The winter chill lingered, slipping through the lone open window like an uninvited guest, making the curtains flutter in protest. Not that it bothered . Maybe it was my, well, unconventional biology, but weather just didn’t seem to stick anymore.
Still, today felt like a good day. The sun bathed the snow-crusted leaves in the garden outside my dorm window, and soon, all that frost would lt away, leaving nothing but fresh, untad green behind. Well, except in Varkaigrad. Winter never truly left this city—it clung to it like a stubborn old ghost.
But whether I cared for the cold or not, other people certainly did. Miss Petrov, ever the vigilant worrier, made her way to my window, her gaze landing on the dust-covered heat rune as if personally offended by its neglect. With a sigh, she shut the window and activated it, warmth flickering to life in the room.
Then, finally, her big Urgoth fra turned toward , and I preemptively pulled a face of discomfort.
“Explain,” she commanded, “the precise calculus behind this idiocy.”
Ah, well. You see, I needed an excuse to skip today’s mandatory work and, more importantly, keep Vasilisa from getting suspicious. What better way to do that than by faking an illness? Naturally, it had to be a reasonable illness—nothing easily cured with a potion, and nothing serious enough to draw too much attention in a place like the Alchemy Tower, where even the worst diseases had antidotes lying around like cheap candy.
So, I got a little creative.
I coughed—a delicate, consumptive sound honed through three mirror rehearsals. “My sincerest apologies, Mrs. Petrov. I didn’t anticipate this reaction when I took those pills. The treatises do endorse core saturation for breaching advancent plateaus. Alas, my enthusiasm outpaced my…humble vessel.” A pause. Another cough, dusted with just the right tremor.
Miss Petrov just shook her head.
“Plateaus? Girl, you’re still foothills! Hah, young ones. People do fall for that nonsense, but flooding your core with mana is never the answer. Might give a slight boost, sure, but the risks far outweigh the benefits. And you’re what? A low yellow core, Jade. You really shouldn’t be ssing with these kinds of thods unless your body is at least a little more resilient.”
Hah. If only she knew.
People had their little tricks—spells, sight magic, all sorts of ans to determine soone’s core level. And for whatever reason, whenever they checked mine, they saw low yellow. Harmless.
Let them tally my imaginary diocrity. Hungry wolves don’t stalk mice.
And oh, how plump the mice grew when they waddled right into your jaws.
I allowed myself a small, sardonic smile. “Well, lesson learned—both in theory and painfully in practice.”
Miss Petrov wasn’t amused. “Your body is practically leaking mana through every vein. Thank the ancestors Warden noticed sothing was off and told . Did you really think you were in any condition to work today?”
“But… Miss Vasilisa—”
“Oh, trust , she’d be far angrier if she found out you were working like this.”
I pulled an appropriately sheepish expression.
“And she’d be even angrier knowing you fell for such a rookie mistake. Honestly, Jade, What cosmic joke possessed you?”
“Hubris,” I whispered, lacquering the syllable with sacrantal remorse.
She sighed, shaking her head as she moved toward my desk, rifling through the apparatus before pulling out a few vials—ones I’d set aside for my own experints.
“Mudroot? At least your idiocy has taste. Stabilizing tincture—hold still.”
Her hands moved with the brisk grace of a siege engineer. After a bit of impromptu alchemy, she handed a freshly mixed concoction. The resulting brew slled like distilled regret and rosemary. I downed it in one theatrical gulp.
“It’ll dam the flood, not stop the drizzle. Cycle the excess through your ridians, vent it through your fingertips—slow, steady, ‘boring’. No fireworks. No ‘creative solutions.’” She skewered with a look. “Understood?”
I nodded, a perfect study in chastened obedience.
“I’ll inform Vasilisa you’re auditing my redial thaumaturgy texts. Try not to combust before supper.”
I almost let a shit-eating grin slip but quickly schooled my features into sothing more appropriate. “Thank you, Miss Petrov.”
With that, she left, the wards humming to life the mont the door clicked shut.
The second she was gone, I imdiately jumped up. Cue the victory jig—a silent, hip-swiveling rebellion.
Then, with a flick of focus, I extended my control over the rampaging mana surging through my veins.
All I’d really done was overload myself with mana pills—concentrated mana in solid form, usually taken by battle mages when they were running low. But more often than not, people took them not out of necessity, but for practice—learning to wrangle wild, overflowing mana to refine their control and sharpen their manipulation skills.
For , though? It barely took any effort.
Maybe it was thanks to my Advanced Mana Manipulation skill. But even that didn’t fully explain it. Mana had always been oddly obedient to , responding like a well-trained hound rather than the chaotic force most people struggled to ta.
That little quirk was what let overload my core without the usual nasty side effects.
Raw power? Please. Elegance was bending the universe’s ear until it whispered its secrets—and mine had always been a particularly chatty companion.
Hah. All according to my gloriously draconic schematics. Why duel Vasilisa’s frostbitten arithtic when Miss Petrov’s ddling made such a delicious shield?
The clock read almost 8:30 AM. Just half an hour more, and Lysska would be waiting for .
And as a cherry atop this sinfully good con? My mana theatrics ca with a chi!
[Advanced Mana Manipulation has reached Level 8.]
Finally. A morsel of progress after famine. I tugged my stat screen into view, half-expecting cobwebs.
Na: Jade
Level: 28
Species: Wraithscale (Draconis) (IV)
Alignnt: Judgent (Lightning)
Attributes:
Strength: 297
Durability: 230
Intelligence: 322
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Willpower: 225
Mana Points (MP): 154/154
Dark Mana Points (Wraith Heart): 30/30
Stamina Points (SP): 401/401
Abilities:
Mana Devourer
Distortion Cloak
Alignnt Abilities (1/4):
Thunder Verdict
Species Skills:
Resonance Roar: Level 1 (II)
Reinforced Scales: Level 2 (II)
Advanced Flight: Level 3 (II)
Rich Respiration: Level 5 (II)
Breath of Shadows: Level 7 (II)
Adaptive Grip: Level 3 (II)
Fla Jet: Level 3 (II)
Advanced Mana Manipulation: Level 8 (II)
Advanced Core Stabilization: Level 5 (II)
Constrict: Level 2 (I)
Exclusive Skills:
Transformation: Level 3 (I)
Lightning Affinity: Level 4 (I)
Dark Affinity: Level 2 (I)
Techniques (1/1):
Phantom Dragon Dance: Level 4 (I)
Mutations:
Eyes: Focusing Lenses, Peripheral Optimization (III)
Claws: Claw Flexibility, Razor-Edge Claws (III)
Scales: Colour Adaptation, Shock-Absorbent Scales (III)
Wings: Hollow Bones, Mana-Infused Fibers (III)
Legs: Joint Flexibility, Mana-Responsive Cartilage (III)
Fire Gland: Mana Reservoir, Mana Conservation (III)
Macro-Trophic Sac: Stamina Surge Reservoir, Toxicity Neutralizer (III)
Mana Conduit Vasculature: Micro-Mana Control, Mana Conduit Resilience (III)
Dinsional Lamina: Resonance-Stabilizing mbranes, Phase Microfilant Clusters (III)
Dinsional Convergence Tendrils: Reactive Tendrils, Refined Neural Pathways (III)
Resources:
Skill Points: 47
Morphogens: 76
Killing people gave so much more experience than taking down monsters of my own tier. The system didn’t care about raw strength—it cared about level disparity, and people, even the weaker ones, tended to be high-level. Made sense. They lived longer, trained more, had ambitions that pushed them forward. And that made them… well, efficient little EXP bags.
Not that I slaughtered indiscriminately. Obviously. I had standards. People had to earn my ire, stand against , force my hand. Otherwise? They weren’t even worth my ti.
Just twelve more levels. That was all I needed to hit my next evolution.
Twelve more levels, and I’d step into red core territory.
At that point, I’d officially be counted among the region’s actual powerhouses. Because very little amount of people made it past the bottleneck of high yellow. The number of red-cores in this entire city could probably be counted on one hand. And that made them a threat.
Last ti, I only managed to beat Elnor because Gwen was ssing with him. If I’d faced him alone? That fight could have very well been my last.
I shook my head.
I needed more power. That much was clear. And knowing I was so close to evolution made the anticipation burn hotter in my chest.
“The monster wave should be wrapping up soon,” I mused, tracing the frost-etched windowpane. “That’ll open up so opportunities.”
The dungeons had been spewing monsters non-stop for almost a month now. But once they stabilized—once things beca less unpredictable—I’d dive right back in. Hit that Level 40. Evolve.
That’s if I didn’t hit it first with how many people in this city I considered worthy of being burned in my fire.
Fresh enemies. Fresh EXP.
Still, I had my code. No ssing with what’s mine and what’s . The second soone crossed that line, I didn’t care who they were. I’d atomize them.
Satisfied, I closed my stat screen and turned toward my closet.
Lavender fabric caught my eye.
I frowned.
Lysska had specifically told to wear sothing proper to blend in with the Upper District crowd. I had no idea what she was planning.
But it was Lysska.
And if there was one thing I could trust my cunning foxian boss with, it was sches.
My dragon brain, apparently, was too dumb for this part.
I slipped into the dress. It clung to my flail-like, ghost-white body like a second skin. A few strokes of the comb tad my hair.
Only then did I notice the lack of any accessories.
Well, trinkets were for magpies and mistresses. My adornnts skewed more toward venom vials and the occasional arterial spray.
Still, I twirled once, watching the fabric flow as I stared into the mirror.
It looked… good enough.
Enough to fit in with the Upper District crowd, where noble ladies draped themselves in jewels and finery? Not nearly. But I had nothing to compensate for it.
I just shrugged.
Then I stripped off the dress and shifted into my dragon form.
One by one, I packed my usual things into my maw—my dress, a few anti-divination charms, extra potions, poisons, and finally, my heels.
Perfect.
Tentacles flailed. Maw closed. I tried really hard not to salivate.
Hey, it was a natural function! But the last thing I wanted was to drool all over the dress before I even put it on. That would ruin whatever aspirations I had of imitating a noblewoman.
Ti to leave.
With a flick of focus, I slipped into the Shadow Dinsion.
****
I stepped onto Cinder Street.
Dawn’s fingers pried open the city. Carriages clattered like rolling dice, ferrying wage-serfs to gilded cages. Shopkeepers arranged their wares with sacrantal precision: bread loaves as prayer offerings, spell-dust in vials like bottled starlight.
No chaos. No noise. Just a smooth, orderly rhythm.
My gaze swept the street, searching for Lysska.
No sign of her.
I frowned. Huh?
Was I early?
Well, maybe a little. She did say 9 sharp.
I leaned against a lamppost, its mana-globe buzzing like a trapped wasp. Behind , a café’s window clock sneered: 8:51.
Nine minutes to murder. Or tea.
After a mont of internal debate, I stepped inside.
Within minutes, I was seated by the window, watching the outside world as the scent of herbs wafted through the air.
I took a sip.
It slled nice. But nothing quite compared to the way Belle brewed.
Who knew badgers had a talent for tea?
Or maybe Belle was just special.
I believed the latter.
Still, it was decent enough. A tepid mimicry of Belle’s tea alchemy. Her brews could resurrect the dead; this swill might mildly annoy a ghost.
Ignoring the horrified looks of the other patrons, I gulped the scalding hot tea in one go.
Ahhh. Bliss.
By the ti the clock hit 9, there was still no sign of Lysska.
Even with Air Sense feeding constant information about my surroundings, I picked up nothing.
I frowned.
Where was she?
A rather ornate carriage rolled to a stop just outside the shop, its wheels barely making a sound against the smooth stone road. The body glead with dark, polished wood, filigreed with delicate silver inlays depicting swirling clouds and coiling foxes. The windows were curtained with sheer, embroidered silk, catching the morning light in intricate patterns. Even the door handle was sculpted, shaped like a fox’s curling tail.
At first, I paid it little heed. Another rich rchant stopping for breakfast, probably.
But then, as the door cracked open, the air inside stirred—and my Air Sense picked up the unmistakable rhythm of slow, controlled breathing.
A familiar presence.
A slight shift in the curtain, and there she was—a serene face frad by flowing raven hair, long foxian ears twitching as they peeked through the silk.
Lysska smiled.
Seed like my ride had arrived.
I rose from my seat and strode toward the carriage, slipping inside.
The interior was just as extravagant as the outside—perhaps more. The seats were plush, upholstered in deep crimson velvet, with golden embroidery tracing elegant geotric designs. A faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air, mingling with sothing richer—spiced wine, maybe? The walls were lined with intricately carved wood panels, and a small mana lamp flickered with a warm, golden glow.
But none of it compared to Lysska herself.
She was draped in a flowing, dangerously revealing crimson dress, the silky fabric hugging her curves like liquid fire. Her heels—encrusted with rubies—caught the light with every subtle movent. Dangling earrings of gold and garnet frad her face, while layered necklaces shimred against her collarbone. Gold bracelets clinked softly as she adjusted her position, lounging with the effortless grace of a predator who already owned the room.
How the fuck did she look like a damned sect matriarch?
Compared to the rusted, run-down state of her detective office, this much wealth was wild. Were these all fakes?
Then again, this was Lysska—one of the people who practically owned the Lower District. I had a feeling she had generously liberated this wealth from sowhere.
I glanced down at my plain lavender dress.
Damn. I looked so out of place.
Lysska smirked, as if she could read my thoughts.
“So, what exactly are we doing today?” I asked.
She let out a soft laugh, tilting her head. “Consider this a little lesson on handling the Upper District folk while getting exactly what we want.”
With a fluid motion, she reached beside her, retrieving an ornate box and sliding it toward .
I opened it.
Nestled in plush black velvet lay a set of violet gemstone jewelry—necklace, earrings, bracelets. Each piece ticulously cut, shimring in delicate silver filigree.
I raised an eyebrow.
Lysska smirked. “And rule number one?”
She leaned in slightly.
“Blend in so well that suspicion never even breathes your way. Camouflage isn’t about hiding. It’s about becoming the background.”
The carriage wheels clattered over stone as, one by one, I fastened the violet gemstones into place.
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