Marisol sat at her wooden table, staring at the box in front of her. The midday heat pressed against the sandstone walls of her house, but inside, it was still. No wind, no movement. Just her and the aura of what lay inside the box.

She exhaled, running a hand through her hair before flipping the latch.

The lid creaked open.

A shimmer of bluish-pink fabric was folded neatly inside, smooth as running water. It looked almost exactly like her current sand-dancing outfit—the same cut, the same flowing layers—but she could tell, just by looking, that there was something more. The weave wasn't just whatever cloth she could get her hands on in the market. It had a different sheen, an unnatural lightness, and a certain springiness to the touch when she poked it with her fingers.

The Archive flickered to life in her head, pulling up a status screen next to her face.

[Water Strider Blouse (Quality E-Rank)(Spd: +0/1)(Aura: -350)]

[Water Strider Skirt (Quality E-Rank)(Spd: +0/1)(Aura: -250)]

[Water Strider Sleeves (Quality E-Rank)(Dex: +0/1)(Aura: -250)]

[Water Strider Breeches (Quality E-Rank)(Spd: +0/1)(Aura: -250)]

[Composition: Enhanced fibers interwoven with carapace from S-Rank Mutant-Class water strider. Light-refracting properties detected. High-speed movement efficiency increased. Dexterity increased. Aura drain minimal… for the amount of attribute levels they are offering,] the Archive said.

Marisol grinned, fingers curling into the fabric. She lifted the full outfit and found a small parcel tucked beneath. Untying the string, she unwrapped a bundle absolutely bursting with dried bug meat, packed in messy long strips. Another gift. And beside it—a letter.

Only one line, written in Maria's neat, slanted hand:

'As promised.'

… Ha.

She didn't waste any time. Immediately, she stood, pulled in the curtains to her house, and peeled off her old sand-dancing clothes so she could slip into her new outfit. The moment the fabric settled against her skin, she felt it latching onto her. Her whole body responded like a bowstring pulled taut, and every motion felt smoother, faster. Lighter. She twirled once, testing the flow of the fabric, and the air seemed to move with her.

The water strider's speed. Its impossible, skimming weightlessness. It was hers now.

A wicked grin curled at her lips.

Oh, this is cool.

[Estimated time until you can obtain all of the outfit's attribute levels: three hours.]

Just gotta wait a bit, then.

She threw herself onto the bed, grabbed a handful of dried meat from the box, and tore through it while propped on her elbow. The rich, smoky taste filled her mouth—exactly what she needed. High-energy fuel.

One last meal before she left.

Her gaze flickered across the room, taking in the cracked sandstone walls and the clutter of personal things only she would care about. Old Sand-Dancer outfits she never threw away. Combs that'd barely seen any use. A collection of small glass bottles from the market, filled with coloured sand. The ragged map of the Deepwater Legion Front tacked onto the wall, the edges curling from age.

It took her hours, but eventually she swallowed the last bite and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Then she stood and looked around one final time.

This had been her home for the longest time, so she let out a slow breath and dipped her head quietly.

Thanks for keeping me safe.

But… I'm going now.

She tightened her detachable sleeves, readjusted the bandages over her skin, and skated out through the front door.

The evening dunes stretched before her, golden waves under the blistering sun. Heat shimmered off the sand and made the horizon ripple. She couldn't believe herself, but she wasn't even tripping or losing her balance in the sand anymore. She was gliding effortlessly across up the slope of the tallest dune in the town, and as she hurried to where her mama and Safi were waiting, the Archive blinked her with another notification.

[You have enough points to unlock your final tier five core mutation. Would you like to—]

Give it to me, and upgrade it as much as you can with the remaining points.

What is it again?

[T5 Core Mutation Unlocked: Surfactant Domain Lvl. 1]

[Brief Description: You can release a surfactant from your glaives that will reduce the friction of the environment around you, allowing you to move at high speed even off of water. Subsequent levels in this mutation will decrease the stamina drain from releasing the surfactant]

[Aura: 17,045 → 18,045]

[Points: 1,025 → 25]

Her glaives pulsed as something inside them shifted, the mutation sinking into her body like a fresh jolt of adrenaline.

She flicked her gaze down, furrowing her brows, focusing.

A strange, low-friction liquid sprayed from the pores in her glaives, slick and glistening like fresh resin. It coated the sand beneath her, thinning out the grainy resistance, and then turned the sand into something almost fluid. She barely had to push now—her momentum carried her forward effortlessly, the dune's incline barely registering beneath her.

['Surfactant Domain' is a versatile mutation. Your glaives now secrete a surfactant that reduces friction in any environment, which will allow high-speed movement even off of water,] the Archive explained. [Obviously, you are still most efficient on water, but your land mobility has now significantly improved.]

Marisol grinned. Now this was a good one.

Then, another status screen blinked in her vision.

[All T5 Core Mutations have been unlocked. Class Mutation Selection is now available]

[First Class Mutation Option: Phantom Strider]

[Passive Mutation: Spectral Glaives]

[Brief Description: Your glaives will mutate to become ultra-thin and translucent, which will displace almost no sound or spray. You will be able to glide with ghost-like silence and leave no ripples in your wake]

[Swarmblood Art: Ghostspark Glaives]

[Brief Description: You can electrify your blood with bioarcanic essence and spark quiet and invisible lightning around your glaives. Nobody will be able to see or notice your lightning until it is too late. When activated, your speed will increase by fifty percent]

[Second Class Mutation Option: Rainsplitter Strider]

[Passive Mutation: Raincleft Glaives]

[Brief Description: Your glaives will mutate to be able to regenerate almost instantaneously no matter the injury sustained]

[Swarmblood Art: Thunderfang Glaives]

[Brief Description: You can electrify your blood with bioarcanic essence and spark controlled lightning along the edge of your glaives. When activated, your speed will increase by fifty percent, and the toughness of your glaives will also increase by fifty percent of your toughness level]

… Oh.

I completely forgot about—

[Your first class mutation option is 'Phantom Strider', which will mutate your Art and allow you to make your lightning nigh-imperceptible. It is very useful for infiltration or extermination missions where you cannot afford to be loud,] the Archive said. [Your second class mutation option is 'Rainsplitter Strider', which will make your glaives extra tough as well when you activate your Art. It is primarily a dueling upgrade. As its name suggests, you will be able to better match blow-for-blow against bugs with stronger and tougher limbs, claws, tails, or whatever flavour of attacks they are sending your way.]

And once I pick one of the options, I can't go back and pick another one?

[When have you ever been able to do that?]

She shrugged. True. But ain't there something you ain't telling me?

[... No.]

Archive.

[No.]

Archiveeeeee.

Ain't there supposed to be three options for my class mutation selection?

[The third option is certainly one that would fit you based on your strengths, personality, and proclivity towards certain speed-related habits, but even then, this option would be much too dangerous for you,] the Archive muttered. [This enhanced Art is hard to control. It is extremely, extremely dangerous. Victor Morina certainly picked this class, but that does not mean you have to—]

Like I'd care about following in the old man's footsteps?

I like what I like, and I do what I do. I'm a simple lady in that regard.

So show me.

What's the third option?

A pause.

Then, reluctantly, the Archive pulled up a third status screen next to her face.

She read the words over once.

Twice.

And she started chuckling, holding her stomach as she did.

Heh.

[Heh.]

Come on, Archive.

[Aw, I knew you would pick this no matter how useful and versatile I made the other two options look.]

What would you have done if I'd forgotten about the third option and just picked one of the first two?

[Nah. You would not have forgotten.]

[You did not forget back when I first offered you four classes to choose from, did you?]

She beamed from ear to ear as she flicked the little water strider on her shoulder.

No, I didn't.

Confirm Storm Strider Class.

[Initiating bioarcanic integration for Storm Strider Class.]

[Specialized Class: Water Strider → Storm Strider]

[Passive Mutation: Striding Glaives → Galewind Glaives]

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

[Brief Description: Your glaives have evolved wind-chambered cores, allowing them to passively reduce drag and convert gale winds into forward momentum. Your speed will increase by ten percent in motion]

[Swarmblood Art: Charge Glaives → Storm Glaives]

[Brief Description: You can electrify your blood with bioarcanic essence and spark lightning around your glaives. When activated, your speed will increase by fifty percent. Prolonged activation will gradually increase your speed by a hundred percent]

Immediately, the shift was visceral. Her aura surged, crackling at the edges like the smell of an oncoming storm. Lightning flickered in her veins, racing through her limbs, and her glaives exploded into light momentarily, buzzing with energy.

She exhaled sharply, still skating forward and up the dune.

… She was shaking. Her hands trembled as she flexed them, the power settling into her bones.

But she didn't fear the fear as she reached the top of the dune.

She skidded to a stop at the peak, the wind curling around her like a restless thing. For a moment, all she did was stand there, breathing hard, her muscles still thrumming with the leftover charge of her mutation.

Below, the oasis town stretched out in sunbaked silence. Her mama was down there, standing among the others, her face unreadable—but Marisol saw the way her hands were clasped tight, the way her head tilted just slightly, like she was memorising this moment. The townsfolk, too, were staring up at her, their awe unmistakable.

A little bit off to the side, Safi lounged in the driver's seat of his ant-pullled carriage, arms crossed over his chest with a small smirk tugging at his lips.

"Well, well," he called up. "Think I can get your autograph? I have a hunch it might fetch a nice price in a few years."

Marisol snorted.

He just grinned wider.

She rolled her shoulders and exhaled, then bent her knees, shifting smoothly into a Sand-Dancer's starting pose. Low. Balanced. Ready.

Ahead of her, the dunes stretched out to the west, and the sun was already rolling steadily down onto the horizon. Twelve hours, give or take. That was all she had. Twelve hours to make it to the Harbour City before sunrise tomorrow.

She'd come back to her little oasis town one day, no doubt.

But first, she had a black tide she wanted to kick the shit out of.

… Storm Glaives.

On.

Sparks snapped through the air, air burning sharp and sweet as lightning surged into her bloodstream. Her entire body felt like a lightning bolt, nerves alight, senses stretched razor-thin. This was what she was made for.

No weight. No resistance. No hesitation. Her surfactant coated her glaives and sprayed outwards, a rippling slick of frictionless fluid spreading instantly across the sands.

Then she exhaled coolly, tilted forward, and exploded into motion.

The sheer force of her launch shattered the dune behind her, sending a wave of displaced sand crashing down in her wake. Wind hit her like a physical thing, trying to tear her back, but she was already past it. Lightning arced from her glaives, snapping at the air, kicking up bursts of white-hot discharge that propelled her even faster.

She swore she heard her mama laughing behind her.

The sounds and scents of the Luzde Oasis Town vanished within seconds. What had once been rolling dunes and sunbaked stone turned into a streak of shifting gold, smeared into unrecognisable motion by her speed. The sun overhead blurred, no longer a fixed point but a smudge of light chasing her across the sky. Heat waves bent and distorted around her, and for a wild second, she thought she could outrun even them.

Faster.

Faster.

She adjusted her stance, shifted her weight, and her glaives responded like second nature. Their smooth, segmented flexion joints helped her keep her balance. She cut through the next stretch of land like a lightning bolt, riding the air currents, adjusting her momentum with spraying discharge, and used her surfactant spray on instinct, coating everything in her path to turn the very desert beneath her into a seamless, frictionless highway.

Every element of the world—the wind, the ground, the charge in the air—became part of her speed.

She lost track of time. Minutes passed. Maybe hours. It was hard to tell with light blinking and blurring around her. The golden desert moved past her, and then trees flashed by in streaks of green. Stone paths fractured beneath her momentum, entire biomes collapsed into a blur of colour. She wasn't just moving through the world, either. She was ripping through it, tearing through every obstacle like they were made of paper.

Her mutated Art was kicking in. She could feel it: that deep, instinctive shift in her body, the way her muscles and bones clenched harder because of the continuously strengthening lightning, and the way her vision expanded and deepened with every passing moment.

Storm Glaives… makes it so I can literally double my speed if I keep it on long enough!

So don't stop!

She caught herself laughing, high and breathless, because this was it. This was her truth—this was what she was born for. She wasn't made to stand still. She was made to move, and she was still getting faster.

The world couldn't keep up. Towns. Villages. Roads. Forests. Gone in a blink. She tore across the land so fast that entire biomes barely had time to register before she left them behind. Shapes swirled into smears of color. Mountains became streaks of gray. Rivers turned into silver ribbons. The sky itself felt like it was warping around her, unable to keep up.

Then, in the middle of the night—between the roaring wind and crackling lightning, the Archive's voice slipped into her mind.

[Would you like to hear the final recording Victor Morina left for you?]

Her breath hitched.

The old man?

[There is a recording left for you,] the Archive confirmed. [Would you like to hear it?]

She swallowed. Focused. Kept moving.

She knew she didn't have time for this. She knew she really shouldn't let herself get distracted. The Harbour City was waiting. The fight was waiting. She had twelve hours to cross what took the fastest caravan-pulling bug a week to cross.

Even still…

Play it back.

A sharp crackle filled her ears, distorting against the rush of wind. She lost count of how long it took the Archive to put the old man's voice in her ears, but eventually, an entire status screen flickered into the corner of her vision as well. Its glow was barely visible against the streaking blur of the land, but she squinted heavily, her heart hammering harder than it should be.

Then, the old man's voice entered her head.

[... Lass.]

[If you're listening to this, I'm dead.]

The image on the status screen sharpened, and suddenly, she wasn't just listening—she was seeing.

It was a bright morning. The sky stretched pale and endless over the deck of a warship. The old man sat on a crate right next to a railing, legs crossed, his arms resting lazily on his knee. Sunlight glinted off the restless black tide behind him, and the twisted, colossal silhouette of Kalakos was also there. This had to have been recorded mere hours before Marisol tore the S-Rank Mutant-Class water strider apart.

The old man didn't seem to care about the Guards and Imperators shouting around him, racing across the upper deck to reload their anti-chitin cannons.

He was looking through the screen, staring straight at her.

[I don't wanna admit it, but at this point—chased out of the city the way we're always getting chased—I don't think I'm dead because I used my Art on Corpsetaker.]

[Most likely, I spent my last hurrah on Kalakos and sent her to hell.]

Then he laughed. Loud. Full-bodied. The kind of laugh that rattled bones, reckless and unafraid.

[I hope I went out with a flashy bang. Anything less, and my mama would laugh at me from the grave.]

Marisol swallowed hard, but her throat felt tight as he paused for a second to glance over his shoulder.

The wind howled past her ears. Her glaives burned against the ground. Her body was moving at unthinkable speeds, but suddenly, the world felt too still.

After a moment, the old man tilted his head back slightly, eyes turned toward the sky.

[I wanna tell you a story, lass.]

[When I was little—just a scrawny little shit—I couldn't walk. Not properly. I was born with a frail body. Weak. Useless. My whole village thought I'd die before I ever got the chance to stand on my own two feet.]

[But my mama? She didn't give a damn what they thought.]

A wave crashed somewhere in the background, distant but deep.

[We lived on this tiny speck of a sandy, tropical island. Middle of nowhere. No real roads, no markets. Just sand, sea, and storms. It wasn't much. We never saw any real fighting, and we were just far enough from the battles between the Imperators and the Swarm to know much about the outside world at all.]

[But one day, a bug washed ashore. And it ain't just any bug. It was a water strider. Mama saw what it was and knew what it could be, and she knew it could give me what I needed. So, she did what any sane person wouldn't and spent years crafting me a special system.]

Then Victor stretched his legs out in front of him, tapping his bandaged legs with his cane.

[Ain't pretty at first. Learning to balance on these? Learning to move? I was falling on my ass more than I was standing, but I figured it out eventually. Got good. Got fast. Fast enough that, one day, I ran into the Worm God and the Thousand Tongue out on the open sea.]

[Well, technically, they ran into me. Crashed their stupid little rowboat onto my island and almost drowned like dumbasses. I dunno what the fuck they were thinking trying to cross the great blue on a rowboat, but that's irrelevant.]

[They told me to follow them on their journey to destroy the Swarm, so I did what any island boy would do. I said yes. I skated. I fought. I cut through the great blue, wiped out entire broods of water striders, and eventually went toe-to-toe with Corpsetaker himself—though, obviously, I couldn't kill the bastard. No one could. Not even the Worm God.]

[Years passed. The Hasharana grew and expanded as a wandering bug-slaying organisation. The Worm God had me stationed in the Whirlpool City to train the next batch of kids like me—the next bug-slayers, the next speed demons, the next Water Strider Class users who picked the class because they heard of my exploits during the old war against the Swarm God.]

[And for a while, everything felt… good. Everything felt right.]

He exhaled.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just tired.

[But here's the thing about speed, lass.]

[It's fucking deadly.]

[I trained them. I watched them skate, watched them push themselves, watched them chase my shadow.]

[And I watched the lot of them die.]

[The more years passed, the more I realised: nobody's built for the mutations of the Water Strider Class. Nobody can really balance themselves on two glaives for legs. Nobody can really activate their Art without electrocuting themselves to death. No amount of training I tried to offer my pupils could fix the fact that none of them were like me.]

[I had no other choice. Either I adapt to my glaives and my speed and my Art, or I live my entire life as a cripple on my little island… but my pupils didn't have that same pressure.]

A long pause.

[Eventually, I started hating it.]

[Hating the class.]

[Hating what these… glaives of mine did to them.]

[And after a while, I suppose I just gave up on it.]

His voice was quieter than before.

[I went to the Worm God.]

[I told him to wipe every scrap of information about water striders outta the Archives. Every Art, every mutation tree, every combat record. Hell, I even forced the Archives to pester future Hasharana with a hundred warnings if they're feeling dumb enough to try and pick this class. I forced the Archives to tell them—clear as day—that they'd be signing their own death warrant by putting glaives on their legs.]

[And what do you know?]

[Most people listened. They picked safer classes. Smarter choices. Some didn't, and every time one of them died, it felt like I'd killed them myself.]

[...]

Then the old man leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

[And then you showed up.]

[Gods, lass. You didn't prove me wrong. Not at all. You're reckless, you're stubborn, you push yourself too hard… but even still.]

His voice softened, and something warm—something achingly real—seemed to settle in his bandaged eyes.

[You made me happy.]

[Because despite every warning I'm sure your Archive gave you, you were still dumb enough to choose this class.]

[Even if one day, you'll end up permanently scarred and disfigured from your own lightning like me—even if you probably won't live long with that reckless personality of yours, let's be real—I'm relieved I ain't gonna be the last of my 'kind'.]

Another pause.

The old man stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders back.

[... Anyways. If I'm dead and you're listening to this, that means all of you made it to Harbour City.]

[Knowing Andres, he probably told you to go home. He probably told you something like 'sorry for being so forceful with you,' or 'you're just a civilian at the end of the day', but, like… come on, lass.]

[They started this.]

[They dragged you into this.]

[They made you make decisions for them.]

[Whether they want it or not, they'll see you finish it yourself.]

Marisol let out a slow breath.

The old man was still staring straight at her, his bandaged smirk turning crooked, when a loud boom suddenly resounded behind him. He turned slightly, scratching the back of his head.

[Oh. I think that's you kicking the Mutant-Class water strider underwater. You know, I thought I wiped out the water striders decades ago, but I must've missed that brood, so thanks for taking care of them for me.]

[As repayment, I'll drag you back up the same way I dragged you into the city eight months ago.]

He stood up.

He walked to the ship's railing.

Then, at the very last moment, he glanced back at her.

[I really dunno why your lightning's blue and pink, by the way. Mine's bluish-gold. I think mine's cooler than yours.]

With that, he vaulted over the railings, and the status screen snapped shut.

The recording was over.

…

The sky howled behind her. Dark clouds churned and twisted, dragged in her wake like a storm on a leash, rumbling with every surge of speed. Her glaives shredded through land and water alike. She tore through the night with a black storm rushing along the air currents she created, and now even the sun was behind her as everything blurred—she was moving too fast to process anything around, and she was moving too fast to care.

The only thing that mattered was that silhouette of a city on the distant horizon.

The Harbour City.

… Faster.

The storm behind her thickened, darkening as she tore through the last stretch of land. She wasn't just a streak of lightning anymore. She was the storm itself. Every motion dragged more clouds into the sky until the entire western horizon was swallowed in churning black, and her currents swirled the storm, moulding it into a spearhead pointed straight at the city.

Faster!

She blinked, and tears ripped from her eyes, immediately stolen by the wind. She didn't even have to wipe them away. At this speed, nothing stuck to her—not sweat, not rain, not grief. She left it all behind, torn apart and scattered into the air like the storm raging in her wake.

Everything in her body told her she should be dead by now.

But she wasn't.

She was right on time.

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