I have noticed something important.
Something incredible.
Something that takes one of my racial skills from top-tier to catastrophically unfair.
My gravity sense scales with Perception.
I didn’t catch it at first—too busy not dying—but the difference is undeniable. My awareness stretches farther now. Not by much. Just a few meters.
Which raises a very interesting question.
…Just how large can it get?
It’s sitting at about twenty-three meters right now—not huge, but undeniably bigger than before.
And if it scales…
Could it reach hundreds of meters?
Kilometers?
Country-scale?
Or—stars forbid—could I one day blanket an entire planet in awareness, like an aggressively paranoid AI with delusions of benevolent omniscience?
I want to know.
I need to know.
The urge to immediately dump every available free point into Perception is overwhelming.
Tempting.
Extremely tempting.
Unfortunately, I am—tragically—a genius, and therefore incapable of doing something that reckless.
…Yet.
So instead, I distribute my points responsibly. Sensibly. With restraint.
Vitality and Strength receive equal love, bringing them up to something approaching reasonable, while I resist the siren call of infinite perception with heroic effort.
Then, satisfied, I admire my work.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Lyn
Health: 394 / 420
Stamina: 1423 / 1450
Race: Starborne Foxkin (Level 13 | Tier 1)
Class: Astral Duelist [Uncommon] (Level 13 | Tier 1)
Aspect: Star
Traits: [Starborn]
Titles:
Stats
Vitality: 42
Strength: 43
Dexterity: 145
Perception: 74 (+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: 4198
Tutorial Countdown: 47 days, 20 hours, 31 minutes
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Yes.
This is good.
My stats are beginning to resemble something vaguely sane, my Tutorial Points have skyrocketed, and despite the fact that only about ten minutes have passed since my enthusiastic disagreement with the spiky embodiment of bad game design, my wounds are already nearly healed.
Truly.
Starborn regeneration is perfectly balanced and not at all a crime against game design.
No complaints, of course.
Bad game design is only unacceptable when it negatively affects me. When it benefits me, it becomes an inspired creative choice.
My Charisma stat—and, frankly, the continued existence of the Inspect skill—are now the only remaining offenses against my otherwise immaculate aesthetic.
Very good.
I wonder if there’s a trait that removes Charisma entirely.
I add it to the mental list.
Having a stat permanently stuck at ten is mildly irritating, and I have absolutely no intention of raising it.
After all, I am the most beautiful, humble being in existence.
My real Charisma was clearly maxed out at character creation.
My tail swishes haughtily.
While I’m cataloguing tragedies, I’ve also lost the +5 Vitality from my mole tunic.
Unfortunate.
But expected—given that it was reduced to blood-soaked confetti before being unceremoniously unequipped and turned into ash.
The beige skirt I’d been wearing since the beginning of the Tutorial met the same fate.
I would say I miss it, but—
No. I absolutely do not.
I glance down at my new outfit: an aurora-hued shirt and skirt conjured entirely from starlight.
I nod once.
Yes.
This is a visual war crime.
Don’t get me wrong—I adore the kaleidoscopic beauty of my astral energy. Truly. But allowing it to become my entire personality is a dangerous step in the wrong direction.
That said…
It is still vastly superior to the headache-inducing trifecta of brown, beige, and swamp green I was subjected to earlier.
At least this matches.
…Sort of.
My boots remain stubbornly green, but until I figure out how to replicate their effects into my own creations, they stay.
I am stylish, not foolish.
Curiosity piqued, I Inspect my clothing.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Crude Starmetal Shirt (Uncommon)
A crude garment formed from condensed starlight. Created for durability. Naturally resistant to astral energy. Despite its composition, it is surprisingly comfortable to wear.
No effects.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Crude Starmetal Skirt (Uncommon)
A crude garment formed from condensed starlight. Created for durability. Naturally resistant to astral energy. Despite its composition, it is surprisingly comfortable to wear.
No effects.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
My ear flicks faintly, hovering somewhere between mild irritation and smug confirmation.
The Inspect result?
An exact copy-paste.
Incredible.
It’s also, of course, naturally resistant to astral energy.
…Despite the fact that my flames have never damaged my clothing in the first place due to what I can only assume is premium, artisanal, hand-crafted System bullshit.
So, in conclusion:
It’s literally just flavor text.
Annoying.
…Whatever.
Moving on.
More specifically—moving on to more clothing.
Namely: gloves.
So far, nothing I’ve encountered has even come close to chipping my starlight blade, which suggests it should function as perfectly respectable armor.
Shockingly, it’s also extremely comfortable.
Like… nine out of ten comfortable.
Genuinely. It feels like being hugged by a warm blanket at all times.
I briefly consider making a full suit of armor—
—and immediately discard the idea.
Absolutely not.
That is far too much rainbow, even for me.
I’ll stick with my current pseudo–battle dress.
Even if it emphasizes form over function.
Because honestly—why wear pants when I can wear a skirt that flutters dramatically in the wind?
The System, at least, had one good idea giving me that instead of jeans at the start.
Starlight flares in my palm, coalescing into a pair of perfectly fitted gloves. I slip them on without ceremony.
Comfortable. Protective. Tasteful.
Mostly.
Then I turn and continue deeper into the forest, resuming my crusade into terrain that only seems to grow larger—and more suspicious—the farther I go.
Thirty minutes pass in a blur of violently dispatched undead, one less boar on the census, and—of course—a truly heroic amount of terrible commentary from the stars above.
They got especially annoying when I killed the boar.
Apparently I “failed my challenge,” or some equally slanderous nonsense, due to the fact that I elegantly reduced it to overcooked bacon.
Unbelievable.
That absolutely does not count.
Oversized pigs whose combat philosophy can be summarized as overwhelming force meets overwhelming stupidity are not valid sword practice targets.
The only interesting thing during my run—
Well. The only interesting thing besides my now alarmingly detailed understanding of the logistics behind an all-cake diet—
—is the undead.
Not because they’re strong.
Not because they’re clever.
In fact, the interesting part is that they’re exactly the same as before.
They’re level 12 now, matching the rest of the local ecosystem, but beyond the stat bump? Nothing’s changed.
Still Lesser Zombies.
No Aspect.
No discernible skills.
Just awkward shambling, followed by a sudden, enthusiastic lunge.
I should probably be annoyed by that.
Instead, I find it deeply funny.
The Tutorial made such a dramatic fuss about the undead at the beginning, but in practice they’re the threat equivalent of a fourth grader charging at you with unrestrained murderous intent.
Which is to say—
Not a threat at all.
Peak cinema.
At some point during my low-gravity tree-branch parkour—because running normally is cringe—the levels of the local megafauna and assorted rotting disappointments tick up to thirteen.
And with it comes another interesting revelation.
Mostly by accident.
Specifically, while doing mental math on how much Dexterity and Vitality I’d need to break the sound barrier without liquefying my internal organs.
Stamina regeneration scales with total stamina.
The larger your pool, the faster it refills.
A fairly standard game mechanic—one whose implications I somehow failed to fully appreciate until right now.
My Starborn trait boosts regeneration multiplicatively.
Which means that at night, I regenerate stamina at double the normal rate.
Always on.
Even while actively burning stamina.
Meanwhile, my gravity manipulation has a… concerningly low cost.
Putting that all together—
I can currently keep low gravity active for the entire night and still greet the next morning with over seventy-five percent of my stamina intact.
Yes.
Perfectly balanced.
My smug internal victory lap is rudely interrupted by a voice booming directly into my skull.
“Strong foe ahead. Therefore try close combat.”
…?
I tilt my head, genuinely baffled.
Were the stars just…
Helpful?
Then I nod in understanding.
Ah.
They’re just as bored as I am.
That tracks. Monster density has dropped sharply since entering the Deepwood, probably because everything here has finally graduated from ambient nuisance to genuine threat.
In the past thirty minutes alone, I’ve put down over twenty zombies.
And exactly one boar.
…
I tilt my head. Again.
Then why were there so many monsters when I first entered?
…
My head starts to hurt.
Right.
Let’s go kill this so-called “strong foe” before the Tutorial succeeds in permanently damaging my neurons.
It only takes a few minutes of high-speed gremlin parkour to reach the destination that the stars somehow pinged directly into my skull—like a red dot slapped onto an otherwise completely blank minimap.
No idea how they did that.
I refuse to ask.
That’s another question I’m very intentionally saving for later.
I land at the soon-to-be crime scene and immediately spot a humanoid figure standing in the knee-high grass.
Staring directly at me.
Oh.
This one’s going to be interesting.
My fun fight senses begin tingling.
My newest practice target is tall—but still, technically, within the bounds of humanity.
Barely.
It stands tall enough to headbutt Andre the Giant in the face without even standing on its toes. Bald. Mottled green skin stretched tight over a frame that looks grown rather than built.
Its body is wrapped in intricately layered bark armor, every plate fitted with unsettling care, leaving only its head exposed. From its back sprout six long wooden tentacles, coiling and uncoiling with slow, patient intent.
Notably, it’s missing ears.
Not that they’d help against me—thank you, Silent Star.
In its hands rests a wooden mace taller than I am.
Which feels rude.
Inspect fires on reflex.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Deepwood Warden (Level 15 | Tier 1)
[Miniboss]
Species: Treant
Aspect: Wood
A formidable guardian native to the Deepwood. Wields versatile wood-based techniques with incredible speed and strength to overwhelm anything in its path.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
My tail swishes, barely containing its excitement.
Higher level than me? Check.
Reasonably sized? Check.
Power and speed–focused warrior?
Double-check.
Nine out of ten.
My mouth curls into a grin before the fight even properly begins.
Yes.
That will do.
That will do very nicely.
I draw my sword and casually toss the scabbard aside—no reason to let it trip me up when things get lively.
My ears lock onto the Warden, and my lips curl open just enough to show my fangs.
“Do your best to entertain me.”
He answers without a word.
One massive palm lifts—slow, deliberate—and a wooden spear condenses into existence, then launches toward me with lethal enthusiasm.
I lean a fraction to the side.
It slips past my temple close enough to stir my hair, the rush of displaced air whispering where my skull used to be.
Perfect.
Now we’re speaking the same language.
I explode into motion, posture low, sword trailing loose at my side as I close the distance.
Spears streak toward me in quick succession.
I dodge most of them—clean, economical—but let one come through on purpose.
My blade flicks out and deflects it.
The impact rattles up my arm.
Manageable.
The force behind it is brutal, sure, but my newly raised Strength is just enough to meet it—barely. My grip tightens, boots skidding half a step through the grass before I recover.
The Warden notices.
Good.
The spears stop.
He lowers his arm and instead lifts the massive war mace, gripping it with both hands as his wooden tendrils straighten behind him, rigid and ready.
Then—
He waits.
Still. Grounded. Watching my approach like he intends to end it in a single, decisive exchange.
I huff softly.
Unwilling to let my partner linger too long, I trigger Dash and surge forward, momentum carrying me straight into the opening beat.
A tendril scythes toward me the instant I cross into range.
Fast—absurdly fast.
I dip beneath it without breaking stride, letting it hiss past where my head used to be as I continue forward.
Two more snap out in response.
One spears toward my midsection.
The other sweeps low for my legs.
At the same time, the first tendril curves back around, angling for the small of my back like it’s learned my outline already.
I pirouette through the gap.
The low strike cuts air.
The high one skims past my chest.
My blade swings in a wide arc, catching the second tendril and knocking it aside in a spray of splintered bark.
The third comes in a heartbeat later—slower, burdened by its earlier commitment.
My hilt snaps to my waist and I receive the strike, turning my body just enough to guide its momentum off to the side instead of meeting it head-on.
Clean.
My grin widens a fraction.
The three tendrils retract to the Warden’s back, one of them bearing a fresh, ugly gash where my blade kissed it.
He adjusts.
Two of his lowest tendrils spear into the earth at his feet, anchoring him, and he raises the massive mace overhead.
Finally.
I’m within melee range.
The mace comes down in a brutal arc, racing toward my skull like a hammer aiming to correct a particularly irritating nail that dared stand taller than the rest.
I glide to the right.
The head of the weapon smashes into the ground where I was a heartbeat ago, detonating dirt, grass, and shredded foliage into the air.
Before I can even think about capitalizing on the opening, my gravity sense screams.
I pull back instinctively.
A split second later, the two tendrils that had rooted themselves earlier explode up from the grass, spearing through empty space exactly where I’d just stood.
I close the distance again without hesitation.
My hilt rises to my left shoulder, and I thrust in a clean, direct line—aimed for where his stomach should be.
His upper two tendrils snap together instantly, crossing in a perfect interception that catches the point of my blade dead-on.
At the same time, the middle pair strike.
One darts for my eye.
The other sweeps low toward my right leg.
I give ground just enough—slipping past the first while my blade guides the second away from my leg, sword and wood sliding with a sharp scrape.
The Warden’s mace follows, swinging in a wide, accelerating arc.
The motion is familiar.
Slash-adjacent.
I leap—purely for style—rolling backward through the air in a needless backflip before gravity loosens and then snaps tight again, dropping me a few feet away with controlled precision.
I land.
His left hand releases the mace mid-motion, palm snapping forward.
A wooden spear forms and fires toward my midsection.
I turn my blade and redirect it without breaking rhythm.
The projectile whistles past, splintering harmlessly against a distant tree.
He’s fast.
He’s strong.
And he’s starting to realize that hitting me once is going to require perfect timing.
Good.
Because that kind of pressure is exactly what I love.
And he needs to keep it up—because I’m finally starting to understand what’s wrong.
Why my sword style refuses to evolve.
Something painfully simple.
Something so obvious it borders on insulting.
It won’t evolve because it isn’t mine.
I surge back into the fray, the cycle beginning again.
Tendrils lash out in overlapping arcs.
The mace continues its song of violence, whistling through the air with lethal intent.
The ground between us is ruined now—crushed grass, torn moss, splintered saplings ground into mulch beneath our feet.
Every attack aimed at me is redirected or avoided.
Every attack I commit to is met, blocked, countered—forcing me to abandon offense before it can finish.
And every time, my defense snaps back into place without thought.
I don’t use skills.
No tricks. No bursts of power.
Just movement. Timing. Gravity nudged here and there.
And slowly—
The Warden begins to give ground.
It’s stronger than me.
But I’m faster.
And more importantly—
I’m better.
My actions flow into each other without friction. Offense becomes defense. Defense becomes motion.
Motion becomes another opening. A continuous cadence, unbroken, unforced.
Neither of us ever truly stops moving.
Then it clicks.
Something I should have known from the very beginning.
Something I did know—once.
Before it was taken from me by them.
My oldest love.
The one thing—other than the stars, and my only friend—that can still make my heart beat faster.
I’m not some anime protagonist who picked up a sword because it looked cool.
I am not a fighter.
Not a warrior.
Not a killer.
I am a dancer.
And my blade is simply the most convenient extension of my body.
My grin widens—feral, dangerous.
Beautiful. Obviously.
A notification blooms in the corner of my vision.
I ignore it.
I already know what it says.
I disengage cleanly, withdrawing just far enough to reset the space between us.
Then I look at my partner.
And I speak—softly. Calmly.
“Again.”