Chương 44: Ecosystem Destruction: Forest Fire Edition (Part 2)

I nod at the carbonized remains of the Putrescent Slime. It does not react. Rude. The thing is little more than a collapsed heap of blackened flesh now, surface cracked and flaking like overcooked pastry. Steam still curls faintly from its core. I give it a few seconds. Just in case it plans to dramatically reform and apologize. It does not. I have successfully finished testing my new epic skill. The result? … No clue.

While the slime was capable of surviving the forest fire by virtue of being a massive, damp flesh blob, my new, beautifully aesthetic motes of starfire are significantly less negotiable. They do not burn loudly, nor explode violently. They simply touch—and unmake. Unfortunately, I am also a decent chunk higher level than it. My nap spot sits roughly halfway through the former forest of Zone Five, which means anything shambling this direction is already behind the curve.

Which means the slime died far before I could reasonably measure how much my starfire was amplifying under Starfire Resonance. Annoying. I tap my chin thoughtfully, staring at the remains as if they might confess their durability metrics. It probably did not help that I attacked with a few vines for fun. Purely for control testing. And theatrical value. The vines slide back into my shadow at my will, faint starlight flickering along their length before dissolving into the darkness.

Contrary to their elegant, ornamental appearance, they excel at cutting—not cleanly, but violently, splitting through resistance with overwhelming force. Why? Physics, probably. Do I intend to question it? Absolutely not. There are some gifts in this world that should be accepted with grace and zero follow-up questions. Mostly because dramatically walking through a horde of monsters while my vines aggressively carve everything around me into semi-symmetrical pieces appeals deeply to my aesthetic sensibilities.

It goes straight onto the mental task list. Right below: acquire a proper kitchen to make dragon meat cheeseburgers. Which is to say, very near the top. Obviously. My tail sways slowly behind me, pleased and anticipatory. Then I hop back onto my rock and scan the horizon. The wall of fire isn't fully finished devouring the forest, but it is close—an immense, crawling crescent of orange and white that chews steadily through what little remains of Zone Five's dignity.

Smoke coils upward in thick pillars, staining the sky a bruised gray. Efficient. Beautiful. Slightly excessive. Exactly how I like it. From my perch, I can already see them. Vaguely gelatinous silhouettes wandering the ashen wasteland in the distance. Slow. Aimless. Oblivious. Slimes. Dozens of them. Perhaps more. Their forms glisten faintly in the dying light, wobbling over charred roots and collapsed trunks, leaving unpleasant streaks in their wake. My ears perk forward.

Step one of Zone Five's destruction is nearly complete. Which means it is time to get a head start on step two. Cleanup. Very violent cleanup. The kind involving precise slashing, efficient stabbing, and grotesque new paint jobs for the surrounding ground. Tragic. For the ground, that is. Now that I am no longer required to pretend I care about collateral inconvenience, I can comfortably utilize my starfire shell to eliminate the only truly dangerous ability these slimes have left. Their horrific smell.

I nod solemnly. The most terrifying power there is: extreme olfactory assault. My improved Foxkin senses are a gift. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. A refined instrument. A superior biological system. They are not meant to process an entire biome that smells like rotting meat left in the sun while contemplating its life choices. My nose wrinkles faintly despite the distance. Even with the fire sterilizing half the landscape, the underlying stench persists. I blame the System.

Making the final zone entirely flesh and corpse related is a bold choice. And so—I begin killing everything lucky, or perhaps unlucky enough to have survived the forest fire. Mostly slimes. Endless, wobbling masses of fleshy regret. Their bodies part cleanly beneath arcs of starmetal and snapping vines, collapsing into inert heaps before they fully register my presence. A few assorted undead types also managed to persist through the blaze by some unknown, deeply questionable means.

Charred skeletons animated by stubborn malice. Half-melted zombies dragging themselves across the ash. Then the world transitions fully into night. The stars awaken. Their voices bloom across my perception—distant, layered, overlapping in chaotic harmony. Laughter like glass chimes. Arguments like thunder disguised as whispers. Good. Because sprinting across a mostly featureless, burnt wasteland with nothing to occupy my mind besides internal commentary would be especially mind-numbing.

And while I am excellent company, even I appreciate variety. The stars provide it. Last night we covered many important topics. The correct unit of measurement for "vibes." Whether underground civilizations would invent sunscreen out of spite. A deeply heated debate regarding the waste management infrastructure of floating cities. I learned an incredible amount of highly practical information. I am one hundred percent certain it will become relevant later. As for tonight—"I am telling you, it exists!"

"No. I refuse to believe it. How does one even go about creating an entire city that only exists in reality during lunchtime?" … I slow to a walk, blade resting loosely at my side as another slime disassembles itself beneath a passing vine.

"Actually," I say thoughtfully, "don't answer that question. I already know the answer." My tail flicks once in irritation. Magic. As per usual.

"If it only exists during lunchtime," I continue, stepping over a bisected corpse without looking down, "what happens if someone stays too long?" There is a pause. A long one. The kind of pause that implies a highly concerning answer is about to be delivered with confidence.

"Poof." …

"Poof," I repeat flatly. Somehow, the answer is worse than anticipated.

"Define poof."

"Removed."

"Removed where?"

"Elsewhere." I stop moving entirely. My ears tilt back just slightly.

"We are never speaking of this again." The night sky responds by forming a vaguely raccoon-shaped constellation that nods solemnly at me, paws folded in grave agreement. I stare at it for a moment. Then I nod back. There are some cosmological truths one simply does not investigate. I resume sprinting. Cleanup continues. A few hours pass in a blur of chopped undead, aggressively shredded slimes, and several profoundly unimportant arguments regarding the social hierarchy of bread.

Apparently sourdough is "aristocratic," rye is "working class," and brioche is "deeply suspicious." I do not intervene. Some debates must be allowed to evolve naturally. Eventually, midnight strikes. The air tightens. Then the next horde spawns. Around one hundred and fifty shambling corpses this time, phasing into existence across the blackened plain. Taller variants mixed in. Robed silhouettes near the back. Naturally, I charge straight in. It takes only a few minutes.

When the last knight-class undead crumples, armor glowing faintly where starfire ate through it, I slow to a stop and let the vines dissolve. I did learn two rather important things from the encounter. One: the zombie mages are absurdly boring. They cycle through various elemental aspects—fire, water, earth. One of the more ambitious specimens manifested lightning. It managed to pierce my starfire shell for a fraction of a second and lightly zap my upper arm. I glance down at the faint scorch mark.

It is already fading. Impressive. Relatively speaking. The problem? Durability. In fact, that seems to be a recurring issue with all humanoid undead. They posture. They channel. They threaten. Then they disassemble. Which brings us neatly to the second important piece of information. My vines are, in fact, extremely overpowered. The only times I've deployed them seriously were against a dragon that nearly doubled my statline and against slimes designed to be bullied. The data set was skewed.

This was more illuminating. I can maintain four without converting the surrounding terrain into proper soil. They anchor into nothing, sustained purely by shadow projection. Each one is effectively a portable death sentence to anything that is not the armored knight variant. Their range is just under one hundred meters. Their speed— My tail sways once, pleased. —appears to scale directly with my Dexterity investment.

They blur at near Mach speeds, dicing zombies and skeletons into fragments before the bodies fully register impact. Even the knight-class undead only survive marginally longer. The vines wrap, constrict, and ignite. Starfire blooms along their length. Armor glows, then fails. Termination is immediate. The cherry on top? Celestial Momentum applies to my vines—meaning I can stack and sustain the full fifty percent attack speed bonus without ever slowing down.

Which also means that Starfire Resonance will likely behave the same way—once I encounter something durable enough to survive the first touch of my flames again. My ears perk. Yes. Very balanced. Ten out of ten. This time, the golden window appears immediately after the last undead collapses to the ground. I ignore it. I am the only remaining user in the Tutorial. Whatever congratulations or numerical summaries it wishes to provide are functionally irrelevant. Instead, I continue my project.

It takes a few more hours, but finally—finally—I kill the last of the monsters flushed out by my large-scale arson. … Probably. At the very least, I don't see any more wandering silhouettes when I scan the horizon. They tend to stand out against the flat expanse of the Tutorial, especially with the orange-red glow of the distant wildfire painting everything in dramatic backlight. If something is still alive out there, it is being very subtle about it.

Which means I will have more cleanup to do once the remaining forest finishes burning. Tragic. At least it is getting close. Depth perception becomes a mildly theoretical concept from several hundred kilometers away, but it appears my grid pattern has been fully consumed. The lingering edges of the inferno creep steadily toward the fog wall that marks the boundary to Zone Four. Good. Which means my next course of action is obvious.

I locate the nearest rock with a sufficiently flat top, recreate my futon, and curl up on it. … Again. Consistency is important. I do not fall asleep immediately this time. Instead, I lie on my side and allow the night sky to fill my awareness. The stars are lively tonight. They have opinions. Many of them.

"They are absolutely going to reward her for the ecosystem collapse."

"It was a weak ecosystem."

"She optimized it."

"I did," I agree mildly. They should be grateful that I am such a magnanimous and kind person, granting them my continued participation in their conversations. Some might argue that I simply enjoy speaking with my celestial family. I reject that implication wholeheartedly. There is no conceivable way I could enjoy conversations with beings who spend half their time teasing me about my penchant for ecological devastation and the constant betrayal of my Foxkin biology. Unacceptable. Deeply slanderous.

Unfortunately, my eyelids decide to conspire against me as well. The warmth of distant firelight, the low murmur of cosmic argument, the absence of immediate threats— I drift. The last thing I register is a chorus of overlapping good nights echoing softly through my mind. I smile. Just a little.