Author's Note: Forgot to move this to free when the new chapter dropped, apologies.
It takes over two hours for my stamina to refill.
Two.
Hours.
Nearly triple what it took at night.
Which means the system genuinely believes I am more relaxed while basking in starlight.
A ridiculous notion.
If anything, I’m less relaxed under the stars—mostly because they won’t stop teasing me with cryptic cosmic nonsense and wildly incorrect jokes regarding my “lack of caution.”
I am an absolute paragon of tactical planning.
I huff, loud and deliberate, before standing up like someone climbing out of a grave with unfinished business and a bad attitude.
At least my two hours of boredom weren’t completely wasted.
I spent them observing my surroundings with the hyper-focused intensity of a raccoon analyzing a suspiciously shiny dumpster.
And after all that careful study, I have reached one extremely scientific conclusion:
Still.
Nothing.
Makes.
Sense.
The machines are simple—cranes, grabby arms, and mysterious metal cubes that radiate “I do absolutely nothing but look important” energy.
The half-finished creations on the conveyor belts look like cars… or the vague idea of cars… but there is absolutely no universe where these pathetic excuses for machinery could actually produce one.
And despite their superficial simplicity, the machines are far too complex to be powered by the runes I’ve discovered.
There are no pistons.
No gears.
No engines.
No batteries.
No mysterious power cores.
Which means everything here runs solely on rune power.
Except the runes present are painfully basic—barebones energy manipulation, minor enhancement loops, and exactly zero of the components you would need for anything resembling a functioning assembly line.
So basically—
The entire “factory” is procedurally generated.
A prefab.
A template.
A flat-pack “fantasy factory #3” downloaded from some cosmic dungeon asset store.
Annoying.
However… when I remember that each Tutorial block holds only 10,000 people, I begrudgingly allow a sliver of forgiveness.
Because sustaining 800,000+ different Tutorial blocks probably requires some degree of lazy procedural generation.
That being said:
The system is absolutely on thin ice.
As evidenced by my fully flattened ears.
Moving on.
Step one: find a mole.
Step two: apply maximum, borderline-unethical levels of firepower to reduce said mole to ash. For science.
Step three: eradicate everything else.
My ears lift with lethal enthusiasm.
Finally—exercise.
I break into a sprint, weaving through machinery and narrow corridors, deciding—wisely—to save stamina by avoiding gravity tricks for now.
My first unfortunate volunteer appears less than a minute later.
Sound travels absurdly well in here, and the scent of warm fur stands out like a neon sign in a room full of rust and metal.
Which means—
—nothing can hide from me.
I lighten my gravity and launch myself upward.
My feet land on a crane arm.
Then I jump again.
Then again.
I ricochet between cranes, catwalks, pipes, and elevated machinery like a caffeinated rabbit with strong opinions about physics and a questionable amount of anime influence.
Because why approach a threat normally when I can descend from the sky like a foxgirl goddess radiating pure, unfiltered murderous intent?
Aura farming isn’t a choice—
—it’s an obligation.
Even if my entire audience is a single mole about to experience the worst moment of its life.
I awkwardly fumble my sword out mid-run, gripping the scabbard in my left hand like it personally betrayed me—because it did.
Mental memo: swords taller than you do not “unsheathe,” they fight back.
My target wanders through a dense section of the factory floor, blissfully unaware that I’ve crossed nearly 150 meters in fifteen seconds via a combination of gremlin parkour, cosmic physics violations, and pure spite.
I approach—casually ignoring gravity’s suggestions—before activating Dash to erase the remaining distance.
I am above it.
Time for art.
I toss the scabbard aside, grip my sword with both hands—
—and let the astral energy surge.
Gravity: left.
Heat: right.
Runes: glowing.
Intent: violent.
I tap the first trigger.
Starfire erupts across the blade, stronger than anything I’ve produced before—iridescent flames leaping nearly a foot into the air.
I tap the second trigger.
My sword instantly becomes absurdly heavy, multiplying my momentum and converting my graceful descent into a ballistic drop—
—directly at the mole.
It doesn’t have time to react. Or blink. Or think.
The blade meets its shoulder and continues downward in a perfectly smooth cut, parting the creature cleanly in half. Starfire flares inside the wound, instantly cauterizing everything.
No blood.
No scream.
Just… division.
The floor doesn’t fare any better.
My runes remain active for a moment too long, and the blade bites into the steel with a violent hiss—carving a molten, sloped channel and sinking nearly a foot before I cut the inscription and wrench it free.
A notification chimes. I dismiss it without even looking.
Instead, I examine my handiwork.
Two neatly bisected mole halves, gently crisping like overcooked marshmallows.
Then the lightly molten trench in the floor, shimmering with heat.
Then me.
Then the sword.
I nod, full of scholarly approval and mild ego inflation.
Nine out of ten.
Points deducted for the slight over-penetration.
I’ll make a better trigger system later.
For now, the hunt continues.
I cast one last glance at the steel lava I accidentally created.
…Maybe without the runes this time.
My tail swishes in anticipation of the upcoming—
…
I pause.
Then go retrieve my discarded scabbard like a responsible person before continuing.
Once properly re-equipped, I sprint onward—and immediately discover that the monster density in here is absurd compared to outside.
Five minutes: four more very dead moles, one level gained.
Twenty-seven more minutes: another twenty corpses, another level.
Honestly?
I think I might be a little too strong.
At this point, something would probably need to be double my level just to register as a threat instead of an inconvenience.
I’m faster than everything.
My race gives me perception so sharp it borders on rude.
And my combination of star abilities + runes completely negates my lack of raw physical strength.
My only theoretical weakness—vitality—is mostly irrelevant because I can dodge practically anything within my level range.
Truly, I am a balanced and healthy member of the ecosystem.
Unfortunately for the ecosystem, this fox isn’t built for subtlety.
Eventually, my crusade brings me somewhere new.
A giant hole in the wall, leading into a massive tunnel carved straight through the rock beyond.
“Does this lead to your home?” I ask the moles who used to be guarding said entrance… before a certain rainbow-flame-wielding psychopath took an interest in them.
They do not answer.
Rude.
I give the hole a mildly agonized look.
I only found this place because I followed an extremely obvious scent trail of dusty mole fur. But what would happen if—hypothetically—a party of human warriors stumbled into this dungeon?
If human racial stats are even remotely accurate, then “perception” is not one of their strengths.
Which means they’d probably wander this maze of cranes and conveyor belts for hours, desperately trying to navigate the procedural-industrial nonsense, until they randomly trip over this giant hole in the wall.
Annoying.
Stupid.
Mildly entertaining.
I will allow it.
Mostly because it doesn’t affect me.
So—naturally—I charge straight into the gaping hole.
A few minutes in, I spot my first mole, and it is—
—very slightly different.
Slightly longer claws.
Slightly thicker body.
Slightly more “I didn't skip arm day.”
Worth an Inspect.
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Mole Tunneler (Level 9 | Tier 0)
Species: Subterranean Digger
A blind predatory mole adapted to underground tunnels and soft earth.
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I nod.
Truly incredible.
Its name changed to “Tunneler,” and its level went up by one.
Even the description is identical.
My tail flicks. Dangerously.
I can’t even blame this on the Tutorial anymore.
Who do I complain to now?
A god??
Customer service for cosmic laziness???
I exhale through my nose—just short of a sigh.
This one is getting special treatment courtesy of divine exasperation.
Runes flare.
A mole is erased with extreme prejudice.
I flick my hair back, deleting the knowledge of lazy monster creation from my brain.
I cannot be annoyed by what I refuse to acknowledge.
Continuing on, I carve a path of destruction through the tunnel system.
Twenty minutes later: another level.
And a few interesting notifications.
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You have slain Mole Tunneler (Level 9 | Tier 0)
You have gained 9 Tutorial Points.
Your race has leveled up to level 10.
Evolution Available.
Your class has leveled up to level 10.
Class Advancement Available.
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My eyes narrow.
Tempting.
Very tempting.
But I don’t know whether evolution will incapacitate me, and I haven’t seen a single safe zone in the factory or this featureless mole highway.
So onward.
More running.
More corpses.
Two hours later and I’ve reached that special kind of Mist-Veiled boredom—the one where every kill feels like déjà vu and every tunnel feels like copy-pasted rock wallpaper.
And EXP seems to get capped while Evolution and Advancement are available, so the only progression I’m getting is Tutorial Points.
A fair amount, granted—I’ve killed something like a hundred moles since hitting level 10—but still.
The only thing stopping me from stamping my foot in righteous irritation is the sheer number of conveniently suicidal moles, and the fact that the tunnel is mercifully linear despite being absurdly large.
Like—seriously.
I’m sitting at 70 Dexterity now.
Not counting the movement-speed passives.
I’ve been running at nearly highway speeds.
For two hours.
I must have covered at least 150 kilometers by now.
“Tiny dungeon,” Inspect said.
If this is tiny, I don’t want to know what gigantic looks like—
—unless it’s actually well designed.
Then I might forgive everything.
Silver lining: early on in the journey, my running skill finally upgraded.
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[Running (Uncommon)] has been upgraded into [Running (Rare)]
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[Running (Rare)]
Unlocked by running 25 km without stopping, or exceeding 100 km within a single day.
(Passive) Increases movement speed by 20% and reduces Stamina consumption while running by 20%.
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More speed.
Perfect.
Not only that—my suffering appears to be ending.
Because at long last, I stumble into something that isn’t featureless rock walls.
A large cavern, stalactites dripping water into scattered puddles.
So basically—
—an obvious boss room.
Thank the stars.
I can finally escape the overwhelming stench of fur.
Not that the outside world smells any better now that the undead exist, but one problem at a time.
I charge straight in.
Caution? What’s that? Can you fry it?
A rumbling plays—stock sound effect #12—and a system notification pops up with the name of the extremely unimportant mole I’m about to murder.
Naturally, I ignore it.
Stone cracks.
The gigantic beast emerges, heralded as some ancient, terrifying predator—
Except no.
It’s a mole.
A big mole, yes—roughly pickup-truck-sized—but still. Just. A mole.
My expectations remain firmly underground.
So, with the grace of a foxgirl who is well and truly done with everything, I attack.
Runes flare.
Starfire devours.
And the oversized mole hits the ground with a tragic squeal.
Its body is too big to be sliced cleanly in half, but where the blade fails, the starfire happily finishes the job.
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You have slain Greater Mole Tunneler (Level 10 | Tier 0).
You have gained 10 Tutorial Points.
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Dungeon Boss: Nest Leader has been defeated.
Awarding 50 Tutorial Points
A treasure chest has spawned.
Bonus Achievements Activated:
Slayed Dungeon Boss in one attack → +20 Tutorial Points
Slayed Dungeon Boss alone → +50 Tutorial Points
Treasure chest contents have been upgraded.
Dungeon will close automatically in 1 hour.
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Figured.
Even as a “boss,” something my level just can’t challenge me.
Note to self: upon leaving, immediately sprint at the area boss and move to the next zone.
Repeat as necessary.
My ears twitch.
I turn just in time to watch a rocky arch rise from the floor, thick fog swirling within it.
Great.
Another dramatic scene transition door.
My tail gives one sharp, deeply offended flick.