Chương 36: Round Three

My preparations are complete. There's no way this could possibly go wrong. Probably. Let's take those wings of his out of the picture, shall we. With the solemn confidence of someone who is absolutely certain everything will go according to plan, I dart from my hiding spot, lower my gravity, and leap onto a nearby rooftop in a single jump. Then, through a mix of Dash spam and an unhealthy amount of gremlin parkour practice, I close the distance while his back is turned. Then—naturally—I jump again.

He notices me almost immediately—either a skill or perception that's frankly rude—and snaps around midair in a clean one-eighty, hovering like an oversized hummingbird instead of an actively flaming dragon bent on dramatically erasing me from this poorly designed Tutorial. Doesn't matter. I'm already close enough. I raise my blade overhead and bring it down right beside the joint of his wing, offset just enough from the actual shoulder to avoid triggering Severing Arc. That would ruin my plans. Runes flare.

Starfire roars to life as I bring the sword down.

"Horizon Slash!" Despite now having more Dexterity than me, he can't react in time. The strike lands with a resounding crack — —and does absolutely no damage. My blade rebounds completely, though the scales aren't entirely unscathed. Starfire slides off without catching, dispersing like it's suddenly decided this is none of its business. That's new. Guess that confirms his Vitality got juiced too. Still doesn't matter. This was more proof of concept than anything.

Now I know exactly how much force I'm going to need. I click my tongue anyway, sharp and very audible. I already know what comes next, so I reverse my gravity immediately, making myself heavier and dropping out of range of the inevitable follow-up.

"Flare Burst!" Called it. I speak once the flames roll past, careful not to let any smugness bleed into my voice.

"Stars above… what, precisely, has that transformation done to your capabilities?" As the fire fades, he answers—amused, indulgent, the tone of someone humoring a child who's wandered into a war room.

"Why," he rumbles, " would I tell you that?"

"Come now…" I say, tilting my head.

"Surely you intend to indulge in the customary monologue about your 'true power' now that you believe yourself victorious." A low, pleased sound leaves him. …A smirk, I think. Hard to tell when you don't have lips.

"So you acknowledge your defeat already?" he asks. The seed deep inside me pulses faintly. I ignore it. Instead, I nod with exaggerated solemnity.

"Naturally. That was my utmost effort… and I fully intend to retreat the instant you conclude your explanation of my inevitable defeat." It wasn't. But I decide there's no reason to spoil the moment. He looks… mildly offended. Then he explains anyway. Because of course he does.

"All attributes are enhanced by fifty percent," he says, voice rich with certainty.

"Even if you were my equal in level, you would still fail. You are quick, little fox—but speed does not bridge the gulf between us." My tail flicks behind me in dignified disagreement. I will absolutely be the victor. He just doesn't know it yet. Even with an ungodly fifty percent buff to everything. I just have to feed his ego until he makes a catastrophic mistake. And if he doesn't? I'll just improvise more. Obviously. Low risk, high reward. But I think he will. He is clearly the confident type, after all.

I soften my expression, just a touch—warping it into something wary. Uneasy. A little afraid. It works. A real shame he's incapable of reading Foxkin body language. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. For him. If he could, he'd know I'm not worried in the slightest.

"That level of advantage is rather inelegant." I say.

'It should be revised." I lace the words with the faintest quiver. It works a little too well this time. His confidence swells, thick and unearned, practically dripping off him. He opens his mouth again. I bolt. I shoot down the street like a bullet, sprinting at near top speed, vaulting collapsed masonry and weaving past eviscerated undead—some so mangled I don't even recognize what they used to be. Looks like he cleared the city before we started. Convenient.

After a heartbeat of surprise, he gives chase, fireballs and flame lances screaming past me once more. But fewer this time. Either his mana is starting to dip, or he's savoring it—stretching out the kill. Probably the latter, but both options suit me just fine. He's learned from our little dance in the ash wasteland. This time, the fire doesn't chase me —it blankets the street. Explosions bloom ahead, behind, to either side, boxing me in instead of tracking. I dodge most of it.

I cleave a few fireballs out of the air for good measure, ignoring the fresh burns crawling up my exposed forearms and thighs. HP ticks down. I let it. Then—finally—he enters my gravity sense. He dives. Claws outstretched, wrapped in a roiling inferno, coming down with the absolute confidence of something that has never once been punished for this maneuver. My ears perk. Gotcha. A swooping attack, most likely. Throwing away his main advantage would be foolish. Meaning he will fly right back into the air afterwards.

This is a single attempt maneuver to try and catch me off guard. Excellent. Once is all I need. I spin on a dime, muscles screaming in protest at another violent direction change at full speed. Then—naturally—I charge straight at him.

"Flare Claw!" The flames hit— —and pass straight through me. The illusion shatters like mist. The dragon jerks in midair, head snapping side to side as he tries to locate me, confusion flashing hot and sharp across his expression. My boots land lightly against the base of his wing. Yes. The ancient Foxkin art of jumping into the air. With a tasteful garnish of starlight illusions. I grin, wide and feral. The joint is right there. Close. Vulnerable. And the dragon is completely distracted.

Perfect conditions for Severing Arc. My blade rises overhead. And this time—I don't hold back. Runes ignite. Starfire floods the edge, brighter and denser than before, humming with barely restrained violence. I reinforce my gravity again, anchoring myself as it spikes by fifty percent. Finally, he notices me. His head twists back, eyes widening as he registers the impossible weight on his wing. Too late.

"Horizon Slash!" The strike lands perfectly —right at the base of the wing, where it meets the body. Severing Arc activates. My sword crunches through scales, bites into flesh, and slams to a halt against bone. Starfire flares in the wound and starts dismantling him from the inside out—Astral Burn, the ludicrous DoT that burns through mana, stamina, and health at the same time, and which I have been criminally unable to use until now. The dragon's roar tears loose—raw, shocked, uncontrolled.

I don't wait for the counterattack. I Dash away instantly, releasing the hilt as I go, leaving my blade embedded deep in his wing. Insurance. I'm already forming another by the time I hit the ground, starlight condensing into familiar weight in my hand before my boots even finish skidding. Then—naturally—I twirl it once, loose and casual. And… of course— —I taunt him.

"Actually," I say, tilting my head, thoughtful.

"After due consideration, I have concluded that retreat is no longer an option I intend to entertain." My tail sways behind me, betraying either excitement or amusement. Probably both.

"And it appears you have just forfeited your sole chance at survival." He doesn't dignify that with words. He growls instead—low, vibrating, promising violence the moment he can stand upright again. That's fine. I hoist my blade and level it straight at him, the tip steady despite the heat rolling off his body. This dance is only just getting started. And now, with Astral Burn steadily converting him into experience points, time is on my side. Not his. Naturally, I move first. DoT effect be damned.

Waiting around for him to cook to death would be boring. I surge forward with the raw enthusiasm of a raccoon spotting an unattended sandwich that absolutely does not belong to it. He beats his wings in response, trying to lift off. An… optimistic choice. His right wing currently has about half the muscles and tendons it used to, and the remainder are being aggressively dissolved by iridescent astral flames that have made it very clear they're not leaving.

Predictably, he fails to generate anything resembling lift, stumbling and scraping across the ground instead. At this point he looks less like an apex predator and more like a very angry, very flammable flightless penguin. Tragic. His futile struggle hands me the rest of the distance for free. I take it. I swing for his front leg, skipping the gravity increase this time—horizontal cut, not a drop.

"Horizon Slash!"

"Mana Armor!" The strike hits—and stops. The impact rebounds straight back into me, the force snapping up my arms hard enough to rattle my teeth. I skid half a step, boots scraping against scorched stone. That's… new.

"Flare Burst!" I jump back immediately, punctuating the retreat with an incredibly unnecessary backflip, followed by a small twirl when I land. Because aesthetics matter. The explosion fades, heat washing over me in a rolling wave. When the smoke clears, the dragon is staring at me with pure, focused hatred. I have no idea why. I've been nothing but polite. I'm just about to reengage when he speaks. I stop. Obviously.

"You think you have won, little fox?" he asks, voice thick with contempt.

"You mistake cleverness for inevitability."

"I will show you just how wrong you are." My ears perk slightly. Guess round three is starting.

"Infernal Palisade." He roars, and the world answers. Pillars of flame erupt from the ground in a wide ring, slamming down around us and sealing the battlefield in a blazing circle. Fire geysers detonate intermittently within it, vaporizing rubble—and the remains of any unlucky undead—on contact. The air turns brutal almost instantly. Every breath scorches my lungs. Heat presses in from all sides, relentless, invasive. My HP drain spikes hard enough that I don't need a System warning to notice it.

I grimace, just slightly. Guess the clock is ticking for both of us now. Naturally, I charge. He doesn't counterattack. Instead, he reaches up with one claw, plucks a ring from another, and produces three potions—one red, one blue, one green. He tosses them back and swallows them whole. Glass and all. I click my tongue. Distance collapses as I trigger Dash, and I swing for the same front leg again. The mana armor is still there. My blade hits it—and stops, completely deadened. I swing again, faster this time.

Momentum stack two. He answers with a claw swipe. I step back just enough, the hooked tip ruffling my hair as it passes, and carve across his arm as it overextends. No damage. Momentum stack three. I keep going. Tail sweeps. Fireballs. Flare lances. Flaming claws slamming down with brute-force certainty. I weave through it all, cutting where openings should matter, chaining movement and strikes into a relentless flow. The mana armor absorbs everything. We're both bleeding resources now. I can feel it.

My stamina dips below half. Health lingers just above sixty percent and falling fast. I frown. His stats are higher than mine. Which means— Even with Astral Burn, I don't win an endurance race. I narrow my eyes and press harder anyway, speed increasing as momentum stacks climb higher and higher. Still nothing. Momentum doesn't amplify damage. Only control. Only speed. And my strongest attack can't break through the armor at all. The thought slips in, unwanted. I'm going to… lose? My tail stills.

Everything else follows. Emotion drains away, neatly compartmentalized and filed where it can't interfere. The roar of fire, the pain in my lungs, the ticking panic of dwindling resources—all of it fades. The world strips itself down to vectors. Timings. Outputs. Constraints. Pure information. The seed inside me cracks again, and is filed away with everything else that doesn't get to matter yet.

"Unacceptable."