The Rich Cultivator

Two Mathildas stood side by side, both dripping in slime, their expressions oddly synchronized. Their matching grins widened as they stared eagerly at the mimic treasure chest, which had once again settled on the ground, appearing like an ordinary old chest—if one ignored the twitching and slight burping sounds it was making.

Their hair stuck to their faces, their robes clung awkwardly to their bodies, and neither seemed to care in the slightest. If anything, they looked like mischievous twins ready to stir up chaos.

Nearby, only Tyler’s head peeked out from the mimic’s half-closed mouth. He looked utterly unimpressed.

"Must I really do this?" he asked, voice muffled slightly by the chest’s inner slime.

"Yeah," both Mathildas chimed in unison. "You can’t tell which of us is the fake, so now it’s your turn. That was the bet!"

One of them even added, "If we can’t find the imposter by ourselves, it’s only fair you suffer with us!"

Tyler sighed, his expression deadpan. "You both have the same perverted energy. And seriously... you’re still refusing to clean that slimey goo off yourselves? Disgusting."

"It’s not that bad," one Mathilda said, flicking a glob of slime off her shoulder. "Besides, it adds to the experience."

"Yeah," the other chimed, winking. "Slime brings character."

"Whatever. Fine." Tyler grumbled. "But if this thing makes a clone that starts hitting on other men, don’t blame me."

Before he could argue more, both Mathildas shoved him from behind, and with a wet squelch, the mimic swallowed Tyler whole.