Chương 68: The Beginner Village And First Quest

Big. That is the only word that properly applies to the sight in front of me. Just… big. When I heard the word village, I had assumed something modest. A small settlement of a few hundred people, perhaps pushing a thousand on the more ambitious end. Instead, I am greeted by a fully walled town. Stone walls rise high around it, sturdy and well-maintained, with a gate large enough to accommodate steady traffic.

The structures beyond are dense, organized, and numerous enough to comfortably support ten thousand people at minimum. This is not a village. This is a starter city. The journey here was equally unreasonable. We covered roughly thirty kilometers of orchard at a sustained sprint, passing farmer after farmer along the way. Some harvested with practiced efficiency, while others used water-aspected magic to tend to their crops in wide, controlled sweeps. Most were Dogkin. A few Catkin.

And, notably, several Foxkin as well. I catalog this information for later use. Arlo begins to slow as we approach the gate, where a small but steady line has formed. I match his pace. And eat the strawberry that has mysteriously appeared in my hand. I dispose of the evidence of my theft in a single, efficient bite. Perfect. He notices. Tragic.

Worse, he looks completely unsurprised, as if a strawberry spontaneously manifesting in my possession—rather than being discreetly liberated from a nearby bush—is a perfectly normal occurrence. I blame the System. He gestures for me to follow and leads me straight past the queue, up to the guards stationed at the entrance. Two of them.

A blonde Dogkin man who radiates the distinct energy of someone who would greet strangers, small animals, and potentially hostile entities with an equal level of enthusiasm, and a brown-haired Catkin woman who appears deeply committed to the concept of not being here. Both wear lightweight leather armor, functional and well-fitted, with weapons secured across their backs. The Dogkin carries a large greatsword, while the Catkin has a polished, silver-toned spear. I inspect them.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Experienced Spear Warrior [Uncommon] (Level 32 | Tier 1) Race: Catkin ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Apprentice Force Warrior [Uncommon] (Level 30 | Tier 1) Race: Dogkin ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Arlo nods to them.

"Hello again, Sera, Thane." The Dogkin—Thane, I assume—lights up immediately.

"Hey again, Arlo! You sure shot off quick earlier! Everything alright? Was it a monster? Does it have to do with the pretty lady next to you? Why is her hair so sparkly? I've never seen a purp—" He cuts off abruptly when the Catkin, Sera, smacks him on the back of the head. … I am reasonably certain there was a shockwave. Thane stumbles, recovers, and turns to her with an offended expression that suggests this is not the first time this has happened. She ignores him completely.

I am already forming favorable opinions. Her gaze shifts to me, sharp and evaluating, before returning to Arlo.

"Situation?"

"A visitor."

"Dangerous?"

"If she is, we can't do anything about it."

"True." Efficient. I decide to contribute.

"I am not, unless you do something catastrophically foolish." Sera's attention snaps back to me.

"Why should I believe that?" I shrug lightly.

"Because if I were hostile, you would already be dead." Her eyes narrow, and her hand drifts subtly toward the spear at her back.

"You have no weapon."

"No weapon that you can see," I correct. She studies me for several seconds, her gaze moving across my face, my ears, my tail. Careful and measured. Not once does she meet my eyes. Not her. Not Arlo. Not Thane. Not a single farmer on the way here. Conclusion: my Starborn eyes have acquired some form of perception interference following my evolution. Very convenient. As aesthetically pleasing as they are, eyes that resemble a localized absence of reality tend to complicate social interactions.

The tension dissolves almost instantly when Thane bounds toward me with all the restraint of a golden retriever who has just discovered a new person.

"Hey—pretty lady—you said no weapon we could see! What d'you mean by that? You got a hidden knife? Where is it? How's that even work? You ain't got sleeves, so is it in your dress? That pouch is tiny, is it needles? Ooh, that'd be so cool. Hidden blades are awesome. Can you show me? Please, please, please?" I lean back. Sera presses her palm to her face. Arlo lets out a quiet chuckle.

"Certainly," I say, maintaining a pleasant tone, "but I would appreciate it if you stepped out of my personal space first." He blinks.

"Oh. Right. Sorry 'bout that. Got a bit excited."

"… So I have observed." He retreats a few steps, settling beside Sera, who looks like she is actively negotiating with herself about whether or not to hit him again. She exhales. I mirror the gesture. Solidarity. Then I extend my hand slightly to the side. A familiar weight settles into my grasp instantly. All three of them tense at once, their tails puffing out in near-perfect synchronization. I am forced to suppress a laugh.

They watch the blade carefully, so I draw it closer, running a finger along its edge with casual familiarity.

"This is my soul weapon, Astra Nocturne." I offer them a soft smile.

"Do you like it?" They nod immediately. Vigorously. As if this is a life-or-death question. Rude. With a flick of my wrist, I toss the blade aside. It vanishes mid-motion, dissolving back into my soul as though it had never existed. I turn my attention back to Thane.

"Also, my name is not 'pretty lady.'" I give a small curtsy, reduced intensity to preserve local emotional stability.

"My name is Lyn. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." The three Beastkin exhale at the same time. Impressive. Their tails begin to deflate, slowly returning to something resembling their original state after my entirely reasonable display of mild intimidation. Arlo speaks up.

"Mind if we head in? I'd like to show Lyn around before givin' her a quest. Let her get a feel for the place." Sera nods, then looks to me.

"If you need anything, let me know. I might help." My tail gives an amused swish. She might help. Spoken like a true cat. All three of them track the motion, their expressions shifting into quiet amusement. … I grab my tail with my free hand. This does not solve the problem. Their amusement increases. My ears angle slightly to the side as I walk past them through the gate. Arlo follows, unsuccessfully hiding another chuckle. My Foxkin features have betrayed me once again. Unacceptable.

After a moment, he composes himself and begins the tour. We move through the town at a steady pace while he points out the important locations. Cheap inns, grocery stores, general goods, a blacksmith, several street food stands, and the public bathhouse. Yes. A public bathhouse. It is, thankfully, separated by gender, but the overall concept of privacy appears to be firmly rooted in a much less enlightened era. … Expected.

Fantasy worlds tend to lean toward medieval sensibilities, and given the walled town, the architecture, and the general aesthetic, Asteria is clearly no exception. That said, it is distinct in several ways. The first is the people. Nearly everyone I see is above level fifteen. As a result, casually sprinting down the street at speeds that would alarm most vehicles, or leaping across rooftops and fences without hesitation appears to be perfectly normal behavior. The second is the scale.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Everything is large. The roads are wide enough to make most Earth highways feel inadequate. The buildings are similarly oversized, with even basic stores spanning two floors, and some expanding into structures comparable to a small-scale supermarket. At one point, I glance into a grocery store and find rows upon rows of produce and meat, some of which appears… questionable. The third is culture.

No fewer than four Beastkin have approached me unprompted, paused, and then proceeded to sniff the air around me with complete seriousness. Each one nods afterward, as if they have received confirmation of something deeply important, introduces themselves, and then leaves. Arlo does not react. Conclusion: this is normal. Highly concerning. … At least I am subtle when I do it.

"So, how ya likin' it so far? My village is small, but I'm quite proud of it." I look down at him from my current position atop a fence. Walking on the road is inefficient. Fences are clearly superior.

"I am pleasantly surprised. It is remarkably clean, the residents appear content, and while you call it small, on my previous world this would qualify as a fairly respectable town." He waves a hand dismissively.

"No need to exaggerate. We're one of the smallest villages in the entire Redburrow region." His tail continues wagging. I note the contradiction.

"I am not exaggerating," I reply calmly.

"From what I can tell, this world is far larger than my previous one. Also, you mentioned something interesting, Redburrow. Would you mind explaining?" He looks briefly startled at that, then recovers quickly, clearing his throat.

"Course. This here's a frontier village, no official name, so that's why it's considered tiny. Frontier villages are run by a chief—me—and we answer to a nearby town. Ours is called Bramblegate. Towns usually got five to ten villages like ours under 'em, and they're all governed by a bigger city. That whole network makes up a region. Redburrow's the regional city that oversees this area." His gaze drifts for a moment.

"If ya think this place is big, just wait till ya see a real city. They're… somethin' else." I see. That is extremely useful information. Based on his repeated insistence that this qualifies as "small," I estimate that a single region is likely comparable in scale to an entire country. This conclusion is derived from a combination of limited data, observational inference, and my own inherent brilliance. Evidence is, as always, optional. My tail flicks smugly. He watches it.

"Ya are real elegant an' all, but I get the feelin' yer thinkin' the strangest things half the time."

"It is your imagination." He looks unconvinced. Tragic. I redirect.

"I believe I have a sufficient understanding of the village's layout. Shall we discuss the quest?" He nods.

"Sure. Got somethin' simple for ya. There's a group of bandits about fifty kilometers east in the forest. Been causin' some trouble lately."

"Understood. A bandit cleanup?" He shakes his head.

"Not quite. Rainy season's comin', and I'm worried about 'em. Thought we might invite 'em to stay here instead. Your job's to find 'em and offer 'em a place in the village." …? That is not the expected outcome. A system window appears before I can properly process the statement. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Quest menu activated. Quest Received. Objective: Convince the bandits. There are bandits in the eastern forest, and the chief wants them to settle in the village. Convince them.

Rewards: +1 Silver Coin +10% of a level. +10 Velkhar Reputation Progress: 0 / 102 Rewards are distributed immediately on completion. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ I blink. Alright. That is… a lot. Let us organize. The chief wants to invite bandits into his village. I now have a quest menu. Quests reward money, experience, and something called reputation. And there are one hundred and two bandits. One hundred and two. That is not a "group." That is a small, highly suspicious organization. … Convince them. Right.

I turn to Arlo.

"I have a few questions. How much is one silver worth in practice? What does reputation do? And what is Velkhar?" He answers without hesitation.

"Our currency runs in tens. Ten copper makes a large copper, ten large copper makes a silver, and it keeps goin' up through gold, platinum, and obsidian. One silver'll get ya about four days at an inn. Three copper's a normal price for a full meal, though ya can go cheaper if ya stick to things like berries. Reputation doesn't do much on its own, but folks from that place can usually tell how much ya got. Get enough, and people'll treat ya better. Discounts, help from adventurers, things like that.

As for Velkhar, that's the superpower our whole kingdom answers to." I process. Quick conversion. One copper is roughly two dollars, give or take. Assuming food prices are reasonably similar to where I used to live. Which means one silver is… Decent. Not amazing, but respectable. Reputation is useful, but not immediately critical. And Velkhar is a large, ominous entity looming in the background. Noted.

Filed under: investigate later, preferably when not surrounded by people who could be offended by excessive curiosity. One word, however, stands out.

"Adventurers?" He nods.

"Mercenaries, mostly. Take on quests and contracts. We're too small for a guild, but they pass through with trade convoys pretty often. Got one comin' in two days, actually. If ya want, ya could head to Bramblegate with 'em and register. Beginner quests ain't too hard, and there's only three of 'em, so ya could probably finish up before the convoy gets here." Hm. Convenient. Extremely convenient.

A trade convoy arrives in exactly two days, perfectly aligned with the completion of the beginner village questline, allowing the protagonist to transition smoothly into the wider world. Of course. Naturally. There is no other explanation. I nod.

"Understood. In that case, I will complete this quest." He nods in return, though there is a trace of concern in his expression.

"I know ya stronger than me, but still… be careful, alright? Ain't supposed to be anything dangerous around here, but sometimes things go sideways." Ah. Foreshadowing. Practically labeled. Since he said it out loud, something will absolutely go wrong. That is simply how reality functions. He hesitates briefly.

"Ya still so young too. Just… remember, kid. Ya only got one life." I offer him a smile. Carefully measured. Reassuring.

"Thank you for your concern, but I will be fine. I am strong." My tail flicks in quiet, undeniable superiority. Muscles coil. And then— I jump. My first bandit interaction in Asteria. I have a feeling it will be memorable. Buildings blur past as I hop from roof to roof like a rabbit with far too much caffeine and a completely reasonable Dexterity investment. Most of the Beastkin below don't even notice me. A rare few, those with sufficiently high levels, catch a faint pale streak in their peripheral vision.

That is the full extent of their awareness. And I am not even close to full speed. If I were, I would likely start puncturing rooftops with each step, and causing structural damage on my first day seems like a social misstep roughly equivalent to spilling a drink in someone else's vehicle and pretending it never happened. I reach the wall in under ten seconds. Naturally, I do not use the gate. I propel myself upward with a vine-assisted boost instead. Efficiency.

I land lightly atop the wall and lean forward just enough to look over the other side. Thirty meters, approximately. An impressive structure for something repeatedly described as "small." Below, Thane and Sera are staring up at me with a fascinating blend of confusion, concern, and caution. They are not alone. Most of the people waiting in line have also noticed. Expected. I am, after all, exceptionally noticeable. My tail flicks in quiet satisfaction. Then I offer Sera a small wave and a pleasant smile.

Her expression shifts further toward concern. Curious.

"I will be heading out briefly to complete a quest. I do not expect it to take long."

"Why are you—" I crouch, placing my right foot at the edge of the wall. Solid stone. Durable, reliable, and perfect. I channel Astral Energy, accelerating its flow as I begin to reduce the gravitational pull on my body. Thirty percent. Fifty. Sixty. I hit the consistently suspicious limit at sixty-five. The stamina cost is significant. Four vines manifest along my thighs, anchoring lightly for additional force. I adjust my stance, then push off.

At the same moment, the vines strike the wall, adding their force to my launch. Gracefully, majestically— A fox girl takes flight. As it turns out, I have miscalculated my own capabilities. Significantly. I launch like a fox-tailed ballistic missile, carving a pale streak across the sky, accompanied by the sharp crack of stone and the collective confusion of several dozen Beastkin. My angle is excellent, far more horizontal than vertical.

Still, I reach a peak well over thirty meters above my starting point, sailing roughly sixty meters above the rapidly approaching ground below. In other words, high enough to comfortably clear a smaller Earth high-rise. Acceptable. Time stretches. Five seconds. Ten. I continue along my ballistic trajectory for nearly twenty seconds, covering over half a kilometer before gravity begins to reassert itself in a deeply personal manner. Which raises an important question. …

How, exactly, am I going to land without excavating a trench through the berry bushes? My breathing steadies. My heart slows. The world fades away, leaving only the problem before me. I descend inward. Deeper. Further. Into the sacred halls of higher reasoning. Ancient doors creak open. Forbidden knowledge stirs. Somewhere, a choir begins chanting in a language that should not, under any circumstances, exist. I grasp the threads of causality itself. Outcomes spiral. Possibilities collapse. Truth reveals itself.

A perfect solution forms. Elegant. Flawless. I reach enlightenment. … I reduce my gravity further. And jump again. Yes. The perfect plan. The instant my foot touches the ground, I push off again, kicking up a plume of dust while sparing the berry bushes from my entirely justified wrath. Then I do it again. And again. Each impact becomes a transition rather than a stop, the reduced gravity turning what should have been a catastrophic landing into a series of controlled rebounds.

The stamina cost of pushing past the arbitrary ceiling imposed by my Astral Energy is… aggressive, but as long as I immediately drop it back to sixty-five percent after each launch, the strain remains manageable. Manageable being a relative term. I can push the manipulation up to eighty percent. I have tested this. Briefly. There is another ceiling there. A much less friendly one.

Unless I am interested in converting my entire stamina pool into regret over the course of ten seconds, sustained weightless movement remains… aspirational. It takes approximately two minutes of repeated leaps—over the heads of confused farmers and several dogkin who appear far too enthusiastic about witnessing this—to reach the eastern forest Arlo mentioned. … Fifty kilometers in two minutes. Roughly Mach two, give or take. Completely reasonable. Stats are amazing.

I land lightly on a branch and take a moment to stretch. That said… My Vitality may be slightly insufficient. My legs ache. My ankles protest. The repeated acceleration and abrupt deceleration have made their opinions known in a very direct manner. My tail flicks in irritation. Physics. Demanding that I invest in stats other than Dexterity in order to avoid becoming an aesthetically displeasing smear across the landscape. How dare it. I sigh. Then I allocate every remaining free stat point into Vitality.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Stats Vitality: 330 [+55] Strength: 455 [+76] Dexterity: 1200 [+200] Perception: 865 [+144] Charisma: 132 [+22] Free Points: 0 ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Tragic. Whatever. At least now I can land, turn, and adjust without my body attempting to disassemble itself like an overenthusiastic child attacking a pile of presents. I make a vow. Calm. Measured. Dignified. I will allocate at least five points into Vitality every level. … For now.

Until I inevitably develop a solution that allows me to maintain my entirely reasonable Dexterity investment without turning my internal organs into soup every time I need to avoid a tree. Likely with runes. They seem conveniently versatile, considering the effects woven into my dress already lean in that direction. Speaking of— I hop down from the branch, stretch once more for good measure, and unequip my dress. My casual outfit settles back into place, light and unobtrusive.

I pull up my status window, adjust my level down to thirteen, and swap my class to an Uncommon. My tier follows. I review the changes. They are clean and convincing. Deceptively harmless. I nod in approval, close the menu, and begin walking down a conveniently placed dirt path into the forest. I do not particularly care whether these bandits cause problems for the village.

However, if they turn out to be irredeemably vile—as anime tradition strongly suggests—then I would not mind returning with a failed quest and a detailed report regarding the discovery of over one hundred mysteriously disassembled corpses. A very unfortunate accident. … Also, I would like to engage in a small amount of "harmless-looking girl is actually catastrophically overpowered" roleplaying. Primarily for professional reasons. Mostly. … Anyway.

I make it approximately five minutes into the greenery before my ears flick. Movement. Surrounding me. Bushes rustle as footsteps close in. Ah. Efficiency. They emerge. And they are— … Wow. Even I was not prepared for this. They are, without exaggeration, the most aggressively stereotypical bandits I have ever encountered, across all forms of media. If one were to take every defining trait of a fantasy bandit and compress it into a single cohesive aesthetic, this would be the result.

Mud-stained armor assembled with questionable logic. Scraggly, unkempt hair and fur. Scars—multiple—distributed across faces with what appears to be artistic intent. Their hairstyles range from tangled masses of defiance to sideways mohawks that could only be described as deeply committed mistakes. Strangely, they do not smell terrible. Unexpected. A blessing, even. I scan the group, allowing my expression to shift, subtle unease, and a trace of fear. Mostly Dogkin and Wolfkin. A few Catkin. One Wingkin.

Levels ranging from twenty to thirty. Not a concern. The Wingkin catches my attention. I had expected something more… harpy-like. Instead, they possess a standard humanoid frame, with a separate pair of wings extending from their back. In this case, blue, sharp and angular, reminiscent of a hummingbird. Interesting. As I observe them, they observe me. A Wolfkin at the front steps forward.

"Keheheh, what do we have 'ere, lads? Looks like a little girl wandered too far from her parents, eh? Seems like it's our lucky day. You know the drill, boys." A chorus of equally unfortunate laughter follows. I raise an eyebrow. Is he serious? Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his sword and points it toward me.

"We are the Black Fang bandit group, feared and respected by all. This is a robbery. Hand over one large copper, or else…" … One large copper. Approximately twenty dollars. I adjust the mask, allowing fear to settle into my expression. My posture follows suit.

"…Or else… what?" He grins. Slimy. Profoundly lacking in subtlety.

"Well then, of course, we'll take ya back to camp and have a little bit of… fun." I see. So we are doing this. I begin to—"We'll sit ya down and make ya listen to a whole story from Smelly Pete!" …? I pause. He nods, solemn. As if this is a credible threat. … I may have misjudged the situation. I turn my head slightly, my body trembling just enough to sell the act as I fight back a laugh. This is, unfortunately, interpreted incorrectly. Their expressions falter.

A Dogkin leans toward the Wolfkin leader and whispers, loudly enough for me to hear with perfect clarity thanks to my Perception.

"Boss, I think ya scarin' her a bit too much. Can we tone it down? She's just a kid." …Rude. The Wolfkin turns back.

"Idiot. That's the point. We gotta scare her so she don't wander off again. That could be real dangerous." Right. I can see why Arlo is comfortable letting them join the village. Not only are they robbing the equivalent of a few meals instead of anything remotely ambitious, they are also… earnest. Deeply, tragically earnest. Despite the aesthetic. Despite the laughter. Despite the very committed attempts at being intimidating. I speak up, carefully maintaining the act.

"…Um… I… I don't have any money… but I can listen to a story… that is… fine…" The Wolfkin looks at me. A flicker of pity crosses his face before he straightens, visibly recommitting himself to whatever performance he believes this to be.

"Well then," he says, voice dropping half an octave in a heroic display of menace, "guess ya gonna 'ave to follow me back ta camp." I nod hesitantly and fall in line behind him, fingers loosely clasped in front of my chest to complete the illusion of a small, defenseless child who has made several poor life decisions. This is… becoming interesting. And, as expected of someone of my caliber, not a single one of them has noticed anything amiss. Flawless execution.

Admittedly, lowering my displayed level likely contributes. It is highly unlikely that a group of beginner village bandits possesses knowledge of inspect-altering items. My acting may complicate the eventual persuasion process. A minor detail. A future problem. I am, however, extremely curious. What does a bandit camp actually look like? Most forms of media neglect this entirely, usually opting for immediate eradication before any meaningful observation can occur. A missed opportunity.

This, then, is an Asteria Exclusive Experience™. A rare glimpse into the daily lives of low-tier criminal organizations. … Eventually. We have been walking for an unreasonable amount of time. Stars above, these people are slow. … Ah. Right. I am currently presenting myself as level thirteen. That would explain it. This is, technically, my fault. I take no responsibility for this outcome.