Foxkin of the Night Sky

The water remains perfect.

This is, unfortunately, a problem. Mostly because leaving now would require me to willingly abandon optimal conditions in favor of progress.

Deeply unreasonable.

I consider staying.

Forever.

My tail drifts lazily beneath the surface in quiet agreement, tracing slow, contented arcs through the water like it has already committed to a long-term lease.

…

Tragic.

With a small, dignified sigh, I rise from the bath.

The air immediately feels like a personal betrayal.

Thirty minutes.

Not nearly long enough.

Sera rises alongside me, significantly less offended by reality, and after lending me a towel, we both dry off and redress.

I choose a different outfit this time. Because putting on the same clothes immediately after a bath feels like a sin, even if said clothes are perfectly clean and were only used for a few hours.

There are standards.

I assemble the outfit quickly.

An extra-soft wrap skirt settles into place, followed by a similarly soft top, loose, wide-collared, and just slightly off-shoulder.

For entirely practical reasons.

This is absolutely not an aesthetic choice.

Both pieces shimmer faintly in soft blue, threaded with silver accents that catch the light in subtle, shifting patterns.

Acceptable.

Shorts sit underneath.

Obviously.

Boots—

Remain.

They do not match at all.

A tragic clash between elegance and stubborn, utilitarian reality.

Unfortunately, they are also the only footwear I possess. And objectively superior to all alternatives.

So on they go.

Dignity preserved.

Mostly.

I fasten my anklet back into place, but—due to recent intimidation-related events—opt to leave the aesthetically questionable hair clip off for now.

Properly presentable, Sera and I exit the locker room and settle briefly in the lobby, steam trailing faintly behind us like we’ve just emerged from a highly successful ritual.

I produce a large copper coin from my spatial storage and hold it out to her.

“As promised.”

She takes it without hesitation, dropping it into a pouch at her hip before glancing back at me.

“Reference?”

I extend my hand.

Astra Nocturne slides into my grip, void-black, impossibly clean, its edge catching the light in a way that suggests it is personally offended by the concept of resistance.

Sera circles it once, studying.

Twice.

She adjusts her stance slightly, squinting as if attempting to solve a puzzle.

Then she extends her hand.

A soft brown glow gathers around her palm.

Wood forms, constructed out of thin air. Grain aligning, edges sharpening, structure locking into place with practiced precision.

A blade takes shape.

The exact proportions of my own sword. Balanced and functional.

She finishes in seconds and hands it to me.

Respectable craftsmanship.

I take it, giving the blade a small test flick.

It hums faintly through the air.

Heavier than Astra Nocturne.

Ironic.

Still, my strength renders the difference irrelevant. Even ten times the weight would be… manageable.

Stats have a way of trivializing reality.

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” she says, watching me for a moment. “You’re really serious about this. Why not just use a Class Skill?"

I pause to consider the question before deciding to answer honestly.

“I want to stack passives.”

She snorts.

I choose to interpret that as encouragement.

“I am going to the feast. Coming?”

I make a noise of agreement, my mind already drifting toward far more important matters.

Namely—

My new technique.

I already have a step for Blazing Star, which means Guiding Star is next.

Which means it needs to use starlight.

I put a finger to my chin as I follow behind Sera, posture thoughtful, expression composed, the very image of a prodigy on the verge of enlightenment.

This raises an important question.

How, exactly, do I do that?

I condensed starfire into motes for Blazing Star, so I should do something simil—

My forehead collides with the doorframe with a loud, decisive thunk.

…

Sera pauses and turns to look at me. Her expression does several things at once, most of which involve a heroic effort not to laugh.

A few of the patrons in the lobby are less successful.

I glare at the doorframe, flat and unimpressed.

My tail flicks in annoyance.

Good.

Warning issued.

I step through properly this time, as though that was always the plan, and gesture for Sera to continue.

…

Where was I?

Right.

Starlight.

I need a way to condense it. Something like motes, but more versatile. Controlled. Refined.

Time slows.

No—

Time kneels.

My consciousness expands outward, brushing against the edges of possibility itself. Every variable unfolds in immaculate detail, a cascade of perfect, interlocking truths.

A storm of brilliance.

Equations carve themselves into existence and collapse just as quickly. Entire disciplines are invented, perfected, and rendered obsolete in the span of a breath.

Philosophers weep.

Scholars take notes.

Somewhere, a very confident academic quietly retires.

The universe holds its breath.

For a fleeting, eternal moment, I am not merely thinking—

I am the concept of thought itself.

The answer reveals itself.

I nod sagely, the motion carrying the full, crushing weight of my intellect, equal to, if not exceeding, the combined wisdom of at least four entire raccoons.

Conclusion:

…No clue.

I have a few vague ideas.

My starlight has three primary expressions: radiance, illusion, and construct. Ideally, I need a condensation method that incorporates all three. Something elegant, unified, and not embarrassingly inefficient.

Unfortunately, my perfect solution is currently locked behind a minor logistical issue.

Namely, I cannot openly use illusions without raising deeply inconvenient questions about my actual Aspect.

Which means the illusion component must remain subtle. Tasteful. Deceptive, but in a socially acceptable way.

I think for a few more seconds.

Then I snap my fingers.

Ah. Right.

My Arcana.

Sovereign Starlight.

I pull up the description.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Sovereign Starlight

All light within the Garden falls under Lyn’s influence.

She may bend, scatter, and shape it into convincing illusions independent of direct sight. Perception subtly warps in her favor; attacks against her suffer minor distortion and misalignment.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The last line is the key.

Not full illusions, subtle perception warping. Micro-adjustments. A quiet suggestion to reality that it is, perhaps, slightly incorrect.

Acceptable.

At least when I am around people I do not intend to dramatically stab to death. The gloves will still come off when I am alone.

“Figured something out?”

I blink.

Right.

Beastkin. Enhanced senses.

Finger snaps are apparently public announcements.

“Somewhat,” I reply. “I require testing, but I have developed a preliminary concept.”

“Just don’t run into a door again.”

My ears angle outward in a manner that conveys regal composure.

Not embarrassment.

Certainly not.

Sera’s tail tip flicks back and forth in a slow, rhythmic motion. I study it, then shift to her ears, which are slightly forward, giving a few subtle micro-twitches.

…Amusement.

Probably.

Highly suspicious.

I make a vow then and there.

I will study Beastkin body language.

Eventually.

After more pressing concerns.

Such as not being mocked in public.

As the most magnanimous and forgiving being in existence, I choose to overlook this minor assault on my dignity and redirect my attention to the wooden sword.

I hoist it, then drag a few fingers down its length. Starlight flares along my fingertips, forming tiny particles that cling briefly to the edge.

…No.

That feels wrong.

Next.

I repeat the motion, this time spreading a thin film across the entire blade. It shimmers faintly, elegant but functionally useless.

Next.

I continue experimenting—compressing, layering, refining—but nothing quite aligns. The particles emphasize radiance, obscuring the blade, while the film enhances durability, which is irrelevant given Astra Nocturne’s likely refusal to acknowledge the concept of breaking.

None of this is correct.

Sera watches with mild curiosity as we move through the streets, weaving effortlessly between pedestrians.

Notably—

She is walking backwards.

At speed.

While maintaining full awareness of her surroundings.

…

Impressive.

My ears twitch.

The sound of metal and the crackling of fire drifts faintly over the background noise of the village.

I lift my chin slightly and discreetly sniff the air.

I blink.

That is… a lot of smells. Blood and meat, which is almost certainly the boar I killed, layered with an impressive variety of berries, root vegetables, and bread.

And something else.

Earthy. Slightly nutty. Mushrooms, perhaps.

Or an extremely ambitious dirt-based culinary experiment.

I store the wooden practice sword in my spatial storage, much to Sera’s disappointment, according to her ears, which droop slightly.

Her face is less cooperative.

…I can see why Beastkin learn to read each other’s traitorous biological tells.

Extremely convenient.

With Sera no longer walking backwards—tragically—we pick up the pace and reach a large courtyard.

There are—

Tables.

Many tables.

An unreasonable number of tables.

They form individual circles of wooden furniture, each one piled high with ingredients in quantities that suggest either a feast… or a small-scale siege.

Each circle has assigned Beastkin, efficiently shredding, chopping, and preparing ingredients with practiced speed.

A few additional Beastkin move along the outer edge, collecting the processed materials into massive bowls.

Highly organized.

Suspiciously so.

And at the center of each circle—

Massive cooking apparatuses, suspended over open flame.

Five in total, each one large enough to comfortably boil an entire cow. Possibly two, depending on optimism.

Thick ladles rest nearby, sized appropriately for stirring something that could qualify as a minor ecosystem.

Stew.

This is absolutely stew.

My tail flicks in appreciation.

This is a highly cinematic method of cooking.

Eight out of ten.

Points deducted for lack of dramatic lighting.

I glance around and spot Arlo, his back turned.

Korr stands beside him. Thane as well.

…And now that I look closer, a significant portion of the ingredient processors are the former bandits.

The loud, entirely unnecessary “kehehe” noises confirm this. As does the extremely unsubtle fistfight between two Dogkin.

It lasts approximately three seconds.

Then they laugh, throw their arms around each other, and return to work as though that was a perfectly reasonable form of communication.

Fascinating.

Sera notices Arlo as well, and we begin walking over.

As we approach, I catch a fragment of their conversation.

“—really that bad?”

“Yes. She’s terrifying. Real terrifying.”

We arrive approximately half a second later.

Naturally, I interject in the most normal, perfectly reasonable way possible.

“True.”

Korr whirls around, pale, looking as though he has just been personally introduced to death.

Arlo is slower, but not by much.

Both of their tails tuck briefly before rebounding. Their ears snap back, then forward again.

Interesting.

So that is how Dogkin react when startled.

Noted.

Arlo places a hand over his heart.

“Gods above. Yer gonna give me a heart attack if ya do things like that.”

Arlo looks normal.

Korr—

Korr looks rather nervous.

I wonder why.

“…Did you hear all that?”

“Yes.”

He goes quiet for a few seconds, clearly reconsidering several life choices, before finally speaking again.

“I’m sorry.”

I tilt my head.

“What for?”

“For calling you terrifying. As well as… what I said in the forest.”

Ah.

So he took that to heart.

An unusual combination, sympathy, fear, and caution, all fighting for control of the same expression.

He’s an honest man.

Good.

Those are some of the easiest to deal with.

I tilt my head a fraction further.

“Why? It is the truth, after all. I have no intention of doing so, but if I were to attack, nobody present could stop me. My intimidation skill simply brought that fact to the forefront of your mind.”

I adjust my mask slightly. A touch more warmth in my expression. A little less tension at the brow.

Then I lift a hand and point directly at the bridge of his nose, stopping just short of contact.

“Relax.”

I lower my hand.

He relaxes.

Obviously.

Sera’s ears perk slightly.

Arlo looks… impressed.

Acceptable.

Then Arlo clears his throat.

“Did y’all come to watch the feast preparation?”

Sera nods. “Yeah. How’s it going?”

“Good,” he replies. “We’re just about ready to start cookin’.”

I shift my attention back toward the courtyard, curiosity piqued.

“Ah. It’s starting now.”

The ingredients have been fully shredded and sorted into large bowls.

The Beastkin begin lifting them.

I freeze.

My ears twitch.

Then I speak, calm, composed, and only slightly contaminated by professional concern.

“What, exactly, are they doing?”

...

This has been a nine out of ten evening so far. Which is precisely the wrong score for a situation in which I almost witnessed a culinary war crime.

Thankfully, I intervened.

Everyone turns towards me.

Confused. Concerned. In one case, openly reconsidering their life choices.

Arlo tilts his head.

“They are cooking?”

…

My tail gives a short, irritated lash.

“They were dropping everything into a cauldron of boiling water. All at once.”

He tilts his head a bit more.

“Is that a problem?”

…

Oh no.

This is bad.

Very bad.

A horrifying realization settles into place with the weight of undeniable truth.

I am not in a village of Beastkin.

This is a camp of barbarians.

The kind of people who can create grey, flavorless mystery stew with confidence and call it a feast.

Unacceptable.

“What is your population, and how long until you were planning to serve?”

He blinks at me, takes a moment—either to process the question or reevaluate his understanding of reality—then answers.

“We got a bit less than nine thousand here. An’ we planned on eatin’ in ‘bout three hours.”

I nod.

Nine thousand.

Workable.

I clap my hands, firm, sharp, and authoritative.

The sound carries, and everyone's attention locks onto me.

“Four hours. I am taking command.”

Arlo opens his mouth.

Pauses.

Then closes it again, clearly deciding that this is not a battle worth fighting.

Instead, he turns and starts gathering the chefs, who have been watching this exchange with varying degrees of confusion, concern, and, in the case of the former bandits, mild terror.

Efficient.

I turn my attention to the workspace and evaluate.

The boar is fully butchered. Good. More than enough meat, enough to feed several times the population, if necessary. Bones and fat have been separated and set aside in auxiliary cauldrons.

Excellent.

A large portion of the meat is already cubed.

Even better.

Although I will need additional cuts for presentation.

Standards must be upheld.

Ingredients: Potatoes. Carrots. Cabbage. Mushrooms. Bread.

And an excessive quantity of berries and fruit that look excellent and will, unfortunately, be almost entirely irrelevant to the main dish.

Tragic.

Cookware: Five massive cauldrons. Eight equally massive pans. An abundance of utensils.

And enough controlled fire to make proper use of all of it.

Perfect.

I nod once.

Objective: boar stew.

Supplementary: roasted boar, bread, and a selection of fruit I will be forced to pretend is an intentional side rather than a missed opportunity.

Deeply tragic.

Arlo finally organizes my support crew, and I begin splitting them into teams with the quiet efficiency of someone who has decided this is now a military operation.

Some of the remaining boar meat is rapidly broken down into thicker cuts for the roast, while multiple cauldrons are filled with bones, cabbage cores, mushroom trimmings, and a few carrots for good measure.

Stock first.

Always.

Two vines slip from my shadow and immediately get to work, skimming foam from the tops of the boiling cauldrons and stirring with practiced precision, while I take over the pans and begin browning the cubed meat in rendered boar fat.

Massive batches. Relentless pace.

The sear is… uneven.

Aggressively so.

By any professional standard, this would be considered a crime.

However, when feeding nearly nine thousand people perfection becomes a rather flexible concept, much like the recommended microwave time on a frozen burrito.

It will finish cooking in the stew.

This is for flavor.

Several Beastkin look concerned when my vines begin moving across the clearing at high speed, flipping meat, stirring pots, and generally behaving like a collection of extremely motivated, mildly aggressive sous-chefs.

They adjust quickly.

Adaptability is admirable.

Five minutes into the process, I am interrupted by a system notification.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You have gained the general skill [Cooking (Common)]

Skill has been automatically placed into an open slot

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Ah. Right.

Of course.

Calling my tutorial skewers "cooking" would be an act of optimism bordering on fraud, so it makes sense that it took me this long to acquire the skill.

And with that, my final general skill slot is filled.

Excellent.

I will inspect it later. Cooking takes priority.

Due to the sheer volume of meat, it takes over an hour to brown a sufficient amount of the cubes, which at least allows the stock time to develop.

Not enough time.

Tragic.

With the help of four vines and several Beastkin equipped with heat-resistant gloves, I strain the broth using a makeshift strainer I construct on the spot.

The result is... acceptable.

Barely.

Then the real cooking begins.

Into the cauldrons go the browned meat, chopped carrots, cabbage, mushrooms, cubed potatoes, and a measured amount of salt and pepper.

Measured, because Beastkin and excessive salt likely have a complicated relationship.

I assign crews to each pot, give brief instructions, and move on to the roasted boar while a dedicated team rushes around disposing of the stock remnants with admirable urgency.

The roasted cuts receive more attention.

Proper sear. Even heat. Rendered fat.

Still not perfect. Too many people, not enough time.

But significantly improved.

Time passes in a blur of motion and heat—meat browning, pans rotating, teams cycling in and out—until another hour slips by and the cooked cuts begin piling up on warming pans, ready for service.

Around us, Beastkin begin constructing the dining area.

Wood rises from the ground in smooth, controlled shapes, forming tables and chairs in rapid succession until a full mess hall takes shape in the center of the square.

Efficient.

Aesthetically acceptable.

I approve.

Finally, the stew is done.

Nearly three hours of work culminates in five massive cauldrons of rich, fragrant boar stew, accompanied by three enormous pans of roasted cuts and an entire table dedicated to bread.

I give the bread the respect it deserves.

Each slice is browned lightly in boar fat.

As it should be.

Additional tables are set with fruit—an excessive quantity of it—alongside bowls, plates, and utensils enough to sustain a minor civilization.

The feast is complete.

And at the center of it all stands one extremely composed, extremely satisfied white-haired Foxkin, who has successfully elevated an entire village’s understanding of food.

As well as acquired a modest quantity of fruit that was absolutely not taken from the nearby table when no one was paying attention.

I dispose of the final piece of evidence—a strawberry—with a precise, efficient bite.

Yes.

This is acceptable.

The entire village square smells amazing.

Meaty. Salty. Earthy. With a faint, treacherous sweetness from the berries drifting through the air.

I nod once, approving.

One final task remains.

I reach into my spatial storage and retrieve two pre-made skewers.

Dragon meat.

I begin cooking them properly. Perfect sear. Controlled heat. Even rotation. The exterior crisps just enough to lock in moisture while the interior remains tender.

Salt and pepper are added.

One is for me, naturally.

The other is a test.

Primarily because I am curious.

They finish quickly.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[Cooking (Common)] has been upgraded into [Exotic Cooking (Uncommon)]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Exotic Cooking.”

…An interesting way to describe dragon meat.

Mildly concerning skill upgrades aside, the skewers both look and smell incredible..

My ears twitch.

Footsteps. Approaching.

Right on time.

I transfer the skewers onto a plate and rise smoothly, turning as they arrive.

Arlo, Sera, and Thane greet me. Arlo with a smile, Sera with a small wave, and Thane with the energy of a small natural disaster.

I return Sera’s wave lightly.

Arlo opens his mouth.

Thane beats him to it.

“That was sooo cool, Lyn! How are ya so good at controllin’ yer vines?! Cookin’ too! Never seen anythin’ like it! Ooooh everythin’ looks so yummy, I can’t wait! Are ya almost done?! Can the chief-man make the announcement soon?! Ooooh, what are those skewers in yer hand?! Are those special?!”

I take a measured step backward, exiting the immediate blast radius of his enthusiasm.

He leans forward.

My tail lashes at the exact moment Sera smacks him on the back of the head, harder than last time.

He recoils, offended, but mercifully quiet.

I turn to Arlo.

“We are ready. You may begin serving at your leisure.” Then, without ceremony, I take one skewer from the plate and offer it to Sera. “For you. I ask that you not mention it to anyone.”

She blinks before accepting it.

Good instincts.

“Not tell anyone ‘bout what?”

I give her a small, composed smile.

“You will see.”

She takes a bite.

There is a brief, perfect moment where everything stops.

Her eyes widen.

Then—

They lose focus. Completely.

She freezes. No tail movement. No ear flick. No recovery.

…

Excellent.

After a few seconds, she slowly turns her head toward me, expression caught somewhere between revelation and existential crisis.

I observe.

My tail gives a small, satisfied flick.

Good reaction.

Note to self: dragon meat is not merely rare here.

It is deeply rare.

Did I expect that? Yes.

Did I do this purely to confirm the exact magnitude of that reaction? Also yes.

In my defense, it was very funny.

Sera tracks the movement of my tail, and completely misinterprets it.

Her expression softens—kind, almost warm—in a way that feels… premature, given we have known each other for less than six hours.

Ah.

I see the issue.

She believes the dragon meat was a gesture.

A symbol.

An offering of friendship.

…

Incorrect.

I simply wanted to observe her reaction, and she was the optimal candidate.

Familiar enough to be convenient. Quiet enough to be reliable.

I do not correct her.

This is… informative.

Beastkin biology is deeply inconvenient, but not without merit. My emotions are visible, yes, but visibility does not guarantee accuracy.

Misinterpretation is a resource.

Noted and filed away for later use.

“Did you enjoy it?”

Sera smiles.

“I did. Very much. Thanks.”

I return the expression.

Carefully calibrated.

Lying is inelegant, but allowing others to reach their own conclusions is efficient.

She steps closer, settling at my side.

I turn back to Arlo, who is watching her with open curiosity.

She will not say anything. I am confident in that.

“Would you care to make the announcement, then? We are ready.”

He nods and produces a device that appears to be a cross between a poorly funded microphone and a baton.

It is covered in runes.

An excessive number of runes.

Interesting.

He glances at me.

“Actually, since ya did all the work, wanna do it yerself?”

I blink.

“I am unfortunately unfamiliar with your announcement system.”

“Ah, it’s easy. Just push mana through this part here, and the runes handle the rest.”

…

Right.

I neglected to mention that I do not, in fact, possess mana. Another detail best kept private.

“I will pass. Thank you for the offer.”

He shrugs and activates it himself.

His voice echoes across the entire village.

Not through speakers, or through visible channels.

It simply… manifests, like an overzealous bear responding to the distant sound of a cooler being opened.

Highly suspicious.

The reaction is immediate.

Villagers flood into the square from all directions, navigating the terrain with alarming enthusiasm, vaulting over obstacles, weaving through crowds, and announcing their arrival at full volume.

The smell has clearly achieved divine status.

At least four fistfights break out. They last a few seconds, then resolve into laughter and mutual shoulder-grabbing before both participants return to the queue.

No one appears intoxicated. Which makes this significantly more impressive.

Before anyone can organize anything, four vines slip from my shadow and retrieve bowls and plates for myself, Thane, Sera, and Arlo.

They thank me.

I nod.

Then, without further discussion, I take my bowl, step lightly onto a nearby ledge, and leap to a rooftop.

I settle there, legs idly swaying over the edge as I begin eating.

Optimal positioning.

The food is… acceptable.

Not great.

Which is expected, given the minor logistical inconvenience of feeding nearly nine thousand people.

Even with assistance, it was a substantial undertaking.

Six out of ten.

On the first bite, another system notification appears.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Initial Consumption of Tier 2 Stonehide Warboar Meat Confirmed

Vitality +1

Strength +2

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

…Convenient.

So monsters give stats on first consumption as well.

I approve.

...

Although, this does beg the question.

My gaze drops slightly to my arm.

...Do I give stats as well? The dragon did, and he was classified as a user, so it makes perfect sense that I would as well.

Furthermore, what about other Beastkin?

Humans?

I very deliberately do not add this to the future testing pile.

Some theories are best left unexplored.

Sera interrupts my highly concerning thought train, pulling herself up onto the rooftop and settling beside me, her tail swaying in a slow, steady rhythm that suggests a deeply satisfactory evening.

She begins eating.

We sit in silence for a while. Comfortable. Unremarkable.

Then she pauses mid-bite.

“Thank you. Truly.”

“What for?”

“The skewer.”

I wave a hand dismissively.

“I was merely curious to observe your reaction.”

She does not believe me.

Tragic.

“You are strange.”

I tilt my head slightly.

“How so?”

“You seem prideful, but you didn’t announce any of this yourself. You’re not even down there getting praised. Instead, you’re up here. Quiet. With me.”

I pause, lowering the piece of bread I was about to commit to the stew, and place a finger against my chin.

“I take pride in what I do. Not in the reactions it produces. I am already aware the result is good, so external affirmation is unnecessary. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She considers that for a few seconds.

“I do.”

I nod once.

“Exactly.”

Allowing people the honor of witnessing the most beautiful, humble prodigy in the universe do cool things is one thing.

But I have no reason to seek out praise like a house pet with separation anxiety.

That isn't Pride. That is insecurity.

I am beyond that.

Obviously.

Sera studies me for a moment longer.

“That’s… a good way to look at things.”

I shrug and return to my meal.

Some might argue that it is, in fact, a sinful perspective.

…

Oh no.

I just made a dad joke.

That is deeply concerning.

Clearly, the mental strain of high-speed cooking for three and a half hours is beginning to take its toll.

Sleep is required.

I take my time finishing the rest of the meal, then rise and offer Sera a brief nod.

“Good night.”

She returns it, still watching me with that same unreadable softness.

Suspicious.

I leave her there and make my way back through the village.

The square is loud—lively, chaotic, filled with celebration—while the rest of the village sits in near-total silence.

Everyone is gathered.

Convenient.

Back in my room, I construct a starlight futon and place it over the deeply unconvincing mattress before changing into the excessively comfortable pajamas I acquired from the tutorial shop.

Then I lie down.

After a brief pause, I tear open a small rift in reality.

“Good night.”

The stars respond with enthusiasm.

Mission accomplished.

Failure to do so would have resulted in an approximately eighty-three percent increase in tomorrow’s annoyance levels.

Unacceptable.

I close the rift, settle back into my kaleidoscopic pillows, and let the quiet settle in.

Sleep comes quickly.