Chương 20: Needlekin

I require an apology. From whom, exactly, remains undecided. It could be the System. A god. Whatever indescribable cosmic entity responsible for deciding what qualifies as an acceptable tutorial encounter. I'm flexible. That said, I expect no fewer than four full pages of sincere remorse, a formal admission of fault, and—optionally—groveling. Because this? This is, without question, the most egregious design decision I have encountered so far. And I have been very patient.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Deepwood Needlekin (Level 12 | Tier 1) x76 Species: Deepwood Flora Aspect: Thorn A flying swarm-type Deepwood plant monster composed of brittle, needle-shaped growths. Individually fragile, but dangerous in large numbers. Needlekin regenerate rapidly when left undisturbed and will converge on movement, sound, or exposed flesh.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ I am so offended by the number seventy-six that I almost fail to notice the sun finally slipping below the horizon, its last light dragging the voices of the stars in with it. Almost. Hard not to notice them when they appear to be engaged in an ongoing, highly competitive sport titled"Who Can Rupture Lyn's Eardrums the Fastest."

"LYNNNNNNN! Welcome back darling! How was your day?" A voice booms directly into my skull—one I recognize immediately and have therefore categorized as Older Sister. I do not respond. Instead, I raise a hand and point, slowly and deliberately, at the swarm of bird-sized, needle-covered insults to my mental state currently vibrating with malicious intent.

"..." I nod, once. Yes. Exactly. The sky goes completely silent. An event so rare it will almost certainly be recorded in the annals of cosmic history as the night that the Tutorial managed to make the entire local universe go quiet. Truly incredible. I briefly consider learning how to weaponize this phenomenon. Then discard the idea. I have standards. Standards this encounter is doing its absolute best to undermine. Slowly— elegantly —I slam my boot into the ground, flattening a patch of moss beneath my heel.

Unacceptable. Absolutely. Categorically. Unforgivably unacceptable.

"Seriously," I demand of the universe at large, "who looked at this and thought it was a good idea?" A smattering of indignant agreement ripples through the constellations above. As it should. I'll be fine, obviously. Worst-case scenario, I end my self-imposed challenge with a brief, spite-fueled application of starfire and call it a day. But hypothetically— What if literally anyone else ran into this? A large party like the one I dealt with earlier might survive. Probably. With fewer potions at the end.

And, statistically speaking, fewer people as well. But a smaller group? Unlucky. Or—stars forbid—a solo player? Yeah. That's not a fight. That's a very personal, very uncomfortable death by a thousand cuts. Ridiculous. Infuriating. Mildly entertaining. Only mildly, though. Let's not get carried away. I refuse— refuse —to let my irritation fade just because this spiky menagerie of pain and poor life choices hasn't personally victimized anyone yet. Right then. Right there. I make a vow. An oath. A promise. Solemn.

Majestic. Entirely self-appointed. This will not be forgotten. Somewhere, I am certain, the hypothetical manager of the Tutorial shudders in inexplicable dread. Good. I flick my hair back with all the haughty gravitas the moment deserves. My ponytail denies me. Rude. At the very least, the swarm appears passive until attacked. Which is comforting. Naturally, I unsheathe my sword anyway. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Because passing up experience points is a sin that transcends morality, law, and even bad game design. And I am nothing if not devout. The stars react in a delightful range—from enthusiastic bloodlust to a collective, worried intake of breath. Impressive. I didn't even know stars could breathe. Older Sister, in particular, is worrying far too much. She knows perfectly well that full-body starfire is a flawless counter to this sort of nonsense.

The only downsides being a catastrophic drain on my stamina and the statistically significant chance of starting yet another accidental wildfire. The latter of which I am currently contemplating doing on purpose. The other people in the Tutorial should really be grateful for my generosity. The swarm of thorny, wooden insults to my mental health reacts to my approach by buzzing menacingly, needles rattling together like a thousand tiny threats. As if warning me not to come any closer. Rude. I keep walking forward.

They do not appreciate that. A successful Intimidation check. Probably. When I get within about twenty meters, the swarm surges—needles rushing toward me with the collective enthusiasm of a rainstorm made entirely of bad decisions and sharp wooden spears. Naturally, I wait, tapping my foot with pointed impatience. My ears lock forward. My tail goes still. This is going to be mildly dangerous. The front edge of the swarm reaches me and I strike, blade flashing once—clean, efficient.

One Needlekin drops out of the air. I step back and swing again. Another dead. Another step. Another cut. I repeat the process for a solid ten seconds before they finally catch on, the swarm fanning outward, splitting and curling as they try to slide around my flanks. I pause. Consider. Then decide to let them. My sword angles upward as I settle into my defensive state. When the encirclement closes, they rush me all at once. Feet planted, blade moving, I cut one out of the air. Then another.

One dives for my face—gone. Another—gone. Another— And then one slips through. A sharp sting traces along my left forearm, shallow but irritating. I hiss, slice it out of the air in immediate retaliation— —which gives two more the opening they were waiting for. One rakes my thigh. Another tears across my midsection, shredding fabric and skin with equal enthusiasm. Ah. Letting them surround me may have been a miscalculation. Who do I blame for this? The System, obviously.

I am, after all, a flawless genius, and would never make a poor tactical decision purely in the name of self-improvement. That would be ridiculous. Entirely unprecedented. Another Needlekin takes advantage of my momentary distraction and opens a shallow line across my cheek. Unacceptable. There are universal constants in this world, and my face remaining perfect and pristine ranks alarmingly high among them. Four die in the next heartbeat.

At the same time, new cuts bloom along my arms and legs—thin, stinging reminders that the swarm is learning. Not good. Staying still will get me killed. So—I move. My hilt slides to my hip. My center of balance drops. I slip fully into my offensive state, momentum reclaiming my body like it was waiting for permission. My blade carves clean arcs through the air, each swing leaving another Needlekin shattered on the grass. The pile grows quickly. I'm taking less damage now. But the cuts don't stop coming.

My tunic and skirt are in tatters. My dignity shortly follows. If not for the convenient streaks of blood disguising strategic failures in fabric, I would be having a much worse day. No time to dwell on that. One particularly ambitious Needlekin rockets straight for my face. My footwork halts for a fraction of a second—just long enough. My blade snaps up in my defensive form and impales it mid-flight. Then I switch back. I don't stop moving after that. I can't.

The moment I settle back into offense, my feet slide, pivot, cross—steps bleeding into turns, turns into spins. I stop retreating and start circling, carving a loose spiral through the swarm instead of letting it define the shape of the fight. That's when it clicks. They aren't attacking me. They're attacking where I was. Every Needlekin dives along a predicted path, converging on the space my momentum should occupy a heartbeat from now. Which is adorable. Really. Flattering, even.

Unfortunately for them, I am a deeply unreliable narrator of my own movement. I half-step, twist my hips, let one Needlekin pass where my ribs were supposed to be, and take its head off mid-flight without even looking at it. Another skims past my shoulder—too close—and I turn with it, blade flicking out in a lazy, almost offended arc. Dead. Dead. Dead. The swarm tightens, needles screaming through the air, but now my motion isn't linear. It isn't even aggressive. It's rhythmic. Advance—cut—turn. Slip—spin—thrust.

Every time I feel a trajectory lock onto me, I break it. Every time a Needlekin commits, I'm already elsewhere, my blade arriving at the inevitable conclusion of its poor life choices. Cuts still appear—but fewer now. Shallow. Glancing. Irritating rather than dangerous. Acceptable. Barely. I pivot through a cluster, skirt flaring, sap misting the grass as three Needlekin die in the same breath. I don't feel like I'm attacking anymore. I feel like I'm answering.

And suddenly, for the first time in this entire mess of spikes and bad decisions— I'm smiling again. I think I'm starting to understand where I went wrong. It wasn't that I wasn't doing enough in the wolf fight. It was that I was doing too much. For once, my genius has betrayed me. Fusing offense and defense wasn't mastery—it was impatience. A shortcut. I tried to force two answers into the same sentence and wondered why it sounded wrong. They aren't meant to exist at the same time. They're meant to take turns.

Flowing. Trading places. Yielding and asserting in sequence, not overlap. At least… For now. This is better. Much better. But… something still isn't complete. My grin widens anyway. A Needlekin splits cleanly in half. Another loses its head mid-charge. My blade snaps to my left shoulder and drives forward, spearing straight through a third. I let the thrust carry me, turning with it—momentum folding into a smooth pirouette that scythes through two more in a single breath. Uppercut. Spin. Slash. Thrust.

Each step becomes an attack. Each attack ends as a defense. Each defense resolves into the next step. Not fused. Sequenced. Intentional. The swarm keeps coming—and the bodies keep falling. And somewhere along the way, without me consciously deciding to stop— —I don't get hit anymore. By the time the last Needlekin drops from the air, I realize I haven't taken a single cut in over ten kills. With the fight finally concluded, the notifications arrive in a rush.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ You have slain Deepwood Needlekin (Level 12 | Tier 1) x76. A slight experience bonus has been awarded for slaying monsters 1 level above you. You have gained 1064 Tutorial Points. Your race has leveled up to level 13. Your class has leveled up to level 13. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Two levels. Over a thousand points. From a single fight. Absurd. The absence of a notification— the notification—tugs faintly at my satisfaction. My swordplay didn't evolve. Disappointing, but expected.

I improved, undeniably. Something clicked. Something aligned. But something else is still missing. Something incredibly important. Speaking of important— I look up at the stars, smugness fully earned.

"So," I ask pleasantly, "did you all enjoy the show?" I am met with silence. The kind that has weight. Older Sister clears her throat, very carefully.

"Darling," she says gently,"look down." I tilt my head. Then comply. … Oh. Right. Heat creeps up my cheeks as I take in the state of myself. My clothing has been reduced to a tragic suggestion of what it used to be. My tunic and skirt look less like garments and more like the aftermath of a violent disagreement with a lawnmower. My underwear, blessedly, survived, albeit barely. Small mercies. Everything else is lacquered in drying blood.

Important places are technically covered, but only in the most legally defensible sense of the word. I can suddenly understand why my entire cosmic family has decided to avert their gaze. After a quick starlight crafting montage—followed by a full-body starfire cleanse—I'm restored to pristine perfection, and clothed in an aggressively kaleidoscopic wardrobe. Thank the stars for my Star aspect.

I truly cannot imagine the humiliation of having to continue the Tutorial dressed like that—desperately hunting for a boss to kill for armor, and a river deep enough to wash away both the blood and my dignity. I clear my throat, pointedly ignoring my lingering embarrassment.

"So," I say, with practiced poise, "setting that unfortunate… situation … aside—how did I do?" Compliments trickle in almost immediately. Warm ones. Earnest ones. Glowing praise from the female voices of my audience. The male voices remain conspicuously silent. Apparently they averted their gazes very early on in the fight. My tail lashes once, sharp and irritated. Wardrobe malfunctions interfering with my well-deserved adoration. Unacceptable. I tilt my head, a stray thought sneaking in. … Wait.

Do stars even have genders? … I decide, very deliberately, not to ask. Instead, I turn and continue deeper into the forest, chin lifted, steps light, fully intent on earning praise from everyone next time. Because I can already tell. The answer to that question would hurt my head. And probably raise several deeply unsettling implications about the nature of the universe—and how stars actually work.