Opeka burst into life for the Harvest Moon Festival, a three-day riot of color and chaos that swept away the village's dusty routine. Lanterns carved with swirling Dragon-God motifs—tales of Azurion's waves and Aurelion's flames—glowed like fireflies across the cobbled square. Stalls overflowed with steaming meat pies, polished trinkets, and jars of honey that shimmered under torchlight. The Black Stone Tavern, Opeka's beating heart, thrummed with laughter, clinking tankards, and the scent of Bera's fresh-baked bread.Killyaen, the self-styled Supreme Elf and Opeka's undisputed mischief maestro, slunk through the crowd, his gold-flecked eyes glinting with trouble. His olive skin caught the lantern glow, his gold-tipped braid swinging as he moved, and his grin promised more chaos than a Moonshade Squirrel in a nut hoard. The village still buzzed over his "Cursed Cat" pranks—painting Janko's barn with glowing black whiskers and dousing him in ale and cabbages. Now, the festival was his stage.The first day kicked off with the arm-wrestling tournament, a rowdy tradition that packed the square around a creaky wooden table. Burly farmers, a grizzled miller, and a few wide-eyed outsiders jostled for glory, while villagers tossed coppers into betting pools. Killyaen, lean but wiry from Goran's brutal training, leapt onto a barrel, arms spread like a bard. "Behold the Supreme Elf, here to crush wrists and steal hearts!" he crowed, winking at a cluster of giggling maidens. The crowd roared, half cheering, half jeering.Marko, Opeka's wiry blacksmith, sauntered up, his soot-streaked arms rippling as he cracked his knuckles. "Save the show, Killy," he smirked. "Your scrawny arms'll be begging for mercy." Killyaen plopped into the chair, tossing his braid dramatically. "Scrawny? These arms charm ladies and topple giants, Marko. Watch and weep."Each match was pure theater. Killyaen taunted opponents with yawns, juggled a tankard mid-grip, and once "slipped" to flash a suggestive grin at Bera, who leaned against the tavern door, rolling her eyes. She lobbed a bread roll at him, shouting, "Focus, you pervert, or I'll stuff that tankard where the sun don't shine!" The crowd howled, and Killyaen caught the roll in his teeth, winking. N'Nazmuz's curse, its invisible 30-kilogram weight pressing his frame, fueled his stamina, letting him outlast brawnier foes despite the strain beading sweat on his brow.Killyaen tore through farmers and the miller, who swore like a storm when pinned. The final pitted him against Marko, the square now jammed with flickering lanterns and shouting bettors. Killyaen leaned in, his voice low and teasing. "Wager, Marko? Loser struts the village in their underwear for two days. Let's give Opeka a real show." Marko's eyes gleamed, never one to back down. "You're on, Supreme Elf. Prepare to blush."The match was brutal, the table groaning under their locked arms. Killyaen's curse-enhanced endurance held—his muscles screamed, but he gritted his teeth, feeling the curse's regenerative pulse knit his straining fibers. Marko's raw strength surged, and with a final grunt, he slammed Killyaen's hand down. The square erupted in cheers. Killyaen leapt up, bowing like a jester. "A deal's a deal!" he shouted, stripping to patched underwear with a flourish. Whistles and laughter followed as he flexed, grinning. "Feast your eyes, Opeka—the Supreme Elf delivers!"For two days, Killyaen turned shame into a parade. He danced on barrels, juggled apples, and sweet-talked pie vendors for free slices, his provocative charm disarming even the grumpiest stall-keepers. "Oh, sweet Lila, one smile for a pie?" he cooed, leaning close, only to dodge her playful swat. Bera, wiping floury hands, tossed another roll at him. "Cover up, you shameless elf, or I'll bake you into the next batch!" Killyaen spun, catching it and blowing her a kiss. "Bake me, Bera? Only if you join me in the oven!" Her laugh echoed as she hurled a dishcloth, which he caught and twirled like a banner.The festival hummed with games. A Moonshade Squirrel race replaced the usual sack hops, with competitors luring the silvery, moon-eyed beasts across the field using roasted nuts. Killyaen, still in underwear, nearly won until a squirrel—perhaps kin to the one that scratched his face—leapt at him, claws grazing his arm. The curse's rapid healing closed the scratches in moments, but he tumbled into a hay bale, earning laughs. "Supreme Squirrel Elf now?" Marko called, tossing a nut. Killyaen grinned, brushing straw off. "Keep dreaming, blacksmith. I'm still king!"A traveling merchant, his cart draped in silks, ran a Spirit Stone guessing game, displaying a glowing gem that dazzled the crowd. Old Lady Mirna, clutching her shawl, muttered about "cursed stones" warding off Killyaen's "shameless magic," but even she pocketed a flower he tossed her with a wink. Villagers whispered that such gems, hoarded by elites like Goran, held mythical powers, though Killyaen, qi-blind and clueless, only smirked at the spectacle.The third night brought music and a dance-off in the square. Fiddles wailed, drums thumped, and a wobbly flute carried the tune. Killyaen, still half-naked, saw his chance for a grand finale. He'd whispered of a "legendary act" all day, and now, borrowing a lute from a tipsy bard, he climbed a stage of stacked crates. The crowd hushed as he strummed, his amulet catching the lantern light with a faint, curious pulse. "This one's for Opeka," he declared, "and our favorite feline hero!"His "Ballad of the Cursed Cat" exploded into the night, a raucous ode to Janko's misery:"Oh, the Cursed Cat prowls with a whisker's grace,
Painted by moonlight on his grumpy face!
He chased the Elf, but fell in a vat,
Now he's the king of the cabbage patch, Cat!"Villagers joined in, banging pots and stomping. Each verse grew bolder—Janko's floury flop, ale-soaked dive, cabbagey doom—laced with Killyaen's super-perverted flair. "He tripped on his pride, got a floury kiss!" he sang, puckering at a giggling seamstress. The crowd roared, some doubled over, one farmer swearing he'd "wet meself."Janko, lurking at the crowd's edge, tried to strike back, hurling a sack of flour from a stall. Killyaen, ever-cunning, sidestepped with a dancer's grace, letting the flour dust a nearby matron, who shrieked and chased Janko with a ladle. Killyaen seized the moment, adding a verse: "He throws his flour, but misses the mark, Now Cursed Cat's fleeing from a ladle's spark!" The square dissolved into laughter, some collapsing in the grass.Janko's face purpled, and he roared, shoving forward. "You'll pay, Elf!" he bellowed, but Killyaen, strutting in his underwear, cut him off. "Pay? Janko, your face pays me in laughs every day!" The crowd chanted "Cursed Cat!" as Janko stormed off, vowing revenge. Killyaen's amulet pulsed again, unnoticed in the chaos, as a merchant's tale of "ancient ruins beyond the plains" lingered in his mind from earlier, stirring dreams of adventure.As the song ended, Killyaen bowed low, nearly losing his underwear to a gust, earning fresh cheers. Goran, leaning at the tavern door, tossed him a cloak. "Cover up, you fool," he growled, his mouth twitching with a grin. Bera sauntered over, tossing a roll that bounced off Killyaen's chest. "Nice voice, pervert, but your dancing's a crime," she teased. Killyaen caught her hand, spinning her into a playful dip. "Crime? Bera, dance with me, and we'll rewrite the law!" She laughed, shoving him off, but her eyes sparkled.Another festival in Opeka, another legend carved. The Supreme Elf, sore, half-naked, and likely due for Janko's wrath, felt he'd conquered the world—or at least one rowdy village. As he slipped into the tavern, the amulet's faint glow pulsed against his chest, whispering secrets he couldn't yet grasp.