Maximum Intimidation Knight In a World Full of Mages-Chapter 26 : Ah! I’m hurt!

I had found that Lady Anabeth was very easily suggestible.
All it took was one mention that the dungeon must be cleared, and her eyes lit up like a lantern dropped in oil. The promise of more slime cores to collect was all the persuasion she required.
And so, half an hour later, Silvermane stood snorting before the moss-dark threshold of Gallowmere’s first slough, a yawning cleft in the marsh that breathed foul air and the distant plop-plop of disturbed water.
The dungeon mouth looked very much like the open gullet of some ancient amphibian, which already signaled how sticky and gross this was going to be. Even from the entrance, the ground glistened with a mucilaginous sheen, as though the very soil had decided to ferment.
Anabeth, of course, looked delighted. “Fascinating, isn’t it? Most standard dungeons are predictable, But Gallowmere’s sloughs are an entirely different structure altogether. The aetheric pattern is irregular and slime colonies migrate between chambers, like little ducklings! And the floors—oh, the floors are riddled with adhesive traps that can immobilize a grown ox if you aren’t careful.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, she took one proud step forward and immediately sank her boot into a translucent puddle of green slime.
The puddle gave a delighted
shlorp
.
“Ah!” she cried, throwing one hand dramatically to her forehead and leaning back against me for support. “I’m hurt! It seems I am no longer able to stand on my own two feet, Ser!”
Her tone could have drawn applause in a theater. The ‘trap,’ however, was a tiny puddle of slime that barely held her; I could see she could lift her foot free with the smallest effort.
She pressed on, clutching at her leg with exaggerated distress. “If only there were a gallant gentleman who would lend me his broad shoulders in this time of peril.”
I glanced down at her hand. “You’re clutching the wrong leg.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, without missing a breath, she swapped hands and sighed tragically, “Ah! I failed to mention that the traps can also be rather poisonous! The poison has affected both my legs all the same! My legs are now useless, in dire need of carrying until they can feel again. There. You see?” she said sweetly, still clinging to me like a dramatic stage heroine. “Completely incapacitated. I am terribly sorry for being so fragile and brittle. Tragic, really. You don’t mind, do you?” she added, already leaning against my arm as if the matter were settled.
“I’ll crush you where you stand,” I said politely.
“Ah!” She gasped. “A declaration of assumed proximity.
Crush
as in ‘hold firmly,’ yes? So what you mean, Ser, is that I may indeed stand right here. How generous of you.”
I watched her for a long, narrow moment, taking in the way she’d swapped hands, the theatrical limp, the very deliberate angle of her feet, feet that hung like velvet ornaments above the slime rather than touching it. Her eyes flashed with the small, wicked certainty of someone who had already arranged the world to her convenience.
“Oh—oh! To make it easy for you, Sir, I can climb on your back. I simply require a foothold.” She looked at me with helpless, scholarly eyes. “Would you—could you lower your arm? Yes, the left one. If you lower it slightly, I can hook my skirt and heave. For basic leverage, of course.”
Her fingers toyed with the rim of my pauldron as she spoke, all innocent angles and practiced dependence. When I didn’t move fast enough, she gave a small, sorrowful sigh and planted her palms on my shoulders, seeming to push against me rather than rely on me. She made a show of grunting, as if every muscle in her frame had betrayed her at once. “Oh heavens, it’s so hard; do be gentle. The poison weakens my grip.”
She made the motion to climb with exaggerated effort: one knee hooked onto my thigh, hands scrambling for purchase on my shoulders. Being perched will aid circulation and promote detoxification. It’s basic physiology: elevation reduces exposure to low-lying effluvia and allows the lymph to—” She fumbled for the right word and found it with a satisfied chirp, “—drain.”
I sighed, long and narrow. She was so slight the movement felt almost ceremonial; the weight was negligible, more a suggestion of weight than the thing itself. It was easier to lift her than to argue.
We picked our way past the threshold and into the first yawning corridor, where the jaundiced light pooled, yellowed like old coin. From the gloom ahead, small shapes oozed: the common slimes that should pose no trouble.
“Specimens,” Anabeth whistled delightedly. Her fingers fluttered at the vials at her belt. “Grade—oh, adorable. Look at the chromatophore bands.”
With Saint’s Precision and Slimebane Strike activated in tandem, the damage I could deal was ridiculous.
Damage Dealt: 66 HP
Common Slime’s HP: -18/48
Reward: + 3 EXP
+ Slime Core x 1
Normally, this sort of encounter was routine. But now, each time a Slime Core dropped, I had to steady her arms as she fumbled with a vial, catch the little slime core that pinged away from the corpse, and then make sure she didn’t swing herself into my neck.
It should have been simple, quiet, efficient—but it wasn’t. Because she had decided that the moment was an opportunity for conversation.
“When was the last time you carried a lady like this, Sir Henry?” She said.
“This air is most romantic,” she continued, leaning just slightly, so my neck caught the faintest brush of perfume, “though I didn’t intend it to be! Imagine you carry a lady while slaying terrifying creatures, the perfect tableau of heroism!”
I gritted my teeth and swung my blade again, slicing another slime neatly in two.
“Oh, Ser Henry,” she whispered, “I do hope you don’t mind if I rest my chin on your shoulder. It’s just, you know, strategic; keeps me safe from stray slime globules.” She then murmured in a tone that could melt iron, “Ah . . . This is truly what every lady dreams of . . .” I swung again, and chunks of pale green goo splattered across my gauntlets and chest.
It was ridiculously distracting, utterly inappropriate, and yet somehow impossible to ignore.
What kind of lady dreams of this?
I kept it practical, only keeping focus on dungeon progression. “How many more of these corridors do you expect?” The slight fatigue in me luckily kept the content honest, without Ceralis interference.
“These chambers are so interesting and needlessly prolonged. Unfortunately I will have to stay on your back for a while, Ser,” she sighed loudly as she patted the crown of my helmet. “Ah, unfortunate.”
The corridor ahead began to twist, the jaundiced light pooling strangely as if the walls themselves were breathing. The slime thickened into a viscous drag that clung to my feet and really started to drag me down. It was enough to throw off the rhythm of my steps.
“Ah,” Anabeth murmured, tilting her head and peering into the gloom, “we have come to the maze. The goo here is insidious, so do be careful Ser.”
Debuff Applied:
Gooey Terrain (–1% DEX per minute inside terrain)
[DEX: – 1%]
“The longer we linger, the thicker it gets,” Anabeth’s voice lost its teasing lightness. “I’d suggest we don’t dawdle.”
I made the first turn, then the second, then the third. The path doubled back on itself, and I realized with a sinking certainty why this place was called a maze: every corridor looked the same.
The only difference was that the goo thickened.
[DEX: – 2%]