightly to the rough bark of a nearby tree.

  After several minutes of undignified squirming, he managed to propel himself off the bench and onto the grassy ground. The sensation was… odd. He could feel the individual blades of grass against his slimy surface, a prickly texture that was surprisingly irritating.

  Another window popped up:

  [Status Alert!] [Environmental Irritation Detected: Grass] [Current Itch Level: 2/10]

  “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Bartholomew mentally groaned, his internal monologue the only coherent part of his existence. Allergic to grass? He’d never been allergic to grass before! Of course, he’d also never been a sentient blob before. Perhaps this came with the new, jiggly territory.

  His exploration of his immediate surroundings was fraught with peril. A particularly vibrant patch of purple wildflowers caught his… attention? Slimes didn’t really have eyes, but he could sense their colorful presence. Drawn by a morbid curiosity, he oozed closer.

  The moment his gelatinous form made contact with the petals, a new sensation erupted. Tiny, translucent bumps began to rise across his surface, like miniature slime-pimples. An intense itching sensation, far beyond the mild irritation of the grass, coursed through his being.

  [Status Alert!] [Allergic Reaction Detected: Unknown Floral Species] [Current Itch Level: 8/10] [Penalty: Oozing Speed Reduced by 50%]

  Bartholomew wobbled backwards frantically, leaving a trail of slightly bumpy slime in his wake. “Great,” he gurgled miserably. “Allergic to alien botany. Just fantastic. My new life is going swimmingly. Or rather… oozingly. And itchily.”

  His journey continued, a slow, bumpy, and utterly humiliating testament to his misfortune. He was Bartholomew Buttercup, former accountant, now a sentient slime with the constitution of a particularly sensitive toddler. This Isekai business, he was rapidly discovering, was far less glamorous and far more… squishy than the novels made it out to be. And he had a sinking (or rather, wobbling) feeling that things were only going to get stickier.