Opeka stirred like a slumbering beast, the sun lazily casting light over its weathered rooftops. The Black Stone Tavern, the village's pulsing heart—or perhaps its slightly hungover liver—crouched at the edge of the cobbled square, its creaky sign groaning in the morning breeze. Inside, the air was thick with stale ale, charred bread, and the unmistakable tang of chaos, courtesy of Killyaen, Opeka's self-proclaimed Supreme Elf and resident provocateur.
Perched on a wobbly stool behind the counter, Killyaen juggled three dented tankards, his youthful, olive-toned skin catching the dim light, his long blond hair—gold-tipped and tied in a gloriously chaotic braid—swaying with each toss. His black eyes, flecked with gold like stars in a night sky, gleamed with mischief that could ignite a barn—literally. His provocative aura, tinged with a super-perverted edge, made the air hum with unease and fascination, as if trouble itself followed him like a shadow.
"Killyaen, you scrawny disaster!" Goran's voice thundered from the storeroom, deep as a war drum. "Stop flingin' my tankards before you break 'em!" The tavern keeper, a hulking Level 13 Element Lord with a beard that could hide a Shadow Panther, poked his head out, his one good eye glaring at his adopted son. Goran, once the seven-time champion of Solaria's Immortal Arena, bore the scars of his past in the elite Destroyers unit, and his gruff demeanor barely masked his pride in Killyaen's audacity.
"Break them?" Killyaen caught the tankards mid-air, stacking them into a teetering tower with a flourish. "Goran, these mugs are so battered they're begging for a hero's funeral. I'm just giving 'em a moment of glory!" He flashed a cheeky, flirtatious grin, shrugging off the invisible thirty-kilogram pressure of N'Nazmuz's forbidden curse pressing on his shoulders, legs, and everything else.
The curse, administered years ago by Goran's old comrade—a Level 14 shaman and one-time Immortal Arena champion—had been Killyaen's choice, a brutal gift to fuel his ambition to become the strongest male alive. It crushed his body like an unseen anvil but healed his scrapes overnight and boosted his stamina faster than a Storm Roc's flight.
Goran muttered about "elven nonsense" and vanished back into the storeroom, leaving Killyaen to plot his next act of chaos. Killyaen knew little of elves beyond fragments from Goran's tattered tomes—tales of High Elven runes and starlit magic, far from Opeka's dusty floors. But "Supreme Elf" had a ring to it, especially after last night's masterpiece.
Under moonlight, Killyaen had crept to Farmer Janko's barn with a pot of glow-in-the-dark paint, pilfered from a merchant's cart passing through Solaria. In letters taller than a horse, he'd scrawled "SUPREME ELF RULES" across the barn, the paint shimmering like a Luminous Oak's crystal glow, turning the structure into Opeka's newest spectacle. But that was just the opening act. Later, as Janko snored off a barrel of ale in his shed, Killyaen, armed with a jar of black paint that defied soap, had painted delicate cat whiskers across the farmer's face—marks as stubborn as a Void Leviathan's curse. The weight of N'Nazmuz's curse slowed his escape, but Killyaen danced home, cackling under the stars, his split-leaf amulet glinting faintly against his chest.
The tavern door creaked open, and Bera stormed in, her apron dusted with flour and her dark curls battling her scarf. "Killyaen, you walking catastrophe," she snapped, brandishing a wooden spoon like a Mithrilgard blade. "If you've touched my rolling pin again, I'll bake you into a pie and feed you to the Silver Wolves!""Me? Touch your sacred rolling pin?" Killyaen pressed a hand to his chest, feigning horror, his flirtatious tone dripping with exaggerated charm. "Bera, my heart, I'd sooner steal a Moonflower than ruin your bread magic."
He leaned against the counter, his grin pure trouble, his super-perverted demeanor teasing the edge of propriety. "Though, have you seen Janko's barn lately? I hear it glows with artistic genius."Bera's scowl cracked, a smirk sneaking through. "You painted that oaf's barn to glow like a cursed lantern? Killyaen, you're begging for a thrashing." She swatted at him, but Killyaen ducked, spinning to grab a broom and kicking up dust clouds like tiny tempests. The curse made sweeping a workout—his arms burned, but they'd be fine by noon, thanks to N'Nazmuz's forbidden magic.
"Thrashing? Nah, Janko'll thank me for the free beacon," Killyaen said, striking a pose with the broom like it was a sword honed by Goran's Storm Technique. "Behold, Killyaen, Supreme Elf of Opeka, artist of barns and breaker of boredom!" He twirled the broom, nearly toppling a stack of plates, and caught it with a sheepish grin.Bera snorted, stomping off to the kitchen, muttering about "boys with too much hair and no sense." Killyaen chuckled, sweeping with half-hearted enthusiasm. He loved these mornings—the banter, the bustle, the chance to keep Opeka on its toes.
The village, a speck in Solaria's eastern plains, was all cobbled squares and creaky windmills, ruled by gossiping grandmothers who could sniff out trouble faster than a Shadow Panther.
To Killyaen, it was a stage, and last night's pranks were a performance for the ages.Fame had a price, though, and Killyaen knew it. Thanks to the curse and Goran's relentless training in swordsmanship, including the precise, wind-swift Storm Technique, he was stronger and more agile than most in Opeka, even burly farmers like Janko. His physical prowess, equivalent to a Level 3 Initial cultivator, could match a Level 3 Peak with cunning and artifacts, but every prank, every taunt, came with a bill—one he was ready to pay, bruises and all.
The tavern door slammed open with a bang that rattled the windows, and Janko stormed in, his face a thundercloud, black paint whiskers curling across his cheeks like a Mist Phantom's illusion. The early patrons froze, tankards halfway to their lips, as Janko's bellow shook the rafters. "KILLYAEN!" he roared, charging across the tavern like an Ironhide Rhino. "First my barn's glowing like a cursed First Altar, now this?" He jabbed at his face, the black whiskers stark against his red, scrubbed-raw skin, as stubborn as his temper.
Killyaen leaned on his broom, his grin wider than Opeka's square, his provocative nature reveling in the chaos. "Janko, my friend, I don't know what you're meowing about. Whiskers? Glowing barns? Sounds like you've got a secret admirer with a paintbrush."
He could've fought back—his muscles, honed by the curse and Goran's Storm Technique, were more than a match for Janko. With a flick of his wrist, he could've mimicked the technique's slashing arcs, but fame demanded a toll, and Killyaen chose to pay it.When Janko lunged, grabbing his collar and landing a meaty fist on his jaw, Killyaen stumbled back, the curse's weight making the blow feel like a Lava Dragon's tail. He didn't dodge, didn't block, just laughed through the pain, his gold-flecked eyes glinting. "Nice swing, kitty cat!" he taunted, taking another hit to the shoulder as Janko chased him through the tavern, toppling chairs. "Bet those whiskers make you the prettiest cat in Opeka!"
Patrons scattered, some cheering, some gasping, as Killyaen danced around tables, his braid swinging, his taunts relentless despite the bruises blooming on his skin. "Careful, Janko! You'll ruin your new look!" Another punch clipped his cheek, but Killyaen kept grinning, knowing the curse would heal him by nightfall.
Goran burst from the storeroom, bellowing, "Enough!" He grabbed Janko's arm with a grip that could crush mithril, hauling him back like a misbehaving beast. "Janko, sit your arse down before you break my tavern. Killyaen, stop goading him, you idiot!"Janko glared, panting, but slumped into a chair, the wood groaning under his bulk, his whiskers still screaming defiance. Killyaen rubbed his jaw, his grin undimmed despite the throbbing pain.
From the corner of the tavern, Marko, a wiry blacksmith, leaned back in his chair, tankard in hand. "Well, Janko," he drawled, "looks like you're the Cursed Cat of Opeka from now on!" The tavern erupted in laughter, patrons slapping tables, ale sloshing, as Janko's face turned a deeper shade of red. Bera peeked from the kitchen, stifling a cackle, and even Goran's scowl twitched with amusement.Killyaen winked at Marko, knowing the nickname would stick to Janko like the paint on his face. He sauntered to the bar, whistling a strange, melodic tune—eerie, like High Elven runes sung by Luminous Oaks.
It slipped out when he was distracted, like the split-leaf amulet around his neck, cool against his bruised skin. Goran said it was with him when he found him as a babe in Solaria's forest near Opeka, wrapped in a tattered cloak with a necklace inscribed "Killyaen." Amulet, tied to his mysterious past, gleamed faintly, catching the light in ways that hinted at secrets.
As he poured Janko an ale, sliding it across the counter with a smirk, Killyaen caught the amulet glinting in the morning light. Another day in Opeka, another price paid for being the Supreme Elf. Life was good—dusty, chaotic, and painted with possibilities. If a bigger world awaited, tied to Goran's Arena glory, N'Nazmuz's forbidden curse, or the cryptic prophecy of a "Child of Light and Darkness," Killyaen wasn't in a rush to find it. Not when there were barns to light up, whiskers to draw, and a new nickname echoing through the tavern.