I honestly wasn't expecting much when I came back to Levnard's little corner of madness in the forgery. Okay, that's a lie. I was expecting something, but not a miracle.
When I stepped into his forge, I smelled ozone, melted metal, and… power?
He was waiting near one of those weird glowing tables — you know, the kind that hovered slightly off the ground and pulsed like a heartbeat when you got too close. His blond hair was tied back, his long coat cinched around his too-skinny frame, and his usual permanent scowl was softened into something weirdly proud.
Levnard pointed at me without looking. "You're late."
"I was literally recovering from divine neck bites and avoiding Heralds who might sniff my soul," I said, stepping in with my usual amount of flair. "Sorry I didn't pencil you in first."
He snorted. "Excuses."
Then he stepped aside and revealed it. And I swear to the five goddesses, I stopped breathing.
It was… beautiful.
The armor sat on a floating platform like a ceremonial offering. It was a short-sleeved black plating that gleamed like onyx under lightning. Intricate golden traceries shimmered down the sides, not flashy or gaudy, but like veins of power carved right into the surface. There was no full arm armor, just shoulder guards and sleek forearm plating that stopped at the elbows. My biceps were going to be on full display.
The fingerless gauntlets looked like they could punch through steel. The war skirt was a dark fabric, the kind that screamed warrior princess. And then there was the scarf. A red, silky, absurdly long scarf that somehow tied it all together like it was stitched from attitude itself.
The boots? Knee-high black combat monsters with gold reinforcements. If I kicked someone with those, they would die fashionably.
"You…" I stepped closer, running my fingers across the gauntlet. "You made this in a day?"
Levnard crossed his arms, looking mildly smug. "Twenty-six hours without sleep, but yeah. I did."
"That's— are you okay? Like… mentally? Emotionally? Do I need to call someone?"
"I'm fine," he said, with the deadpan energy of someone who hasn't blinked in three hours. "This is just what I do. My Flux isn't just Forgery. It's Metal Manipulation to the fifth tier. I don't need anvils, I don't need tools. I shape metal with will."
"You forged Ennéa-grade Synsiline that I gave you… in a day. Most blacksmiths would cry themselves to death over that."
"Let them cry. They're not me."
"Confidence or god complex?"
"Results."
Fair.
I slid one arm into the gauntlet. It molded to my skin like silk and stone at the same time.
"You know, I wasn't sure about you when we first met. Thought you were just another edgy prodigy with too much hair and not enough personality."
"And now?"
"Now I think you're an edgy prodigy with insane talent, too much hair, and exactly the right amount of personality."
He smirked. I think that was a smirk. Or he twitched. Hard to tell with Levnard.
As I strapped on the rest of the gear, he circled me like a tailor, inspecting the fit, checking the tightness of the straps.
"This armor doesn't need a weapon slot. You are the weapon."
"Damn right I am," I said, stretching my arms. The web-strings responded instantly into strands of glowing blue laced from fingertip to wrist like a symbiotic dance. "Didn't need a sword when I've got spider upgrades."
"You're literally a biological weapon now."
"Coolest compliment I've gotten all week."
He stopped in front of me, arms crossed again.
"The armor's reinforced to grow with you. Since your Flux is Alteration-based, and it absorbs attributes from enemies you kill, it's designed to recalibrate minor physical shifts as your strength evolves."
"Wait, it grows?"
"Yes. The Synsiline is adaptable. It won't split if your muscles bulk or your power scales."
"That is terrifying and amazing," I muttered, twirling. The scarf whipped around behind me like a cape trying to start drama. "I feel like I need a superhero name."
"You already have one."
I blinked. "I do?"
Levnard shrugged once, then turned back to his forge. "Threadvore. Dryad came up with it. Said it fits."
Threadvore. I smiled. Yeah. That did fit.
As I looked at myself in the mirror, I felt… right. Like I was stepping into the version of me that I was always meant to be. Not a tour guide, not a running survivor but someone dangerous, shaped by chaos, touched by a goddess, armed with the remains of a monster.
I turned back to Levnard. "Hey."
He glanced at me.
"Thank you."
The tiniest pause.
"…Don't mention it," he said, already working on another piece of metal without lifting his eyes. "Just don't die. That armor is my best work."
I grinned, tugged my scarf over one shoulder, and headed for the door.
"Threadvore doesn't die," I said. "She devours."
-------
I stepped into a private combat arena like I owned it, mostly because no one else had the nerve to walk into an open arena in Reversal Cradlepoint unless they were planning to lose teeth, memories, or some internal organs. But today? It was just me, a silent hexagonal chamber of reinforced plating, a dozen training dummies, and an unbearable truth.
I'd been fighting at 10% this entire time.
Ten. Freaking. Percent.
See, most people forget that a Flux isn't a fancy power-up. It's you. It becomes you. It modifies your biology, reshapes your instincts, twists your physical capabilities until you're something between human and myth. Without it, you're a walking paper cut with a death wish.
And me? I'd been out here surviving Thaumas and spider. That's what I came here to test.
The armor clicked gently as I stretched, testing the mobility. It was sleek, snug, and shockingly breathable. Levnard had clearly woven in some kind of adaptive flex-mesh. My knees could hit my chest with zero resistance. My scarf didn't choke me when I spun. And best of all?
The strings.
I flicked my wrist and felt a ripple in my bones, like something electric crawling up my spine and down my arms. Then, blue threads erupted from my fingertips. They were extensions of me, like hyper-condensed silk with the tensile strength of cable wire and the flexibility of a rubber band.
"Okay, Lab Rat Permonelle," I muttered, cracking my neck. "Let's see what makes you tick."
First test, Range.
I aimed for the farthest dummy, maybe forty meters out. My fingers twitched, and the string slithered out like a striking serpent. It coiled around the neck of the dummy in a blink, the impact making a deep thunk that echoed off the walls. I yanked back and the string obeyed, dragging the dummy half a meter before the base magnets kicked in and stopped it.
Not bad.
Second test, Density.
I pulled the string back into my palm, coiled it like thread around my forearm, and tightened. No break. No stretch. I tapped it against the wall. It sparked hard enough to cut through weaker alloys, maybe even flesh. No, definitely flesh.
"Don't piss off the thread girl," I whispered.
Third test. Spawning Volume.
I focused on another string. Then another. And another. My pulse spiked as five strands wriggled free, each slinking from different fingers like silk scorpions, moving independently, twitching, wrapping and hovering.
"Okay," I breathed, watching them fan out like wings, "this is getting freaky."
They obeyed thought, not exact words, not even feelings. I imagined binding, and they twirled around each other into a tight, spiraling cord. I imagined slicing and they flattened, hardened, and extended like razor wire. I imagined a net and I got one.
"I am a walking spider apocalypse," I muttered, half horrified, half thrilled.
Fourth test. Tension and Anchor Strength.
I flung two strings across the dome and stabbed them into opposite walls. They held. I tested the tautness then jumped.
Slinging myself into the air, I let my body fly. The scarf flared like a cape behind me as I spun mid-air, yanking another two strings to redirect my momentum, bounce off a corner, and flip through the air like a damn acrobat.
Fifth test, Regeneration.
I sliced off one string with another .Then I waited. Four seconds later, I felt it regrow in my fingertip. No delay, no pain. Just a dull warmth and a new string ready to go.
Unlimited ammo.
Biological. Regenerative. Adaptive. God-tier dangerous.
I walked to the center dummy and wrapped one string around its leg, another around its arm. I paused.
"You're a monster, Permonelle," I said aloud. "No, no. Not a monster. A marvel."
And then I pulled. The dummy exploded.
The torso was yanked free with a sickening crunch, landing five meters away in a heap of synthetic shame.
"…Huh."
My scarf settled behind me like it was proud of the carnage. I stared at the ruin and exhaled slowly, the reality setting in.
This was what it meant to be touched by a goddess. This was what it meant to carry Alteration in my veins.
All this time, I'd been hiding behind quick feet, tour guide sarcasm, and luck. But luck didn't build a net in mid-air. Luck didn't slice steel like paper. Luck didn't devour.