[You have slain a Level 9 Pyrocanis Lupus (III).]

[You have slain a Level 17 Verdant Thornspike (III).]

[You have slain a Level 1 Umbrafelis (I).]

[You have slain a Level 1 Umbrafelis (I).]

[You have slain a Level 1 Umbrafelis (I).]

[You have slain a Level 2 Umbrafelis (I).]

[You have slain a Level 2 Stonebound Skitterer (II).]

[You have slain a Level 1 Aetherflit Wisp (I).]

[You have slain a Level 11 Winterquill Boar (III).]

[You have slain a Level 7 Cinderwing Moth (II).]

….

….

Blimey, how wide was that thunder arc? My kill list stretched longer than a summer solstice shadow—Stages 1, 2, and 3 all making an appearance. But, of course, the real treasure lay buried beneath it all.

[Experience Points acquired.]

[Level increased.]

[Stat increases: Strength +2, Durability +2, Intelligence +2, Will +2.]

[Level increased.]

[Stat increases: Strength +2, Durability +2, Intelligence +2, Will +2.]

[Skill point(s) obtained: +2.]

And the pièce de résistance:

[Flamethrower has reached level 5.]

I couldn’t help but smirk at the system screen as I bit into yet another poor, unsuspecting jellyfish-like monster. Charred it to a crisp with Flamethrower, and voilà—level 5 achieved. Progress tasted sweet, but the monster? A bit... electric. My wounds knit themselves together lazily as I picked through its blue, rubbery remains.

My Air Sense still flared, and—oddly enough—every critter in the vicinity seemed to flee at the sight of little ol' me perched atop this oversized corpse. Pity. A palate cleanser would’ve been lovely. Not that the jellyfish was bad—just... an acquired taste. Still, I couldn’t deny I was hankering for some wolf meat. Ah, later, perhaps. Priorities first.

I pulled up my status screen.

* Name: Jade

* Level: 17

* Species: Voracious Manaweaver (Draconis) (III)

Attributes:

* Strength: 74 (+4)

* Durability: 91 (+4)

* Intelligence: 99 (+4)

* Will: 86 (+4)

* Mana Points (MP): 54 / 54

* Stamina Points (SP): 113/ 113

Abilities:

* Mana Devourer

Species Skills:

* Resonance Roar: Level 1 (II)

* Reinforced Scales: Level 1 (II)

* Advanced Flight: Level 1 (II)

* Rich Respiration: Level 2 (II)

* Breath of Shadows: Level 4 (II)

* Adaptive Grip: Level 1 (II)

* Flamethrower: Level 5 (I) (+)

* Advanced Mana Manipulation: Level 4 (II)

* Core Stabilization: Level 4 (I)

Exclusive Skills:

* Transformation: Level 1 (I)

* Lightning Affinity: Level 3 (I)

Techniques (1/1):

* Phantom Dragon Dance: Level 1 (I)

Mutations:

* Eyes: Focusing Lenses, Peripheral Optimization (III) (+0)

* Claws: Claw Flexibility, Razor-Edge Claws (III) (+0)

* Scales: Colour Adaptation, Shock-Absorbent Scales (III) (+0)

* Wings: Hollow Bones (II) (+0)

* Legs: Joint Flexibility (II) (+0)

* Fire Gland: Mana Reservoir, Mana Conservation (III) (+0)

* Macro-Trophic Sac: Stamina Surge Reservoir, Toxicity Neutralizer (III) (+0)

* Mana Conduit Vasculature: Micro-Mana Control, Mana Conduit Resilience (III) (+0)

Resources:

* Skill Points: 15 (+2)

* Morphogens: 101

Rich Respiration had reached Level 2. Breath of Shadows was now Level 4, thanks to me keeping it active nearly 24/7. That left only Core Stabilization. Speaking of which—hang on. I was bone-dry on mana when I clobbered this jellyfish, so why was my bar suddenly full aga—

Oh.

Oh no.

It was poisonous.

I stared at the blue, gelatinous wreckage, realisation hitting me like a slap with a wet eel. Was that why all the scavengers had scarpered the moment I started munching on it?! Yet, despite my dawning horror, I couldn’t resist licking my chops. No wonder the flavour packed such a... spirited punch.

All credit to my trusty Macro-Trophic Sac, saving the day once again. And there I was, thinking I’d have to burn precious time recovering with Core Stabilization. Speaking of which, it was also Level 4 and just shy of an upgrade. Shame, really—no time to linger about. Those cultists would be stirring like ants from a kicked hill after my cheeky little stunt with their tent.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

No rest for the wicked—or for the dragonling skulking right under their noses. Which, come to think of it, was decidedly inconvenient for me. Oh, Thalador preserve me. Thanks to my impromptu pyrotechnics, they were now keenly aware of my rather flashy—and might I add scorchingly effective—Lightning magic. The forest still bore the scars of my little thunderclap tantrum, a vertical slice of devastation bought by me.

Subtlety? Out the window.

I could have slipped away unnoticed, but, alas, a rebellious streak within me refused to leave all that deliciously toxic alchemi—err, ingredients—behind. Plus, I had a more creative plan brewing than barging into another cultist-infested fight.

Though something strange did give me pause. From what I overheard of their mutterings, they couldn’t seem to divine anything about me. Now that was odd.

My brain throbbed with the effort of making sense of it. I knew absolutely nothing about divination magic, so how could I possibly be countering it? I hadn’t done a thing to shield myself from their prying eyes—or at least, not knowingly.

Still, I shrugged it off. It was their problem, not mine. If they couldn’t track me, that worked to my advantage. It was how I caught those sneaky bastards who’d kidnapped me earlier by surprise.

Not a tactic I could rely on forever, though. Once someone understood how Phantom Dragon Dance worked, the element of surprise would vanish. Every power has its limits, no matter how flashy it looks. If someone’s specifically gunning for me, they’ll figure it out eventually.

No point in dwelling on it for now; there were shinier distractions to chase. The next order of business: upgrading Flamethrower.

Once again, there was only one advancement option. Naturally, I took it without a second thought. If it ain’t broke, why hesitate?

[Inferno Jet:]

Fire gland capacity and flame ducts upgraded to manage higher output pressure. Enables extended flame range and intensified projection. Enhanced directional control supports wide-area coverage with decreased range or precise, narrow streams for focused damage and increased range.

Range had always been Flamethrower's Achilles’ heel. But now, I could crank up the intensity, focusing the blaze into a searing, narrow beam to cover more ground.

I tested it on a nearby tree, and blimey—the range had effectively doubled. The flame now concentrated to roughly the size of a clenched fist, leaving a smouldering gouge in the bark.

A marvellous upgrade, this was. At last, I could punch through shields with pinpoint fire damage, should the moment call for it.

Naturally, this called for a celebratory jig—cue the little happy dragon dance. Oh, it was gloriously worth it.

But before my thoughts wandered too far afield, I refocused on the task at hand. My gaze fell on the glass case of alchemical supplies I’d "liberated."

I lacked proper apparatus, true, but judging by the box’s contents and my desired concoction, most of what I needed seemed prepped and ready. All I’d have to do was fiddle with the volumes sans a single measuring tool.

Not ideal, but precision under pressure? That was my bread and butter.

Rolling up imaginary sleeves, I delved into the case, and once again, my breath caught. Oh, Thalador, how I adored alchemy. The heady scent of herbs and reagents sent my pulse racing, my heart pounding in sheer anticipation. Time to begin.

Spread before me were my ill-gotten gains: vials, herbs, and one lonely glass tube. No mortar, no pestle, no flame-enchanted contraptions—just what I could scrounge together.

Not precisely a laboratory fit for a grandmaster, but as Lotte once drily observed, poison-making isn’t about perfection; it’s about getting results. And results? That’s my specialty.

First up, the base. I decanted a thin ribbon of Nightthorn Extract into the glass tube. Its viscosity was spot-on—dense enough to cling to a blade but not so sticky it’d gum up the works. A gentle swirl confirmed it: the extract left no stubborn residue on the tube’s inner walls. Clearly, it had been aged properly, free of the impurities that could ruin consistency.

Next, a touch of Silvershade Sap. Popping the cork, I added two careful drops. Silvershade is a stabiliser, its silvery shimmer owed to the colloidal particles that knit toxins together. Add too much, and the mixture becomes a sluggish mess; too little, and it falls apart. But just the right amount? It turns poisons into works of art.

Ah, now for the fun part: powdered Blightcap. With a delicate pinch between my claws, I flicked it into the mix. A satisfying hiss rose as the acidic Silvershade reacted with the alkaloids, releasing a waft of spicy, pepper-laced fumes. Lovely.

The compounds would play off each other splendidly, making the venom all the more vicious. A quick swirl revealed the reaction was coming along nicely—tiny bubbles fizzing and popping.

For the next part, I grabbed a sprig of Barrowgrass. Crushing it properly was a bit beyond my claws’ finesse, so I pressed it against the side of the vial and applied pressure. That did the trick, releasing its volatile juices into the mixture.

Barrowgrass venom had a tendency to degrade into something laughably harmless, but thanks to the Silvershade, it would remain deliciously dangerous. I crushed another sprig for good measure, watching as the liquid darkened to a rich, near-black crimson. Exquisite.

Finally, the trickiest element: Coppervine Resin. Tricky not because of its lethality, but its stubborn nature—it stuck to everything and dissolved only under precise conditions.

I channelled a few points of mana into my fire gland, the upgrades to my flamethrower letting me control the heat with precision. Carefully, I warmed the resin until it started to bubble and soften, scraping a dollop into the tube.

Resin’s natural stickiness made it an excellent binder, but if it wasn’t dissolved properly, it could ruin the whole affair. A vigorous shake later, the strands melted into the concoction, giving it a glossy, almost oily sheen. Perfect.

This venom would stick to anything—blades, arrows, or, in this case, something far grander.

I leaned in for a sniff, letting the bouquet unfold. The tangy bite of Silvershade, the subtle bitterness of Barrowgrass, and the burnt sweetness of Coppervine—it was all there.

Testing a drop on the back of a claw confirmed the texture: slick but not tacky, potent without being prone to spontaneous combustion. Ideal.

I couldn’t help but revel in the brilliance of my creation, eyeing the sinister, shimmering liquid with equal parts pride and awe. Improvised? Certainly. But damned if it wasn’t sheer genius all the same.

Whoever had brewed up these ingredients deserved both a standing ovation and a solid smack upside the head for siding with those cultist cretins. A pity, really. Their day was about to go downhill faster than a greased goblin on a slalom.

As with everything Lotte ever taught me, this wasn’t your garden-variety drink-and-drop poison. Oh no, she had a flair for concoctions that ran the gamut from mildly amusing to I’d rather the poison had just finished me off.

It was exactly why I was always a bit wary of using them. That, and the looming threat of divination. Let’s be honest: getting caught with my signature brew wreaking havoc in some town that already had it in for me? Not the best way to secure my longevity.

But for this particular poison? By Thalador’s left stinky boot, this was going to be positively delicious. I could, theoretically, coat my claws and teeth with the stuff and go on the offensive that way, but that was a bit too bold, even for me. No, this called for a more refined, nuanced approach.

My gaze fell on the vial again. The next step in my grand plan was going to be a touch experimental—uncharted waters, if you will. I needed these toxins airborne, and for that, I just so happened to have the perfect tool.

Lightning magic. A term from my dream whispered through my mind: electrolysis. Using electricity to turn liquid poison into gas would be quick, efficient... chef’s kiss. Only one small snag: the lightning spell I knew wasn’t exactly built for delicate manoeuvres.

Or was it? Every upgrade I’d taken so far had leaned towards finesse, hadn’t it? Maybe I could pull this off after all. A bit of experimentation wouldn’t hurt.

Summoning the runes, I kept them as small as I could manage this time. Carefully, I reined in the lightning mana, allowing only the faintest tickle to escape—no more flinging open the floodgates like before.

My eyes locked on my dwindling mana points, and the moment a single point disappeared, I stopped. Distributing this tiny amount in a neat 2:2:1 ratio, I felt a flicker of triumph. Now to see if my theory would bear fruit—or just blow up in my face.

And as I stared at the fully charged matrix, a familiar urge rose in my chest—the spell’s name, unbidden, perched on my tongue, daring me to unleash it.

But I resisted.

I didn’t want to release everything in one flashy burst. Instead, I honed my focus on the matrix, coaxing the mana to flow gently, mirroring the delicate precision I’d felt during casting.

There was no teacher to guide me now, no steady hand to point the way. Trial and error were my only companions. So, when the matrix fizzled out in a disappointing puff, I rolled up my metaphorical sleeves and started again. And again. Until, finally, the lesson hit me square between the eyes. Enlightenment came not from control but from surrender.

I’d been so obsessed with micromanaging every spark, I’d forgotten the essence of lightning—it isn’t tamed; it’s guided. The moment I stopped trying to rule it with an iron fist, the energy responded like an overexcited pup. A small arc leapt from the matrix, its path eager but measured, as the mana drained in a slow, steady flow.

Grinning, I grabbed the glass case, dribbled a bit of the poison onto its metal rim, and set up my impromptu lab. Nothing fancy, mind—just a conductive surface and a dash of audacity. Holding my clawed hand just above the liquid, I focused on summoning a steady, low-voltage arc. A hiss rose almost immediately, followed by the tell-tale formation of tiny bubbles. Gas began to rise, delicate wisps carrying the volatile essence of the poison.

Then, the coup de grâce—my mana points started ticking upward. I breathed it in, and there it was: the sweet, heady buzz of success.

“HAH! IT FUCKING WORKED!”

My heart pounded like a storm in my chest. IT WORKED, IT WORKED, IT WORKED! I’d fretted about using too much lightning—what if the heat caused uneven reactions, ruining the poison’s potency or, worse, destroying the venom entirely? What if I’d completely misunderstood the ingredients?

But no, turns out all I needed was a pinch of confidence and a dash of faith in my own bloody genius.

With a sharp intake of breath, I took to the skies, my wings slicing the air as I climbed higher. The shifting lenses of my upgraded eyes snapped into focus, offering me a crystal-clear view of the camp below. Cultists still milled about, their movements deliberate. From the looks of it, they were packing up—preparing, no doubt, for that infernal ritual of theirs.

Perfect.

A feral grin split my face wide—so wide it might as well have torn me in half.

I would tail them. I would find them. And I would ruin their bloody ritual so thoroughly they’d regret having all five senses to comprehend it.