Nocturnal forest critters skitter through the underbrush, unseen but very much heard, while distant undead announce themselves with the clatter of loose bones and the unmistakable aroma of poor life choices.
Wind whispers through the treetops, setting leaves rustling and branches swaying in a way that feels deliberately cinematic.
The night air is cool and crisp against my skin—clean, refreshing, perfect.
A near-ideal evening, honestly. One that would be flawless with a warm cup of hot chocolate and absolutely zero responsibility.
Unfortunately for the night, the beautiful girl it’s trying so hard to impress is currently drowning in disappointment.
Not the fleeting kind.
The bone-deep, soul-settling kind.
The kind that seeps into your posture, your tail flicks, and your opinion of everything that has ever existed.
Nothing could possibly pull me out of this quagmire of suffering.
And the cause of my entirely justified despair?
Loot.
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[Skeleton Knight’s Pauldrons (Rare)]
Pauldrons carved from dense, interlocked bone, once worn by a Skeleton Knight. Rigid and well-balanced, they provide substantial protection.
Runic Patterns:
Skill: Bone Charge
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[Bone Charge (Rare)]
A force-aspected technique bound to the Skeleton Knight’s Pauldrons.
(Active) Expend Mana to release a burst of concentrated force, propelling the user forward in a crushing charge. The impact delivers heavy blunt force, capable of staggering or knocking back targets in the path.
Scales with Strength.
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[Skeleton Knight’s Buckler (Uncommon)]
A compact shield formed from dense, reinforced bone once carried by a Skeleton Knight. Lightweight for its size, yet capable of reliably deflecting blows.
Runic Patterns:
Minor Kinetic Energy Reflection (15%)
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On paper?
They sound fantastic.
Once you apply even the bare minimum level of thought?
Completely useless.
Let’s start with the less offensive of the two: the buckler.
Same runic pattern as my armguard.
But worse.
And—crucially—I can’t wear both at the same time.
Incredible. A boss drop invalidated by loot from a previous boss.
Then there are the pauldrons.
Somehow even worse.
First of all, they look stupid. Just—objectively. No amount of cope, justification, or artistic interpretation saves them.
That alone relegates them to the useless pile, but the universe, in its cruelty, wasn’t finished yet.
Because instead of stats or a passive effect—something normal, something reasonable—they grant a skill.
A skill that requires mana.
I have no mana.
Not a trace. Not a droplet. Not even a polite suggestion of it.
I try anyway, just in case. I channel Astral energy into it.
Nothing.
No reaction. No feedback. No dramatic explosion.
Just silent, judgmental refusal.
So congratulations to this Rare drop for accomplishing exactly one thing: confirming that I cannot use mana-based items.
Which is… concerning.
Good thing that’s a future Lyn problem.
She’s going to be thrilled about this revelation, I can already tell.
My tail snaps in preemptive irritation.
At least my potion hoard has grown again.
Silver linings.
Which means it’s time for a progress update.
I open my Status.
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Lyn
Health: 420 / 420
Stamina: 4000 / 4000
Race: Starborne Foxkin (Level 26 | Tier 1)
Class: Astral Duelist [Uncommon] (Level 26 | Tier 1)
Aspect: Star
Traits: [Starborn]
Titles:
Stats
Vitality: 42
Strength: 82
Dexterity: 400
Perception: 243 (+5)
Charisma: 10
Free Points: 96
Class Skills (5/8):
[Horizon Slash (Rare)]
[Stellar Finesse (Uncommon)]
[Improved Dash (Uncommon)]
[Astral Step (Uncommon)]
[Starline Thrust (Uncommon)]
General Skills (7/8):
[Inspect (Common)]
[Running (Rare)]
[Evasive Footwork (Uncommon)]
[Lesser Astral Manipulation (Rare)]
[Rune Smith (Uncommon)]
[Blazing Star Dance (Rare)]
[Guiding Star Dance (Rare)]
Racial Skills:
Cosmic Perception
Silent Star
Special Skills:
[Universal Translation]
Tutorial Points: 15632
Tutorial Countdown: 47 days, 16 hours, 13 minutes
Skill Selection Available x2
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I scan it once.
Twice.
Then nod.
Level? Respectable.
Stats? Completely feral.
Dexterity has officially left the realm of “reasonable investment” and entered “statistical crime.”
Tutorial Points? An absurd jump from the last time I checked.
Skill selections? Two of them, just sitting there. Tempting. Waiting.
Yes.
This is good.
Naturally, I touch nothing.
There’s no reason to spend points when I’m already operating at what feels like the stat line of a level forty-five monster wearing the skin of a level twenty-six.
Any further optimization can wait until something actually threatens me.
I glance at the clock.
Thirteen minutes until midnight.
Which means another undead wave is about to crawl out of the ground and test itself against my vastly improved numbers.
My tail sways slowly, anticipation curling through it.
“Let’s see if you kept up this time,” I murmur.
I glance at the clock again.
Twelve minutes.
…Great.
The anticipation evaporates almost immediately, replaced by a familiar, deeply personal affliction.
Boredom.
I wander over to a low hanging branch and flick my tail across it once—purely ceremonial—before sitting down and striking an aggressively over-dramatic thinking pose. Elbow on knee. Chin in hand. Distant stare.
How, exactly, should I kill time?
The stars had started a profoundly unimportant debate five minutes ago about the fluffiness index of my ears and whether my tail could be classified as a viable flaming weapon. They are currently being ignored on principle.
Especially after they began inventing ranking tiers above S purely to quantify my immaculate floof.
…Not that I appreciated that.
At all.
Which means conversation is off the table.
I need something else to occupy myself.
Ideas swirl through my mind—dozens of them—wild, irresponsible, and deeply questionable. A mental tornado composed entirely of bad decisions and misplaced confidence.
I latch onto one almost immediately.
“Let’s make something explode.”
I nod to myself, solemn and scholarly.
Yes.
The perfect plan.
If I had a bit more firepower, I could probably hole-punch my way through the next poorly designed dungeon with minimal effort.
Therefore—
—testing a theory that will hopefully not end with my arms detonating.
That would be mildly inconvenient.
I stand, brush myself off with the dignity I deserve, and walk back into the small clearing surrounding the dungeon entrance. Once there, I extend one hand.
Starfire ignites instantly—no hesitation, no buildup—wrapping around my palm like a glove woven from pure flame.
This time, I don’t channel it into anything.
Instead, I hold it.
I focus, narrowing the astral stream and forcing it to condense into a single point just above my palm. The starfire complies, drawing inward until it forms a tight, brilliant sphere of rainbow flame.
Good.
Step one: complete.
Now I push more energy into it.
Then more.
Then—purely for academic rigor—a bit more.
The sphere brightens with each addition, colors sharpening until they’re almost painful to look at. The air around my hand warps, heat rippling outward in visible waves. The grass beneath my boots begins to wilt, bending away like it’s reconsidering its life choices.
Wind rushes inward, forming a shallow updraft that kicks my skirt and hair into chaotic motion.
I nod.
Very academically.
Yes. That looks perfectly safe.
I am not terrified in the slightest.
Eventually, I hit a limit.
Not the good kind—the interesting kind.
The sphere stops getting denser… and starts getting bigger.
Ah.
That’s probably important.
I cut the flow immediately, because the grass is starting to smoke, and I have learned—through extensive experience—that this is usually the point where things become problems.
I deliberately ignore that realization.
Test complete.
Conclusion: I can condense starfire to significantly increase its output.
Extremely useful.
…
Now.
How exactly does one dispose of a golf-ball-sized star in the middle of a forest?
I tilt my head.
Hm.
This feels like something I should have planned ahead of time.
The starfire answers for me.
WHUMP.
It detonates in my palm.
For a fraction of a second there is no sound—just pressure. A solid, physical impact slamming outward, flattening the air and crushing knee-high grass into the soil in a perfect circle around me.
Then the noise catches up.
A sharp, chest-punching boom tears through the clearing as heat and compressed air explode outward. Smoke and debris rush past my face. Grass within half a meter blackens instantly, charring down to the roots. Beyond that, a scorched ring browns and curls, thin threads of smoke spiraling lazily upward.
I blink through the glare.
My arm is still extended.
My palm tingles faintly.
My skin is unmarked.
My gloves are intact.
The forest, on the other hand, is having feelings.
A column of hot air roars skyward from the blast point, dragging ash, dirt, and pollen into a twisting plume. Flattened grass at my feet begins to smolder. Tiny embers bloom along the edges—one catches properly, a thin blue flame racing up a stalk before hopping to the next.
Birds shriek and scatter from the canopy. Leaves tumble down, get caught in the rising heat, and spiral upward like they’re auditioning for a very dramatic death scene.
The entire event lasts maybe two seconds.
Then the light fades.
The pressure dies.
And I’m left standing in the middle of a warm, smoky circle that very much did not exist a moment ago.
Two meters of flattened grass.
Half a meter of scorched earth.
An awkward middle zone that cannot decide whether it is a campfire or a crime scene.
My tail swishes in pure satisfaction as I immediately start stamping out the smaller fires.
I have successfully invented a thermal grenade.
Throwing it is still a work in progress, so for now it will be reserved for panic-based charring of everything within a two-meter radius.
The stars—who had been mid-conversation—go completely silent.
Then the praise arrives.
Strangled wheezing. Chaotic laughter. At least a dozen deeply exasperated sighs.
A strange method of complimenting my impeccable genius, but I will take it.
My tail curls in a way that absolutely does not signal embarrassment—only the regal confidence of a plan that went exactly as intended.
It was entirely my goal to nearly start another forest fire, possibly give several woodland creatures heart attacks, and thoroughly ruffle my clothes, hair, and dignity in the resulting updraft.
Flawless execution.
No notes.
I check my stamina bar while stomping out the last stubborn embers.
Nine hundred stamina.
Gone.
In five seconds.
I stare at the number.
Then I nod.
Condensing takes exponentially more stamina the denser you go.
Annoying.
Expected.
Next experiment.
Same principle—different Aspect.
Gravity.
I lighten myself subconsciously, the shift so familiar it barely registers. My body adjusts instantly, balance correcting without effort. Parkour, constant movement, and a long-standing disrespect for physics have made this second nature.
Then I push more energy through.
Lighter.
Lighter still.
The pressure against my bones eases, joints loosening, the world subtly resisting me less with every breath. My steps feel floaty. Elastic. Like the ground is politely pretending to exist.
Eventually, I hit it.
That same arbitrary ceiling.
The point where further progress doesn’t stop—but becomes expensive.
I could push past it.
I know I could.
But it would take a disproportionate amount of energy to gain anything meaningful.
Inefficient.
Unacceptable.
Which neatly explains why the starfire compression devoured a quarter of my stamina pool.
I pull the bar up again.
Two hundred stamina to enter this state.
Roughly two stamina per second to maintain it.
…Expensive.
But not painfully so.
Usable.
I move.
Jump.
Test my footing.
Based on the feel alone, gravity is about fifty percent lighter than normal.
My ears perk straight up.
The dream of floating through the world while casually snacking on fruit and sweets draws ever closer to reality.
Choosing discipline over my overwhelming desire to see how many consecutive front flips I can do in a single jump, I shut the effect off.
I very deliberately do not test heavy gravity.
Being fifty percent heavier sounds like an excellent way to meet the ground in a deeply personal manner.
Finally—
Starlight.
Unfortunately, there is nothing to use illusions on.
And I already condense it instinctively when forming constructs.
Which means the only thing left to test it on is—
I hold out a finger, pointing at empty air.
Light gathers at the tip, faint at first, then steadily brightening as I feed it energy. The glow sharpens, condenses—
—and I release it.
“Flashbang!” I announce cheerfully.
Radiance detonates.
Pure white light floods the clearing in an instant, overwhelming, all-consuming. Shadows vanish. Colors bleach out of existence. Anything unlucky enough to be facing me at that exact moment is now reconsidering their life choices through the lens of temporary blindness.
What is slightly odd is that I can still see exactly how bright it is.
Not through it—just… objectively. Intensity, spread, duration. Like my eyes are taking notes while politely declining to be affected.
…That shouldn’t work that way.
I nod once, accepting this information with the grace of someone who has stopped questioning cosmic nonsense for their own mental health.
A notification slides into my vision like an overzealous customer marching toward a minimum-wage cashier to demand why a very specific item they saw once on television is no longer in stock.
Rude.
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[Lesser Astral Manipulation (Rare)] has been upgraded into [Astral Manipulation (Epic)]
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I blink.
Once.
My ears snap straight up.
Then—naturally—I plant my hands on my hips and turn my attention skyward, already mid-sentence before anyone can say anything.
“Did you see that?” I say smugly. “Of course you did. It’s purple.”
I puff out my chest just a little, because this is absolutely the correct response to personal success.
My first epic skill.
Purple. Beautiful. Majestic.
A color that very clearly means I was right all along.
Who cares if the rarity is probably being hard-carried by the fact that Astral energy is weird, exclusive, and blatantly unfair.
It counts.
I decide it counts.