Author's Note: An arbitrarily decided milestone has once again been reached over on Royal Road!
As such, bonus chapter today in addition to the regularly scheduled post tomorrow.
Thank you all for the support!
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Rude.
Despite our perfectly reasonable agreement, the Lich has chosen to respond to my question by attempting to kill me.
Some might argue that directly asking about his Aspect invited that response.
…
Which is—yes. Fine. Perhaps.
In my defense, starting the fight immediately after he read my title is objectively the most dramatic timing possible.
I refuse to apologize for excellence in presentation.
Tragic.
I still had questions. Important ones. Particularly about this mysterious “other greater world.”
Honestly, the sheer audacity of starting the battle before I finish my interview is deeply inconsiderate.
Actually—
I look at him, even as the enormous purple circle beneath him glows in a way that can only be described as aggressively ominous.
“You declined to answer my previous inquiry,” I say smoothly. “Therefore, I will claim the right to ask another.”
I rest the tip of my blade lightly against the marble.
“Were there Foxkin in your previous greater world?”
The circle completes its overly dramatic animation, light collapsing inward before resolving into form.
A figure appears.
Six feet tall. Dense, rusted armor. A rusted greatsword to complete the aesthetic—particularly concerning considering the blade is taller than I am.
One miscalculated trajectory, and one Lyn becomes two Lyn’s.
With a generous amount of the color red.
Seven out of ten.
A visually compelling death, certainly.
Regrettably, violent bisection is not on today’s agenda.
I Inspect it.
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Gravebound Duelist (Level 55 | Tier 2)[Summoned Minion]Species: UndeadAspect: Grave
A former swordmaster bound to eternal service through a soul-contract. Retains refined technique and disciplined footwork in death. Executes precise, efficient strikes with little wasted motion.
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Same tier and level as the Lich.
Good to know.
The circle collapses. The Lich raises another hand, and a second—much larger—circle flares to life behind him.
“There were.”
I nod.
“So convergent evolution… or perhaps a form of cross-world recycling?”
He inclines his skull in return.
“My presence here does make the latter a possibility. Now, it is my turn. How did you destroy my soul-contracts?”
The undead warrior attempts to remove my head.
Rude.
I step back just enough to let the blade pass, chaining the motion into a spin.
My strike slams into rusted armor with a harsh clang.
Unfortunate.
“I have a trait.”
Technically true. Informing him that it is my flames would be strategically generous, and lying would be inelegant.
Therefore—
A statement that reveals nothing while still fulfilling the agreement.
My tail swishes once in dignified superiority.
The Gravebound Duelist attacks again, this time angling the greatsword toward my midsection.
The blade moves with far more refinement than its rusted exterior suggests—no wasted windup, no dramatic overextension. Just a clean, efficient arc meant to open me from hip to shoulder.
My vines snap to intercept, four prismatic lengths lashing forward and coiling around his forearm and wrist.
For half a second, it works.
Then he tears through them.
Not with technique.
With raw force.
The vines rupture under the strain, severed strands dispersing into motes of light as he continues the motion without breaking rhythm, the greatsword completing its murderous trajectory toward my torso.
Ah.
So Tier 2 strength is, in fact, substantial.
Noted.
I pivot backward just enough for the edge to pass in front of me, feeling the displacement of air against my clothes. My heel touches marble for the briefest instant before I shift again, sliding sideways as the Duelist chains the missed strike into a rising diagonal cut.
He does not hesitate.
Each swing transitions seamlessly into the next—horizontal into vertical, vertical into thrust. His footwork is compact and deliberate, armored boots scraping and adjusting in precise increments that maintain balance despite the weapon’s size.
There is no flailing.
No desperation.
Just disciplined momentum.
Good.
I resummon my vines mid-step, their lengths reconstituting from shadow as if the prior severing had been a minor inconvenience. They dart inward again—one snapping toward his rear knee, another flicking toward his sword wrist, the remaining two striking at his torso in staggered timing.
He shifts his weight at the last possible moment, turning what should have been a binding into a glancing wrap. The knee-targeting vine catches, but he drives forward regardless, blade thrusting toward my chest.
I lean back, letting Guiding Star pull my center of gravity along the narrowest possible line. The thrust skims past, close enough that I can appreciate the geometry of my own continued existence.
My counter follows immediately—a precise cut aimed at the gap beneath his arm.
It rebounds off of rusted plate with a harsh clang, sparks flaring briefly.
Unfortunate.
The vines continue their harassment regardless—interrupting his follow-through, striking at angles that force him to adjust, wrapping only to be torn free again. They do not penetrate his armor, nor do they meaningfully impair him.
But they do not need to.
Every exchange feeds Celestial Momentum.
Every uninterrupted sequence builds Starfire Resonance.
Free stacks are free stacks.
The Duelist presses harder, recognizing that I yield ground more readily than I concede position. His blade descends in a heavy overhead arc, redirected at the last instant into a low sweep intended to take my legs.
Predictable.
I hop lightly over the sweep, turning the landing into a spin that carries my blade toward the back of his helm. He ducks with surprising agility for something composed primarily of metal and lingering resentment.
His riposte is immediate.
Fast.
Clean.
Efficient.
I will admit—
In terms of pure bladework, this summon surpasses me.
Good.
That simply means I have acquired a highly cooperative dance partner.
And I learn very quickly.
“I notice you are employing some form of magical circle,” I remark lightly, stepping aside as the Duelist’s blade whistles past where I had been. “None of the mages I encountered previously required such theatrics. Would you care to explain its function?”
He hesitates slightly.
“Its the difference between skills and manipulation.”
I see.
He attempts the same strategy I did—an answer that sounds meaningful while offering precisely nothing of substance.
Unfortunate.
I am, however, the most talented and beautiful genius in the world, so I decode the likely implication with minimal effort.
Naturally, I verbalize it.
For destabilization purposes.
Not at all because I enjoy being correct out loud.
“So it is a framework, then. Or perhaps an interface through which mana is routed?”
He pauses for a fraction of a second at the latter.
Gotcha.
So mages construct patterns and push mana through them to achieve controlled effects.
Like runes.
But portable.
Very interesting.
And tragically inefficient compared to instinctively inventing superior techniques mid-battle.
The burden of genius is heavy.
I attempt to flick my hair haughtily.
It does not cooperate.
Unacceptable.
Behind the Lich, the second circle completes its slow, suspicious glow.
Light thickens.
Something pushes through.
A hulking mass steps forward as the circle collapses behind it.
An amalgamation of skeletons fused into a single towering being—large enough to qualify as a giant, or at the very least an aggressively oversized ogre.
…Probably.
Although, considering boars can exceed fifteen feet in height, perhaps I am being dramatic.
It does look menacing.
Four arms, each ending not in hands, but in heavy bone spikes. Dense plating of interlocked skeletal fragments encases its body. Human skulls and ribcages are embedded throughout, and—for reasons that defy aesthetic comprehension—an entire oversized deer skeleton is affixed to its abdomen as though attached mid-assembly and subsequently forgotten.
The deer’s skull rests atop its shoulders like a helmet.
Charming.
Eight out of ten for concept.
Four out of ten for execution.
Asymmetry is deceased, and the Lich appears unwilling to resurrect it.
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Ossuary Abomination (Level 55 | Tier 2)[Summoned Minion]Species: Undead
Aspect: Bone
A compact construct formed from the fused remains of multiple skeletons and bound by soul-contract. Reinforced by layered bone mass, it prioritizes durability and crushing force over finesse. Limbs shift and reconfigure to maintain balance and pressure during close combat.
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About what I expected.
I would prefer not to have my lovely dance interrupted, so I dash toward it with the clear intention of erasing it before it becomes properly annoying.
The instant I attempt to disengage from the Duelist’s range, however, something feels deeply wrong.
Every instinct flares at once, as if the space I am moving through has turned hostile.
I Astral-Step sideways without hesitation, abandoning the line I had chosen.
The Duelist’s greatsword carves through the air exactly where I would have been a heartbeat later.
Close.
That was not him reading my movement. That was something else preventing clean retreat.
Grave Aspect nonsense, most likely.
My left ear twitches in irritation.
If only I had bothered to meaningfully engage those earlier Grave-aspected enemies instead of theatrically converting them into tutorial points within a handful of attacks.
Educational oversight.
I redirect immediately—and nearly receive a bone spear through the chest for my trouble.
The Ossuary Abomination’s upper limbs shift, layered bone grinding against itself as a thick spear extrudes and launches with startling force.
Ending the day with a decorative cavity in my torso would be inconvenient.
My vines snap outward and strike the projectile mid-flight, shattering it against the marble in a spray of splintered bone before it can complete its journey.
The Lich moves his hand again, and a dozen more circles bloom into existence without ceremony.
This time there is no prolonged glow.
The undead simply spill out.
Efficient. Likely weaker.
I Inspect them regardless, and the result confirms them as upgraded versions of the zombie knights I have been dismantling for weeks.
Still.
The board is becoming crowded.
A Duelist whose Aspect punishes clean disengagement.
A towering bone construct that throws projectiles and likely exceeds me in raw strength by an irritating margin.
A dozen enhanced knights closing in from multiple angles.
And the Lich himself, who has yet to demonstrate direct offensive capability.
Yes.
This qualifies as slightly inconvenient.
Fortunately, I possess an excellent solution.
A plan so refined, so unexpected, that only someone of my particular brilliance could conceive it.
“My turn, then,” the Lich says evenly. “What are those vines?”
Bold.
An ambitious question.
He could have asked about my flames.
Instead, he chose correctly.
How refreshing.
“You may observe,” I reply, smoothing my tone to something appropriately noble.
After all, he has provided the perfect transition.
“This.”
I extend my hand, fingers closing around the veil.
Then I tear it open.
“Arcana: Garden of Eternal Midnight.”
Darkness spills outward.
And for the first time since this exchange began, the Lich’s composure falters.
He looks very concerned now.
Guess that means Arcana are a universal concept.
My Garden unfolds in full.
The light spilling through the throne room windows dims slightly, as if the moons have politely been told that they are no longer welcome here.
Marble softens beneath our feet—not melting, exactly, but yielding—as rich soil pushes through the stone. Vines erupt in sweeping arcs, prismatic strands weaving through one another while matte-black dahlias bloom in silent voids across the floor.
They spread quickly.
Up the walls, across the ceiling, through pillars and tapestries with the quiet enthusiasm of something reclaiming property it misplaced centuries ago.
Furniture does not survive the experience.
Tables splinter. Chairs vanish beneath thorns. Chandeliers are dragged down in slow, offended crashes.
And, tragically, the comfy throne perishes as well.
Huh.
My Arcana behaves differently indoors.
I suppose that makes sense. Marble palace floors are not traditionally known for their agricultural potential.
I glance upward.
The ceiling is still there. The vines are wrapped around it. No helpful holes revealing the night sky.
Yet my Starborn trait is active.
Despite the complete and utter absence of starlight reaching me.
That makes absolutely no sense.
Which, in fairness, has never stopped magic before.
Conclusion: the stars apparently accept indoor venues.
Good to know.
The Lich glances around.
And the undead immediately start attacking my beautiful flowers.
Rude.
Vines answer at once—far more numerous than before, surging outward in layered waves. Each knight is greeted by three at a minimum, binding limbs, striking at joints, dragging them off balance.
The Abomination and the Duelist are ignored.
Priorities.
My Momentum stacks are already sitting comfortably high, so the result is predictable. The targeted knights are carved apart in seconds, vines severing limbs and heads cleanly at the joints before they can meaningfully react. Starfire blooms along every cut, and both bone and bound soul burn away without ceremony.
One problem deleted.
The Duelist, however, continues.
Persistent.
Admirable.
Annoying.
It presses in again, blade cutting efficient arcs meant to end things quickly. I shift into Blazing Star Dance, meeting it properly now, answering strike with strike. Horizon slashes angle toward elbows, knees, shoulders—every structural weakness I’ve already catalogued.
There is nothing left to learn.
His form is disciplined and practical, committing only when his armor can absorb the risk. Every attack is linear. Efficient. Strength-forward.
It’s so…
Boring.
No flair. No deviation. No sudden innovation. Just clean, safe fundamentals wrapped in too much metal.
After a minute or two, the patterns are obvious.
Left foot forward, blade turned sideways? Waist-level cut incoming.
Slight sidestep and weight drop? He’s going for my leg.
A backward step that looks cautious? Feint. He wants me to close so he can cleave down the centerline.
Predictable.
I don’t even bother with vines anymore.
I simply dismantle him.
A precise cut takes his left forearm at the joint. He compensates—overcorrects—and loses a leg for it. The shift in balance exposes the narrow seam between helm and breastplate, and my next strike slips through cleanly.
His head separates.
The body collapses.
Time from summoning to death: one minute and some change.
Dozens of exchanges in that span.
I wonder if that’s Asteria standard.
Or if I just end fights quickly.
…
The Lich is staring at me as if I’ve done something unreasonable.
Even the Abomination pauses, bone limbs momentarily still, as though it needs a second to process what just happened to its colleague.
I wonder why.
Surely they didn’t expect this to be easy.
I attempt to keep my expression composed.
A faint grin slips through anyway.
This is still easier than the dragon.
I haven’t even started trying.
So naturally, I ask:
“How many more undead do you have?”