"Knowledge won’t be distorted or wrong. But if you really manage to create a skill during Brainstorm, the skill will take on a mischievous mutation that reflects your personality. That’s the side effect. Can you accept that?" "Will it change the skill’s function or direction?" "No. As long as your reasoning is sound, the essence and purpose of the skill will remain the same." "How severe is the mutation?" "Cinders used it once. She cursed me out for half a year." After careful thought, Rita gave her answer. "I accept." Mutation or not, if the skill worked, it was worth it. Even if it turned out unsatisfactory, the knowledge itself wouldn’t vanish. Brainstorm didn’t directly grant a skill—it only accelerated her thinking. Whatever emerged in the end still depended on her own thought process. She could always revisit the knowledge, reorganize and refine it, maybe even develop another skill through further magical study. Once Lightchaser heard her answer, she didn’t press further. She rarely tried to change anyone’s mind. She rose, gave up the chair, and on her way out smacked her apprentice lightly on the back of the head, tossing over her shoulder, "Don’t pick up bad habits from GodDraw77." Rita didn’t hear it. Or perhaps her mind filtered it as noise, irrelevant in the flood of thought. The slap triggered her Brainstorm. Suddenly, her mind accelerated into overdrive. All the knowledge she had parsed today, every insight she had during her time-stops, raced through her like lightning. Correct conclusions, errors, gaps, misaligned theories—all flashed before her eyes. She darted to the desk and began scribbling frantically, covering the parchment with symbols only she could read. They looked random, unconnected, her pen unable to keep pace with her thoughts. At some point, the symbols began to form runic patterns. The runes assembled into something more than notes—a painting. ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by novel✶fire.net It had depth and layers. From every angle, new images emerged. The treetop towers and lakes of Moonlight Marsh. Asaein’s candy shop and its junk street. Lightchaser’s cabin. The Starlit Glacier. Even the riverside under Gilane Bridge. And below, miniature weapons. Rita’s daggers. Maple Syrup’s spear. Mistblade’s blood-mist blade. Fat Goose’s gauntlets. Motor’s firearms. [Congratulations, player ■■Rita, you have unlocked SSS-grade skill—Scratch Card] Scratch Card? That name immediately reminded her of Scarlett—who adored scratch-offs, even once dragging Rita to help pick a lucky one. Rita turned. Lightchaser hadn’t left. She sat watching, expression openly curious, like she was waiting to be entertained. Rita had never seen her teacher wear such a look. So that "little mischievous mutation" wasn’t little at all. No wonder GodDraw77 had spent half a year yelling at her. Rita focused on her new skill, and her face twisted. [Scratch Card] (SSS): Creates a scratch card. Insert one gold coin and declare the type of weapon you want to win. Scratch off the coating. If any of your listed weapon icons match your chosen type, you will receive that weapon. The weapon will be conjured at the maximum quality possible for your current level and stats. The time shown beneath determines how long the weapon lasts, while the icon’s color determines its grade. Highest possible grade: World-Class. Each card costs one gold coin to create. Cooldown: 1 minute. Scratch Cards do not vanish until scratched. Rita stared in silence. What the hell was this? The sheer absurdity was on par with [Doormat Balloon Maker] she had seen in the reward library. The parchment on her desk had changed as well. The scrawled patterns had become a long rectangle of black-and-gold vellum. On the top half was the artwork she’d drawn, the unforgettable places she’d been since arriving here. The black ink had turned golden, gleaming faintly against the deep black paper. The bottom half was covered in a pale golden film, split into two sections. On the left: a single large golden circle. On the right: thirty-six smaller ones, six rows of six. Beneath, a line of text read: Maximum weapon prize: World-Class. Lightchaser leaned closer. "What’s this?" Rita pointed to the larger circle. "That’s where I pick the prize weapon type." Then she gestured to the thirty-six. "These are the icons I scratch. If one matches my chosen type, I manifest that weapon. The time listed shows how long it lasts. Its color shows its rarity." "World-Class, hm? Higher than Ancient?" Lightchaser grabbed Rita by the collar, set her aside, and sat down herself. She picked up the card. She didn’t need Rita’s explanation. The instructions were printed at the bottom: Insert one coin in the prize circle to declare your chosen weapon. Touching the parchment also revealed a vow-like rune, promising the rewards were real. And the weapon would bind temporarily to whoever spent the coin. "Others can play this too? Not bad," Lightchaser said approvingly. She flicked a coin into the prize circle. It sank as if into water. The golden film vanished, revealing the weapon she had thought of—a dagger. In her hand, a dagger appeared instantly. Rita clutched her hip, startled—her own dagger had vanished, transferred to Lightchaser. Her teacher smirked, playing with the card. "Cinders couldn’t do this." Rita dragged out a giant pumpkin from her pack, sat on it like a stool, and muttered, "She also wouldn’t grab me by the scruff like a stray kitten." Lightchaser ignored her, already scratching. First row: whip, longsword, staff, sickle, rake, axe. She frowned. "What kind of nonsense is this?" She scratched faster. Second row, third, fourth. Fork, hammer, mace, knuckle-blade, sniper rifle... Rita, watching in silence: not a single match. Expression flat, Lightchaser looked at her apprentice. "Make more." She thought about how Lightchaser had traveled all this way, how she had gifted Brainstorm to help her unlock a skill. With a sigh, Rita obediently pulled out a pile of coins. Activating [School Rule No. 801] to cut cooldowns to a second, she churned out thirty new Scratch Cards in rapid fire and stacked them into Lightchaser’s hands.