Foxkin of the Night Sky

Fighting a wood-aspected monster in a forest is a fascinating experience.

In the same way natural disasters are fascinating.

Loud. Decisive. Best appreciated from a safe distance with absolutely no personal involvement.

Unfortunately, I am the personal involvement.

I walk toward the stag anyway, slow and deliberate, Astra Nocturne held low at my side, its edge dragging just enough to carve a thin, continuous line through dirt and exposed roots as I advance.

My heart is still pounding—fast, steady, eager—adrenaline threading through my limbs in sharp, electric pulses. Apex Predator hums beneath it all, turning the entire situation from “potentially dangerous” into “mildly entertaining.”

The stag roars.

Louder this time.

Deeper.

Something shifts.

The forest, already half-demolished from our earlier exchange, stirs again. This time with none of the hesitation from before. Trees rip themselves free from the ground, roots tearing loose with wet, splintering cracks. Branches snap and twist midair, reshaping into spears, arrows, and jagged constructs that hover in a tightening orbit around the clearing.

The grass itself gives up the pretense of being decorative, splitting apart as thick roots lance upward in writhing clusters.

It takes everything.

Every scrap of wood in reach.

My grin widens, just enough for a bit more of my fangs to show.

Ah.

So we’re done pretending to be efficient.

Its twin heads move independently now, each working in tandem to shape and direct the growing storm of projectiles. The volume alone eclipses the dragon, an entire halo of sharpened wood forming around the clearing, turning what was once a dense forest into something aggressively minimalist.

Several full trees hover above, rapidly compressing and hardening into oversized spears that look more suited to demolishing buildings than targeting a single Foxkin.

Charming.

My posture lowers, center of gravity dropping as I settle into motion.

In that case, I suppose I should stop holding back as well.

…Mostly.

No starfire. No full Arcana.

As entertaining as it would be to simply erase the problem, I did, in fact, decide to practice fighting as a Prismatic Vine Dancer.

It would be rather embarrassing to fail that objective on the first mildly interesting opponent.

Still—

I glance down briefly.

The forest floor fractures, compacted earth giving way to something darker and richer. Vines of starlight breach the surface in a slow, deliberate bloom, their glow soft at first, then sharpening as they rise.

A dozen.

Then more.

I tilt my head slightly, considering.

Localized projection should be fine.

Probably.

My tail flicks haughtily.

“Let’s call that fair.”

The first attack comes a heartbeat later. Half a dozen spears launch from the stag’s orbit, each one honed, angled, and deeply invested in my continued nonexistence.

My vines rise to meet them.

At the same time, an equal number of roots erupt from the forest floor, punching through soil and air with enough force to suggest they have personal issues.

Unfortunate.

For them.

The density shift warned me well before they broke the surface.

I crouch, the vine wrapped around my leg compensating for my current and deeply unnecessary transition into artisanal lumber, and bring my blade up in one smooth motion. The edge catches the first root cleanly, splitting it in half.

Starfall Sequence activates.

I adjust it mid-swing, letting the projection carry forward just enough to catch a second root that was aiming for my shoulder, slicing through it before it can introduce itself.

I begin to pivot around the next—

The spears detonate.

Before reaching my vines.

Of course they do.

A cloud of wooden shrapnel erupts outward at speeds that feel personally insulting, saturating the air in a way that strongly implies I should not be standing here.

I click my tongue and Veilstep backward, space folding just enough to remove me from the immediate vicinity of poor life choices.

Charging that would have been bold.

Also extremely fatal.

Which means I have to hand initiative back to the stag.

Annoying.

The patch of altered soil beneath me collapses the moment I leave it, my starlight vines dissolving into drifting motes.

Noted.

The instant I reappear, another cage of roots erupts from the ground, snapping inward with malicious enthusiasm.

I jump.

Just in time for the entire structure to explode into shrapnel.

Again.

Consistency is important, I suppose.

A flick of my tail and a quick adjustment of gravity shifts my body into a narrower profile, minimizing exposure as the splinter storm tears toward me.

I angle my blade along my body, catching some of it on the flat.

A few slip through.

They bite into my exposed legs and arms, more irritating than anything else.

Damage: negligible.

Therefore—

Ignored.

Still, the stag has clearly identified a weakness.

This is unacceptable.

Death by a thousand splinters is both deeply unthematic and aesthetically offensive.

Two vines erupt from my thighs, one snapping straight across the clearing like a thrown spear, the other unfurling wide as it carves a long, sweeping arc through the air toward the stag.

A wooden wall surges up directly in the path of the first, intercepting it head-on. The vine slams into it with all the grace of a high-speed poor decision and promptly destroys itself on impact, collapsing into scattered motes of starlight.

Predictable.

Also irrelevant.

That one was never meant to land.

The second vine completes its arc, stretching to its full length before snapping forward in a whip-like motion. The tip accelerates violently, space itself seeming to distort slightly as it cuts through the air at a speed that has no business existing under normal circumstances.

I reinforce gravity beneath my feet as it strikes, landing cleanly and immediately chaining into a series of Veilsteps, closing distance while the stag’s attention is forcibly redirected.

It reacts instantly.

Both heads snap toward the incoming threat, and two more walls tear themselves free from the ground in rapid succession, angling into place to intercept the strike from the side.

The vine hits the first wall with a concussive crack.

It doesn’t hold.

The vine detonates into a spray of starlight as the force exceeds anything its structure can handle, while the wall itself fractures violently, splintering apart into a storm of wooden shards that slam into the second wall with a barrage of sharp, rattling impacts.

The second wall holds.

Technically.

It shudders under the assault, surface pitted and cracking, but ultimately remains intact, doing little more than absorbing the impact and producing a series of deeply concerning noises that suggest it is reconsidering its life choices.

I reform the two vines, this time from my shoulders.

Better angles. Better leverage.

Then I reduce my gravity to its absolute minimum—push past the comfortable limit for just a moment—and jump.

At the same instant, my vines slap the ground.

The added force converts a leap into something far less reasonable.

A foxgirl takes flight.

Gracefully. Majestically.

Completely intentionally.

This will be… mildly risky.

My trajectory carries me up and over the majority of the hovering branch-spears, clearing their orbit in a single arc while placing me well outside the reach of any roots trying to stab me from below.

Distance evaporates.

The clearing shrinks beneath me.

I am above it.

Naturally, as the most perfect and humble genius currently present, I calculated the horizontal velocity precisely, placing myself exactly where I need to be without overshooting.

Obviously.

I grin, wide and feral.

The stag does not appreciate this.

Dozens of wooden spears launch upward in response, converging on my position as we begin what is clearly the final exchange.

The vine compensating for my leg unwraps. A second manifests along the opposite thigh.

Four total.

All available.

All very motivated.

They lash out at once, snapping through the air at near-sonic speed, striking spears out of the sky as I descend. Each impact shatters wood into fragments that scatter harmlessly past me.

Gravity pulses in sharp intervals as I place weighted fields along trajectories my vines can’t fully cover, knocking incoming projectiles just enough off-course to miss by narrow margins.

My blade joins the effort, carving tight, efficient arcs that remove anything that gets too close for comfort.

One of the larger constructs finishes forming. An entire tree, compressed and weaponized, launches upward with lethal enthusiasm.

Artillery.

Charming.

Time to experiment.

My tail flicks, gravity shifts, and I reorient midair, aligning myself directly with the incoming spike.

A vine disengages from its current task and wraps around the projectile.

This creates a gap.

A small one.

A spear slips through.

It grazes my arm, drawing a thin line of crimson before continuing past me, presumably on its way to ruin someone else’s day in the distant future.

I ignore the pain.

My focus narrows completely onto the incoming missile.

The world slows.

Sound dulls. Motion sharpens.

Right before impact—

The vine tightens and yanks.

My body lifts just enough, and the sharpened tip passes beneath me by a fraction.

I plant my foot onto the moving spike.

Balance locks in.

Astral Veilstep activates.

Distance ceases to exist.

I am suddenly in front of the stag.

Close.

Too close.

My hands tighten on the hilt, momentum from the transition flowing seamlessly into motion as I spin, the rotation clean and perfectly aligned.

Its eyes widen.

A brown sheen of mana armor floods across its body in a desperate, last-second defense.

Too late.

My foot plants.

A sapphire glow floods my blade as the spin completes, power condensing along the edge in a single, focused line.

“Horizon Slash!”

My blade meets the joint of the stag’s front leg with perfect placement, Severing Arc triggering on contact.

Twin Arc follows immediately, the single strike splitting into a mirrored second cut—scissor-like, precise—and the joint gives way after a brief, stubborn resistance.

The leg comes off clean.

The stag roars.

Pain. Rage. Defiance.

Both heads swing in unison, antlers snapping toward me in a vicious attempt to turn me into something decorative.

A heartbeat later, Starfall Sequence activates.

I adjust the angle on instinct, the reverberation projecting forward just enough to catch the nearest set of antlers at the base.

They shear off in a clean, decisive line.

A vine wraps around my useless leg again, hauling me backward just enough to avoid the remaining spikes as they carve through the air where I had been.

Roots erupt beneath me again, stabbing upward in a last-ditch attempt to pin me in place.

This time—

I step forward.

More spears launch toward me, but now that I’m close enough for the stag to consider the concept of self-inflicted consequences, their trajectories become… less enthusiastic.

The combination of Cosmic Presence and my vines is more than enough to handle what remains.

My foot plants.

I launch forward in a spray of dirt.

The stag responds by detonating its remaining antler mass into a dense hail of those same high-velocity projectiles, saturating the space between us and covering every angle with ruthless efficiency.

No dodging.

Understood.

I reinforce gravity, drive my sword into the ground, and crouch behind it, letting the flat of the blade take the brunt of the storm.

Impacts hammer into it in rapid succession, reverberating up my arms, forcing me back several feet as my boots carve shallow trenches through the soil. A few slip through, taking small chunks of flesh with them.

Still—

Barely any damage.

I rise.

The stag stares at me.

Desperation flickers in its gaze, tangled with something quieter.

Defeat.

Its antlers are gone. One foreleg is no longer attached and is currently contributing to the aesthetic of the clearing several meters away.

And that oversized spear it had been preparing is now far too dangerous to use at this range without turning itself into paste.

The hail continues.

I ignore it.

Instead, I begin walking.

Slowly. Deliberately.

The ground shifts beneath my feet, grass and ruined earth giving way to dark, fertile soil as I move. More vines breach the surface, joining the fray, lashing out to intercept the dwindling number of incoming spears.

Past ten, my control starts to slip slightly—precision giving way to broader, less refined motions—but it remains more than sufficient.

The stag cannot retreat. There are no roots left in immediate reach. And the storm is thinning.

My heart is beating faster.

The euphoria is rising with it, bright and insistent, pushing at the edges of my thoughts.

Closer.

Closer.

I reach it.

For a final moment, something fierce sparks in its eyes.

It lunges.

Both heads snap forward, jaws opening in a last attempt to tear out my throat.

My center of gravity drops.

I slip beneath the bite.

My blade rises.

For the first time, I activate my anklet.

A streak of matte-black and sapphire light.

The first head separates cleanly, the cut passing easily through mana armor like it had already accepted the outcome.

I sidestep the spray of blood.

The body twitches—

And then, in one last, deeply unnecessary act of spite, a wooden spear forms out of pure mana and fires at me from nearly point-blank range.

Astral Reflex pulls.

I tilt my head.

It passes by with a sharp rush of air.

My blade moves again.

Another clean arc.

The second head falls.

Behind me, the remaining massive tree-spear crashes into the ground with a final, heavy thud.

Silence follows.

Then—

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You have slain Twin-Heart Grove Stag (Level 57 | Tier 2)

An experience bonus has been awarded for slaying a monster 7 levels above you.

Your race has leveled up to level 51

Your class has leveled up to level 51

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Whew~”

I let out a slow breath as my heart finally begins to settle, the rapid, eager rhythm easing back into something far less… enthusiastic.

The euphoria follows.

It fades gradually, the intoxicating heat draining from my limbs like it was never there at all, leaving behind a faint echo of something sharp and electric.

…

Mildly concerning.

Not entirely unwelcome.

I file that away for later dissection.

For now, I study the aftermath.

The stag’s corpse. The clearing. The… former forest.

Calling it that feels generous.

Within a hundred meter radius, everything has been uprooted, shattered, or violently repurposed into weapons. The ground is torn open in jagged lines, dirt churned and scattered, while splintered wood and broken trunks lie strewn about like the aftermath of a particularly focused natural disaster.

It looks less like a battle took place—

And more like the concept of “trees” was briefly revoked.

I take it in for a few seconds longer.

Then nod, solemn and fair.

“Nine out of ten. Points deducted for splinters.”

High praise.

I glance down at my leg.

The wood is gone.

In its place is a sizeable, deeply unfortunate gap in my thigh, the missing flesh making itself known through a steady, rhythmic dripping that I would describe as “aesthetic failure.”

I consider it.

Briefly.

Then shrug.

I rip open the veil with my left hand, fully deploying my Arcana to activate my Starborn Trait. My wounds will heal on their own, and any lingering imperfections will be corrected by Pride shortly after.

Therefore—

No potion required.

Efficient.

I turn my gaze upward to the now-visible stars shining through what used to be a canopy.

With practiced elegance, I perform a light, theatrical curtsy.

…The plated half-skirt of my battle dress does not cooperate in the slightest, but I refuse to get blood on my casual clothes, so I endure it with the quiet dignity of someone being mildly inconvenienced by reality.

“Did you all enjoy the show?”

The response is immediate.

A cacophony floods my mind. Cheers, overlapping praise, wildly inconsistent scoring systems, at least one star loudly insisting that it was a twelve out of ten, and several others dissolving into what I can only describe as aggressively emotional approval.

My ears flatten instinctively.

It is very loud.

Still—

I smile.

That was, after all, extremely fun.