The morning air in Opeka hummed with woodsmoke and the warm scent of Bera's fresh bread wafting from the Black Stone Tavern's kitchen. The tavern, its weathered stone walls soaking up the dawn's light, stood as the village's heart, buzzing with gossip about Opeka's undisputed king of chaos: Killyaen, the self-proclaimed Supreme Elf.Inside, Killyaen scrubbed tables with a rag, his gold-flecked eyes glinting with mischief and his gold-tipped braid swaying as he worked. His latest masterpiece—painting Janko's barn with glow-in-the-dark paintಸSystem: dark paint and black whiskers to earn the burly villager the "Cursed Cat" nickname—had set the village alight with laughter. Kids chanted, old Mirna whispered of dark magic, and Killyaen's legend grew, though he knew Janko was plotting revenge.The tavern door creaked, and Marko, Opeka's wiry blacksmith, strolled in, iron hinges clanking onto a table. "Still alive, Killy?" he grinned, soot streaking his face. "Thought Janko'd have you strung up after that barn stunt."Killyaen leaned on his broom, striking a pose, one hand on his hip. "Me? Strung up? Marko, I'm far too slippery for that oaf's clumsy paws." He flashed a wicked smile, his voice dropping low. "Besides, I'd wiggle free and leave him blushing." Marko choked on a laugh, shaking his head.By noon, the tavern gleamed, and Killyaen slipped out to the training field behind the village. Goran, the grizzled seven-time Immortal Arena champion, tossed him a wooden practice sword. "Wind's Rebuke, again," he growled, his beard bristling. "Get it right, or you'll be polishing Janko's boots."Still sore from yesterday's Moonshade Squirrel fiasco—those whisker-like scratches now faint thanks to N'Nazmuz's curse—Killyaen gripped the sword, the curse's 30-kilogram pressure grounding his stance. His pivots were sharper, the blade whistling like wind, but a cocky flourish sent him sprawling into a mud puddle, his braid caked with dirt."Supreme Elf, my arse," Goran muttered, yanking him up. "Focus, or you'll be wrestling Shadow Panthers with that sloppy footwork." Killyaen grinned, undeterred, and by afternoon landed a clean strike that earned a rare nod from Goran.Back at the tavern, Killyaen buried himself in a tattered book, Chronicles of the Dragon-Gods, its tales of ancient heroes and cryptic ruins stirring his restless heart. A strange warmth pulsed from the split-leaf amulet around his neck, as if whispering secrets he couldn't yet grasp.Evening brought a rowdy crowd, and Killyaen danced through the tavern, serving ale and tossing quips. Bera, her dark curls bouncing in the kitchen, lobbed a bread roll at him. "Keep your hands off my trays, Supreme Elf, unless you want a real whisker mark!" she teased, eyeing the faint squirrel scratches under his nose."Promise to make it quick, love?" Killyaen purred, dodging the roll with a wink, his fingers brushing her arm just enough to make her scoff and laugh. Marko, nursing an ale, leaned in. "Janko's got something big planned, Killy. Watch your back."Janko's scheme was a barrel of soured milk rigged to douse Killyaen at the tavern's back door during trash duty. Ambitious but sloppy. Killyaen, sharp as a blade, swapped the milk for watered-down ale and loosened a plank on Janko's nearby cart, tying a string to a crate of old cabbages—Janko's own stash.When Janko pulled his rope, the cart collapsed, burying him in a reeking avalanche of cabbages. Killyaen leaped from behind the door, crowing, "Cursed Cat's gone veggie!" Patrons roared, Marko spitting ale as Janko flailed, cabbage leaves in his hair, cursing loud enough to scare a Storm Roc.The prank wasn't flawless—ale splashed Killyaen's boots—but Janko's veggie-soaked defeat was the tavern's new obsession. Bera, wiping her hands, grinned. "You're a menace, Killy, but I'll give you points for style."Goran stormed out, his weathered face thunderous. "Killyaen, you fool!" He paused, eyeing Janko's cabbage-covered state. "Wait—Janko, this was your doing?" Janko's sheepish scowl confessed, and Goran's patience snapped."Enough!" He dragged both to the tavern's center, patrons hushing. "Killy, apologize. Now."Killyaen stepped forward, his grin pure chaos. "My dearest Cursed Cat," he said, bowing with a flourish, his hand grazing Janko's arm suggestively. "I'm sorry your face is such a fine canvas for my art, and sorrier your pranks flop like a drunk Ironhide Rhino. May your whiskers fade before your pride." The tavern erupted, Bera tossing another roll that Killyaen caught mid-air, winking at her.Janko's face burned red, but Goran's glare stopped his fist. "You're not blameless, Janko. Shake hands." Janko's cabbage-stained hand met Killyaen's, who wiped the gunk on his rag with a smirk.The crowd cheered, "Cursed Cat!" echoing through the night. The next morning, Goran issued his verdict. "Killy, you're cleaning Janko's barn today," he said, tossing a broom. "A real apology."Killyaen groaned, but the curse's stamina carried him through, sweeping straw under the glow-in-the-dark whiskers and "Supreme Elf Rules" scrawled from his prank. Kids outside chanted "Cursed Cat," and Mirna muttered about Spirit Stones curing "Killy's curses." Marko, passing with a horseshoe, called, "Shine it up, Supreme Cat Elf! Janko might hire you yet!"Bera leaned against the barn door, smirking. "Whiskers suit you, Killy. Keep 'em, and I might let you steal a loaf." Killyaen grinned, tossing a suggestive quip that earned a playful swat, the village alive with his chaotic legend.
