Chapter 7: The Demonic RhinoOpeka's autumn air carried a crisp bite, the village settling into its post-festival rhythm of rattling carts and whispered tales. The Black Stone Tavern glowed like a beacon in the dusk, its stone walls etched with faded Verdantrix vine carvings, humming with laughter and the clink of ale tankards. Lanterns from the Harvest Moon Festival, etched with Azurion's waves and Aurelion's flames, still hung, casting a warm glow.Killyaen, the self-proclaimed Supreme Elf and Opeka's chaos maestro, stood out back in the training field, gripping a wooden practice sword, his gold-flecked eyes glinting sharper than the blade. The "Cursed Cat" ballad had carved his name deeper into village lore, and with Janko cowering—terrified another prank would shred his tattered reputation—Killyaen's mischief hunted fresh targets. But first, he had a blade to conquer.Goran, the seven-time Immortal Arena champion, circled like a storm cloud, his broad frame looming. "Wind's Rebuke, no slop," he growled, tossing Killyaen a second wooden sword. "Now learn Thunder's Edge—follows Rebuke, uses the curse's weight for a double-force slash. Pivot, then strike up." He demonstrated, his blade cracking the air, swift despite his bulk. Killyaen mimicked, weaving through the grass, N'Nazmuz's curse—its 30-kilogram pressure—tugging his muscles. Wind's Rebuke flowed smoothly, the blade whistling, but Thunder's Edge was a beast. His first slashes wobbled, one nearly clipping his ear."Focus, you fool!" Goran barked, parrying a clumsy strike. "Or you'll be scrubbing swords with your pride." Killyaen, sweat-soaked, pushed on, the curse's stamina pulsing through his veins, knitting his straining muscles. By afternoon, Thunder's Edge sharpened, his upward slashes humming with power, each blow anchored by the curse's weight. Goran's eye glinted with rare approval. "Spar, now. Show me you're not just a loudmouth."The spar was a tempest, wood clacking like thunderclaps. Killyaen danced, Wind's Rebuke flowing into Thunder's Edge, the curse steadying him against Goran's onslaught. Feinting left, he pivoted, slashing upward with Thunder's Edge—crack—Goran's sword split, the top half thudding to the grass. Goran froze, then laughed, a bellow that shook the field. "First time you've got me, Supreme Elf," he said, clapping Killyaen's shoulder, the curse's regenerative pulse easing the bruise. "Don't let it swell your head."Killyaen, panting, grinned like he'd toppled a Lava Dragon. "Too late, old man!" He strutted to the tavern, sore but smug, his mind brewing chaos to keep Opeka's spirit alive. Janko's silence left a void, but the village merchant—a portly, braying tavern regular with a weakness for ale—became Killyaen's muse. The man's barn housed an Ironhide Rhino, a grey, lumbering beast with a blunt snout used for pulling carts, often left unguarded as he staggered home drunk. Killyaen saw a canvas.For two nights, Killyaen planned, scouting the barn under moonlight. The Ironhide Rhino snorted in its stall, its leathery hide twitching. Killyaen gathered his tools: a jar of Moonflower sap, dark and sticky with a faint glow, pilfered from a hunter's shed; a spiral shard from a Crystal Wyrm's horn, gleaming like a corkscrew; and pine resin for extra stickiness. The Moonflower sap, rumored to mimic blood in dim light, was perfect for his scheme.On the third night, with the merchant wobbling home from the tavern, Killyaen struck. He crept into the barn, the curse's weight slowing his steps but not his nerve, its stamina letting him climb the stall's beam without faltering. The rhino stirred, beady eyes glinting, but a handful of oats kept it calm. Working fast, Killyaen slathered the beast's hide with Moonflower sap, painting jagged stripes that glistened like wounds. He smeared the snout, leaving crimson streaks, and coated the legs, making it look like it had waded through a slaughter. The Crystal Wyrm horn, glued with pine resin to the rhino's forehead, jutted absurdly—a spiral of menace on the placid creature.By dawn, the "Demonic Rhino" was born, snorting in its sap-streaked, horned glory. The merchant's scream pierced the village, drawing a crowd to his barn. The Ironhide Rhino waddled out, horn wobbling, sap gleaming, and the square erupted in laughter. Kids shrieked, pointing at the "Demon Rhino," while Old Lady Mirna wailed, "Cursed beast! Only a Spirit Stone can save us!" Her cronies clutched shawls, muttering about Killyaen's "dark magic." Marko, at his forge, doubled over, hammer forgotten. "Killy's outdone the festival!" he gasped, as villagers swapped bets on the merchant's fury.Janko, skulking nearby, glowered at the chaos, muttering, "That Elf'll pay soon." Killyaen, serving ale in the tavern, caught his glare and winked, fueling Janko's silent rage. The merchant, red-faced, shook a fist, vowing to catch the culprit, but the rhino's placid chewing—horn tilting comically—only stoked the mirth. Kids chanted "Demon Rhino! Demon Rhino!" and sketched horned beasts in the dirt, while the merchant scrubbed his beast, cursing the sap's grip.That day, Killyaen's mischief spiraled in the tavern kitchen. Bera, flour-dusted apron clinging to her curves, kneaded bread, her dark curls spilling from a scarf. Killyaen lounged nearby, smirking. "Bera, that apron's hugging you tighter than I would," he teased, dodging her swat. "Keep those hands off, Supreme Pervert," she snapped, stoking the oven. Seizing his chance, Killyaen tied a strip of her skirt to the stove's handle with a loose knot, winking at a barmaid who giggled.As Bera turned to knead dough, Killyaen pinched her backside, cackling. "Just testing your reflexes, love!" Bera roared, spinning with a wooden spoon raised, but the knot tugged, and her skirt tore free, leaving her in patched underwear and a sheer, flour-streaked apron that barely concealed her ample curves. The tavern froze, then erupted. Farmers and travelers hooted, sloshing ale, shouting, "Bera's stealing Killy's festival show!" But older regulars, who'd watched Bera grow up, scowled. "She's like our daughter, that's shameful!" one muttered. "Killy's gone too far," another growled.Bera's face flushed scarlet, eyes welling. She clutched the apron and fled to the kitchen, her sobs echoing. Killyaen's laughter died, guilt stabbing like a blade. He'd meant a laugh, not this. Slipping into the kitchen, he found Bera by the oven, wiping tears with a rag, apron clinging tightly. "Bera, I'm sorry," he said, voice low, no swagger. "I didn't think it'd hurt you." He touched her shoulder, bracing for a slap.Bera turned, eyes fierce. "You idiot," she hissed, fist raised. Killyaen closed his eyes, ready for the blow, but her lips crashed into his—a quick, fierce kiss that stunned him silent. "Don't think this means I like you," she muttered, pulling back, her grin shy but sharp. Killyaen blinked, then smirked. "Oh, Bera, that kiss says you love the Supreme Elf." She swatted him with the rag, laughing. "Dream on, pervert."The kitchen door creaked, and patrons, crowded at the bar, cheered. "Impressive, Killy!" a farmer bellowed. "Baby elves comin' soon?" a miller slurred, sparking a chant: "Elf babies! Elf babies!" Goran, looming nearby, glared. "You've caused enough trouble, boy," he growled, tossing Killyaen a cloak to cover Bera. "Respect the tavern's folk, or I'll tan your hide." Killyaen nodded, chastened, as Bera wrapped the cloak, her grin returning.That night, the tavern buzzed with "Demon Rhino" chants and Mirna's wild tales of Spirit Stones. Killyaen, serving ale, dodged toasts about "elf babies" and Bera's half-hearted swipes. His amulet pulsed faintly, unnoticed, as a merchant's earlier tale of "cursed ruins beyond the plains" echoed in his mind, stirring dreams of adventure from his books. Janko's muttered threat lingered, promising future clashes. Killyaen, bruised from training, stung by guilt, and buzzing from Bera's kiss, felt alive. Another day in Opeka, another legend carved.
