That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime

Battle of Opening

Gelmud was looking into his crystal ball. He didn't like what he saw.

"Damn those worthless bastards!"

In a fit of rage, he dashed the orb against the ground, shattering it into a million pieces. It had been showing the proceedings in the forest from the eyes of an orc general—Gelmud had chosen that vantage point to take in what he expected to be the ultimate realization of all his ambitions. But now, the last of his intact crystal balls was a murky shade of black. All three of the soldiers he had entrusted orbs to had died in combat.

Gelmud had been pushing forward with preparations for the upcoming ceremony for the past three years. A ceremony to mark the birth of a new demon lord.

It had all been left in Gelmud's hands to arrange, and the assignment filled him with glee. If all went well, it'd create a demon lord who would listen to his orders. It was too tempting a treat to ignore.

The demon lords of the world had forged a pact with one another that defined the Forest of Jura as untouchable, not belonging to any dominion. That was, however, just a formality, and small-scale interventions into the wood were a daily occurrence. Gelmud himself had several different operations under way below the surface.

What he was doing was planting the seeds of conflict across the forest.

Gelmud was personally giving names to the most powerful among each race that dwelled in the wood. Naming a creature consumed a great deal of magical energy, draining his powers for months at a time. It was a dangerous game to play, but the "named" treated Gelmud like a parent and listened to anything he told them.

Slowly, carefully, he had been building a small clique of protégés for him to manipulate forest-wide. Some had been uprooted from the ground before they could fully sprout, but others had fully blossomed.

Some were goblins, some lizardmen—and there were other races involved, too, all participating in the war as named monsters. It was poisoning the well to cull the weak from the herd—powerful against powerful, the survivors fated to be evolved into a demon lord.

Gelmud's plan had been going without a hitch.

These great wars among entire races shouldn't have occurred until three centuries after Veldora's disappearance. Whether sealed away or not, triggering a war while Veldora was still alive was playing with fire. It could break the seal itself, in fact.

So he had taken his time, gathering more pawns under his control and adjusting the power balance among the races. And now that Veldora had vanished far earlier than he anticipated, the whole thing was starting to fall apart.

But luck hadn't fled Gelmud's side yet. An orc lord was born—and while he hadn't been expecting that, he did successfully bring it over to his side. It was Gelmud's trump card, and now that plans were going well and truly awry, Gelmud had no choice but to play it. It would be better to let things work out naturally with a plan like this, but the way he saw it, he had no other choice. It was a bit like fixing the entire tournament, he knew, but he decided that the orc lord would be the next demon lord, no matter what.

The lack of time had forced him to speed up the plan a little, and Gelmud still didn't have enough strength to bring the higher-level races of the forest under his rule. He had wanted to sow some seeds among the ogres and treants as well, but that had fallen by the wayside this time.

To be exact, the ogres turned down the naming offer. He had tried to negotiate with them, but they steadfastly refused. As a warring race, the ogres were reluctant to quickly change allegiances. They were high level, yes, but Gelmud concluded that they could not be controlled.