Killyaen, self-proclaimed Supreme Elf and Opeka's walking catastrophe, slumped against the Black Stone Tavern's bar, his body a map of aches from the Zenoite mine.
His thigh gash throbbed like a pissed-off Ironhide Rhino, his bruised ribs screamed with every breath, and his grazed arm stung like Bera's sharpest retort.
N'Nazmuz's curse—thirty kilograms of invisible weight—made each ache heavier, but its healing pulse knitted his wounds, bruises fading like tavern gossip.
The tavern was quieter now, the morning crowd thin, but the air still hummed with last night's "Plumed Cat" chants and ballad-fueled chaos.Bera leaned over the bar, her apron hugging curves that sent Killyaen's thoughts spiraling to places even the Supreme Elf dared not linger.
She twirled her wooden spoon, eyes glinting with mischief. "Still reeking like Rotting Blind Mice, elf," she purred, voice low and dangerous. "My stew's got more charm than your greasy hide, and that's saying something."Killyaen grinned, leaning closer despite his ribs' protests, the curse making his slump feel like lugging a Zenoite boulder. "Bera, love, your stew's hot, but your curves could melt a Crystal Wyrm's horn. Care to test me in the kitchen again?"
She flicked a rag at his face, smacking his grazed arm. "Keep dreaming, you oily pest. My spoon's got better taste than to tangle with your… swordplay." Her wink was pure provocation, and Killyaen clutched his heart, staggering theatrically. "Oh, Broom Queen, my blades are ready to dance in your pot anytime!"
Marko, polishing a tankard nearby, snorted so hard he nearly dropped it. "Get a room, you two, or at least a bath! Those Rotting Blind Mice tails are scaring the customers." He kicked Killyaen's sack, a Zenoite shard and Krovar scale skidding across the floor, glinting like a taunt.Janko, the Cursed Cat, skulked in a corner, picking Storm Roc feathers from his sleeve—remnants of a failed prank that left him feathered and fuming.
Killyaen waved a Rotting Blind Mouse tail—moozze, as Opeka's villagers called the mindless skitterers—at him, grinning. "Oi, Cursed Cat, want this for your next whiskers? Matches your charm!" Janko's scowl could've curdled ale, but he stayed pinned by the memory of last night's tavern roasting, the kids' "Plumed Cat" chants still ringing.
The door creaked, and Goran stomped in, his beard a bristling storm cloud, eyes sharper than Killyaen's twin swords—Wind's Rebuke and Thunder's Edge, forged by Marko. He jerked his head toward the ladder. "Roof, elf. Now."
Killyaen blinked, still buzzing from Bera's taunts, but followed, dragging his battered body up the rungs, the curse making each step a war against gravity.On the tavern roof, Aeneria's morning sky stretched wide, stars fading into dawn, their glow mirrored by faint Azurion wave carvings on the shingles. Goran sat, tankard in hand, his usual glower softened by something Killyaen couldn't place—pride, maybe, or something heavier.
"You're getting good, kid," Goran rumbled, voice like gravel rolling downhill. "Too good."Killyaen sprawled beside him, ribs screaming, and stared.
"Uh, thanks, big guy. Didn't know you noticed anything past your ale." Goran snorted, sipping, then fixed Killyaen with a look that made the Zenoite shard in his pocket—looted from the Krovar—feel heavier. "Your dual-sword work—Wind's Rebuke, Thunder's Edge—it's sharper than mine was at your age. No qi, and you're swinging like a damn storm. That Zenoite Krovar? Middle Knight Earth cultivator, sentient and cunning. Most'd be dead. You greased it with Gromble oil, dropped a boulder on it, and walked away."
Killyaen's jaw dropped, nearly sliding off the roof, his bruised ribs protesting. "You saying I'm better than you, old man?"
Goran chuckled, a rare sound, like a Storm Roc's screech. "Not yet, fool. My experience, even without qi, would still floor you. But that curse?" He nodded at Killyaen, who winced as his thigh gash pulsed. "It's holding you back. Without it, you'd be a problem—even for me.
Back in my day, as a Destroyer in Solaria's Orc Wars, I was strong, but you? You're a freak, kid. Stronger than I was at twenty, curse or no curse. Won't be long before you outstrip me, qi or not."
Killyaen's eyes widened. Goran, seven-time Immortal Arena champion, a Destroyer who carved through Orcs, admitting this? "Why're you telling me this?" he blurted, flailing, his grazed arm stinging.Goran stared at the horizon, voice low.
"Because Opeka's too small for you. That shard, those ancient ruins near Solspire, those questions eating you—they're your path, not this village. I tied myself here, drinking away the Destroyers, the Orc Wars, the blood and steel. Don't make my mistake. You've got a destiny, kid. Follow it."
Killyaen swallowed, stunned, the shard's faint pulse syncing with his heartbeat, its glow hinting at Azurion's waves.
Goran sipped his ale, then continued, words heavy as Zenoite. "Go to Adena, the big city north of Solaria. My old comrade, Brakus, runs a tavern there—The Scaled Fang. Fought with him in the Orc Wars, carving through tusked bastards under Solaria's banner. He's no drunk like me. Knows relics, old qi paths, maybe answers for that shard. But don't expect a warm hug—he's meaner than a Zenoite Krovar's glare."
Killyaen's mind reeled, the Supreme Elf speechless for the second time in a day. Goran, a Destroyer, pushing him toward a city, a relic-hunter, a destiny? "Brakus? The Scaled Fang? You're just now telling me you were a badass?" Killyaen flailed, nearly toppling off the roof, his ribs screaming. "What's next, you saying Bera's secretly a cultivator?"
Goran snorted, tossing his empty tankard at Killyaen, who dodged, wincing as his arm stung. "Don't push it, elf. Go to Adena. Find Brakus. Don't make me drag you there myself."
Back in the tavern, Killyaen stumbled down the ladder, his head spinning faster than a Storm Roc in a gale. Bera was wiping the bar, her apron still doing dangerous things to his imagination. "What's got you looking like a Rotting Blind Mouse ate your braid?" she teased, leaning forward, her voice a sultry challenge. "Dreaming of my spoon again, or did Goran spank you up there?"
Killyaen grinned, pervy spark reigniting despite his aches. "Bera, love, I'd let your spoon spank me any day, but Goran's sending me to Adena to chase my destiny. Wanna come? I'll need someone to keep my blades… polished."
She flicked ale at him, laughing, her eyes wicked. "Polish your own blades, you greasy pest. My curves stay here, but I'll save you a stew—if you survive."
Marko, overhearing, tossed a Rotting Blind Mouse tail at Killyaen's head. "Adena, eh? Better not bring that stink there, elf. Those city folk'll forge you into a spoon!"
Janko, still sulking, muttered, "Hope they shave that braid off." Killyaen waved the Mouse tail like a flag, grinning. "Cursed Cat, my braid's gonna shine in Adena, unlike your whiskers!"The tavern erupted in laughter, Bera tossing another rag that stuck to Killyaen's oily tunic.
As he limped out, the Zenoite shard's glow felt heavier, Adena's promise looming like a storm. The Krovar scales in his sack clinked, a reminder of his victory, but Goran's words echoed louder—destiny, Brakus, ancient ruins. Clutching the shard, Killyaen's grin turned wild. "Adena, here comes the Supreme Elf," he muttered, whistling a new verse of "Cursed Cat" as Opeka faded behind him.