The Black Stone Tavern was quieter than a scolded Shadow Panther the morning after Janko's debut as Opeka's "Cursed Cat." The usual buzz of gossip had softened, as if the village was still chuckling over yesterday's chaos.
Killyaen, self-proclaimed Supreme Elf and mastermind behind Janko's glowing barn and black-painted whiskers, leaned against the counter, nursing a bruised jaw and a grin that could outshine Solaria's sun. N'Nazmuz's forbidden curse—a burden he'd chosen years ago to fuel his ambition to become the strongest male alive—had already healed the marks from Janko's fists, its thirty-kilogram pressure pressing on his shoulders like an overzealous Ironhide Rhino.
The curse made Killyaen stronger and tougher than most, even brutes like Janko, with wounds closing overnight and stamina snapping back like a Storm Roc's wings. But fame had a cost, and Killyaen had paid it yesterday, taking Janko's punches without fighting back, his gold-flecked eyes glinting with defiance as he taunted his way through the brawl.
"Killyaen, no juggling my tankards today, you hear?" Goran's voice rumbled from the storeroom, gruff but laced with the weary affection of a man who'd raised a whirlwind. The tavern keeper, a Level 13 Element Lord and seven-time champion of Solaria's Immortal Arena, stomped out, his beard bristling like a Luminous Oak's branches. "And you're not dodging the consequences of that stunt with Janko. You're scrubbing this tavern—floors, tables, rafters—till it shines like a Mithrilgard blade."
Killyaen groaned, slumping dramatically against the counter, his gold-tipped braid swinging. "Goran, you're killing me! Scrubbing? For a masterpiece like Janko's barn? It's practically a village landmark now!" He flashed a cheeky, flirtatious grin, his super-perverted demeanor teasing the edge of propriety, but Goran's one good eye narrowed, promising no escape. Killyaen sighed, grabbing a rag and bucket, the curse's weight making the bucket feel like a sack of Earth Spirit Stones.
"Fine, but when Opeka starts selling tickets to see 'Supreme Elf Rules' glowing like a cursed beacon, I want half," he quipped, his provocative tone daring Goran to retort. Bera bustled in from the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour and her dark curls battling their scarf like Coralvite vines. "Tickets? The only thing you're selling is trouble, you scrawny elf-wannabe," she snapped, brandishing her wooden spoon like a rune-etched artifact.
"And don't even think about hiding my rolling pin to skip this." She swatted at him, but Killyaen sidestepped, wincing as the curse tugged at his muscles, then sauntered off with a wink that pushed the boundaries of decorum.
Killyaen set to work, scrubbing the tavern's worn floorboards with exaggerated grumbling, each stroke a reminder of the curse's strain. The villagers trickling in for their morning ale couldn't resist poking at the "Cursed Cat" saga.
Marko, Opeka's wiry blacksmith with a grin sharper than his mithril blades, leaned against the bar, sipping ale. "Heard Janko's still scrubbing his face raw," he said, winking at Killyaen. "Reckon the Cursed Cat'll be Opeka's new legend by week's end." Killyaen chuckled, his black eyes sparkling with mischief.
The nickname, born from Marko's quip during yesterday's brawl, had stuck to Janko like Moonflower pollen, and Killyaen's fame grew with every snicker.
By noon, the tavern gleamed—or at least smelled less like a stable—and Goran dragged Killyaen to the field behind the tavern for training. The curse made every step feel like trudging through Terra Ignota's Chaos jungles, but it had forged Killyaen's strength and agility beyond most in Opeka, even Janko.
Goran, his broad frame casting a shadow like a Mithrilgard cliff, tossed Killyaen a wooden practice sword. "You're learning a new Storm Technique today, you little idiot," he growled. "Something to use that curse, not just your smart mouth."Killyaen caught the sword, twirling it despite the curse's weight, his movements hinting at the agility of a Night Elf spy. "A new technique? For the Supreme Elf? About time you taught me something worthy of my legend." He struck a dramatic pose, only to yelp as Goran's practice sword clipped his shoulder.
The old warrior, once a leader of Solaria's elite Destroyers, didn't play games."Shut it and listen," Goran said, circling Killyaen like a Silver Wolf stalking prey. "This one's called Wind's Rebuke. It's about turning the curse's weight into power—lean into it, not against it." He demonstrated, his blade slicing the air in a fluid, wind-swift arc, fast despite his bulk, the hallmark of the Storm Technique's swordsmanship. "The curse drags you down, so use it to anchor your strikes. Pivot, swing, let the weight pull you forward."
Killyaen mimicked the move, his lean frame weaving through the grass, the curse's pressure grounding his stance. His first tries were shaky, the sword wobbling as he fought the weight, but the curse's stamina boost kept him going. Sweat soaked his braid, but by late afternoon, he was landing clean strikes, the blade whistling like a Storm Roc's cry as he spun with the curse's momentum.
"Not bad, eh?" he panted, grinning. "Janko better watch out next time he tries to play Cursed Cat."Goran grunted, a rare flicker of approval in his eye. "Keep practicing, or the only thing you'll cut is your own pride." He sheathed his sword, leaving Killyaen to drill alone as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in shades of amber.
As Killyaen caught his breath, a commotion stirred in the village square. A creaky cart rolled in, pulled by a weary beast that looked as thrilled as Janko's barn. A traveling merchant, his cloak patched and his hat lopsided, hopped down, unloading crates that promised wonders. Killyaen's heart leapt—books. Stacks of them, leather-bound, tattered, some with titles in scripts that tugged at his mind, like whispers of ancient Aenerian lore.
In Opeka, a remote village in Solaria's eastern plains, books were rarer than Spirit Stones, those glowing gems hoarded by the village's elite—Goran, the headwoman, the village hall guard, Marko, and perhaps the miller on a good day.
Killyaen had no Spirit Stones, just a pouch of gold coins scraped from tavern tips and the occasional "misplaced" bet with patrons. He sprinted to the square, the curse's weight be damned, and skidded to a stop before the merchant. "How much for the books?" he asked, eyes wide as he scanned titles like Chronicles of the Dragon-Gods and Legends of the Middle Sea.
The merchant, a wiry man with a grin like a Pirate Island rogue, named a price that made Killyaen's stomach lurch. But dreams of grand adventures—stories of Azurion's tides, Krakenkin caves, and mysteries beyond Opeka's dusty borders—were worth more than gold. He handed over every coin, walking away with a stack of books so heavy the curse groaned in protest.
Back at the tavern, Killyaen sat by the fire, his new treasures piled beside him, the split-leaf amulet around his neck glinting faintly. He flipped open a book, its pages whispering of places he'd never seen—magical forests, Middle Sea reefs, Terra Ignota's Void plains. One passage, written in a cryptic script that stirred something in his mind, spoke of ancient ruins guarded by beasts and shrouded in mystery, but the words danced away from clarity, like a half-forgotten dream. His mind wandered to battles and mysteries far beyond Opeka, the amulet cool against his bruised skin, a relic from the day Goran found him in Solaria's forest, a squalling baby with a necklace inscribed "Killyaen."
Another day, another price paid—bruises, scrubbing, and an empty pouch. But with the Wind's Rebuke technique and a stack of stories hinting at Aeneria's secrets, the Supreme Elf felt ready for anything. Even if "anything" was just another prank waiting to spark Opeka's next legend.