The sun barely crested Opeka's rocky hills, casting a faint glow over the village's sparse forests and the Zenoite minefield's jagged edges. In the heart of Solaria's eastern plains, nestled in the Ironvale county's Valthorne region, Opeka was a forgotten speck—its air thin of spiritual energy, its people ignorant of the factions that shaped Aeneria. To Killyaen, though, it was a playground, and he was its self-proclaimed Supreme Elf, ready to paint it in chaos.
Killyaen, olive-skinned with a gold-tipped braid swinging like a pendulum, crept through the village square, his gold-flecked eyes glinting with mischief. His split-leaf amulet, faintly pulsing with unknown runic energy, dangled against his chest, tucked under a worn tunic. The 30-kilogram pressure of N'Nazmuz's curse pressed into his bones, a constant weight that sharpened his stamina and healed scrapes faster than any villager could blink. Qi-blind, unable to sense the faint spiritual energy in Opeka's rocky hills, he relied on raw cunning and the curse's gifts to carve his legend. Today, that legend would grow.
Janko's barn loomed ahead, its weathered wood begging for Killyaen's touch. The village's grumpiest farmer, Janko, was an easy mark—his temper as predictable as the sunrise. Killyaen clutched a bucket of glow-in-the-dark paint, mixed with Moonflower sap he'd swiped from a merchant's cart, its faint shimmer promising chaos. With a smirk, he scaled the barn's side, his curse-enhanced strength making the climb effortless despite the weight dragging at his limbs. Perched on the roof, he slathered the paint across the barn's front, shaping crude, glowing whiskers and the words "Cursed Cat" in jagged letters. The sap's scent, sharp and sweet, tickled his nose, and he chuckled, imagining Janko's rage."Art," Killyaen whispered, admiring his work. "Pure, perverted art."
The village square stirred as dawn broke. Kids scampered out, spotting the glowing barn and erupting into chants of "Cursed Cat! Cursed Cat!" Mima, the village gossip with a tongue sharper than a Zenoite shard, shuffled by, squinting at the neon whiskers. "Dark magic!" she squawked, clutching her shawl. "That boy's cursed, mark my words!"
Killyaen, hidden in the barn's shadow, stifled a laugh. Mima's rants about Spirit Stones—mythical gems hoarded by Solspire's elites—were as wild as her tales of "ancient ruins" nobody in Opeka had ever seen.He slipped toward the Black Stone Tavern, his workplace and the heart of Opeka's meager social scene.
The tavern's creaky sign swung in the breeze, and inside, Goran, his adoptive father, polished mugs with a scowl. A Peak Element Lord Fire cultivator at Level 13, Goran was an anomaly in Opeka, his power honed in Solspire's arenas before he settled here. His grizzled beard and fire-scarred hands told tales of battles Killyaen could only dream of, but his lessons in non-Qi swordsmanship—specifically the Storm Technique's Wind's Rebuke—were Killyaen's lifeline.
"Late again, you Gromble bastard," Goran growled as Killyaen sauntered in, tossing his braid with a grin.
"Keep pranking Janko, and he'll skewer you before I do."
"Janko's too busy meowing at his barn," Killyaen shot back, dodging a rag Goran flung. "Besides, I'm the Supreme Elf. Gotta keep my legend alive."
Bera, the tavern's fiery barmaid and a Beginner Novice Fire cultivator at Level 1, leaned against the counter, her apron barely containing her curves. Her dark eyes sparkled with mischief that rivaled Killyaen's own. "Supreme Elf, huh?" she teased, tossing a dishcloth at his face.
"More like Supreme Pervert. Keep your eyes off my skirt, or I'll burn that braid off."Killyaen caught the cloth mid-air, his curse-driven reflexes sharp.
"Oh, Bera, you know my eyes wander where the art is." He leaned closer, voice low and provocative.
"That skirt's a masterpiece, but what's underneath? That's the real treasure."Bera's cheeks flushed, but she smirked, undeterred. "Try that line again, and you'll be mopping the floor with your tongue." She flicked a spark of Fire Qi from her fingers, singeing the cloth in his hand.
The tavern's patrons—weather-beaten farmers and the odd merchant—roared with laughter, used to Killyaen's antics.He retreated to a corner table, pulling out Chronicles of the Dragon-Gods, a tattered book he'd bought with coins from selling Flaevyn feathers in the market.
Its pages spoke of Azurion, Rubirion, and the Heart of Aeneria, but a single line caught his eye: "The ruins of old gods hold the key to the world's balance." His amulet pulsed faintly, as if in response, and he frowned. Opeka's isolation kept such "ruins" mythical, but the pulse felt real, stirring a hunger he couldn't name.
Goran called him to the training field behind the tavern, where the older man wielded a blunt sword with deadly precision.
"Focus, boy," Goran barked, swinging at Killyaen's chest.
"Wind's Rebuke isn't just swinging a blade—it's flow, like a storm." Killyaen parried with his own mithril sword, Wind's Rebuke, its Spiritual-grade edge humming despite his lack of Qi. The curse's 30-kilogram pressure made each step heavy, but his stamina held, and a quick sidestep let him nick Goran's arm.
"Not bad," Goran grunted, a rare smile cracking his face.
"You're a qi-blind freak, but you've got guts."
"Guts and charm," Killyaen winked, spinning his sword.
"Gonna be the strongest man alive, old man. Just watch."
As they sparred, Mima's voice echoed from the square, ranting about "cursed beacons" and dark magic tied to Killyaen's prank. Janko stormed past, his face redder than Aurelion's flames, muttering about revenge. Killyaen grinned, already plotting his next move—a trap for Janko, maybe involving moozze tails from the Zenoite minefield. The amulet pulsed again, stronger now, as if whispering of a path beyond Opeka's dusty trails.For now, though, Killyaen was content to reign as Opeka's chaos-bringer, his pranks a spark in a village too small for his ambitions.
The Supreme Elf's dawn had just begun, and Aeneria's secrets—hidden in ruins and runes—waited for him to claim them.