I was perched on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, legs swinging like a kid on a playground built over a graveyard. Dust flaked off the brick beneath me, drifting down into the corpse of a city that smelled like ash, rot, and long-forgotten dreams.

Oh shit.

What?

Are we in for another melodramatic chapter of unending analogies and metaphors?

...No?

Can we get a different fragment to narrate? Drama Blake's monologuing again.

Who the fuck are you calling Drama Blake?

You, obviously. This whole intro smells like rotten poetry and unresolved daddy trauma.

I was setting the mood!

You were masturbating with metaphors.

You're just jealous I know words.

WORDS AREN'T A PERSONALITY, BLAKE.

SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU—I'M TELLING THIS ONE.

Wait—why does she get to be Drama Blake? There are, like, at least a thousand of us way more dramatic than her.

Focus, people! We're doing narration!

Um… how the fuck are we supposed to know which one of us is talking?

Shut up!

No, YOU shut up!

EVERYONE SHUT UP! That goes double for Drama Blake and Bitchy Blake.

Bitchy?!

Shut. Up.

With a hard smack upside my own head to shut the voices up—which, shocker, didn't work at all—I carried on like nothing happened.

Although, with a little wishful thinking and some deeply inappropriate self-touching, I'm sure they'll mellow out in… five more minutes?

Make that two.

A few blocks ahead, their precious little fortress squatted like a wart on the beastkin kingdom's dead capital. Fort? Outpost? FOB? Fancy little murder clubhouse? Who cares what they called it—looked like a bunch of stacked logs got horny.

No, seriously. With all that timber and the jagged design, the whole thing had a spiked, horny vibe. Like some sadist lumberjack's wet dream.

It wasn't pretty, but sure, I guess it was "impressive." If your kink is jagged trash architecture that screamed fuck off every time the wind blows.

I wasn't.

Unless, of course, I'm the one screaming it.

Then it's performance art.

What was impressive? The sound that slipped out of me—a squeaky, high-pitched giggle that morphed into a full-blown villainous cackle, dipped into something disturbingly orgasmic, and ended with a full-body shudder that jiggled through every gelatinous inch of me… all while I kicked my feet like a giddy little maniac.

(I might've been performing a little self-love while narrating all this. What? I warned you already, didn't I?)

"This is going to be so much fun!"

And oh, it was going to be beautiful.

With that happy thought, I stood up, gave my fingers a sniff—delightful—and leapt off the roof like a depraved drug addict with nothing left to live for. Arms stretched out into a full swan dive.

Granted, I was only two stories up… and may have slightly missed the landing—belly-flopped like a champ instead.

But hey, I'm made of slime.

Well—more of a tar-like nightmare sludge.

Point is, I was fine.

Just needed a moment to pull myself back together after splattering everywhere.

Within five seconds of hitting the ground and redecorating the landscape with myself, I was hopping to my feet in a gymnast's ta-da pose—

No one was around to see it. I frowned. Just a little.

But hey, I'm used to being alone.

I've always been alone.

"I miss Aurelia—Aislinn! Damn." I winced. "Really hope she doesn't get pissed if I ever use the wrong name in bed. That… would be awkward."

Cue the mad laughter.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

And just like that, I started skipping toward the camp, thoughts already drifting to which spells I should try first.

So many new toys.

So many skills I had to learn—manually—without the system holding my hand.

"Ugh. Homework and homicide? Busy day," I hummed.

My gaze flicked through all my skills and their descriptions, a slight frown tugging at my lips.

That cunt, Magic—with her whole spiel about, well… magic (seriously, could she have picked a more confusing name?)—would probably argue that detailed skill descriptions dampen your innate potential.

She's all about the whole "less you know, the more creatively you cast" brand of bullshit.

But if you ask me? These descriptions are like tossing jet fuel on the bonfire of my imagination. They don't box me in—they're springboards. Launchpads for magical mischief.

So yeah, I guess you could say… I agree with the cunt.

And if that word offends you? You're probably a cunt too.

Kidding!

...Maybe.

But in my defense—that cunt killed me. So I think I've earned the right.

Or wait—would it be she earned the title?

Either way!

It honestly surprised me how adaptable some of these system skills are—how compatible they seem with each other. Or is that just my imagination, twisting weak-ass descriptions into something better than they are? Hmm…

I barely scratched the surface of my new abilities in that last fight, but the potential? Frighteningly arousing.

Take Nightmare Dominion. Pair it with Phantasmal Mist—and I can already feel it. Like standing dead-center in a mana thunderstorm just dumping down all around me. Kind of like when a stripper hits the right song and the dollar bills start raining.

Now I'm wondering… what would happen if I tapped into the Divine Stellar Core while using it?

I know, I know—it probably sounds like I'm rambling while chasing my own tentacle here, but hear me out. I've always been kind of a greedy bitch with… well, everything. But especially when it comes to my skills and spells. If it doesn't serve me directly, what's the point?

But maybe that's where I've been screwing up.

Maybe it's not about feeding me.

Maybe it's about feeding them—the skills. You get me?

Fuck no. You're just rambling nonsense.

Yeah. Let's drop all this shit and get to the fight already!

See? Even Drama Blake agrees!

Fuck you, Bitchy Blake… But yeah. She's right. None of that crap made any sense whatsoever.

"I was mid-revelation, damn it!" I snapped at myself. "Having a full-blown magical epiphany! Figuring out the arcane secrets of my own goddamn soul and shit!"

I flailed a hand, then sighed.

"But fine. Fuck it. Let's just blow shit up and see what sticks."

Shaking off the noisy voices, it was time to get to work.

Before me stood a jagged wall of spiked logs circling the camp—like a giant wooden middle finger warning everyone to stay the fuck out.

Lucky for me, I'd already been spotted.

I stomped forward, still a little pissy at the voices in my head.

Shouts erupted inside. Screams. Chaos. They scrambled to grab weapons, strap on gear—rushing to greet me with the promise of violence.

I smiled at that.

"Go, go, Mighty Nightmare Dominion!"

My magic surged outward, claiming the area around me like it belonged to me—which it now did.

I followed up my first act with, "Go, go, spooky hallucination juice!"

...Nothing happened.

I pouted, sticking out my bottom lip.

"Phantasmal Mist," I mumbled.

That did it.

Sigh. "Can't wait until I can cast all this crap without the system's training wheels."

A glowing orange haze slithered across the land, creeping over the spiked walls like a hungry fog. The system's power laced with my will, sinking into the structure itself.

And then?

Screams.

Shouts.

Full-blown panic from within as the occupants realized something very bad was happening—something they couldn't see, couldn't fight, couldn't even name.

My kind of magic.

Despite feeling like I was overflowing with power within my domain. I couldn't really tell if Nightmare Dominion actually did anything to Phantasmal Mist. Maybe next time I should cast the mist first, then layer on the buff after.

Things to experiment with later. Preferably somewhere with lots of screaming, blood, guts, and agonizing whimpering.

But the more I thought about it…

Maybe this sensation that Nightmare Dominion gave me—it wasn't just some buff.

It felt like the kind of dominion real gods had. Not those fake-ass Ascended dicks—actual gods.

Like the kind of power Duskara had in the Dream Realm. Or Asherah… wherever her domain actually is. No clue where that bitch sets up shop, but you get the idea, right?

Inside the expanse of Nightmare Dominion?

I felt like a goddess.

Here.

Now.

Mine.

I let out a manic little chuckle—just one of many—as my mist slithered through the encampment like a pervert host strolling into a teen beauty pageant's changing room like he owns the place.

Too far? Please. That's just American politics in a wig, a spray tan, and a non-disclosure agreement.

A few brave idiots stumbled out, clutching swords and staves like security blankets.

The first one screamed something heroic. Maybe a war cry? Maybe just screaming for attention? Didn't matter. He came charging, sword cocked back like he was gonna knock my head into orbit—so I spit in his face.

Yes. Spit.

Right between the eyes.

He blinked. Wobbled. Then started convulsing like a toddler with a taser.

Too graphic? Please. That's just American law enforcement doing their thing. Tee-hee!

Fucking hell, who let Deranged Blake narrate?

Dark veins erupted across his skin. His mouth frothed like he'd been chewing soap and rage. His eyes bulged—then rolled back as he collapsed in a twitching heap of fuck-around-and-find-out.

In my head? I thought, "Corrosive Spit!"

But no—don't have that one.

I do have Acid Breath.

But that? That wasn't acid.

That, my sweet little, Poison Spit.

And holy shit… chef's kiss—it worked beautifully.

A bolt of—fuck if I know, magic—whipped past my head with a whistle sharp enough to make my butthole pucker.

Yes. I do have an asshole.

I'm actually quite proud of being fully anatomically correct with my polymorphing, thank you very much.

Where was I going with this again?

Oh right! The little caster bastard who just tried to take my head off.

Now, I'm a fan of my Burst skill, but I figured I'd give his Surge a try.

It was... weird.

One second I was standing over sword guy—still twitching on the ground like a broken fish—the next I was spinning my arms like a drunk helicopter, completely off balance, crashing full-speed into the caster.

A few of my passives were already up—one of them being Corrosive.

What happened next was delicious.

He screamed—a bloodcurdling, high-pitched shriek—as I melted through him.

I sat up, straddling the poor idiot, looking around all casual as I dissolved through his groin.

He kept screaming.

I kept sliding.

Through the pelvis. Through the bone. Through everything.

Everyone not already swallowed by my mist just... stared.

Eyes wide. Jaws dropped. Souls probably exiting through emergency exits.

I swiveled my head slowly toward them and offered a shrug.

"What?" I said, grinning. "I swear, it's not contagious."

The rest of the fight was a bloodbath. And not even the fun, screaming-for-your-life kind.

Much to my surprise, the soldiers, casters, and whatever-the-fuck-classes they had didn't put up a fight. At all.

Honestly? Disappointing.

But hey—it was fun. I even let Phantasia eat half the corpses. Gotta share the love.

With that all done and thoroughly goo-soaked, I got back to the task at hand: finding the entrance to the beastkin hideout.

Which, shocker, took a few more hours.

But I found it! Totally found it all by myself. Yep. Definitely didn't need Anal-lyth to come haul my ass back on track.

"Come on, it's this way," Asherah said, pointing to a slab of rock covering a hole in the ground.

Sigh.

"Auntie to the rescue," I muttered under my breath.

Pretty sure she heard me—judging by the grin that spread across her smug pretty face.

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