Opeka's morning buzzed with the fallout of Killyaen's glowing barn prank, the village square alive with whispers of "Cursed Cat" and Mima's wild-eyed rants about dark magic. The sun climbed higher, glinting off the Zenoite minefield's jagged rocks, where moozze—Rotting Blind Mice—skittered in the shadows.
Killyaen, his gold-tipped braid swaying, strutted toward the Black Stone Tavern. His olive skin glistened with sweat, but the curse's rapid healing kept his smirk sharp. Qi-blind and unable to tap Opeka's faint spiritual energy, he leaned on cunning and the curse's gifts to fuel his growing legend as the Supreme Elf.
Inside the tavern, Goran polished tankards, his aura flickering faintly despite Opeka's sparse Qi.
"You're stirring a hornet's nest with Janko," he grumbled, tossing Killyaen a rag.
"Keep it up, and you'll be dodging pitchforks, not dishcloths."
"Pitchforks are just Janko's love letters," Killyaen quipped, catching the rag and twirling it like a performer.
"The Cursed Cat needs my art to shine."
His gold-flecked eyes gleamed as he scanned the tavern, landing on Bera, who was wiping tables with a sway that screamed trouble.Bera flicked her dark hair and shot him a look that could melt iron.
"Keep staring, Supreme Pervert, and I'll burn that braid to ash," she said, her voice dripping with mock venom. A spark of Fire Qi danced on her fingertip, singeing the air. Killyaen leaned against a table, undeterred, his split-leaf amulet pulsing faintly under his tunic. "Oh, Bera, your fire's just warming my heart. Or is it lower?" He winked, dodging the apple she hurled at his head. The tavern's patrons—gruff farmers and a lone merchant nursing ale—chuckled, egging on their banter.
"Keep your heart out of my skirts, you Gromble bastard," Bera shot back, but her lips twitched, betraying a grin.
Killyaen's magnetism, as unpredictable as a storm, drew her in even as she fought it. Some women in Opeka swooned at his crude charm; others, like Mima, called for exorcisms. To him, it was all a game, and Bera was a worthy opponent.
His latest prank was brewing, aimed at Janko, who still fumed over the glowing barn. Killyaen had rigged an ale bucket above the tavern's back door, laced with Moonflower sap to stink worse than a moozze nest. He'd swiped the sap from a Crestmoore trader's cart last month, storing it in a vial he kept tucked in his belt. As Janko stomped toward the tavern, muttering about "that damned elf," Killyaen signaled Bera with a sly nod."Watch this masterpiece," he whispered, ducking behind a barrel.
Janko yanked the door open, and the bucket tipped, dousing him in sticky, foul-smelling sap. The square erupted in laughter as kids chanted "Cursed Cat!" and Mima shrieked, "Dark magic's upon us!" Janko's face turned beet-red, his fists clenched.
"Killyaen, you'll pay for this!" he roared, shaking sap off his beard.Killyaen popped up, grinning like a Shadow Panther.
"Pay? Janko, you're wearing my finest perfume! Call it Eau de Moozze."
The crowd howled, and even Bera snorted, tossing a rag at Janko's dripping head.Janko lunged, but Killyaen danced away, his curse-enhanced agility making him a blur.
"Gotta be faster than that, Cursed car!" he taunted. Janko's counterattack—a jar of Gromble oil flung from his pocket—missed wildly, splattering a nearby cart. The merchant inside cursed, and the square descended into chaos.
Goran hauled Killyaen back into the tavern, his glare hotter than Aurelion's flames.
"You're pushing it, boy. Janko's got friends with sharp blades." He shoved a broom into Killyaen's hands.
"Clean this mess, then meet me out back. Your Wind's Rebuke is sloppy."Killyaen swept half-heartedly, his mind on a tattered book he'd been reading: Legends of the Middle Sea. A passage about "cursed ruins" holding "keys to the world's heart" had snagged his attention last night, syncing with a stronger pulse from his amulet.
Opeka's isolation made such tales mythical, like Spirit Stones—gems villagers whispered about but never saw. Still, the amulet's glow felt real, whispering of something beyond this dusty village.Out back, Goran waited with a blunt sword, his Fire Qi suppressed to avoid straining Opeka's thin spiritual energy. "Wind's Rebuke isn't just speed," he barked, lunging at Killyaen.
"It's precision, like a blade cutting water." Killyaen parried with a wooden sword, his sword humming despite his qi-blindness. The curse's 30-kilogram weight slowed him, but his stamina held, and a quick feint let him graze Goran's shoulder.
"Better," Goran grunted, lowering his sword. "You're a freak without Qi, but you've got potential. Don't waste it on pranks."
"Pranks are my legacy," Killyaen said, spinning his sword with a flourish.
"But don't worry, old man. I'm gonna be the strongest, Qi or no Qi."
As they sparred, Mima's voice drifted from the square, now ranting about "ruins of old gods" and Killyaen's "cursed blood." Janko, still dripping sap, skulked by, muttering revenge plans. Bera leaned out the tavern door, her apron hugging her curves.
"You done making a fool of Janko, Supreme Elf? Or should I get you a leash?"Killyaen grinned, sheathing his sword.
"A leash? Kinky, Bera. But I'd rather tie you up with it." Her laugh echoed as she tossed another apple, missing his head by inches.
Later, alone in his tavern loft, Killyaen flipped through Chronicles of the Dragon-Gods. A line about Azurion's waves and "ancient ruins" made his amulet pulse again, brighter now, as if urging him toward Solspire or beyond. Janko's next move would come—probably something dumber than Gromble oil—but Killyaen was ready. Opeka was his canvas, and the Supreme Elf's chaos was just getting started.