Weeks blur together as we comb the valleys, forests, meadows, and caverns that spider out from the volcano—one skirmish, one loot chest, one brush with death at a time. The land changes under our boots with every mile: black basalt ridges veined with quartz, wild grass pushing through old lava beds, steam vents that breathe like sleeping giants. Ash drifts through the air after every rain, settling soft as dust on our skin. Sometimes the ground hums with a low, lazy tremor—a reminder that the mountain isn’t dead, just dreaming. We fight, heal, and fight again, chasing experience, coin, Luck Tokens, and whatever else will keep us alive. Between battles we harvest monster parts, food, and medicinal herbs—anything useful or shiny enough to justify the weight. Even the plants here remember fire: crimson ferns curling over obsidian gravel, mushrooms that glow like embers when night falls, roots still warm from the pulse of molten rock deep below. And when luck favors us, we find a hot spring tucked among the stones—a place to wash away the soot and blood, to float in water that steams with the earth’s heartbeat before the next fight begins.

  Jenny whirls past me in a leather mini and matching crop top that shimmer like spun moonlight.

  Tess prowls beside her in supple frog-leather capris and the cropped half-shirt I stitched—flexible, breathable, and far too flattering for someone who claims she’s “practical.” Gold and silver Inanna symbols trace her seams, echoing the divine tattoos along her skin so that, in the right light, she glows like a walking benediction.

  Frankie stalks through tunnels in crimson leather armor straight out of an ’80s barbarian flick, her grin daring anything with fangs to try its luck.

  Lenora began in a frog-and-centipede-leather crop top and mini skirt I’d made—simple, tough, easy to clean. Then Tess laid hands on her, whispered a blessing, and the outfit shifted. Now it’s blinding white, self-cleaning, scandalously tight, complete with matching heels, fishnets, and a tiny nurse’s cap that refuses to fall off no matter how fast she moves.

  The former man fusses with hems and guards her modesty as anxiously as I did when the Goddess saddled me with my Corset of Compelled Charisma. But the transformation isn’t just for show: Tess’s blessing turned it into true healer’s gear.

  Wearing it grants Lenora a passive regeneration aura, doubles her healing salves, and gives everyone within ten meters a stamina-recovery buff. It even sparkles when she casts—because apparently the Goddess of Femininity appreciates flair.

  Each of us wears a brilliant emerald in her bellybutton—a cousin to the leprechaun charm winking from mine. Each hums with a quiet promise of luck, though mine definitely laughs louder.

  Then there are our new additions.

  Rhea—welcome, steady, and pure menace in a coat of living velvet. I try not to be jealous when Lenora fusses over her after every fight, fingers buried in that pelt as she heals, plucks grit, and grooms her until she gleams like something divine. Lenora’s hands move like she’s braiding a crown; Rhea leans into it with a pleased rumble.

  And Solenne—our perpetually lugubrious prisoner. She fights when cornered, defends herself, and sometimes defends me… but half her rifle shots thread through the group rather than around it. I can’t prove it, but Lenora is getting unnervingly good at digging bullets out of improbable places, and she keeps giving me a look that says she’s seen worse and expects worse still.

  I whisper to Jenny, “Can I blow her up? It’d be so easy—she’s literally sewn into a pretty leather jumpsuit threaded with Snapcord.”

  Jenny snickers. “Looks couture, acts like a tripwire. One little tug—”

  “No more Podcast Princess,” I add, grinning.

  We giggle together. Solenne folds her arms, tries for a scowl—and fails. The frown softens into an annoyed half-smile that only makes her more human. Lenora catches my eye and winks; Tess watches us with that fond, satisfied expression like a parent watching children roughhouse. The jibe lands like a shared joke, not a threat.

  Frankie and Lenora now walk and move like women—and it’s both disturbing and, honestly, a little hot. Each day it gets harder to remember they’re guys trapped in women’s bodies.

  Somehow the neckline of my Corset of Compelled Charisma set plunges almost to my pretty bits. It still manages to support me—though I can’t imagine how—and it protects like real armor should, even in the places it doesn’t actually cover.

  Glossy strips of leather writhe and twist across my skin, snapping into place at the last possible moment. One slides down to bare half a breast—then whips back up to block a claw. Another coils around my hip, leaving me exposed for a heartbeat before springing across my thigh to catch a strike. The whole thing glitters hot pink and crimson, equal parts battlefield shield and fever-dream fashion show.

  The first time it happens, I turn scarlet.

  The second time, my jaw drops.

  Now? I shrug. Somehow, I’ve gotten used to it.

  Monsters sprout arrows while staring at my washboard abs and the gem in my navel.

  And I admit it—I like my little charms. Even the precocious leprechaun.

  One of his quirks seems designed to grind my Intimacy skill whether I want it or not: he only blesses the party with luck when I get lucky with them. Worse—or better, depending who you ask—he gets bored after a single night. If I don’t rotate fairly, he shuts down the bonus for everyone.

  Rhea refused the first time—flat out refused to participate in any ritual arranged by her ex-boyfriend’s daughter. Back when I was eighteen and mortal enough to blush over it, that would’ve mortified me.

  Then everything went wrong: three fizzled spells, one cave-in, a near miss that singed her adaptive fur patchy gray. If it hadn’t been for bad luck, we’d have had none at all. My arrows drifted wide, Jenny’s sparkle fizzled, and Frankie broke a finger tripping over a mouse. Rhea didn’t say a word the next time her turn came up—just sighed, stepped in, and muttered something about “statistical necessity.”

  Lenora never complains, but sometimes there’s a flicker in her eyes when it isn’t her turn. And sometimes… I wonder what it says about me, enjoying this as much as I do. Lesson learned: selfishness twists luck against me. If I don’t give as good as I get, we all pay for it on the battlefield.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  All of us, including Solenne, agreed to exclude her from the rotation. Even bad luck is preferable to being blown to bits if she enjoys the game a little too much.

  I didn’t argue. Luck’s a fickle goddess, and even Rhea knows better than to tempt her twice.

  “Lizzy,” Tess calls as we hike along the ridge, “come walk with me.”

  “What’s up?”

  “How long has it been since we reviewed your stats?”

  “Completely? Never. We’ve only ever looked at bits and pieces.”

  “Then while we’ve got a moment, let’s see where you are—and set a course for where you need to be.”

  “O… okay…”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “More than my dad. Still feels like you’re springing a surprise colonoscopy.”

  Tess snickers and extends her hand. “Relax. I can check your stats without shoving a camera up your tailpipe.”

  I sigh and take her hand. “Fine. Look at my stats.”

  My vision floods with cascading data. Tess narrates like a teacher announcing test scores.

  “Name, gender—Frankie and Lenora still read male despite the new equipment—human, obviously, though why that’s even listed is beyond me… Irish Highlander…” She stops, eyes widening. “You’re only twenty-eight?”

  I nod, suddenly feeling about twelve.

  In a world where nanobot symbiosis slows aging for anyone living textile-free, time means something different. Someone like Tess—who hasn’t worn a stitch in the real world since birth—might gain a single year of physical age for every century that passes. The more you cover, the faster you age.

  I grew up textile. I look twenty-eight, but to someone like Tess—like ninety-nine percent of the world—I look five or six hundred years old. It’s easy to forget my friends have been alive long enough to remember my great-great-grandparents as children.

  Tess’s eyes drift over me, widening as her jaw slackens. For a long heartbeat, she just stares—speechless. Then her hand rises, soft and trembling, to cup my cheek.

  “Dear, sweet child… no wonder your personal skills…” Her voice trails off into a whisper, half prayer, half revelation. “Inanna bless me—such an opportunity. The visions make so much more sense now.”

  Light dances across her skin, a shimmer that feels more like joy than magic. Her smile is radiant—part friendship, part teacher’s pride, and part promise of adventures yet to come.

  “Let’s see where you need to grow.”

  For the next hour, as we hike up and down the winding ridge trails, I’m back in my old secondary school counselor’s office. The wind whistles through the rocks, giving us a bubble of privacy while Tess outlines my new “curriculum.”

  “Daily exercise—”

  “I already parkour and dance with Jenny.”

  “That helps your constitution. You need strength training. Weights. Or whatever Frankie can find.”

  “Frankie?”

  “You need muscle. That nine in Strength needs to hit sixteen or seventeen.”

  “Why? I’m an archer, not a puncher.”

  Tess raises an eyebrow. “Strength means more than hitting—”

  “Hitting things is the best,” Frankie says from ahead, grinning like she’s earned bonus XP.

  Tess and I share a smirk.

  “It also means drawing a stronger bow, wearing heavier armor—not that you’ll ever need more—and moving monster corpses instead of crawling through them to rescue your friends.”

  I nod, trying not to look like someone just told me to eat boiled cabbage for breakfast. But… Dad’s old compound bow had a two-hundred-pound draw. He could drop a deer at three hundred meters.

  The range. The punch.

  Frack. Maybe muscle isn’t all bad.

  “Intelligence will grow with education, wisdom with experience,” lists Tess.

  “So I’ll be reading while lifting weights and doing laps around camp?”

  “That’s an interesting idea. Do you think you could?”

  “Safely? No. Although I did know a guy who wandered the moors with his nose in a book.”

  Frankie snickers. “I heard about him—Ed something…”

  “Really?” Tess arches a brow. “Was he smart?”

  “Brilliant,” Frankie deadpans, “until he fell down a well.”

  Tess chuckles. “So he was smart but not wise.”

  Her eyes scan the stat sheet. “Your Charisma’s odd. You’re kind, yes—but you’re not exactly a politician, performer, or bard.”

  “It’s a composite,” I explain. “Natural score plus item bonuses—same with my Luck.”

  “Ah. That makes sense.” Tess hums thoughtfully. “It won’t hurt that people—and the world itself—will naturally like you. But there’s a dark side to your lucky charms.”

  I force a laugh and finger my little leprechaun pendant. “Yeah. Comes at an ever-increasing price. I either keep grinding intimacy-related skills, or the whole team suffers.”

  “We appreciate your sacrifice,” Jenny sighs, giving me a mock military salute.

  I blow her a kiss.

  Tess ignores us. “Do you want to keep grinding intimacy to maintain the team’s luck bonus?”

  A huff slips out. “Do I have a choice?”

  “You always have a choice,” Tess insists. “The bonus is nice, and we all enjoy helping you—but no one’s twisting your arm.”

  “And cursing us with bad luck?” I snap. “This damn charm—”

  “—comes off,” Tess says gently.

  “But it’s fleeting,” I whisper. “If I take it off, it disappears. And… Tess, when I was a kid, Dad would pull a toy leprechaun out of his beard—just like this one.”

  My fingers trace the charm. Warm memories bubble up—Dad’s laugh, the smell of pipe smoke, sunlight in his hair—and tears blur my vision.

  “I remember,” Rhea says softly. Her fur pales to a ghostly cream. “’Twas a sweet trick. But Bluebell, James wouldn’t want ye tradin’ the peace in yer soul for a toy—or his memory. Jamie lived t’ see ye smile.”

  “Wise words,” Tess murmurs.

  I think—really think. My mind drifts through months of… grinding. First times: awkward, self-conscious. Then practice. Confidence. Wanting to improve, to give back what I’d been given. Now… the only frustration left is feeling compelled. Otherwise, it’s fun. A game I look forward to.

  And that realization hits me like a thunderclap.

  Whoa.

  Congratulations:

  Wisdom +1

  Intimacy +1

  Everyone stares and applauds as the notification explodes across my vision with all the subtlety of a Vegas parade. Cowbells clang. Air horns blare. A cloud of digital glitter rains from nowhere, coating everyone in sparkles.

  Jenny shrieks and hops like a caffeinated pixie. “Oh my Goddess, it’s happening!”

  Congratulations:

  Your Intimacy skill now exceeds 20.

  You have reached the threshold for single-gender advancement.

  Further mono-gender points will be banked at 25% rate.

  “What the frack!”

  Tess bats away confetti, trying not to laugh. Frankie wipes gold dust off his face. Lenora’s mouth twitches. Rhea sneezes glitter.

  Jenny points at me, scandalized. “You hit the mono-wall!”

  I gape. “The what?”

  Rhea leans toward Frankie, stage-whispering, “Is that a disease?”

  Frankie elbows her. “Not that kind.”

  Rhea rubs her arm dramatically.

  “It’s not a disease,” Tess says in her patient Teacher Voice—the one that makes battle-hardened mercs sit up straight. “Every skill has walls. Points where doing the same thing stops giving XP.”

  She gestures at the glowing readout, complete with looping fireworks. “You’ve hit one.”

  I blink. “Like… plateaus?”

  “Exactly. Lizzy, did you use your child’s shortbow forever?”

  “No. I snapped it when I overextended—when I was six. Nearly blinded myself.”

  “And after that? How many bows did you outgrow on your way to the Olympics?”

  “Ten—maybe eleven counting my first compound bow.” My brow furrows. “But we’re talking about intimacy—sex, not upgrading bows because I got bigger or stronger or—”

  The realization hits. “Oh. Shite. You’re telling me there’s nothing more I can learn without…”

  “A man,” Lenora finishes gently.

  I stare, torn between mortification and surrender. “Then what do I do? The leprechaun’ll dock my score if my skills stop growing.”

  Tess pats my arm, brushing off a glitter flake. “Look again, love. They’ll still grow—just slower. One-quarter the rate.”

  Her voice is warm, reassuring, but the air shifts—humid, heavy. My next step splashes into ankle-deep water. The earthy, almost putrid scent of swamp air drifts up the canyon before us.

  Lenora loops an arm around my shoulders. “Cheer up, pet. Maybe the Goddess’ll bless us with a solution.”

  The next step sinks deeper. Mud tugs at my boots. I glance up—and the world ahead ripples, green and alive, as if the swamp itself just grinned.