Chương 17: Wolves

It takes nearly five full minutes of sprinting before I find my next victim. Which more or less confirms a theory that's been simmering in the back of my mind for a while now. Every time I enter a new area, I get jumped by exactly one monster within the first minute. Like the Tutorial is politely tapping me on the shoulder and saying,"Hey. This is what lives here. Good luck." Efficient. Mildly irritating. Acceptable. I just wish there were more monsters between those moments.

The Running Simulator with a Side of Wildlife Eradication™ gameplay loop is starting to lose its charm—no matter how entertaining it is to sprint through a fantasy forest at speeds that would make most cars weep in jealousy. Fortunately, my next encounter shows promise. It's a wolf. Or—more accurately— A pack of wolves. Eight oversized threats to my continued mental stability are lounging near a tree, with one much larger wolf settled comfortably at the center. Oh. Good. Now this could be interesting.

Inspect fires. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Alpha Timber Wolf (Level 12 | Tier 1) Species: Wolf Aspect: Tempo The dominant leader of a Timber Wolf pack. Exceptionally fast and highly coordinated, directing its pack with precise timing to overwhelm prey. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Timber Wolf (Level 11 | Tier 1) x8 Species: Wolf Aspect: Tempo A swift and aggressive pack hunter. Relies on coordinated movement and timed strikes to bring down larger prey.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ I nod solemnly. Expected. Real wolf packs don't actually have alpha wolves. Which is precisely why the Tutorial includes them. Because why let reality get in the way when you need an excuse to throw another oversized animal at the player? Truly—innovation at its finest. No need to design unique encounters when you can simply take something familiar and make it bigger. My tail flicks in irritation. Honestly, it's almost impressive they haven't noticed me yet.

Then again, I know exactly why. Silent Star erases my footsteps. The occasional full-body starfire cleanse I do leaves me smelling like—well, nothing. And I'm currently perched on a branch about twenty meters above them. I'd been hopping between trees for fun, actively disrespecting the concept of a ground, when I spotted the neat little bundle of experience points lounging below me. My head tilts. Alright. How do I want to do this?

A full pack of wolves above my level would normally qualify as a challenging encounter, so let's consider strategy. I could use illusions. I could craft some throwing weapons out of starlight and add a ranged option. I could lure them away one by one. Alternatively— I silently drop from the branch. I could stop thinking entirely and charge straight in. My tail gives a short, excited swish. Yes. The perfect plan. Truly, my own genius is a thing to fear. The first wolf doesn't even get the courtesy of awareness.

A Horizon Slash cleaves straight through it, killing the poor thing in a single, clean motion. Which immediately prompts a very important thought. Why is Horizon Slash blue? It says it augments my attack with astral energy, but astral energy is usually… multicolored. Kaleidoscopic. A whole cosmic lightshow. This is different. Deep sapphire. Clean. Almost deliberate. It's like whatever divine entity is in charge of skill aesthetics looked at my kit and said:"Enough rainbows. Pick a color."

My ear flicks in annoyance. Then a wolf almost removes my throat.

"Astral Step." I blink out of the path of certain death, mentally scolding myself for getting lost in internal commentary during active combat. I really should work on that. I add it to the mental checklist. Near the bottom—because inner monologues are objectively funnier when they happen at the worst possible time. A pair of claws swings for my head. They pass cleanly through. The wolf's momentum carries it forward, paws skidding across damp moss as it overextends into empty air. Loose leaves scatter beneath it.

I pivot, ready to punish the wolf dumb enough to attack an illusion— —only for another wolf to lunge from behind, bursting out of the brush at the base of the massive tree. Fortunately for me, gravity is terrible at keeping secrets. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. I feel the shift instantly.

Lowering my own gravity, I leap upward, boots clearing tangled roots and knee-high grass as I twist midair into something that vaguely resembles a barrel roll if you squint generously. My blade lashes out toward its snout— —and instead of meeting resistance, I feel its momentum redirect. The wolf tumbles backward, slamming into the moss and dead leaves, scrambling to regain footing rather than being sliced. I blink. Oh. That one's on me. Then the Alpha barks. Loud. Sharp.

The sound snaps through the clearing, echoing off thick trunks and rolling under the canopy. Birds explode out of the upper branches in a flurry of wing beats. My ears flatten reflexively as the sound cuts through the forest. The entire pack reacts instantly, breaking formation and reforming into a moving, circling pattern around me—dark shapes weaving through ferns and low brush. Coordination. Annoying. I'm still airborne when the Alpha charges in, tearing across the moss with terrifying traction.

It swipes upward, claws aimed to disembowel me while I can't dodge. Smart. Unfortunately for it, the claws pass straight through the illusion above me. My real body had increased its gravity. Hard. I hit the ground solidly, boots sinking slightly into soft earth as my knees flex to absorb the impact. Bits of moss tear loose beneath my feet as I try to capitalize on the opening— Only for two wolves to break from the formation, attacking from either side. I abandon the strike, dodging one and parrying the other.

No opening. They retreat instantly, slipping back into the moving circle— —and two different wolves replace them, this time striking from front and back. Ah. Tempo. They aren't just circling—they're building something. Momentum. Rhythm. Pressure. At least, something along those lines. I can't be completely sure how their Aspect functions since I don't have it myself, and Inspect, in its infinite uselessness, refuses to elaborate. I duck under snapping jaws, then Astral Step sideways to avoid the follow-up claws.

This time, I don't even try to counter. As predicted, they surge straight back into the rotating wall of fur, and another pair breaks away—joined by the Alpha—forming a neat little triangle of incoming misery. Yes. This is officially not working. Time to change my approach. The three wolves hit at the same moment, each choosing a different angle. One lunges for my legs, snapping through tall grass. Another snaps at my midsection. The Alpha goes straight for my throat.

Unfortunately for them, only the Alpha has committed to my actual position. The other two bite air. I don't dodge. Instead, I meet force with force. A runic pattern flares. Starfire coats my blade as I swing directly toward the Alpha's jaws— —and, exactly like the others before him, his momentum slides sideways. My blade cuts nothing but empty space, scattering embers through the air. I click my tongue. Annoying. The two decoys peel away immediately, retreating back into the formation as if pulled by a string.

Right on cue, two different wolves charge in. And then I notice it. They're faster. Subtly. Incrementally. But unmistakably. Wonderful. Alright. Strategy time. Option one: Spam Astral Step and Dash until the formation breaks. Option two: Let one bite me and teach it the concept of regret via full-body starfire. Option three: Abuse gravity until physics files a complaint. I consider. I reflect. I briefly question the nature of reality. Then I make my choice. Naturally, I pick option four.

Turn this life-or-death fight into a training exercise. Because that's what geniuses do. Everything in the previous zone was so weak I never had to actually practice my sword style. A mistake. An understandable one—but still a mistake. Efficiency matters, and carving through things that are vastly beneath my power level with minimal effort is fast… But it doesn't make me better. And these wolves? These might. I settle into my stance without thinking, boots adjusting on uneven ground. Body turned sideways.

Front shoulder angled towards the nearest wolf. Blade held diagonally forward, catching faint sunlight filtering through the canopy. Presenting the least surface area to my enemy. Well, the enemy in front of me. I will politely ignore the one behind me for now. He'll arrive later. I meet the first wolf calmly. It lunges high, jaws snapping for my shoulder. I twist my wrist and knock the bite aside, a harsh clang ringing out as teeth glance off the flat of my blade.

At the same time, I step forward, the point flicking out in a clean, precise stab toward its chest. It should have landed. Instead, the wolf's momentum warps, yanking it backward into the encirclement like someone tugged an invisible leash. … Rude. I Astral Step aside as the second wolf attacks, reappearing a few steps away, near some exposed roots, and it too snaps away, retreating back into the swirling wall of fur. Two more break off immediately, attacking from mirrored angles. One goes low, the other high.

Predictable. I parry the upper bite and shift my weight back, narrowly avoiding snapping jaws near my knee, then snap my blade forward in a quick counter— —and once again, they vanish beyond my reach. I am starting to question the bold balancing decision of giving skill cooldowns of zero seconds. Another pair charges. Another parry. Another dodge. Another counter that achieves nothing except emotional damage. Repeat. I tighten my movements further. No wasted swings. No chasing.

I let them come, answering only when they're close enough to matter. Parry. Dodge. Thrust. Retreat. Every time I should land a decisive hit, their momentum folds inward and pulls them away from my blade like the universe itself is conspiring to blue-ball me. This is starting to feel less like a fight and more like fencing against a blender. Minutes pass. The clearing bears the marks of it—trampled moss, gouged earth, destroyed shrubbery. Then the pattern shifts. The pause between attacks shortens.

The pairs come faster, cleaner, overlapping just enough that I don't have time to reset fully between them. Their tempo is starting to spiral beyond what I can comfortably handle. A bite snaps in, then another, then another—no longer clean pairs, but a relentless sequence. One attack flows into the next, forcing me to react continuously. Still manageable. But— —they are still getting faster. The circle tightens. The space shrinks.

They snap, retreat, snap again, momentum shifting so fluidly that every opening I create seals itself before I can exploit it. I grin. Oh, this is fun. But also— It won't last. They can do this longer than I can. I feel it—the subtle drain, the micro-adjustments stacking up. My current stance is stable, but it's also reactive. It assumes I'm answering their questions forever. Unacceptable. Which means it's time for art. I loosen my posture.

My knees bend slightly, and my blade drops from its guarded position, angled the same way but shifted off to my side, its tip hovering just above the moss. The wolves hesitate. Just for a fraction of a second. Excellent. I step forward. Not a lunge— —a glide. My footwork lengthens, movement flowing instead of stopping. I spin through the gap between two wolves as they charge, blade rising in a wide, sweeping arc that forces them apart. That— Oh. That felt good.

I turn with the motion instead of fighting it, pivoting smoothly, letting momentum carry me into the next strike. The starlight blade hums as it carves a shallow line across fur, barely a flesh wound. My grin grows slightly wider. First hit's mine. They retreat again. I don't let them. I move. Forward. Sideways. Around. I stop anchoring myself and start dancing. Spins bleed into slashes. Steps become turns.

Every motion flows into the next, blade tracing luminous arcs through the air as I force space and pressure instead of waiting for it. The wolves struggle to keep up. Good. But they don't break. They adapt. One lunges mid-spin, snapping at my calf. I twist, barely avoiding the bite, and starfire flares instinctively along my blade as I slash downward— —only for the wolf to redirect its momentum again, sliding away before the cut lands. Fine. If they won't commit— —I'll add.

As I spin, I flick my wrist, an illusion splitting off just ahead of me. A crude copy, blade and all, moving half a beat faster. Two wolves snap at it immediately. Idiots. I pivot mid-motion, snapping my blade upward into a sharp thrust—my old defensive precision bleeding back in—and catch one wolf through the throat before it can retreat. It collapses. Finally. One down. Seven more to go. The pack recoils. They surge again, faster now, overlapping attacks stacking on top of each other.

I weave between them, parrying with the flat, slashing wide, dodging low, spinning high. Defense becomes offense. Offense becomes defense. I fuse them. Every movement does everything now. A parry turns into a cut. A dodge becomes a spin. A spin ends in a thrust. Starfire flares brighter. Illusions flicker in and out, baiting bites, forcing missteps. Gravity shifts subtly, lightening my feet one moment and anchoring me the next. It works. In fact, it works beautifully. Wolves start dropping.

One overcommits and loses its head mid-turn. Another stumbles over exposed roots and into a sweeping cut it didn't anticipate. The Alpha lunges— —and I meet it head-on, blade blazing as I force the end through sheer speed and pressure, embers scattering across the forest floor. When the last body hits the ground, the clearing goes still. I slow to a stop, breathing steady, surrounded by trampled moss, scorched bark, and fallen fur beneath the looming trees.

I roll my wrist, luxuriating at the familiar weight of the starlight blade in my hand. Yes. That was excellent. My tail swishes once, pleased. Wow. I am deeply terrifying. Now that the fight is finally over, I let the notifications flow unabated.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ [Footwork (Common)] has upgraded into [Evasive Footwork (Uncommon)] ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ You have slain Timber Wolf (Level 11 | Tier 1) x8 A slight experience bonus has been awarded for slaying a monster 1 level above you. You have gained 104 Tutorial Points.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ You have slain Alpha Timber Wolf (Level 12 | Tier 1) A slight experience bonus has been awarded for slaying a monster 2 levels above you. You have gained 16 Tutorial Points. Your race has leveled up to level 11. Your class has leveled up to level 11. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ I wait. Then I wait a little more. And then—just to be sure—the universe gets a few extra seconds. Nothing. The notification I am owed never arrives. I inhale. I exhale.

Then, I very calmly, very gracefully, stamp my foot in pure frustration.

"How did I not upgrade my swordplay skill?!" Unbelievable. Truly, profoundly unbelievable. Running in a straight line for a few days gets me a rare skill, but this doesn't? Refining one stance, inventing another, and then fusing them together mid-combat—while fighting a coordinated pack of murder wolves—somehow doesn't count? I refuse to accept this reality. I swear. Solemnly. Dramatically. And with great personal offense. I will personally track down whoever designed the skill system… … and get them fired.

Out of a cannon. Into the sun.