Killyaen's Zorath plodded through Vaeloria County's tangled forests, hooves snapping twigs like a drunk trampling moozze nests. Day three of his trek to Ironvale, and the "Supreme Elf" was bored out of his skull. No brawls, no chaos, just endless trees. He belted a filthy ditty to stay sane: "Oh, I'll polish my sword till it shines in the morn, then I'll ride Bera's pot till her tavern's well-worn!" He grinned, picturing her smacking him for that one.
A crackle jerked his head up. A Vyrath Stag loomed through the canopy, antlers sparking lightning, its steel-shimmer hide glinting. General, Middle sub-level, Killyaen reckoned, judging its size and speed.
Fast as a pissed-off Heavenly Spirit Bird, and twice as territorial. No way he was tangling with that—those antlers could skewer his Zorath like a Gromble kebab.
"Easy, sparkler," Killyaen muttered, N'Nazmuz's curse weighing him down, its 30-kilogram burden making his thighs burn like he'd wrestled a Zeltar herd.
He slid off his Zorath, pulling moozze tails from his spatial ring and tying them to a branch with a smirk. He sparked his flint, and the oily tails blazed, stinking worse than Janko's barn.
The stag snorted, antlers crackling, then bolted, hooves a blur.Killyaen scrambled up a tree, the curse's weight nearly yanking him down. "Fuck you, N'Nazmuz, you Void-cursed prick," he growled, hauling himself onto a branch.
The stag vanished, and he dropped back to his Zorath, whistling "Cursed Cat" like he'd won a sect duel.
By dusk, he reached Briarstead, a speck of a village in Vaeloria's woods. Smoke curled from chimneys, and fields hummed with mortals and low-level cultivators—Beginners and Disciples, scraping by on weak Qi. The smell of ale and bread hit Killyaen's nose. "Time to bless this shithole," he said, patting his spatial ring.
At The Gilded Zeltar, a rundown tavern, he overheard grumbling about Tarrak, a General, Initial sub-level cultivator extorting Level 1–2 Spiritual Stones from villagers. Killyaen's grin turned devilish. "Oh, Tarrak, you limp-dicked sparkler, the Supreme Elf's gonna ruin your day."
He scouted Tarrak's camp a mile out, where a dozen bandits lazed by a fire, weapons piled like a drunk's kindling. Silent as a Sun Panthera, its Light-element glow dimmed in the dusk—though Killyaen couldn't sense its Qi—he rigged their latrine—a foul pit—with Flaevyn feathers and a moozze oil vial from his spatial ring, tied to a tripwire. He pulled his Teridian black dagger from the ring and carved "Supreme Elf's Here, Bitches" into their weapon crates, chuckling.
He yanked the wire. The latrine erupted in a stench-bomb of green flames and oily smoke, sending bandits screaming. "Qi-demon!" one howled, tripping into a Gromble trough. Killyaen doubled over, cackling, then tossed a moozze tail from his ring into their campfire. It popped, spraying sparks, and the bandits scattered.Tarrak stormed out, a scarred bastard with a whip that glowed red when he snapped it, flames trailing its arc. Fire element, Killyaen noted, his first clue to Tarrak's power.
"Who's the dead fucker?!" Tarrak roared, spotting Killyaen's smirking face. "You stink of mortal, boy. No Qi, no chance."
Killyaen knew a General, even Initial sub-level, was beyond him. His brawn and brains could handle a Warrior, Middle sub-level, or Peak with luck, but Tarrak's whip would roast him. He taunted instead,
"Your whip's limper than a moozze's tail, mate. Catch me if you can!" He drew Wind's Rebuke and Thunder Storm from his spatial ring, waving them to distract.Tarrak's Fire Whip lashed out, sizzling. Killyaen dodged, but the curse's weight slowed him, and the whip grazed his arm, drawing blood. He hissed, pain flaring, but N'Nazmuz's regenerative healing sealed it in seconds.
He bolted, luring Tarrak into a trap: a net of vines coated with a moozze oil vial from his ring, hidden in the brush. Tarrak charged, tripped the vine, and the net sprang up, tangling him in a sticky, stinking mess.
Killyaen laughed, carving "Supreme Elf's Bitch" into a nearby tree with his dagger. "Better luck next time, sparkler!"
He snatched Tarrak's satchel, dropped in the chaos, and stuffed it into his spatial ring. Inside: 10 Level 2 Spiritual Stones and a crude map to Ironvale. Tarrak thrashed, cursing, but his bandits were too scattered to help.
Back at The Gilded Zeltar, Killyaen swaggered in, ale mug in hand, when a woman leaning against the bar caught his eye. Elara stood tall, her frame lean but muscled, like she could snap a Zeltar's neck with a twist. Her hair, a wild tangle of dark brown streaked with green, spilled over her shoulders, braided with vines that seemed to twitch faintly. Her eyes, sharp as a Desert Thorn, glinted amber under thick lashes, and her skin, tanned from the sun, bore faint scars across her knuckles. She wore a fitted tunic of woven fibers, dyed forest-green, with leather bracers etched with floral patterns, and a short cloak that shimmered like dew. A curved blade hung at her hip, its hilt wrapped in mossy cord. She looked like trouble, and Killyaen liked trouble.
"You the filthy mule who pranked Tarrak?" Elara asked, her voice low and biting, sizing him up like he was a rotten Gromble haunch.Killyaen grinned, leaning on the bar. "Supreme Elf, love. The one who made Tarrak cry for his mama. Who're you, Vine-Hair, the village scarecrow?"
Her eyes narrowed, but a smirk tugged her lips. "Scarecrow? You look like you crawled out of a moozze's arse, stinking of failure and bad ale. What's a qi-blind idiot doing picking fights with Generals?"
"Oi, I didn't fight him, I outsmarted him," Killyaen shot back, sipping his ale. "Unlike you, standing there like a tree stump, waiting for someone to water you. What's your deal, anyway? Village drunk or just ugly for fun?"
Elara laughed, sharp and mocking. "Ugly? Says the bastard with a face like a Zeltar's backside. I'm the one keeping this shithole from starving while you play latrine bomber. Bet your 'Supreme Elf' title came from a tavern bet you lost."Killyaen clutched his chest, feigning hurt. "Ouch, Vine-Hair, that stings worse than Tarrak's limp whip.
Bet you're just jealous my pranks outshine your boring arse. What do you do, knit leaves for fun?"
"Knit leaves?" Elara snorted, stepping closer, her blade glinting. "I'd carve you into mulch, mule, but you'd probably enjoy it. Why're you even here? Running from a bar tab or just too dumb to die?"
Killyaen leaned in, undeterred. "Running? Nah, I'm chasing glory, love. You're the one stuck in this mudhole, scaring kids with that face. Ever try smiling, or does it crack your bark?"Her smirk widened, but her eyes flashed. "Glory? You're chasing a beating, you ale-soaked pig. My face scares kids? Yours makes moozzes flee. Keep talking, and I'll shove that mug up your supreme arse."
"Promises, promises," Killyaen said, winking. "Wanna see my supreme altar, Vine-Hair? It's a real crowd-pleaser."
He dodged her slap, laughing as she swung, her bracers catching the lantern light."Keep your altar in your pants, mule," Elara snapped, but she was grinning now. "You're all talk, no spine. Tarrak's still out there, and you're here flirting like a brain-dead Gromble."
"Flirting? I'm just pitying you," Killyaen said, draining his ale. "But since you're so nosy, what's the deal with Ironvale? Heard they've got a temple with old secrets. Know anything, or is your head too full of twigs?"
Elara raised an eyebrow, leaning back. "Ironvale's Scaled Sanctuary? Fishing for secrets, eh? It's tied to Azurion's Scale, some ancient dragon relic. The head, Voryn, is a Magister and a greedy bastard. Wants Level 3 Spiritual Stones just to let you in the door. You got those, or are you planning to prank your way in?"
Killyaen kept his face neutral, his hand brushing the spatial ring where the blue shard sat, safe in its hidden dimension. No way he'd flash that—it was worth more than this whole village.
"Maybe I'll charm Voryn," he said. "Unlike you, I've got style. You'd probably try to stab him and cry when it fails."
"Charm? You?" Elara laughed, loud enough to turn heads. "You've got the charm of a rotting moozze tail. Voryn'd eat you alive, mule. Stick to blowing up latrines—it's all you're good for."
Killyaen smirked, unfazed. "Keep talking, Vine-Hair. I'll be sipping ale in Ironvale while you're still here, scaring crows. But since you're so helpful, got anything for a traveler's aches?"
Elara eyed him, then tossed a vial of Glowvine Elixir, its green liquid glowing faintly. "Stamina booster. Don't die, mule, or I'll have to clean up your mess." He caught it, tucking it into his spatial ring.
"Cheers, scarecrow," he said. "Try not to trip over your vines."She flipped him off, but her smirk lingered as he turned away.
Before leaving, Killyaen couldn't resist a village-wide prank. He snuck to Briarstead's well, pouring half the Glowvine Elixir vial from his ring into it. The water turned neon green, mildly hallucinogenic—villagers would see dancing moozzes for hours. He carved "Supreme Elf Blesses This Shithole" on the well's rim, laughing as kids cheered and elders cursed.
Elara caught him, shaking her head. "Ironvale's cultivators'll skin you for this shit, mule." Killyaen mounted his Zorath, tossing a moozze tail skyward. "Let 'em try, Vine-Hair," he called, whistling "Cursed Cat" as he rode toward Ironvale, the Scaled Sanctuary, and whatever Voryn's greedy arse had in store.