Chapter 9 - 09. Feathers, Fists, and a Glimpse of Legends

Killyaen, the self-styled Supreme Elf and Opeka's prankster king, sprawled in the Black Stone Tavern's loft, a leather-bound book splayed across his lap, its cover etched with Verdantrix's curling vines. Goran had eased off training, satisfied with Killyaen's dual-sword mastery, freeing him to dive into his tomes. His gold-flecked eyes softened with rare focus, his grin traded for curiosity. A weathered volume on cultivation gripped him, its pages thick with meridians, dantian, Aeneria's elements, and Spirit Stones—gems Mirna rambled about as "cursed."Killyaen had no magic, his qi dormant despite facing three Altars of Awakening—ancient platforms meant to spark an element tied to Aeneria's Dragon-Gods: Azurion's water, Rubirion's fire, Saphirix's sky, Verdantrix's nature, Aurelion's light, or Nocturnix's shadow. Each ritual ended in silence, his spirit unmoved, leaving him below even Initial Beginner level. The altars, powered by Aeneria's Heart, were sound, but his qi stayed asleep. Swearing to master combat without magic, he hungered to awaken his qi and join Solaria's cultivators, one of Aeneria's twelve human kingdoms. N'Nazmuz's curse, chosen for strength, chafed his bones but didn't block his qi—it only dented floors.The book mapped meridians—energy pathways—and the dantian, where qi pooled, fueling cultivation. Aeneria's twenty levels, from Beginner to God Creator, each with Initial, Middle, and Peak sub-levels, promised feats Killyaen craved. Elements shaped spells, and Spirit Stones held pure qi for artifacts or breakthroughs. Sketching a meridian line, he muttered, "Supreme Elf, cultivator? I'll get there." A cryptic passage about "ruins of old gods" sparked his imagination, his amulet pulsing faintly, unnoticed.In Opeka, magic was commonplace. Farmers conjured Beginner flames for hearths; weavers spun Apprentice wind charms into cloth; kids flicked sparks to scatter chickens. Killyaen's book-blindness gave Janko, the "Cursed Cat," his shot. Stung by Killyaen's festival ballad and glowing barn fiasco, Janko had skulked, pride in tatters. He plotted a prank to humiliate Killyaen without sparking another village chant: rig a sack of chicken feathers above the loft ladder with a tripwire, using Moonflower sap for stickiness, branding Killyaen a "Plumed Elf."Janko lumbered into the tavern, sack and sap jar in hand, festival lanterns etched with Aurelion's flames casting his shadow. Two scruffy cats—common Aenerian strays with faintly glowing amber eyes and claws sharp as Crystal Wyrm shards—chased each other across the tavern floor, hissing and swiping. One cat, fleeing the other, darted toward Janko, scrambling up his leg, claws digging into his thigh and chest as it clawed its way to the ceiling beams via his shoulder. Janko yelped, flailing, as the cat's glowing eyes gleamed from above. His bulk betrayed him further. Fumbling, he splashed glowing Moonflower sap over his beard and shirt, cursing softly. As he tied the sack, sticky fingers tangled the rope, and he slipped, knocking over a broom.Bera, spotting Janko's sticky, claw-marked silhouette from the kitchen, had mended her rift with Killyaen, their fire rekindled, and grown protective. "Not today, Cat," she growled, snatching the broom. Storming out, she bellowed, "Janko, you scratched-up oaf!" and swatted his shins. Janko flailed, sap-slick hands ripping the sack. Feathers exploded, coating his beard, shirt, and boots, the glowing sap gluing them tight. Stumbling, he crashed into an ale barrel, toppling it. Ale sloshed, soaking him, feathers clinging like a molting goose.Patrons howled, clutching sides as Janko flopped, a feathered, sticky, ale-soaked mess, claw marks red on his leg. Killyaen, roused by Janko's yelp and the cats' hissing, leaned over the loft, book in hand, grinning. The cat's clawing sparked his mischief. "By Verdantrix's vines!" he roared, "the Cursed Cat's a clawed goose!" Vaulting down—his curse-heavy landing cracking floorboards—he improvised a chant: "Plumed Cat's a sticky mess, scratching fool in distress!" Patrons joined, clapping, some humming "Cursed Cat" from the festival. Killyaen mimed a cat's clawing, swiping air, winking at a barmaid. "Planning a sticky throne, Janko? Your claws need sharpening!"Janko, red-faced and dripping, roared, "I'll snap you, Elf!" and lunged, pride ablaze. The brawl erupted. Janko swung a meaty fist, but Killyaen ducked, his curse-enhanced agility weaving through the crowd, the amulet pulsing faintly. The cats, startled, streaked under a table, hissing. Killyaen shoved a chair, Janko tripping over it, crashing into a table. Mugs shattered, ale sprayed, and patrons scattered, some cheering, some cursing. Killyaen grabbed a broomstick, poking Janko's ribs, jeering, "Claw harder, Plumed Cat!" Janko flung a stool, missing Killyaen but cracking a wall beam. Bera, broom raised, shouted, "Enough!" but slipped in the ale, toppling chairs. The tavern groaned—tables splintered, a shelf collapsed, mugs rolled.Goran, a Peak Master, sighed, his aura quelling the chaos. He yanked Janko back, growling, "Out, both!" Killyaen grinned, dodging a final swing, the tavern a semi-wrecked mess. Bera leaned on the bar, eyeing Killyaen stacking tankards, his book nearby. "Supreme Mage, starting cat fights now?" she teased, flicking a dishcloth. Killyaen dodged, smirking. "Saved your tavern, Broom Queen. Janko's claws needed flair. Fancy a victory dance?" She snorted, swatting air. "Keep scratching, pervert. No kitchen rescues for you." Her laugh rang, their spark crackling, her eyes glinting with mischief.Patrons chattered about the "Plumed Cat," Mirna's rants blaming Killyaen's "cursed gems" for the chaos. A farmer slurred, "Plumed Cat's the new festival star!" sparking laughter. As the crowd thinned, Vuk, a Warrior herbalist, shuffled in, earth-stained hands cradling a mug. Spotting Killyaen's book, Vuk's weathered face creased. "Cultivation, lad?" he rasped, settling nearby.Killyaen paused, broom in hand, grin fading. Vuk sipped ale, voice low. "Your qi's asleep, boy. Altars of Awakening didn't spark you. But there's talk of ancient ruins, older than Aeneria's tales—ruins from when the Dragon-Gods walked. One's said to hold a glowing relic, blue under moonlight, maybe in Solaria's wilds. They woke qi in stubborn souls, even pushed cultivators to breakthroughs. Ruined or hidden, they're lost. Find one, and your Supreme Elf nonsense might hold weight." Killyaen's eyes widened, the ruins a myth igniting a new quest, his book a map to that spark.Goran, nursing a mug, muttered, "Lad's got more luck than sense." The tavern hummed softly, Marko dropping by with a whetstone, chuckling at the wreckage. "Need a tougher tavern for this chaos," he said, clapping Killyaen's shoulder. Word spread that Opeka's elder, Elder Mara, a respected Middle Beginner cultivator (Level 3) with earth charms who could shape soil or calm tremors, had summoned Killyaen and Janko for dawn at the square. Her summons carried weight, a faint tremor rippling the ground as her message spread, her charms ready to judge their tavern-trashing antics. Killyaen, back in the loft, traced a meridian, Aeneria's cultivation world vast, the ancient ruins' myth blazing in his mind, his amulet pulsing faintly as adventure stirred.