Chương 58: Flying... Fox?

.. Fox?

I nod at the palace wall. It does not react. Rude. The wall, which was once a perfectly respectable piece of architecture, has been thoroughly transformed into something that could generously be described as a highly dubious modern art installation. Marble has been carved, split, scorched, and rearranged into intersecting lines, fractured constellations, and what I am fairly certain is at least one accidental depiction of a very aggressive triangle.

In my defense, I had to test how my skills interact with each other. This was a necessary, responsible, and entirely professional use of available resources. It is absolutely unrelated to the possibility that I simply wanted to carve, burn, and otherwise disfigure a palace wall with the enthusiasm of a historian determined to ensure this specific location develops a deeply tragic and well-documented past. The results, however, are genuinely enlightening.

Twin Arc mirrors only the geometry of the cut itself, meaning there are no additional Starfire effects layered onto the second strike. Tragic. A mild disappointment, but not unexpected. The duplication is clean, immediate, and entirely physical in nature. More importantly, it is mandatory. I have no control over the mirrored strike whatsoever. Which is… slightly alarming. And also extremely useful. This leads to a particularly interesting outcome when I execute a perfectly vertical or horizontal slash.

The bonus strike duplicates very close to the original path, the mirrored line intersecting in a way that produces an extremely narrow X. I have decided to name this phenomenon the Scissor Effect. The name is both accurate and deeply concerning. A notably catastrophic effect for anything—or anyone—that happens to exist in precisely the wrong place at precisely the wrong time. Seven out of ten. Points deducted for being weaker than the original strike, which is frankly a disappointing lack of commitment.

Then there is the more entertaining skill. Starfall Sequence. First, I can control where the echoes land. Not perfectly, but enough. About thirty degrees of adjustment in either direction, with the follow-up cut spawning from the initial point of contact. Which means anything standing nearby—object, person, or unlucky vegetarian monster—is now part of the problem. Second, it copies everything. Not just the motion. The properties. Starfire included. Motes included.

The results are exactly as destructive as they sound. The stamina cost scales accordingly, reaching levels that can only be described as aggressively unreasonable. This firmly places the skill into two very specific categories: important enemies and situations that would benefit from dramatic overkill. A very practical classification system. And finally—third. An effect I do not understand. An effect I will not question. The echo can project forward slightly. Not far. Just enough. Enough to be profoundly unfair.

For example, I could potentially parry a sword strike, adjust the angle, and casually remove an overzealous bandit's forearm with the echo. Defense and offense in one motion. Efficient. I nod once, satisfied. This is, finally, a proper buff to Guiding Star Dance. Blazing Star has been receiving an unreasonable amount of attention lately, so it's nice to see something that benefits both. Nine out of ten. One point deducted for stamina costs.

My Dexterity is unreasonably high, so resource hemorrhaging isn't a massive deal. Especially if I take the extremely responsible half-second required to open my Arcana and abuse Starborn's completely reasonable regeneration. Therefore— I have acquired a highly spammable skill.... As long as I don't use motes of starfire. Those are still highly expensive. Tragic. I take one last look at the chaotic mess that has replaced my unwilling test subject.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. The wall does not thank me for my contributions. Rude. Then I summon a few vines from my hand and use them to spiderman my way toward one of the high palace windows. Because why walk out the door like a normal person when I have ultra-versatile prismatic vines and a window that is very clearly inviting me to do something questionable. The vines shatter the glass without ceremony. I walk straight out. Aura farming is a passion.

Even if my audience has only just regained line of sight now that I am no longer inside a building.

"LYYYYYYYN! Welcome back!"

"How did the skill testing go?"

"Did the treasure chest drop good loot?"

"Nah, it was totally terrible again."

"CHILI DOGS!" My ears flatten slightly. I point at one of the stars.

"What is your obsession with chili dogs? I will admit they taste good, but the only dialogue I have heard from you so far has been you shouting it into my ears like a severely inebriated man attempting to summon a waiter at Denny's at three in the morning." Silence stretches.

"... chili dogs?" I sigh.

"Anyways… Behold!" I gesture vaguely to my legs.

"Healing." The reaction is immediate. Relief. Excited chatter. At least four stars burst into tears. Including Older Sister. There's a warm feeling in my chest. I smile a little. Then another vine manifests from my hand, preparing to latch onto a nearby spire so I can continue my extremely dignified method of transportation. I pause. Then tilt my head. The vine dissolves into drifting motes of light. Instead, four vines manifest along my thighs, hidden neatly beneath my skirt. They extend. Brace. And then— Lift.

Clean and effortless. I rise off the windowsill without a sound. My tail swishes in quiet appreciation. I appear to have acquired four extremely long, suspiciously prismatic spider legs. This is objectively an upgrade. The versatility of my vines continues to escalate in a deeply encouraging direction. Two of them stretch outward, wrapping around opposing spires high above the palace. I pull out my hair tie, letting my hair fall free. This is, of course, a tactical decision.

Flowing hair increases dramatic impact by at least thirty percent. Possibly more. Then the vines pull. Hard. For a brief, shining moment, I am airborne. Majestic. Graceful. A foxgirl soaring through the night sky. And then— I am violently slingshotted between two towers like a ballista projectile powered entirely by questionable decisions and excellent follow-through. My ears flatten under the wind pressure, and I let out a sound somewhere between a strangled laugh and an enthusiastic whoop.

As I fall, my vines relatch onto nearby buildings and immediately launch me again. I was wrong. These are not spider abilities. This is something far more concerning. It's closer to ODM gear, mixed with a mildly unhinged interpretation of a kagune, with just enough personal flair to make it feel like I am committing several minor violations of physics at once. Very efficient. And, more importantly— Very fun. Eleven out of ten.

I reach the fortress wall quickly, using my newly acquired limbs to lift myself cleanly over the edge without breaking momentum. My feet touch down on the stone as if I intended to arrive with dignity the entire time. Naturally. I look out over the tutorial. The fog wall between zones four and three is still intact, and the distant horizon is painted in a pleasant mix of fire and smoke.

The ecosystem appears to still be processing my earlier contributions, which means surface cleanup will have to wait a little longer. Unfortunate. Which leaves… Dungeons. Two in zone five. One near the border in zone four. All of them waiting patiently to be dismantled. I can already feel the deeply structured, procedurally generated experience approaching. My tail lashes in annoyance. … …? It works. My tail moves freely. No resistance, no obstruction.

Instead of bulldozing through an unreasonable amount of hair like usual, it swishes cleanly through empty space. I turn and look behind me. My hair is back to waist length. I blink. Ah. Pride. Extremely convenient. Also— My hair is a disaster. A complete one. What was once elegant, refined, and properly maintained now resembles something that lost a fight with a hurricane and then attempted to recover with minimal supervision.

Strands are tangled in ways that should not be geometrically possible, sections have twisted together like they formed binding agreements under duress, and at least one portion looks like it was braided by something with strong opinions, no qualifications, and a general lack of opposable thumbs. I grimace. Note to self: keep hair tied up when engaging in high-speed aerial nonsense. A starlight brush forms in my hand. What follows is forty-five uninterrupted minutes of extremely focused, deeply personal conflict.

The enemy: wind. The battlefield: my hair. The stakes: everything. Knots resist. I persist. At one point, I am fairly certain two separate sections of my hair attempt to maintain eye contact while refusing to separate, which is both impressive and unacceptable. Eventually— Victory. I lower the brush, breathing out slowly. My hair falls back into place, smooth, pristine, and once again behaving like it understands its role in maintaining my overall aesthetic. I nod, satisfied. Thank the stars my hair is invincible.

I am reasonably certain I would have lost at least twenty percent of it if it weren't. I pause, considering the situation. This is, objectively, a critical problem. Wind exists. My hair exists. These two facts are, unfortunately, incompatible at high speeds. Thousands of possible solutions assemble themselves in an instant. Elegant braiding techniques. Reinforced bindings. Full encapsulation via starlight constructs. A brief and deeply questionable consideration of simply removing the problem entirely.

All are analyzed. All are judged. Most are discarded for being inefficient, excessive, or insufficiently stylish. My thoughts spiral inward, compressing into something sharp and precise. A singular, undeniable conclusion forms. I nod sagely. Starlight. … Again. My hand lifts, and a thin strand of starlight forms between my fingers, barely thicker than spider silk. It glows softly, steady and compliant. I gather a small section of my hair and thread the strand through it, binding it loosely. Then I repeat.

And repeat. And repeat again. The process is methodical, almost relaxing. Section by section, the chaos is reorganized into something far more manageable, each cluster held together by faint, nearly invisible threads of light. Time passes. At some point, the stars lose interest in my highly technical solution and begin arguing about something else entirely.

"…I'm telling you, cows are clearly the optimal choice."

"Incorrect. Goats are more versatile."

"Cows have better presence."

"Goats have personality!" I ignore them. An argument regarding the ideal alien abduction target is beneath me. Eventually, I finish. Roughly fifteen minutes later, my hair has been divided into around fifty neat clusters instead of the previous one hundred thousand independent agents of chaos. Visually, nothing has changed. Other than the faint shimmer of starlight woven through it. Which, frankly, blends in perfectly. My hair already sparkles, after all. A side effect of my earlier life decisions.

I tilt my head slightly, inspecting the result. Functional. Stable. Aesthetically acceptable. I nod once, satisfied. A responsible solution to a deeply uninspired problem. Now then. My turbulence issue has been resolved in a highly convenient and aesthetically pleasing manner. My skills have undergone a substantial and deeply satisfying renovation. And there are, at present, a truly unreasonable number of enemies awaiting my gentle smile— —and subsequent application of lethal force. Which means it is time.

I look out over the tutorial once more, the distant fires still smoldering like a polite reminder of my earlier productivity. Yes. Everything is proceeding exactly as planned. Therefore, I will now begin the next phase of my entirely reasonable strategy. The systematic removal of all non-Lyn biomass from the tutorial. This is clearly the correct course of action. My tail swishes haughtily behind me. Time to speedrun every dungeon currently available.