The night is calm.
A gentle breeze ghosts through the treetops, swaying leaves and whispering through branches as violet moonlight washes the world in rich, unfamiliar hues—foreign, surreal, and objectively very pretty.
Unfortunately, the tranquility is violently interrupted by the indignant squawk of a bird as it suddenly and inexplicably crumples midair—
—and then rockets toward the forest floor like it’s been fired from a cannon.
Tragic.
I continue on toward the fog wall without looking back, stepping lightly from branch to branch and pointedly ignoring the soon-to-be forest-floor soup that I just used as an impromptu stepping stone.
…
…
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You have slain Galecrest Eagle (Level 34 | Tier 1).
A slight experience bonus has been awarded for slaying a monster 2 levels above you.
You have gained 40 Tutorial Points.
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My tail swishes in a way that has nothing to do with amusement and everything to do with science.
Four seconds.
That’s how long it took to hit the ground after getting drop-kicked out of the sky by a fox with zero regard for PETA complaints.
As if I needed more proof that these trees are ridiculously tall.
“Your body count must be nearly a thousand at this point.”
I tilt my head.
“First of all, it’s definitely more than a thousand.” I pause. “Secondly, don’t phrase it like that.”
“…”
I can practically hear the gears grinding in his head as the thought struggles uphill.
Then it clicks.
He opens his mouth.
“OH! You mean—”
I glare up at the sky.
At least half the stars immediately join me, their collective disapproval radiating with impressive efficiency.
He stops mid-sentence.
Good.
I was about half a second away from launching a full-scale insult offensive, and I prefer to save those for special occasions.
Still, this slight against my dignity cannot be forgiven.
I straighten just a little and speak with the cadence of someone who will tolerate absolutely no appeals.
“I hereby dub you The Tactless One.”
The stars respond with thousands of metaphorical nods.
A ruling has been made.
He—wisely—elects not to speak again.
Good choice.
I nod once in satisfaction and continue on.
More specifically…
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Zone Transition Detected
You are approaching the boundary of Zone 4.
Entry Requirement: Defeat the designated Area Boss.
Recommended Level: 35
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My ears perk immediately.
Not for the Zone Four boss, of course. I’m not that optimistic.
No—my excitement is reserved entirely for the fact that this is the only piece of flimsy narrative tape standing between me and the dragon.
Naturally, I poke Yes.
Then I poke it again.
And again.
…And again.
At some point I stop counting, but the number is definitely north of thirty.
The fog hesitates.
Just for half a second.
Then it surges forward and swallows my vision.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
A System that supersedes reality itself. That hands out stats. That rewrites physics. That turns people into dragons and foxes.
And I can make it lag by clicking too fast.
Truly.
Peak optimization.
It takes an extra second longer than usual for the fog to clear.
My tail lashes once in irritation.
Fine. I will stop spamming Yes buttons.
…Probably.
After all, that’s a full second and a half I could have spent on dramatic violence and—if circumstances aligned—possibly the early stages of a country-sized wildfire.
Because I can already tell: a fight between me and a dragon is going to be many things.
Subtle will not be one of them.
Environmentally friendly is also off the table.
As usual, my nose gets there first.
Blood.
Rot.
And something else—strange and almost sweet. Chemical. Like sap that went to medical school and came back wrong.
Hearing follows.
Nothing.
No wind. No insects. No ambient forest noise.
Just a soft, rhythmic clicking sound, slow and deliberate.
Chitin.
One ear tilts sideways in deeply offended Foxkin.
…Yeah.
This is definitely a greater version of the giant spider, isn’t it?
Of course it would be.
The fog finally peels away from my vision, revealing—
A spider.
Who could have possibly predicted this.
It sits atop a web large enough to qualify as architecture, an absolutely enormous arachnid staring down at me with all eight of its eyes.
Two of them glow with a soft, muted gray.
Charming.
There are few things I enjoy less than making prolonged eye contact with a vaguely room-sized threat to my mental health at approximately four in the morning.
I study it more closely.
Its chitin is a dull, ashen black, shot through with veins of bone white that pulse faintly beneath the surface. Its abdomen bulges outward, swollen with cloudy silk sacs grown directly into the chitin—each one just translucent enough for me to make out curled silhouettes shifting slowly inside.
I choose to ignore that.
The spider’s long, spindly legs anchor it to the web like structural supports, each ending in a sharpened point. It’s very easy—too easy—to imagine them unfolding and rushing forward, a forest of flesh and extremely poor life choices bearing down on me at speed.
Its face never leaves me.
Two massive fangs hang beneath its eyes, each longer than my forearm, steadily dripping a necrotic gray venom that has already withered the grass in a wide circle beneath its perch.
Naturally, I nod in appreciation.
Nine out of ten.
Now that is a boss.
Bonus points for very clearly being an entirely different species from the giant spiders infesting the Boundary.
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Death-Touched Weaver (Level 35 | Tier 1)
[Area Boss]
Species: Arachnid
Aspect: Wither
A colossal arachnid infused with withering force, its silk drains vitality and suppresses recovery. Rather than killing outright, it hunts through exhaustion and inevitable collapse.
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Hm.
That aspect isn’t concerning at all.
At least a dozen high-pitched shrieks erupt from the peanut gallery above.
I make a conscious, deliberate decision to pretend that one of them was not the extremely deep, gravelly voice I distinctly remember from a profoundly unimportant conversation involving sheep.
There are lines I will not cross.
Even for teasing.
Arachnophobia is one of them.
As long as the stars never broach the subject of those unspeakable beings of pure existential horror known as moths, I will continue to extend the same courtesy regarding other creepy crawlies.
…The spider still isn’t moving.
Zero for two on tactically baiting out an attack.
Which is definitely what I was doing.
I would never briefly zone out in the middle of a boss fight.
That being said, for the sake of my family—several of whom are very obviously looking away right now—I should probably end this quickly.
Naturally, I already know the correct solution.
Fire is super effective against bug types, after all.
This is common knowledge.
I approach the nearest web, keeping one eye on the boss.
It doesn’t move.
It just… stares.
Judgingly.
I briefly wonder how long that’s going to last.
Then I press my hand lightly against a strand thicker than my arm, and starfire coils around my palm.
The silk ignites instantly.
Rainbow flame races along the web at terrifying speed, leaping from strand to strand and setting the entire structure ablaze in seconds.
The spider screeches.
The cloudy silk sacs rupture, bursting open and dropping various undead payloads to the ground with a series of wet, deeply unpleasant plops.
I wrinkle my nose as the smell hits.
I have been breathing around rotting undead for two straight days.
This is worse.
So much worse.
It’s like a rancid dumpster filled with assorted meats and dairy products that was then left in the sun for a full month, shaken vigorously, and opened directly under my nose.
Naturally, I engulf myself in starfire.
Then I nod in quiet appreciation.
Starfire really is the best.
I briefly question the physics behind burning a smell out of the air, but I decide not to dwell on it.
My education did not, unfortunately, extend to the interaction between several-thousand-degree flames and extreme olfactory assaults.
Therefore—
Magic.
Once again, the perfect explanation.
The spider, strangely, does not share my sense of appreciation.
It lets out another ear-splitting screech and launches itself from the web before the flames can reach it, hitting the ground with a thunderous thud as its spiked legs stab deep into the soil.
Eight eyes lock onto me, all seething with incandescent rage at having its home converted into an avant-garde landscaping project in the span of a few seconds.
I roll my eyes right back at it.
“So dramatic.”
Honestly.
Excessive drama is my thing, and much like a multi-billion-dollar corporation defending its beloved cash-cow IPs, I do not appreciate copycats.
I draw my sword with appropriate flair, punctuating the motion with a small, unnecessary wrist spin.
It screeches again.
On cue, the dozen or so zombies and armored zombies begin advancing—shambling forward with the enthusiasm of a particularly ancient grandmother spotting a brand-new fridge magnet on the far side of a thrift store.
Which is to say: extremely enthusiastic.
Just not fast.
…At least not to me.
To anyone with a remotely sane stat distribution, this would probably qualify as a real problem. But I personally subscribe to the philosophy that speed is key.
It hasn’t betrayed me yet.
Excluding the boar situation.
That didn’t count.
The first zombie finally reaches me and lunges.
It manages exactly one step before its head departs its body mid-charge.
Grass flattens beneath my boots as I glide forward, weaving through the lesser undead in what would almost certainly look extremely cinematic from a third-person perspective.
Every swing deletes another enemy—heads rolling, bodies folding, halves parting cleanly as I pass.
Another screech rips through the clearing.
Ah. A tell.
I ignore it.
As expected, several strands of webbing fire from the spider’s abdomen, curving midair and arcing toward me with the unshakable confidence of something that has absolutely no idea how physics works.
They reach me—
—and instantly ignite the moment they so much as graze my starfire shell.
Meanwhile, the last undead collapses, and I Astral Step straight toward the boss.
To its credit, it reacts.
One leg begins to rise in a desperate attempt to intercept me.
Unfortunately for it, desperation is not a substitute for speed.
I jump.
Gravity lightens reflexively, then reverses as I raise my sword overhead. Starfire flares. Runes blaze to life. The air presses down.
“Horizon Slash!”
My blade bites into the spider’s head with a wet, crunching resistance, cleaving straight through chitin and continuing all the way to the ground.
The boss’s head splits cleanly in half.
I correct my gravity before I even land, touching down lightly in the grass as the massive body begins the slow, inevitable process of collapsing behind me.
I don’t bother looking back.
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You have slain Death-Touched Weaver (Level 35 | Tier 1).
A slight experience bonus has been awarded for slaying a monster 2 levels above you.
You have gained 39 Tutorial Points.
Your race has leveled up to level 33.
Your class has leveled up to level 33.
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Area Boss: Grave Matron has been defeated.
Awarding 300 Tutorial Points
A treasure chest has spawned.
Bonus Achievements Activated:
Slayed Area Boss under recommended level → +200 Tutorial Points
Slayed Area Boss alone → +300 Tutorial Points
Treasure chest contents have been upgraded.
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Dexterity Threshold Surpassed: 500
Special Skill Unlocked: [Slipstream]
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I blink.
…That’s new.
A Special Skill for surpassing five hundred Dexterity.
Interesting.
Naturally, I immediately open my status and inspect it.
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[Slipstream]
A high-level kinetic adaptation unlocked through extreme Dexterity.
(Passive) Reduces atmospheric resistance during movement by dynamically redirecting airflow around the user. Prevents excessive heat buildup, pressure shock, and drag caused by extreme velocity. Dampens external resistance and reduces strain caused by atmospheric pressure differentials during high-speed movement.
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One ear flicks in dignified irritation.
So much for achieving a sonic boom through raw Dexterity alone.
…Probably for the best.
I’m already approaching that threshold, and I’m only five days old in System terms.
The idea of how fast I might be in a few years is—
Well.
Highly concerning.
But also exciting.
Another thing to look forward to.
My tail gives a slow, anticipatory sway.