I sit in the grass for maybe thirty minutes, half resting, half chatting with the stars like we’re old friends and I’m pretending I didn’t almost get folded by a woodland creature duo.
My Health was sitting at 32—Stamina at 54—at the end of the fight
Thankfully, my Starborn trait is still fully active, accelerating my regeneration to something vaguely illegal. My ribs stop aching around the ten-minute mark. The chunk the squirrel thoughtfully removed from my shoulder finishes regrowing at twenty-seven minutes.
Only my tunic remains as evidence.
Good.
Any proof that I was injured by a squirrel must be erased, denied, and purged from the historical record. Preferably before someone commissions an embarrassing bard song.
My gaze slides to the carbonized remains of the Bramble Brothers.
I nod, satisfied.
Only witnesses: the stars.
Likelihood of them telling anyone: zero.
Benefit of being the only Starborn alive: privacy and plausible deniability.
…Probably.
I tilt my head up.
“Am I the only Starborn?”
The heavens think—actually think—long enough that I start wondering if celestial beings buffer.
Then a voice answers. Deep. Ancient. Heavy enough to make the clearing feel smaller.
“Yes. The last Starborn lived over five hundred years ago. On the very same world you now stand upon.”
A beat.
I inhale slowly.
“What happened to them?”
Silence.
Not “mysterious silence.”
Not “dramatic storytelling silence.”
Just pure refusal-to-elaborate silence.
I puff out my cheek, ears angling sideways in offended Foxkin.
“Fine. Be cryptic. See if I care.”
I turn away from the sky with great dignity.
I absolutely care.
But they don’t get to know that.
Time to get down to business.
First: Very serious tactical planning regarding the distribution of my free points.
Second: Inspect my two new skills.
Third: Choose a skill.
Fourth: Loot.
Fifth: Actually learn what my new abilities do instead of assuming and dying like an idiot.
With the solemnity of someone about to commit tax fraud, I open my status window.
Free points?
Straight into Dexterity.
Obviously.
Next up: skill notifications.
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[Footwork (Common)]
Unlocked by showing basic knowledge of dodging
(Passive) Increases dodge speed by 10%.
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[Lesser Astral Manipulation (Rare)]
Unlocked by showing basic control over Astral Energy
(Passive) Increase the effectiveness of all Astral abilities by 20%
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I nod sagely, like a wise monk who is pretending they know what they are doing.
Exactly what I expected.
Looks like passives scale by rarity, ten percent, fifteen percent, etc. Except for Nascent Sword Style, which is clearly some kind of gremlin exception. Maybe extra restrictions boost its power.
Future testing pile. Probably next to "figure out why the squirrel could bench-press my dignity."
Next: skill selection.
I poke the notification.
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Skill Selection activated
Please choose a Skill
[Poke (Common)] {New Skill}
A simple thrusting technique refined through the defeat of a fearsome enemy.
(Active) Lunge forward and strike a single target for increased damage at the cost of Stamina.
Scales with Dexterity.
[Leap (Common)] {New Skill}
A simple movement technique.
(Active) Jump further and higher than normal at the cost of Stamina.
Scales with Dexterity.
[Improved Slash (Uncommon)] {Skill Upgrade}
A refined version of Slash that increases cutting power and strike speed.
(Active) Enhances a single slashing attack, increasing speed and damage at the cost of Stamina.
Scales with Dexterity.
[Minor Dexterity (Uncommon)] {Skill Upgrade}
The upgrade to Lesser Dexterity.
(Passive) Increase movement speed by 15%.
[Improved Dash (Uncommon)] {New Skill}
A refined version of Dash that increases speed and distance.
(Active) Dash forward rapidly at the cost of Stamina.
Scales with Dexterity.
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I blink at the world like I’m waiting for it to apologize. It doesn’t.
Not. One. Astral. Skill.
I realize why immediately.
My Starborn trait forcefully aspected me to Star attribute, but my class is still unaspected—
—which means I only get basic skills.
Annoying. Unfair. Completely predictable if I thought about it for two seconds.
I accept zero responsibility.
…Which also means I could have chosen my skill before the boss fight, and avoided almost becoming the most beautiful fertilizer on the planet.
My tail lashes once, sharp and irritated.
I make a noise somewhere between a groan and a threat.
Then, I refocus on the skill menu, because it's harder to forget stupid mistakes when I think about them too much.
Two of them are good, one of them is boring, and one of them is still mocking me for an event that I refuse to accept as canon to this timeline.
That being said, I learned my lesson in that last fight.
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Skill Selection confirmed.
You have gained the Class Skill [Improved Dash (Uncommon)].
Skill has been automatically placed into an open slot.
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I nod at my new acquisition.
It doesn’t nod back.
Rude.
Standing up, I brush off my dirt, grass, and blood stained clothes, before lowering my gravity and using Dash to go to the treasure box.
Testing purposes only.
Not because I wanted to zoom like a problematic shopping cart with a jet engine.
I attempt a smug hair flick mid-dash.
Unfortunately, smug hair physics are incompatible with car-crash velocity.
I overshoot the chest spectacularly—twenty meters in a quarter of a second—which I choose to interpret as talent rather than poor judgment.
Stopping, I tilt my head back, give the stars a deadpan look, and mutter, “Don’t.”
They do.
So I ignore them.
Temporary punishment: minimum three minutes.
This time, I walk to the chest instead of sprint-launching myself at it like a fox with too much confidence and not enough survival instinct.
I reach for the lid and lift it with absolutely zero dramatic flair—tragic, really—and its contents reveal themselves.
Inside sits:
A pair of boots in a color scheme I’d politely describe as swamp chic, etched with runes.
A simple gray ring set with a small black stone, also runed, because apparently that’s the aesthetic now.
Six neatly arranged potions in red, green, and blue like someone’s trying very hard to teach me game design through color coding.
And finally… one lone acorn.
Inspect activates before I even consciously decide to judge anything.
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[Brambleweave Boots (Uncommon)]
Boots made from reinforced bramble bark and tough woven forest fiber. They’re surprisingly light and flexible.
Runic Patterns:
Inferior Movement Speed Up (5%)
Lesser stamina cost reduction while dodging (10%)
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[Spatial Ring (Uncommon)]
A ring containing a pocket dimension within, allowing the user to store all non-living matter. Time does not pass for stored objects.
Storage Size: 1x1x1 meters
Used Capacity: 0%
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[Inferior Health Potion (Common)] x2
Restores 100 Health
10 Minute Cooldown
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[Inferior Stamina Potion (Common)] x2
Restores 100 Stamina
10 Minute Cooldown
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[Inferior Mana Potion (Common)] x2
Restores 100 Mana
10 Minute Cooldown
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[Thistle’s Acorn (Common)]
Thistle’s favorite acorn, now yours upon his defeat.
Consume to receive a permanent +2 Dexterity
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Before I can even muster an approving nod, my body betrays me.
The ring is already on my hand. The boots are already on my feet. The potions are already tucked neatly into my shiny new space pocket.
Efficiency is clearly my love language.
Then something catches my attention.
Runic Patterns.
My eyes narrow.
A mystery. Delightful.
Something to obsess over later.
The moment everything is claimed, the chest dissolves into motes of light.
My ears twitch—instinct stirring before thought—and I turn toward the sound of shifting branches.
A wall of trees and brambles quietly parts, unveiling a fog-drenched path forward.
Of course.
Onward we go.
Before heading out, I pause, because there remains… the acorn.
I lift it gently, studying it with the level of gravitas normally reserved for cursed artifacts or deeply questionable pastries.
It gazes back at me with the silent intensity of ancient power.
A relic. A treasure. A symbol.
…Except it’s not.
It’s an acorn.
Just an acorn.
I make the only reasonable, dignified, morally correct decision available.
I crouch, place it delicately on the grass as though laying a royal heir to rest, and turn away without a second glance.
I have standards, and I absolutely refuse to eat an acorn.
I may be many things, but I draw the line somewhere.
Crafting materials also appear to not be a thing this early. No bone shards, no hide, nothing salvageable from the assorted corpses scattered behind me.
My eyes drift to said corpses.
Or rather, the scattered charcoal fragments that used to be corpses.
Yeah. That tracks.
Didn’t need them anyway.
With that emotional closure complete, I grab my sword, pivot smoothly, and walk toward the exit, moving fast enough that anyone from pre-system civilization would call it sprinting.
I reach the opening in the brambles, and right as the fog parts for me, a notification flickers into existence.
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Would you like to exit Zone 1 (The Thicket) and enter Zone 2 (Mist-Veiled Grove)?
Options: Yes / No
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I narrow my eyes.
Mist-Veiled Grove.
I can feel the stealth mechanics already trying to exist near me.
Praying to every constellation in the sky that this isn’t a “hide and suffer” area, I jab the Yes button—repeatedly, just in case.
The fog swallows my vision once more.
For a moment, there’s nothing. No light, no sound, no movement. Just white. Thick, cloying, borderline rude white.
Then, as if deciding I’ve suffered long enough, the world exhales, and the fog clears, revealing...
…Trees.
Shocking, I know. Truly a twist no mortal could have seen coming.
But these aren’t normal trees.
These stand farther apart, spaced like they’re maintaining polite social distancing. Only two fit within my visibility range, and both are massive—ancient giants with bark so pale it looks like someone bleached them out of existence.
Not white.
Just… wrong.
Like they’re ghosts pretending to still be trees.
The moss squishing under my feet is soft and springy, glowing faintly, just bright enough to illuminate the fact that nothing here wants me to relax.
It’s ambience with judgment.
The air hangs cold and wet around me, heavy enough to cling to my hair in a way that feels personally disrespectful.
And of course—because nothing in this tutorial believes in subtlety—the mist blankets everything. Treeline, sky, stars… gone. Visibility? Maybe ten meters.
Stealth zone. Absolutely a stealth zone. Fantastic.
Somewhere far off, a twig snaps—clean, precise, like it meant to be heard.
My ears swivel automatically.
The stars, naturally, have opinions.
“Ohhh spooky!”
One giggles.
“Maybe there are ghosts.”
Another whispers in a tone that is definitely meant to scare me.
“Be careful of the Bigfoot.”
A third voice, soft and theatrical, adds.
I roll my eyes up toward the obscured canopy.
“Lovely. Encouraging. Truly inspirational commentary.”
I stare at the mist-choked forest for a few seconds.
Then I nod once.
“Nope.”
Practice first.
Dramatic walking into danger later.
The stars collectively emit the emotional equivalent of a sigh. I ignore them with the dignity of someone who definitely did not almost die to a rodent.
I poke at my astral flow, and it reacts immediately.
Gravity testing first.
I’ve already done lighter gravity, so I switch to heavier and use dash.
Ten meters.
Then normal gravity, same dash.
Fifteen meters.
I nod thoughtfully, very scientifically, of course. That’s about a thirty to thirty-five percent variance in either direction. Pretty decent for not understanding how physics or magic works.
Next attempt: I try removing gravity entirely.
It… does not work. I feel the possibility there, distant and smug, like a button labeled later, peasant.
Fine. I’ll level up. Then we’ll see.
Next test: light gravity again, this time watching my stamina. Ten seconds, one stamina gone. Another ten, another stamina. My natural regeneration is already slowing the drain.
Meaning: if I really wanted to, I could stay in low gravity for almost an hour straight with my current pool of 340.
Convenient. Extremely abusable. Love it.
Now heavier gravity. Same result. Uniform cost regardless of direction.
One more experiment.
I imagine gravity not on my body, but in a single spot a few meters away.
It activates, instantly flattening the moss and slurping nearly ten times the stamina cost.
I cut it off fast.
Mental note: use that sparingly unless I enjoy face-planting mid-battle because I drained myself like an idiot.
That concludes gravity.
Next: Starfire.
First, the thing I failed to do during the boss fight—launching it like some anime fireball.
It forms on my palm easily enough… but refuses to leave. I can feel it’s possible, but it wants a LOT more energy than I currently possess.
Translation: level more, complain less.
With the flame still burning, I check the stamina cost.
Twenty stamina to summon, then one stamina every few seconds.
So: more expensive than gravity. Okay.
Second test: full-body flame. Ignoring all potential consequences, I poke my astral flow as hard as I can.
It obliges immediately.
Over 150 stamina evaporates in an instant. My entire body ignites in a shimmering auroral fire, burning almost three stamina per second.
I immediately extinguish it before I accidentally reenact The Great Forest Arson Arc.
Then I look down, half expecting my clothes to be lightly charred as a result of my poorly thought out experiment.
But no, my clothes are thankfully intact. Better than intact, actually. The dirt, blood, and grass stains are gone. Good to know.
Except the squirrel can-opener section. The universe has chosen embarrassment.
I tilt my head.
“How does THAT make sense? It melted a sword into sad soup, but fabric is fine?”
One star responds, deadpan:
“Magic.”
I nod.
Fair enough.
Onto Starlight. The weirdest part.
First, standard light tricks: flashbang, which has already been tested, beam attack, which is just basic nonsense. Decent stamina cost. Barely scorches a patch of moss.
Not impressive. Slightly insulting.
Next: illusions—
—which I cannot test because there are no targets and I am immune to my own bullshit.
Deeply annoying.
So, final category: the part that makes zero sense.
Starlight gathers in my palm again, condensing, not into a spike, but into something vaguely sword-shaped.
This time, I actually study it.
Color ripples through the crystalline blade—violet, sapphire, molten gold, aurora green—all devouring and replacing each other like galaxies mid-collision. Nebulas shift beneath the surface in slow tides, alive rather than merely glowing.
It is… stunning.
And absolutely confusing.
“How does solid light even work?” I ask the void.
This time, the stars are actually helpful:
“It is conceptual. Do not attempt to rationalize. It simply is. Gravity and Starfire function similarly, just less obviously.”
I nod sagely.
“So. Magic.”
A pause.
“…Yes.”
I inspect the blade.
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Crude Starmetal Blade (Uncommon)
A crude blade made out of pure starlight. Resistant to astral energy.
No effects.
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Aha! So THAT’S why starfire didn’t melt my weapon during the fight.
Meaning: starlight weapons are mandatory.
I look at the unsightly, lopsided sword in my hand.
I sigh.
…Eventually. When it stops looking like a glow stick carved by a drunk raccoon.
I turn toward the forest, then pause, checking my stamina.
Creating the blade cost another seventy.
Great. Dangerously low. Again.
Fine.
I sit down.
“I will wait,” I declare with the pride of someone pretending this is strategy rather than potion hoarding.
“…for an hour. Or two.”
The stars hum, amused.
I ignore them.
Temporarily.