Chapter 70 - Comfy Time!

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You have slain Stonehide Warboar (Level 52 | Tier 2)

A slight experience bonus has been awarded for slaying a monster 2 levels above you.

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No level.

Not even one.

For theatrically decapitating a monster two levels above me.

Tragic.

I suppose that is to be expected when the “fight” consisted of me removing its continued existence from the equation in under a second.

Still disappointing.

Fortunately, the building-sized pig did provide two highly valuable insights before its untimely demise.

First: Astra Nocturne is absurdly sharp.

As expected

There was a faint resistance when cutting through the stone-reinforced portions of its neck, but it was minimal. The blade passed through flesh, bone, and whatever passed for magically enhanced durability with only a slight suggestion that something had been there at all.

And that was without Horizon Slash.

Without Starfall Sequence.

Just a normal swing.

Frankly, the only reason there was any resistance at all is likely due to mana reinforcement or some defensive skill. Cutting through ordinary stone remains completely trivial.

Ten out of ten.

Second: Life Suppression is, quite simply, ridiculous.

Full activation removed the concept of resistance entirely. The boar did not hesitate. It did not struggle. It did not even consider the possibility.

It was forced down.

Not by force in the conventional sense.

By certainty.

I suspect the effect will be far less absolute against anything that meaningfully qualifies as a threat, but even so—

Also a ten out of ten.

A round of applause for the System.

It has been performing surprisingly well as of late.

…That is deeply suspicious.

Based on prior experience, this trend will not continue.

Constant exasperation appears to be one of its core features.

Annoying.

“…monster.”

My tail stills.

Ah.

We are using that word again.

How… uncreative.

With a flick of my wrist, Astra Nocturne dissolves back into my soul.

My smile is just a bit too perfect.

I adjust it and turn.

The bandits are on the ground.

Some kneeling. Some fully collapsed.

All of them looking at me with an intriguing mix of reverence and quiet, lingering horror.

I blink.

Right.

Mental note: I have absolutely no control over Life Suppression.

None.

Which means, regrettably, I should restrict its usage to situations where I am either alone, or where I do not particularly care about the emotional well-being of everyone within a currently undetermined radius.

This situation falls firmly into the latter category.

I have no intention of remaining in the beginner village longer than necessary. I have already received my reward. The only potential complication is whether or not they will still agree to relocate, which would make for a mildly inconvenient follow-up conversation with Arlo.

Conclusion: successful test.

Minimal consequences.

Very nice.

Their gazes shift.

Locking onto my completely still tail.

And then—

Their expressions change.

The fear remains.

Unmistakable.

But something else settles beneath it.

A faint edge of remorse.

And something softer.

Something I do not immediately categorize.

…Sympathy?

I pause.

Irrelevant.

I flick my tail, deliberately smoothing it into a casual, controlled rhythm.

…

Korr's expression worsens.

More remorse.

More of that strange softness.

I do not understand.

How are they differentiating between those movements?

The difference is subtle.

Extremely subtle.

And yet they react to it as though it were obvious.

That is… concerning.

Having complete strangers read my emotional state with this level of accuracy is deeply uncomfortable.

...Deeply.

The clearing settles into an awkward silence, broken only by the quiet rustle of fabric and armor as the bandits slowly rise to their feet.

I hop down from my perch atop the boar’s corpse and place a hand against its hide.

A moment later, the entire thing vanishes into my spatial storage.

Convenient.

I clap lightly to gather their attention—as though I did not already have it—then speak.

“I assume the village chief is awaiting our arrival. Please begin packing any belongings you wish to bring. Once you are finished, I will guide you there.”

Not that there is much to pack.

I had briefly entertained the possibility of discovering something interesting—perhaps a hidden woodland hamlet, or at least some attempt at structural ambition befitting a group of one hundred individuals.

Instead, I am presented with tents, firepits, and a selection of log benches that appear to have been designed with discomfort as a primary feature.

Cozy, this is not.

A few bandits open their mouths, clearly intending to say something, then reconsider and begin dismantling the camp with impressive efficiency.

Within two minutes, the entire clearing is stripped bare.

Once again, Dexterity proves itself to be the best stat.

Then—

Something mildly unexpected.

A handful of bandits, evidently possessing wood-aspected abilities, begin working together. With practiced motions, they shape and pull material from the surrounding environment, sometimes even creating it out of thin air, before forming solid wooden constructs as if assembling them from memory.

Within minutes, a full carriage takes shape.

Functional.

Stable.

Surprisingly well made.

They load their belongings inside, then—through a process of decisive pointing and mutual agreement—select the lone Horsekin, presumably Smelly Pete, along with two Dogkin, to pull it using a conveniently integrated front bar.

My tail flicks in approval.

Now that is proper use of magic.

The group relaxes slightly as they work.

The sharp edge of fear dulls, settling into something quieter.

Not gone.

Just… contained.

“Shall we be off?”

I am met with a chorus of nods, a scattering of wagging tails, and a few enthusiastic—if slightly strained—“hell yeah”s.

I nod in return and begin walking.

…At a pace comparable to highway speeds.

They keep up.

Even those pulling the carriage.

Easily.

Impressive.

After a short while, the bandit leader—the one who had drawn his weapon on me without hesitation—moves closer and speaks.

“Was thinkin’ ‘bout whether I should ask this or not,” he begins, voice careful, “but I can’t help my curiosity. How did ya kill that thing so easily at your level?”

Ah.

Right.

I am, of course, still presenting myself as dramatically weaker than I actually am.

A deliberate choice.

A calculated decision.

I absolutely did not forget to swap it back.

My tail sways in quiet, dignified superiority.

He watches it, his expression shifting into mild confusion, as if attempting to decode something that is clearly beyond him.

I open my status window and revert my displayed level and tier to their proper values before responding.

“I was concealing my level using an item. If you wish, you may inspect me again.”

He does.

The reaction is immediate.

Fascinating.

His expression transitions through a remarkably clean sequence—recognition, confusion, and finally, disbelief.

“…Epic rarity?” he mutters. “And an advanced aspect?”

I blink.

“You are well informed,” I reply. “I admit that I am somewhat lacking in general knowledge regarding this world. Would you mind explaining why this is so… shocking?”

He stares at me for a moment.

“…Ya don’t know?”

I resist the urge to sigh.

If I did, I would not have asked.

I shake my head instead.

He exhales slowly, clearly reorganizing his thoughts before speaking again.

“An epic class is rare,” he says. “Real rare. Most Tier 2 fighters I’ve met? Uncommon. Maybe a few rares, if they’re trained—knights, soldiers, that sort. I’ve only ever seen two rare classes myself.”

A pause.

Then—

“I’ve never seen an epic before.”

His gaze lingers on me, something like disbelief still flickering beneath the surface.

“Especially not one with an advanced aspect like Prismatic.”

I nod slightly.

That aligns with expectations.

As if a normal knight could match me.

We continue speaking as we move along the path, the conversation consisting primarily of the man—Korr, as I have since learned—attempting to extract clarification from my earlier statement regarding “this world.”

The system announcement had informed everyone that the integration was happening, which was very thoughtful of it. Actual details, however, apparently remained conspicuously absent.

I indulge him. Partially. Selective truth is still truth, after all.

I omit certain details. Such as the dragon. And the lich. And the part where I restructured an entire ecosystem out of spite.

Minor things.

Eventually, we leave the treeline and transition into the berry fields, following a path that appears to have been designed by someone with a personal vendetta against efficiency. It curves unnecessarily. Repeatedly. 

I choose not to comment.

Most of the farmers we pass pay us little mind. A few offer casual waves before returning to their deeply suspicious agricultural practices—namely, the repeated violation of fundamental physical laws through spontaneous berry duplication.

A few glance toward the bandits with caution. Then they notice me. Recognition settles in, and the tension eases.

…Word travels quickly.

Highly suspicious.

Most likely culprit: Rook.

Speaking of which—

I pause briefly as we pass him. He is currently bludgeoning a brown slime to death with a tree branch. Not refined, but effective.

He notices me immediately and waves with unrestrained enthusiasm. 

I return the gesture with a small, dignified wave before continuing onward.

After nearly twenty minutes of travel—due to the frankly offensive scale of this place—we arrive at the gate, followed by approximately one hundred newly reformed bandits.

Arlo is already waiting, alongside Sera.

Strangely, Thane is nowhere to be found.

They look at me. Then at the group behind me. Then back at me.

Confusion settles in.

Sera is the first to speak. “Did you change clothes in the woods?”

I tilt my head, then summon my battle dress briefly before dismissing it again. 

“My armor functions similarly to my weapon. I can call for it at will.”

The reaction is immediate. Undisguised jealousy—from Sera, from Arlo, and from a significant portion of the bandits.

Ah.

So armament accessories are also rare.

Noted.

…Or perhaps not. This is, by all accounts, a “tiny” frontier village. It is entirely possible that such conveniences are more common in properly developed regions.

Conclusion: investigate later.

Sera recovers first, her attention shifting toward the bandits. Arlo follows. He studies them for a moment before speaking.

“Did somethin’ happen in the forest? They seem rather… subdued.”

Korr immediately becomes fascinated with the ground. Then the wall. Then the sky. An impressive display of distraction.

I tilt my head. “You have met them before?”

Arlo nods. 

“They robbed me once.”

Sera nods as well. 

“Me too.”

…

“I see. That is rather… bold.”

I decide not to explore that further.

“They are behaving differently because we were attacked at their camp. A Tier Two monster.”

Their reactions are immediate—shock, concern. Sera steps forward, hands lifting as if she intends to physically extract additional information from me via extreme shoulder shaking.

My tail flicks.

Warning shot fired.

She stops.

“I already dealt with the monster,” I say calmly. “However, I decided to test an intimidation skill I acquired during my tutorial but had not yet had the opportunity to use.”

I gesture lightly toward the bandits behind me.

“That is why they are so wary.”

They stare at me.

Blankly.

As if I have just spoken in a completely different language.

Rude.

At this point, I am fairly certain my existence is perceived as a continuous stream of unanswered questions by nearly everyone I have encountered in Asteria.

With one exception.

Rook.

He does not strike me as someone burdened by excessive thinking.

I pivot.

“On a related note, what would you like me to do with the corpse? I intend to keep some of the meat, but it is far too large for me to utilize in full.”

They tilt their heads.

In perfect unison.

That is distinctly my gesture.

“Did you bring it with you?” Sera asks.

I nod, extending my left hand.

The corpse appears instantly.

A small building’s worth of boar materializes beside me, eliciting a collective startle from everyone in the immediate vicinity.

Sera’s hand snaps toward her spear—then stops as she registers the rather critical detail that the boar is missing its head.

I suppress a very dignified giggle.

Arlo recovers first, turning toward me with a thoughtful look.

“Would ya mind sellin’ this to me? Plenty of daylight left—we could host a feast for the whole village tonight with this much meat. I can pay five silver.”

Five silver.

Roughly one thousand dollars, based on my current working conversion.

For a single swing.

And a brief demonstration of overwhelming existential dread.

Noted.

Monster hunting is profitable.

I nod.

“I accept. Would you require assistance moving it?”

Arlo shakes his head, already reaching into a pouch at his waist. He counts out the coins and hands them to me.

“We’ll manage.”

My tail swishes in quiet approval as I accept the payment.

I offer a small curtsy.

“In that case, I will take my leave. I intend to secure lodging before visiting the baths. I leave the former bandits in your care.”

He nods.

“Thanks for yer help. I’ll see ya at the feast?”

“I look forward to it.”

With that, I depart, slipping through the gate and into the town. After a brief interval of high-speed movement and entirely reasonable rooftop traversal, I locate the inn Arlo recommended.

The Catkin woman at the front desk looks mildly inconvenienced when she has to break a full silver into smaller denominations, but the transaction is completed successfully, and I acquire a room.

After ascending to the third floor, I unlock the door and step inside.

Then pause.

Yes.

Exactly as expected.

If one were to visualize the concept of a beginner village inn room, this would be the result.

A single window with thin, inexpensive curtains tied back with a mismatched ribbon. A wooden bedframe in the corner, topped with a mattress that looks deeply committed to discomfort, covered in white sheets, a white blanket, and a white pillow.

Because, apparently, variety is forbidden.

A small wooden nightstand sits beside the bed, and a brown rug occupies the center of the room, completing the aesthetic with admirable dedication to mediocrity.

Four out of ten.

Additional points awarded for commitment to cliché.

My tail flicks in annoyance.

After closing the door behind me, I sit on the edge of the bed and choose the most reasonable, perfectly normal thing to do.

I stretch out a hand and rip a tear into reality like an overzealous rodent attempting to gain access to an unattended bag of chips.

“You can’t weaponize curtains.”

“With enough ambition, you can weaponize anything.”

“That’s not comforting.”

I interject myself into the argument smoothly.

“I agree wholeheartedly. Being attacked by weaponized low-budget room decorations is a rather concerning prospect.”

The stars greet me with a large number of enthusiastic hellos, a few highly unnecessary sound effects, and—disturbingly—that one star is still talking about chili dogs.

I zero in on one voice in particular.

“I’m cashing in the favor you owe me. Please locate the nearest crepe stall. One with strawberry and banana crepes.”

There’s a brief pause.

Then he speaks, voice deep and heavy.

“The nearest to you is one hundred and eighty-three thousand kilometers to your east. Two kingdoms over.”

…

I process the number for a second.

One hundred and eighty-three thousand?

“You are telling me that the nearest crepe stall is a fourth of the sun’s radius away?”

“Yes.”

I breathe in.

I breathe out.

Then, calmly—gracefully—I throw my hands into the air in exasperation.

“Why the hell is it so far away?! Even at my speed, that’s likely a week’s journey at bare minimum. At top speed!”

“…Lyn… I have a piece of devastating news that I think you need to hear.”

I lower my hands and tilt my head at the ripped veil. “What?”

“Lyn. You are a fox.”

“…I already knew that?”

“Foxes are lactose intolerant.”

…Huh?

“But I am not just a fox. I am a fox girl. Surely—”

“Lyn. All Beastkin have the same dietary restrictions as their respective animals. You are no different.”

The same dietary restrictions.

There’s a distinct moment where my brain pauses as I consider the implications.

“…All of them?” I whisper.

“All of them,” he confirms.

I fall to my hands and knees in overdramatic despair.

That means…

Not just lactose intolerance.

If I have every dietary weakness as a fox, that means chocolate, garlic, onions, and grapes are all extremely dangerous.

Caffeine is gone.

Anything heavily processed or excessively fatty?

Also gone.

Grains or highly salty food?

Likely to give me a catastrophically inconvenient stomachache.

Naturally, I accept this revelation with the grace and humility expected of the most beautiful, well-controlled person in the universe.

Which is to say, I rise, stomp my foot in annoyance, and exit my inn room with great dignity and only a slight increase in speed.

Distraction time.

Namely, I am thirsty.

And I desperately need a bath.

Not because I smell bad—my regular starfire cleanses thoughtfully remove all dirt, grease, and scent from my body, leaving me as clean as reasonably possible—

—but because it has been over a month since I have been able to enjoy the simple pleasure of being neck-deep in warm water.

A tragedy.

One I fully intend to correct immediately.

I locate the nearest store and browse the shelves for a while.

To no avail.

Only endless aisles of meat, berries, and a general assortment of clothing, camping gear, and suspiciously detailed wooden carvings of the village chief.

As well as a few assorted Beastkin.

One of which I recognize as Sera.

Highly concerning.

Disturbing, even.

I pick one up.

Turn it slightly.

Examine the craftsmanship.

…The likeness is accurate.

I put it back down.

Carefully.

And leave the store empty-handed.

There are questions here.

I will not be asking them.

Instead, I redirect my efforts toward hydration and begin walking toward the public bathhouse, inspecting every Beastkin I pass.

It doesn’t take long to find someone with “Water” in their class name.

Promising.

I approach, offer a large copper, and present a few canteens I purchased from the tutorial shop.

He fills them without hesitation.

Magic truly is the backbone of a civilized society.

Having thoroughly enjoyed my first taste of crisp, cold water in over a month, I continue on, my tail swishing behind me with a level of enthusiasm that is, frankly, a little embarrassing.

It appears to have achieved enlightenment.

Understandable.

The water was excellent.

Like the difference between canned Sprite and the aggressively superior, slightly illegal-tasting nectar of the gods dispensed at a local McDonald’s.

…Not that I could even drink it anymore if it existed here.

I sigh.

Tragic.

Absolutely tragic.

I quickly reach the bathhouse Arlo pointed out during the tour and step inside.

A bit of small talk with the overenthusiastic Dogkin woman manning the front desk—who appears to have decided that I am either her new best friend or a mildly concerning celebrity—and I manage to pay the fee.

Two copper.

A triumph for hygiene.

Honestly, at that price, I am half convinced this is a public service funded by divine intervention or aggressive civic pride.

Either way, acceptable.

I step through into what appears to be a slightly fantasy-chic locker room. Laminated wood cabinets line the walls—warm-toned, polished, and refreshingly free of the cold, industrial hostility of metal or plastic.

Points for atmosphere.

Plenty of other Beastkin women are present, dressing, undressing, or engaged in casual conversation while in various states of exposure.

No one seems particularly bothered.

No awkwardness.

No scrambling for towels.

No sudden, synchronized panic.

Just… normal.

I observe this for approximately half a second, then shrug.

When in Rome.

I strip down without hesitation, sending my clothes and accessories—aside from my null band—into my spatial storage before moving toward the door leading deeper into the baths.

A few gazes shift toward me as I cross the room.

Naturally.

I am, after all, extremely eye-catching.

This is not arrogance. This is an objective observation supported by overwhelming visual evidence.

My tail flicks once in quiet, dignified superiority.

Then I step through the door.

The bathhouse opens up into a wide, softly lit chamber, steam curling lazily through the air. Warm light reflects off the surface of the water, turning it into a gently rippling mirror broken only by the occasional movement of other bathers.

Stone flooring.

Smooth edges.

Subtle decorative carvings along the walls—nothing excessive, just enough to suggest someone cared.

Respectable.

I scan the space, locate a relatively secluded corner, and make my way toward it with the calm efficiency of someone about to achieve enlightenment.

Then—

I sink into the water.

All the way to my nose.

And immediately cease functioning as a person.

Yes.

This is it.

This is what victory feels like.

Heat wraps around me like a perfectly calibrated embrace, seeping into muscles that have been operating under deeply unreasonable expectations for far too long.

My tail floats lazily behind me, drifting with a level of contentment that borders on spiritual awakening.

My ears relax.

My thoughts slow.

I melt.

Completely. Utterly.

Irreversibly.

Comfort achieved.

Eleven out of ten.

No notes.

I live here now.

Excessive drama aside, the sensation is perfect.

The water is precisely the right temperature—warm enough to relax, not so hot that it feels like an assassination attempt—and the ambient noise sits at a level best described as respectfully nonexistent.

Conversations drift through the steam in low, quiet murmurs.

Even the Dogkin speak in hushed tones, as though the preservation of bathhouse tranquility has temporarily overtaken their otherwise heroic commitment to overeager conversation.

Much appreciated.

Although—with my ears and my current investment in perception—I still hear everything with perfect clarity.

Every word.

Every whisper.

Every deeply important discussion about berry pricing, someone’s cousin, and what I strongly suspect is a very one-sided argument about soup.

…Which is, admittedly, likely the reason the atmosphere is so subdued in the first place.

Beastkin senses are absurd.

Even those without perception-focused racial skills—or any meaningful investment in the stat—are operating at a baseline that would make a human feel like they’ve been issued defective ears.

Which means:

Everyone here can hear everything.

At all times.

No distance. No privacy. No escape.

And thus—

No one is yelling.

No one is even speaking at a normal volume.

This entire room is functioning under an unspoken, universally agreed-upon rule of collective auditory mercy.

Fascinating.

I sink a fraction deeper into the water, letting it lap just beneath my nose as I watch the gentle rise and fall of steam across the surface.

A world this large.

A society built around magic, stats, and species that would cause a standard human biology textbook to burst into flames on sight—

—and this is how culture adapts.

Not with laws.

Not with enforcement.

Just… quiet agreement.

Mutual understanding.

And, presumably, the very real threat of everyone knowing exactly what you said, immediately, forever.

Efficient.

I approve.

My tail gives a slow, contented sway beneath the water.

This may, in fact, be the most civilized place I have encountered so far.

Suspicious.

My deep inspection into the nature of bathhouse ethics is interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.

Tragic.

I rise from the water just enough for my head to fully escape the warmth, then turn toward whoever has decided that the optimal bathing strategy involves invading the clearly designated territory of someone already achieving enlightenment.

Ah.

It’s just Sera.

Guess she is off shift now.

“Mind if I join you?”

I nod and gesture vaguely to the water beside me, magnanimous as always.

She slides in without hesitation, then immediately dunks her entire head beneath the surface, leaving only the tips of her brown cat ears poking through the waterline.

…

I suppress a giggle.

There is something deeply amusing about anything even vaguely cat-adjacent willingly submerging itself.

This feels like a violation of several natural laws.

Her head resurfaces a moment later, and she leans back against the wall beside me with the relaxed confidence of someone who has done this many times before.

I consider the situation.

Then follow suit.

Hair fully drenched, my fox ears now doing an excellent impression of a waterlogged carpet, I settle against the stone.

Dignified.

Extremely.

We sit in silence for a few minutes before Sera speaks.

“Got soap?”

I blink.

Right.

I am here for the experience.

Not the cleaning.

Unfortunately, “I am already perfectly clean due to starfire” is not a socially acceptable answer.

“None,” I reply.

“Want to borrow some?”

“I appreciate it.”

We both rise and move to one of the washing stations, where she retrieves a small collection of products from a bag she had the foresight to leave here in advance.

Efficient.

I approve.

She hands me a few bottles before beginning her own routine, while I focus on my hair first.

Once we finish, we switch, each handling the parts that are slightly more awkward to reach.

She uses a proper back-cleaning loofah.

I take a more direct approach.

A vine slips from my shadow, gently dragging the sponge across my back with practiced ease.

Sera pauses mid-motion.

Stares.

There is a distinct shift in her expression.

“That ability looks useful.”

I nod.

“It is extremely versatile. I have found far more uses than weaknesses.”

“Does it even have weaknesses?”

I consider that.

“…Durability and damage, primarily. They snap rather easily against anything near my stat line. They are better suited for control than direct offense.”

I manifest another vine, this one lined with thorns.

It flexes once in the air.

“Although they can still be… persuasive.”

Then it dissolves.

She watches it go.

“…Convenient.”

“Indeed.”

We return to the bath afterward, sinking back into the warmth with the quiet understanding of two people who have just successfully completed a socially required task.

Cleanliness achieved.

Respectability maintained.

Crisis avoided.

We sit in silence again for a while before I speak.

“Forgive me if this is considered inappropriate, but I am curious. What is your Aspect?”

She glances at me.

“I don’t really care, but some people might. It’s Wood.”

Wood.

Useful.

Very useful.

“Are you able to create wooden constructs out of nothing?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you be willing to create a wooden sword for me? I can offer a large copper.”

She raises a brow.

“You already have a sword.”

“I do. However, walking through town with it visible is likely to cause mild societal instability.”

A pause.

Then she nods.

“…Yeah, that would do it.”

“I would like to practice manipulation techniques without alarming the general population.”

“That makes sense. I’ll make one for you when we leave.”

“I appreciate it.”

With that settled, we sink back into the water once more.

Heat wraps around me again, undoing what little tension remains.

My tail swishes lazily beneath the surface in profound appreciation.

Yes.

This is correct.

I really could live here.

Tempting.

Very tempting.