Killyaen's Zorath slogged through Vaeloria County's muddy trails, hooves sucking at the mire like a tavern wench pouring ale. Day four to Ironvale, and the "Supreme Elf" craved chaos.
"Oh, I'll carve my name in the stars with my blade, then bed every lass from here to the glade!" he belted, chuckling at Bera's imaginary scowl. N'Nazmuz's curse dragged at his legs when his Zorath stumbled on a rocky slope, the 30-kilogram weight sparking a growl: "Void-shat baggage, I'll dance on your bones yet."
Tracks glinted in the mud—Vyrath Stag, General, Middle sub-level, Killyaen guessed, noting antler scrapes. "Keep your sparkly arse away, bandit," he muttered, veering off. Later, a Sun Panthera melted into the dusk, its glow faint as a fading ember. He admired its stealth, blind to its Light element, and pressed on, whistling "Cursed Cat."
By noon, he reached Thornwick, a fortified town of wooden palisades and clanging forges, livelier than Briarstead's mudhole but smaller than Ironvale's sprawl.
Banners announced a tournament for Beginner to Warrior fighters, with a prize of 15 Level 2 Spiritual Stones. Killyaen's greed flared—Spiritual Stones were his obsession, right up there with books, women, and pranks. Voryn's Scaled Sanctuary demanded a Level 3 Spiritual Stone, and with 10-12 Level 2 stones trading for one Level 3, a win could tip the scales. "Time to stack my hoard," he grinned, patting his spatial ring's 10 Level 2 Spiritual Stones.
At the arena, a dirt ring packed with roaring locals and grizzled Warriors, Killyaen learned betting was allowed. His eyes lit up—nothing beat earning more, whether stones, glory, or a lass's wink. He bet 5 Level 2 Spiritual Stones on himself to win, at 3:1 odds, pulling the stones from his ring with a flourish. "Supreme Elf's here to bless this shithole!" he declared, dodging a thrown turnip. Rules were tight: only weapons allowed in the ring, no other items. He strapped on Wind's Rebuke and Thunder Storm from his ring, ready to brawl.
His first opponent, Lyssra, stepped up, a wiry woman with a braid tight as a rope. Warrior, Middle sub-level, Killyaen reckoned, eyeing her stance. Her blue-glowing whip cracked, water trailing its arc—Water element, now clear.
The bell rang, and Lyssra's whip lashed, slicing Killyaen's thigh. He hissed, blood welling, the curse's 30-kilogram weight slowing his dodge. N'Nazmuz's healing crawled, the cut knitting over a dozen seconds, forcing him to weave. "Whip's limper than a moozze's tail, lass!" he jeered, circling with Wind's Rebuke. Lyssra lunged, whip snapping, but Killyaen feinted left, her strike missing. He landed a lucky pommel strike with Thunder Storm to her shoulder, toppling her. The crowd roared, and Lyssra yielded, spitting curses. Killyaen winked, his thigh wound now clotted but aching. "Cheers, Water-Lass."
The final round brought Torren, a Warrior, Advanced sub-level, a slab of muscle wielding a glowing red axe—Fire element, revealed as flames licked its edge. Killyaen knew he was outmatched; even a Peak Warrior needed luck, and Torren was stronger. "Time to dance, sparkler," he muttered, dodging axe swings that scorched the dirt. The curse's weight hobbled him, and an axe slash ripped his arm, blood streaming. N'Nazmuz's healing lagged, the wound clotting over fifteen seconds, pain searing as he ducked another swing.
Torren pressed, axe blazing, carving a deep gash across Killyaen's chest, blood soaking his tunic. A third strike slashed his side, and Killyaen staggered, vision blurring as wounds piled—arm gash, chest slice, thigh nick, side slash, blood pooling at his feet. The crowd gasped, but Killyaen taunted, "Your axe's hotter than your sister, but twice as dull!" Torren roared, swinging high. Killyaen scooped arena dirt, hurling it into Torren's eyes. The brute bellowed, blinded, flailing.
Killyaen seized the moment, Goran's lesson flashing: dual-sword spin, using the curse's weight for momentum. Gripping Wind's Rebuke and Thunder Storm, the 30-kilogram burden fueled his whirl. Blades arced, Rebuke slashing Torren's side, Storm smashing his knee. Torren collapsed, axe rolling, and the crowd erupted. Killyaen stumbled, blood dripping, and crashed face-first into the dirt, motionless but breathing faintly.
Guards hauled him to Thornwick's healing hall, a stone building reeking of herbs. Healers swarmed, stunned by his body's resilience. "Tougher than a Krovar's hide," one muttered, probing clotted wounds. N'Nazmuz's slow healing—12 to 15 seconds per gash—had kept him alive, scars forming over gashes.
A woman took charge, tall and lithe, her golden hair knotted practically, storm-gray eyes sparkling with curiosity. Her green robes hugged a honed frame, and her callused fingers moved deftly with bandages. She looked like she could heal or gut a man, and Killyaen, half-conscious, liked that.
"Name's Greis Grace," she said, wrapping his chest, "daughter of Lord Ogeron Grace. You're a bloody mess,you stuborn Dox." Killyaen smirked, pain be damned. "Greis, eh? I'll call you GG, lass. Supreme Elf, not Dox, love." Her hand slipped, accidentally brushing his "sword" through his tattered trousers. "Gods, what's that?" she yelped, jumping back.
Killyaen flexed it with all his might, grinning through gritted teeth. "That's my supreme sword, GG!" he rasped, laughing so hard his chest gash throbbed, blood seeping. Greis's face burned red, but her smirk hinted this wasn't her first fumble. "Keep your twig in check, horny Dox," she snapped, tossing a bandage roll at him. "I've seen better on a Gromble. Let's talk wounds, not your sad little flex."
Killyaen chuckled, wincing through pain. "Sad, GG? You jumped like a moozze seeing a sparkler. Beg to polish it, and I'll show you supreme." Greis rolled her eyes, wrapping his arm, steering the talk to his scars. "You're a walking latrine, Dox. How's a qi-blind fool breathing after this?" Her tone was sharp, but her eyes lingered, betraying intrigue.
"Charm and grit," he said, smirking through haze. "Daddy Ogeron know you're sweet on patients, GG?" Greis snorted, tying a knot hard. "Sweet? I'd rather kiss a Zeltar. Dream of healing, twig-boy."
She handed him a tunic, fingers brushing his, lingering as she muttered about Thornwick's guards, her thoughts clearly on Killyaen's unyielding spirit.
Greis's mind churned later, his stubborn charm and battered frame stuck like a tavern tune. "This horny Dox is trouble," she whispered, storm-gray eyes distant, already plotting to track him to Ironvale.
Healers discharged him, awed by his endurance. Killyaen collected his prize: 15 Level 2 Spiritual Stones, 15 Level 2 Spiritual Stones from his 3:1 betting payout, 6 moozze tails from a grateful vendor, and a Zeltar-leather chestplate, sellable in Ironvale for Level 1 or Level 2 Spiritual Stones. He tucked them into his ring, totaling 40 Level 2 Spiritual Stones with his original 10. "Four Level 3's if I trade, but Voryn's getting scammed," he muttered, savoring his hoard like a rare book or a lass's wink.
In The Iron Hoof tavern, Killyaen downed ale with coins from his ring, hearing whispers about Voryn, the Scaled Sanctuary's Magister. "Hunts dragon-touched relics," a cloaked vendor said. "Level 3 Spiritual Stones for his records." Killyaen kept the blue shard and Klyzor Serpent egg hidden in his ring's dimension, plotting a bluff for Ironvale.
Before bolting, Killyaen unleashed havoc. He spiked the tavern's ale with his Glowvine Elixir from the ring, turning drinks neon green and hallucinogenic—patrons saw dancing Zeltars, howling. He rigged the arena's judge's chair with moozze tails, sparking a smoky blaze at the awards. He carved "Supreme Legion" into the arena wall, kids chanting as guards cursed.
Killyaen fled on his Zorath, tossing a moozze tail skyward, whistling "Cursed Cat," unaware a cloaked Knight-level scout watched from Thornwick's gate, tracking him to Ironvale. Greis, from the healing hall's window, bit her lip, her thoughts trailing him like a shadow.