Name: Jade Level: 40(MAX)(+) Species: Wraithscale (Draconis) (IV)

Alignment: Judgement (Lightning)

Attributes:

Strength: 369

Durability: 266

Intelligence: 394

Willpower: 261

Mana Points (MP): 154/154

Dark Mana Points (Wraith Heart): 30/30

Stamina Points (SP): 513/513

Abilities:

Mana Devourer

Distortion Cloak

Alignment 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 9 (II)

Adaptive Grip: Level 3 (II)

Flame 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)

Dimensional Lamina: Resonance-Stabilizing Membranes, Phase Microfilament Clusters (III)

Dimensional Convergence Tendrils: Reactive Tendrils, Refined Neural Pathways (III)

Resources:

Skill Points: 59

Morphogens: 76

I wasn't hallucinating. It was real. I'd finally hit the level cap. Time to evolve—again.

I gnawed on a smoky specter that'd strayed near the tower's wards. Mmfgh, Flame-kissed phantom marinated in simmering fury—sublime. Methodically dismantled its claws, ensuring not a drop of its briny essence sullied my workspace. Polished bone cutlery or not, dignity demanded decorum. Plus, linen shortages were no joke.

I chewed it mostly on autopilot, trying not to fixate on how absurdly delicious it felt, while my thoughts whirred like overworked mana fans.

I'd hit the level cap. Again.

Which raised one glaring question: how did my attribute system even work?! I was half-expecting to claw and crawl for those last dozen levels in the dungeon—or better yet, hoped Thalador would grace me with a crate of those roachy elf cultists.

Still think they're slinking around, by the way. Too many puzzle pieces, not enough picture. But I did my part. So, back to the point: what even counted toward my leveling?

Did it tag me as the epicenter of all that righteous wrath I handed out earlier today? Because, yeah, technically I was, but it's not like I went around smiting people with my own two claws.

I was just… heavily involved. Like a morally dubious project manager.

So maybe it chalked the whole operation up to me? Credited me for "judgement delivered," like some karmic tax form got filled out in my name?

Stolen story; please report.

Which led me to my second question: who decides what counts as "Judgement," anyway?

I'd wondered this before, when I was stomping through the sewers hunting elves. Is there some grand cosmic abacus tallying up right and wrong? Some ethereal ethics board checking off boxes? "Yep, those folks were objectively evil. Stamp: good dragon points."

Or was it me? Did my mindset steer the outcome? Was I the scale?

I didn't know. Still don't. But I do know one thing—I don't treat the uninvolved as expendable. The second someone's complicit, though? That halo cracks. Whether they've got sob stories or tragic backstories, I don't care. Sympathy doesn't make you less dangerous.

Still… I need to know the truth behind this power. I have to. There's this itch inside me, a pull—not just curiosity, but hunger. A craving for that knowledge like it's a missing piece of me.

Anyway, for now? It worked. I hit the cap. I could evolve. Could.

But should I?

I'd barely touched my organs. No mutations worth bragging about. I hadn't eaten nearly enough monsters to fuel the good stuff. I eyed the last hunk of wraith meat on my plate—almost gone, devoured by stress-chewing.

Two new shiny Morphogens to play with. Not bad. But not enough. Not nearly enough.

I glanced down at the ruby bracer clamped around my pale wrist.

I was close to another alchemical breakthrough with my body. That had to count for something, right? Surely. Maybe. Hopefully.

A part of me wanted to kickstart the evolution right now—especially after Lotte's little comment earlier.

Thalador spare me… the anticipation was agony.

But waiting—that was the smart move. Evolution wasn't exactly a casual weekend activity. It was… tricky.

Every other time I'd evolved, I was tucked neatly inside a dungeon. Which, lucky me, happened to act like a cocoon. A high-stakes incubator that made sure I wasn't, y'know, murdered mid-metamorphosis.

Out here in the open? That safety net was gone.

And trying it in my dorm room? Yeah, no. Between the chance of someone sniffing out the rare evolutionary energy and the fact that today's chaos had put everyone on edge, it'd be the equivalent of yelling "I'm doing something forbidden!" while setting off fireworks.

Wait.

Why did I sneak back in today?

I left on an official notice. Vasilisa herself had stamped the damn thing. So how would it look if all that disaster unfolded while I just happened to slip back into my dorm bed like a guilty gremlin?

Damn it.

I shot up to my feet.

Verdict: evolution shelved. For now. Needed Lotte's intel—would the wilds shield me like a dungeon? If yes, maybe skulk past the gates, evolve in some moonlit grove.

Blueprint solidified. Devoured the final wraith scrap, licked the plate (metaphorically—still classy), and girded my loins. First hurdle: confronting the Tower.

Oh, Thalador.

There would be questions.

Maybe that's why I'd been subconsciously dodging it this whole time. But avoiding it wouldn't help now. Denial's a cozy blanket, but reality's a debt collector. Time to face the music.

So, off went the clothes. I shifted back into my dragon form and tucked the important things into my maw, and with a low breath and a flap of wings, I slipped sideways—into the Shadow Dimension.

***

Something had changed here, too. Ever since the recent events, the place felt different. Harsher. The spectral things slinking through the fog were more jittery, erratic. Not that I'd seen much outside the usual wraith crowd, but stumbling across another one this soon? Yeah, something was definitely off.

I ignored it, mostly. Watched its blurry silhouette flicker through the shadowy overlays of the real world's houses. My gaze drifted toward the upper district.

The clown-like abomination—that thing—it was gone.

Vanished.

Just looking at it through the dimension's ever-churning fog had hurt before. Now? Nothing.

I still spotted a few of those eerie red lights flickering in the distance, but the lizard-brain in my tailbone hissed: Not yet. Now was not the time to chase.

Later.

After evolution.

Then it'd be fair game. I'd be stronger. Capable. Maybe even powerful enough to clear out the pests on the Shadow Dimension's map and start uncovering its truths, one twisted landmark at a time.

Maybe then, I'd really see it.

***

"JADE! I heard what happened—tragedy, whole tragedy I say! Are you hurt anywhere?"

"No, Mrs. Petrov… I'm perfectly fine."

I brushed off the dust clinging to my torn dress. Sure, all that debris and flying shrapnel might've shredded my clothes, but my reinforced body had shrugged it off like a minor breeze. I probably looked like I'd crawled out of a sandstorm—dust-covered and wind-blasted.

"I… escaped when it all started," I offered smoothly. "Lord Veyan saved us all, personally. Honestly, I didn't even register what the threat was."

"Oh, thank the ancestors," Petrov exhaled, taking my hand. I immediately felt a pulse of foreign mana press against my skin. My body flinched on reflex—but I forced it to calm, letting the diagnostic spell wash over me.

I wasn't particularly worried. The spell was the magical equivalent of a thermometer—not exactly capable of peeling back layers. Still, my biology was touchy about uninvited guests.

Mrs. Petrov sighed in relief. "Hah, seems you were right. Your body's mostly fine."

Bliss. "So… parole approved?"

"Denied," she snipped.

"I mean, you did say I'm mostly fine. Surely I could go back to my dorm and, you know, study. Like… alchemy?"

Her eyebrow levitated. I deflated.

Currently, I was stuck in the healing wards of the Tower. And why the Alchemy Tower had healing wards the size of small villages? Well, people were idiots, that's why.

Alchemical mishaps were as common as breathing here. Someone spilled an acid that screamed in three languages. Someone else blew up half a lab station because they thought "a little extra heat" meant setting it on fire. Sure, things had improved, Vasilisa's iron-fisted reforms cut the carnage, but you can't legislate away stupid.

Maybe I was being harsh. Maybe I was just a little too confident in my alchemy skills. But seriously—how does someone mess up these sacred processes? Do they not understand what they're working with?

It was baffling. Baffling, I say!

And yet here I was—torn fancy dress and all—lined up in a row of beds with the rest of the chemical casualties.

And ugh, I knew it. I wasn't going anywhere, was I?

This sucked.

"Why, though?" I asked, already knowing the answer but leaning into the theatrics anyway.

"Because you did mention Parda tempering," Petrov said, voice all business. "I'm going to run some resonance tests to make sure nothing's still leeching off you."

Standard procedure.

Not like I could admit I'd already eaten said leech a short while ago.

So I kept quiet, nodding along as two assistants bustled over and started setting up for a resonance scan.

The ward hummed like a kicked hornet's nest. Fresh casualties limped in—eyes weeping chemical tears, skin tie-dyed by hubris, limbs trembling like drugged squirrels.

A few of them did double takes when they saw me lying here. I could practically hear their inner monologues: Wait, her? What's SHE doing here?

This clinic was a shrine to oopsie-daisies and ouch-my-apprenticeship.

Me? A tourist. Briefly incarcerated among the artisanal trainwrecks.

So, I stayed there for almost two hours. Two hours of witnessing mediocrity parade through the healing ward like it was a talent show for disaster.

But, as with all good things… the quiet ended.

The side-eyes and whispered judgments aimed at me vanished the moment two guards were brought in—injured.

And just like that, every gaze in the ward shifted.

The guards were visibly shaken, bloodied, and already whispering something urgent into Mrs. Petrov's ear. Her eyes widened.

Most of the other students didn't catch a word of it—humanoid ears were such inferior things—but I heard every syllable, crisp and clear.

A pack of wild wraiths had appeared, aggressively attacking people just outside the Alchemy Tower.

Not the tower directly, mind you—it sat in a relatively populated zone—but the streets around it were swarming with civilians. Too close to ignore.

Mrs. Petrov wasted no time. She ordered the assistants to tend to the wounded and took the remaining two guards aside. I kept my ears trained on the conversation as they stepped toward the corridor.

"Call the Iron Pact, immediately. First the Lower District, then the Upper—and now monsters acting up in the Middle?" she hissed. "Oh, ancestors, what is happening?"

They were whispering to avoid panic, clearly. But if anything, the quiet urgency made things worse.

The ward filled with low murmurs and anxious whispers.

"Are we under attack?" "I heard something happened in the Lower District—was that real?" "Monsters again?" "Did they breach the barrier?" "No way. Tower has competent warriors, right?"

Rumors spun up like wildfire. The mix of fear and denial clashed in every whispered conversation.

I tuned the peanut gallery out, kept my focus on the real ones—the ones actually in the know.

"For now, hold the line. Control the chaos," Mrs. Petrov said. "Until the Iron Pact arrives."

"Understood."

The guards retreated, their armor fading from my air sense, and I exhaled—because something about this wasn't right.

I'd learned one thing here in Varkaigrad: nothing was ever coincidental. Not here. Not anymore. Not when I was in the equation.

Rest? Ha. The universe's favorite chew toy doesn't get intermissions.

Thalador's crooked grin—someone upstairs really loved fucking with me.

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