I decide to shelve my completely justified fury for later.
Not because I’m over it.
But because I am a mature, reasonable individual who understands that committing crimes against abstract, omnipotent systems requires planning.
With that settled, I flick my sword once, shaking off the last traces of starfire, then turn my attention to my status window. I dump my remaining free points straight into Vitality and take a moment to admire my progress like the reasonable genius I am.
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Lyn
Health: 270 / 270
Stamina: 683 / 1150
Race: Starborne Foxkin (Level 11 | Tier 1)
Class: Astral Duelist [Uncommon] (Level 11 | Tier 1)
Aspect: Star
Traits: [Starborn]
Titles:
Stats
Vitality: 27 (+5)
Strength: 33
Dexterity: 115
Perception: 48 (+5)
Charisma: 10
Free Points: 0
Class Skills (4/8):
[Horizon Slash (Rare)]
[Stellar Finesse (Uncommon)]
[Improved Dash (Uncommon)]
[Astral Step (Uncommon)]
General Skills (6/8):
[Inspect (Common)]
[Running (Rare)]
[Nascent Sword Style (Uncommon)]
[Evasive Footwork (Uncommon)]
[Lesser Astral Manipulation (Rare)]
[Rune Smith (Uncommon)]
Racial Skills:
Cosmic Perception
Silent Star
Special Skills:
[Universal Translation]
Tutorial Points: 3106
Tutorial Countdown: 47 days, 22 hours, 38 minutes
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I nod appreciatively.
My stats are starting to look… slightly balanced now.
…Very slightly.
That Dexterity gap is still completely unhinged.
Not that I have any intention of fixing it.
Dexterity is life.
I inspect my newly upgraded skill, despite already knowing exactly what it’s going to say.
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[Evasive Footwork (Uncommon)]
Unlocked by demonstrating consistent and effective dodging under combat conditions.
(Passive) Increases dodge speed by 15%.
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Yes.
As expected.
A wording tweak and a glorious five percent increase in effectiveness.
Truly.
A development nobody could have possibly foreseen.
Whatever.
Another common skill checked off the list.
Just one more and there won’t be a single gray skill left to offend my aesthetic sensibilities.
I tilt my head.
The problem is… how, exactly, does one upgrade Inspect?
I use it on everything. Rocks. Corpses. Trees. Vibes. The occasional poor life decision. If it were based on quantity, it would’ve evolved into Inspect II: Now With Judgment days ago.
So it must be something else.
Insight, maybe. Depth. Understanding.
I think about that for a few seconds.
Then shrug.
“No idea.”
It’ll happen eventually.
Probably.
Which means it’s officially a future-me problem.
Therefore: moving on.
Specifically—moving on to more killing.
Because really, what better use of my time is there than sprinting in a straight line through hostile wilderness while violently solving every encounter along the way?
Seriously. I think I’ve run over five hundred kilometers in the past three days.
World record?
Undoubtedly.
Also, the Mist-Veiled Grove was significantly larger than the Thicket. If that pattern holds—
Yeah. This place is disgustingly huge.
Small country-sized, at a minimum.
And there are eight hundred thousand Tutorial Blocks.
Even if every zone is far longer than it is wide, that still puts the total size somewhere around planetary.
Minimum.
I sigh, already breaking into a run again.
Good thing I like cardio.
Because I have the distinct feeling Asteria itself is going to be far larger than my current imagination budget allows.
As if I needed more proof that Dexterity is the best stat.
…Unless there’s teleportation magic.
My tail flicks in irritation.
Doesn’t matter. Can’t use magic anyway.
I add figure it out anyway to my mental to-do list, right between become god and find a place that sells cheeseburgers.
…
I’m hungry.
Not actually hungry—the Tutorial politely removed biological needs—but the other kind. The kind where yes, I ate a few hours ago, but a slice of pizza wouldn’t exactly be a tragedy.
Or two.
I send a brief, entirely reasonable prayer to the stars that this new world has crepes.
Then I lighten gravity and leap into the air, choosing to disrespect the ground once more—
—only for the earth itself to rebel.
A root erupts from beneath the tall grass, ripping free of soil and moss as it snaps upward toward me mid-flight. Ferns whip aside. Dirt sprays. The forest floor tears open like something underneath just took offense.
I blink.
“Oh for fu—”
It connects.
Lowered gravity turns the hit into a personal invitation to experience aerodynamics. I go sailing, spinning gracelessly past hanging fronds and drifting leaves before bouncing once, twice, and finally rolling to a stop in a nest of flattened grass.
I lie there for a moment.
More winded than injured.
Staring at the canopy.
…Right.
Aspects.
Of course.
Life was so much easier when I could charge through the forest at full speed with no consequences.
…
Nothing happens.
The grass sways gently around me. Leaves settle. Somewhere high above, something chirps, unconcerned.
I click my tongue.
I was kind of hoping whatever did that would assume I was dead and come investigate. You know. Lean in. Get curious. Make a mistake.
Boring.
I’d already pictured the moment—me springing to my feet like an overzealous honey badger possessed by righteous violence—but I suppose that performance will have to wait.
Hm.
I ponder this for a moment.
Conclusion reached.
I think my new race is turning me into more of a prankster.
I never would’ve considered baiting an ambush like that before becoming a fox girl.
…
…
Probably.
My ear flicks with a confidence I do not remotely feel.
Oh. There it is.
A root ripples through the soil beneath me, surging upward with impressive commitment, aiming to impale me directly through the grass—and, more pointedly, through my back.
Unacceptable.
Getting a hole punched through my torso would be mildly inconvenient—and, more importantly, would waste a potion.
I might need those later.
I slam my hands into the ground, palms biting into damp earth, and launch myself upward—achieving actual airtime through sheer arm strength and aggressively lowered gravity. Grass and loose soil scatter beneath me.
My tail gives a satisfied swish.
Two confirmations.
One: Gravity Sense works underground.
No idea how. No idea why. I refuse to question it.
Two: if I can do that, then frontflips are absolutely on the table.
Excellent.
Very stylish.
I’ll work on that later.
The root explodes out of the forest floor beneath me, tearing free of the earth in a spray of dirt and snapped grass. It lunges upward like a living wooden spear, thick and knotted, bark still slick with soil.
With no time to draw my sword—and my feet still very much not touching the ground—I do the only reasonable thing.
I catch it.
Like it’s a baseball.
And not a violently accelerating mass of hostile plant matter moving faster than an arrow.
You know. Normal reflexes.
Starfire blooms in my palm.
The root chars, cracks, and collapses into ash that scatters across the grass.
Quietly.
For about a second.
Then a shrill, furious screech rips through the forest to my right, echoing strangely between the distant trunks.
My ears twitch.
One hundred meters.
Give or take a meter.
Time for revenge.
And simultaneous appreciation for just how absurdly sensitive my hearing has become.
The creature’s exact position snapped into focus the instant the sound reaches me.
Honestly.
Humans really do have it rough in the sensory department.
My deepest condolences to them for being inferior to us foxes.
After a few quick—and entirely unnecessary—uses of Dash, tall grasses whipping past my legs and ferns bowing under my passage, my latest Tutorial Point increase comes into view.
It’s… a tree.
Except it very clearly is not like any other tree in this section of the forest.
Thick. Dark. And—somehow—normal-sized.
A complete departure from the towering giants surrounding it, whose trunks rise like pillars and vanish into the canopy far above.
I blink slowly, the way one does when confronted with a personal insult masquerading as environmental design.
Because that is exactly what this is.
This thing would have been perfect for the Thicket.
Same general size as the surrounding trees there. Same silhouette. Only difference being the discoloration.
An actually competent trap mob. Subtle. Fair. Forces awareness.
Instead?
It’s here.
Planted directly in the middle of a forest of giants, surrounded by knee-high grass and sprawling roots, like it wants to be noticed.
I stare at it for a moment longer than necessary.
Then I Inspect it—mostly out of reflex, and only partially out of a burning desire to know what kind of monster thought this was acceptable design.
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Deepwood Rootspine (Level 12 | Tier 1)
Species: Deepwood Flora
Aspect: Root
A stationary Deepwood native that dominates its territory through an extensive underground root network. It tracks prey through airborne pollen released when its roots breach the surface.
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I nod, once.
Native to the Deepwood.
Of course it is.
And it tracks prey through pollen.
Pollen.
That does explain how it slapped me out of the air like an especially vindictive fly, but I never would’ve guessed that.
Although—
…?
If it only tracks pollen released when the roots break the ground… then how did it land the first hit so cleanly?
…
My head starts to hurt.
Magic.
The perfect explanation. Elegant. Efficient. Allows me to stop thinking.
My boot slams into the mossy ground, Astral Step igniting just as a root spears up toward my throat, tearing through grass and soil and missing by a margin I would prefer not to quantify.
Right.
I am, in fact, in the middle of a fight.
My sword clears its sheath in a blur, and the next root is neatly, efficiently chopped in half. Sap sprays dark against the grass.
Two more surge up to replace it.
They meet the same fate.
As I close the distance, roots begin erupting in clusters, snapping through ferns and cracking soil, the ground beneath my feet becoming a minefield of hostile growth.
It really doesn’t want me getting any closer.
A shame, then, that its primary method of discouragement is both slower than me and possessed of approximately the structural integrity of wet cardboard when introduced to my blade.
Two become four.
Four become six.
No matter how many extra roots try to intercept me, I cut through them without breaking stride.
By the time I reach the monster, it’s managing nearly ten active roots at once, the ground around it a churned mess of snapped grass and exposed soil.
Which would be impressive.
If it weren’t already far too late.
Starfire blooms outward, bright and hungry—and unfortunately for the plant monster, I happen to have very recent experience with forest fires.
The notification pings a few seconds later.
I ignore it.
Instead, I reflect on the fight itself.
I’d stuck almost entirely to my offensive sword style—pure momentum, weaving and spinning through openings—rather than my previous attempt to fuse offense and defense into one elegant mess.
And it felt… right.
Uncomfortably so.
My eyes narrow.
Am I missing something?
Maybe the reason my sword style didn’t evolve during the now thoroughly deceased wolf pack incident is that I wasn’t failing to do enough.
Maybe I was doing the wrong thing entirely.
…
I don’t understand.
So I choose not to try.
Mental refocus achieved.
Further testing is clearly required.
Therefore: moving on.
…Again.
Hopefully whatever I run into next is more worth fighting.
Ideally something I can’t one-shot with starfire—assuming such a thing exists.
I tilt my head.
Now that I think about it, starfire has killed literally everything it has successfully set on fire.
I nod, solemn.
The universe gives its biggest guns to its smallest foxes.
…
Not that I’m small.
Five foot is a perfectly reasonable height.
My tail flicks, daring the world to disagree.
It doesn’t.
Good.
Time for more carnage.
I break into a run.
…Again.