Blooms and bug nets

One creature. Ten flowers.

There was a fox, a lamb, a jellyfish and a moth, and they had nothing to do with each other — or with the little flower everybody starts with. So now there is one creature in this game, and you meet it in your first minute: a bloom with a face in its heart.

Everything the Nook hands you is that same creature, grown a different way. A sunflower that turns to face you. A night lotus that drifts. A rose that keeps its thorns and opens one petal at a time. A dandelion that is always half about to leave.

The companion you already have is still yours — same one, same place, in bloom.

The ten lineages, drawn by the game itself.

And it rises with you

Every bloom now carries a rank, and it is earned purely by playing: species you have grown, fish you have landed, days you have come back, how far your spirit has come.

Bloom, then Dewlit, then Gilded, then Opaline, then Aurora, and finally Everbloom. Each step is something you can see from across the plaza — a second ring of petals, gold along every edge, petals gone to glass, three full rings with its own loose petals turning slowly around it, and at the top a crown of small suns with starlight running down the stem.

Two promises. It is never power: an Everbloom is exactly as strong as a day-one Bloom, and not one point of speed or damage sits anywhere on that ladder. And it lifts everything you own — rank up and all your blooms rise at once, so the one you unlocked on your second day is never a fossil. You pick the flower; the game decides how brightly it burns.

Your very first pet stays exactly as it always was. That one is yours from before you knew any of this.

The same flower at all six ranks.

Everyone gets a net

There is a bug net in your bag. If your account is older than this update, there is a letter waiting with one in it.

Twenty-six creatures live in the world now and each keeps its own hours: a habitat, a phase of the day, a season, a kind of weather. “A wet spring dawn in the garden” is an appointment, not flavour text.

They notice you. Walk up slowly and a creature ignores you; hurry and it bolts. A ring closes around it as it grows nervous — wide and green at the first flicker, tight and amber a moment before it is gone. Creep, freeze, creep. And if the meadow looks empty, swing the net: a small light lifts off it, flies to the nearest catchable creature, circles it once so you know exactly where it is, and comes home.

Every species, pressed into Field Notes.

A glass cabinet at home

Everything you catch is pressed into Field Notes, in your journal. A terrarium now stands in your house from the start — a floor cabinet against the west wall with six slots waiting.

They genuinely live in there. The moths drift, the beetles trundle across the bark, the snail crosses the glass at its own pace, and after dark the motes glow. If you would rather have the wall, one button puts it away, and a faint plus stays where it stood so you can bring it back.

Fetch

Hold a stick, swing it, and your companion drops whatever it was doing, runs the throw down, brings it back, and is extremely pleased with itself.

A kinder first five minutes

If you bring somebody new: their first seed now blooms in thirty seconds whatever the hour or season. Planting at night in winter used to mean a five-minute wait on the very first plant anybody ever grows, which is longer than most first visits last.

And once that first harvest is in, the game asks what they came for — fighting, gardening, or the village — and takes them there.