Chương 15: Bullying The Local Wildlife

My tail flicks with unrestrained satisfaction. I have gained critically important information. Knowledge so vital to my continued survival in this world that historians will one day mark this moment as a turning point. A true epiphany. Illusion plus Silent Star equals the perfect exit strategy from awkward social situations. No footsteps. No sound. No dramatic farewell. Just gone. Efficient. Elegant. Devastating to small talk. Oh.

And yes— Learning about everyone else's racial and class skills was also moderately useful, I suppose. Most of it was exactly what I expected. Catkin go all in on Dexterity, naturally, with a racial skill that boosts reflexes. Agile, twitchy, and absolutely convinced they can dodge consequences. Wolfkin lean hard into Strength and Dexterity, paired with an endurance-focused racial skill. Hit hard. Hit fast. Keep going. Humans, interestingly enough, skew toward Charisma, Vitality, and Intelligence.

And their racial skill is… special. Adaptation. Honestly? I might be a little jealous. According to the subtly terrified man, it's absurdly versatile. Once he adapted to the mist, his vision improved noticeably—and it even let him survive a lethal infection from one of the rats in the first zone. Which brings me to a fun little side note. I now have confirmed evidence that at least one person died to the heavily diseased rats in Zone One. Turns out not everyone received the memo about the conveniently placed trees.

Some people opted to sleep on the ground instead, got bitten in the middle of the night— —and then died of sepsis before a healer could help. It took every ounce of self-control I possess not to giggle when he told me that. As funny as it is, judging by the somber tone he used, I suspect he wouldn't have appreciated my mirth. A real shame, honestly. The giggle of a beautiful girl is a blessing upon all that exists in the world. Which brings me to the actually interesting ones. Wood Elves. And Chimera.

Wood Elves, apparently, get a disgusting ten stat points per level at Tier 0—five of which are free points, with the rest split between the two magic stats and Vitality. Which is… odd. You'd think elves would lean Dexterity, but when half your stats are free, I suppose the system just hands you a build-your-own nightmare kit and calls it balance. Their racial skill is also obscene. While in forests, they receive boosts to everything. Stats. Skills. Regeneration. Even experience gain gets a little nudge.

And it's percentage-based. Meaning right now it's mildly annoying, but later on? Fighting a Wood Elf in a forest sounds like an excellent way to get sent to the afterlife with same-day shipping. Naturally, that sounds fun. I add it to the bucket list. … It's getting worryingly long. Then there are Chimera. Somehow even more busted than elves. They get eleven stat points per level. All eleven are free points. My race conveniently specializes in my favorite stats, so I'm not personally offended, but still—holy shit.

Their racial skill is also strong, granting complete simultaneous control over their natural weaponry. Which brings us neatly to their only downside. Their appearance. I actually saw a few of them back in the starting clearing. At the time, I'd written them off as "huh, those guys look weird" and moved on with my life. That was a mistake. At a glance, they look vaguely human. At a closer look, they are very much not. Vertical slit pupils, amber-colored and far too reflective.

Horns curling out of their temples, sharpened just enough to maximize headbutt damage. Rough, almost armor-like skin along their limbs. Fingers and toes that resemble spikes more than extremities—particularly concerning if you imagine them racing toward your eye socket. And of course, the pièce de résistance. A living snake for a tail. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

All in all, a race that screams: If violence isn't the answer— —then you aren't using enough violence. Seven out of ten. Points deducted for offending my completely unbiased, highly scientific aesthetic sensibilities. An assessment they do not appear to share. I didn't actually talk to the Chimera I saw, but the expression he gave me suggested a mixture of apprehension, mild horror, and what the fuck is that thing and is it going to kill me. Rude. Which means he's probably perfectly comfortable in his own skin.

After all, if I looked like that, I'd be inconsolable. No amount of cosmic intimidation would drag me out of my dramatic hysterics. Which raises an uncomfortable question: Do the people who changed races actually fit the races forced upon them? I discard that line of thought immediately. I am nothing like a fox, after all. From what I know, foxes are curious, playful, and expressive—their mood shifting from energetic to lazy seemingly at random. I tilt my head. My tail flicks haughtily. Yes. Nothing alike.

I blame the system. A beam of radiance lances from my fingertip—noticeably stronger than before—and the unfortunate flower it hits ceases to exist. Instantly. Speaking of intimidation… It would seem my evolution decided that subtlety was no longer a requirement. My starlight is stronger. Sharper. Far less interested in negotiating with reality.

Forming the blade earlier was effortless compared to how it was earlier, and it actually turned out properly this time—no lopsided nonsense, decent balance, and, most importantly, no lingering aura of disappointment. Convenient. I flick my hair haughtily. Then I grimace. I slow my full-speed sprint toward the next zone, glancing back at the long curtain of hair trailing behind me. Not that it's difficult. The stupidly luxurious waterfall of white strands now reaches all the way to my knees.

My ears flatten slightly. Don't get me wrong—I love long hair— —but this is excessive. I sigh. I contemplate existence. I briefly consider whether the universe enjoys inconveniencing me. Then starlight flares to life in my palm, quickly condensing into a small knife optimized entirely for sharpness. Time to trim a little. I've never cut my own hair before, but I am a prodigy beyond all reason, so this should be trivial. What could possibly go wrong? …

With the solemn confidence of someone who is absolutely, catastrophically wrong, I begin— —and the knife fails completely. I blink. Then I raise the blade and swing harder, abandoning finesse in favor of brute force. It still doesn't cut. … And now my hair hurts. I blink again. My hair… hurts? There's no mistaking it. A sharp, unpleasant sensation radiates from the strands I just assaulted, like I bruised literal hair. Which is a sentence I never thought I'd think. And now my brain hurts from processing that fact.

So I nod solemnly instead of continuing to waste processing power. Magic. Flawless logic. That being said, this is a problem. Having hair this long is not merely an aesthetic choice—it is a logistical inconvenience, and one I must address immediately. For example: flicking my tail smugly is significantly less satisfying when it has to bulldoze through an entire foot of hair to do so. This is an issue of critical importance. I pause. I think. I sigh.

Then starlight flares in my palm, and a very basic hair tie comes into existence. I haphazardly loop my hair into a ponytail, fully liberating my tail at last. Keeping it looped means the length only reaches the small of my back—shorter than I'd normally prefer, but a dedicated hairstyle can wait until I have access to a mirror and appropriate dramatic lighting. I nod, satisfied, then casually toss the knife into my spatial storage and check my stamina. Let's see.

Roughly 100 stamina spent on illusioning an entire group ten minutes ago. About 30 on the knife. And another 10 on the hair tie. A total of 140 stamina invested in vanity and aura farming. A worthy expenditure. The universe should be grateful for the sacrifices I make so it may continue to witness the most perfect being in existence look good while doing cool things. My tail flicks smugly. Ah. Much better.

And considering my stamina pool is now sitting comfortably at one thousand after dumping my free points into Dexterity, the loss is hardly worth mentioning. My ears perk. Stamina: 80% full. Speed: Faster than ever. Sword: Actively excited for its first non-mole victims. Tutorial Points: Distressingly low. Conclusion reached. Time for carnage. I preemptively unsheathe my sword to avoid awkward fumbling when the next unfortunate zombie or woodland creature wanders into my path. Then—naturally—I break into a run.

And leave a trail of corpses in my wake. Scorched flowers. Bisected zombies. Fauna and flora alike reduced to raw Tutorial Points. I am, quite literally, tearing through the forest faster than a sports car. Vaulting roots. Threading between trees. Erasing everything unfortunate enough to exist in my path. And I'm still holding back. No gravity reduction. No Dash spam. Just raw Dexterity and a frankly irresponsible number of movement bonuses turning me into a blur of motion.

Anything unlucky enough to see me is already dead. After all—if they've seen me, then I've definitely seen them. Truly. Dexterity is very balanced. Twenty minutes later, I cross a level transition. New monsters appear. New environmental hazards. Weasels. Ominous mushroom patches. And—of course—the squirrels are back, now wrapped in a shiny new mist variant. Because creativity is dead, and this Tutorial personally strangled it. They all come with quirks. Mechanics. Special little gimmicks.

None of them survive longer than a few seconds. Even without flashy star powers, my stats alone are more than enough. Mist-Step away? That's cute. I'll Dash towards you. Stealth? Adorable. I can sense gravity. Speed? Try harder. This doesn't feel like being part of an ecosystem anymore. It feels like being an invasive species whose sole purpose is the aggressive correction of local biodiversity.

Monster density is lower than the dungeon, unfortunately, but I still rack up a respectable haul of points before reaching the next boss area. No level-up, though—despite killing nearly eighty monsters over a two-hour run. Guess enemies below your Tier give almost no experience. Honestly? Valid. Mercifully—for the remaining wildlife—the fog wall finally appears. I press Yes on the challenge prompt before I even finish reading it. The fog surges forward, swallowing my vision.

When the fog clears, I'm immediately greeted by a blue window. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ You have challenged an area boss: The Mistbound Stalker ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ I dismiss it with a casual flick of my hand and take in the arena. Then I nod sagely. Yep. I can't see a damn thing. Mist hangs low and thick, clinging to the ground and coiling lazily around the trunks of the widely spaced trees.

The glow of moss beneath my feet is muted, diffused into a soft, colorless haze that bleeds outward and dies a few meters away. Depth perception is a suggestion at best. Luckily, my gravity sense allows me my drama by letting me flick my tail in preemptive annoyance, exactly as expected. Because of course it does. After all… this is just the same forest I've been sprinting through for hours. But with more mist. Honestly, I'm not even surprised anymore.

"Let's get this over with," I mutter. I ready myself to dramatically murder the lynx that is currently stalking toward me, fully convinced I'm unaware of its presence. I can't see it at all, so I can't Inspect it—but frankly, I don't think I need to. I already know its entire personality. Sneaky. Misty. About to regret its life choices. The fog parts behind me. It lunges for the back of my neck. I sidestep, spinning smoothly out of the way, pirouetting like a dancer who specializes in homicide.

My sword swings out in a wide arc, sapphire light briefly burning a clean line through the haze." Horizon Slash." The blade cleaves straight through the lynx— —which immediately dissolves into mist, its shape unraveling and vanishing into the surrounding fog as if it had never been there. I click my tongue as my gravity sense pings again, about five meters away, a faint distortion in the otherwise uniform pressure. Ah. Teleportation. It tries to create distance. Unacceptable.

I lower my gravity and charge, boots barely disturbing the glowing moss beneath the fog. Dash would overshoot at this range. Astral Step would be clumsy. So I simply… run. Which, given my speed, is still pretty damn fast. I close the gap in a fraction of a second and swing again—no skill this time. Same result. Mist. Reposition. The fog ripples outward as the lynx vanishes again, the disturbance lingering just long enough to be irritating. I charge again. There's no way it can do that forever.

Sure enough, on the fifth attempt, it tries to dodge instead of vanishing. A mistake. My blade bites into its side, and it shrieks—loud, panicked, real. It doesn't get a second chance. Before it can recover, my sword is already at its neck. One clean motion. From start to finish, less than a minute passes. I straighten, flicking mist from my blade. Acceptable. Barely.