The late summer sun baked Opeka's central square, where dust swirled around a rickety cabbage cart Killyaen had spent all morning rigging. Hidden beneath its splintered frame, a spring-loaded net—crafted from moozze tails and smeared with Gromble oil—quivered, ready to ensnare his favorite target: Janko, the so-called "Cursed Cat."
Killyaen, perched on a nearby barrel, grinned, his gold-flecked eyes glinting with mischief. The split-leaf amulet at his neck pulsed faintly, unnoticed amidst his scheming.
"Time for some art," he muttered, twirling a vial of Moonflower sap between his fingers, its inky liquid sloshing. The vial, tucked into a leather pouch at his belt, was one of many gadgets he'd scavenged from Opeka's sparse resources. Goran, his adoptive father, had drilled into him the value of physical cunning over magical trinkets.
Janko swaggered into the square, his wiry frame taut with suspicion. Ever since Killyaen's glow-in-the-dark barn prank cemented the "Cursed Cat" nickname, Janko had been itching for revenge.
"Oi, Supreme Elf!" he snarled, spotting Killyaen.
"Keep your filthy tricks away from me today, or I'll skin ya like a Gromble!"
Killyaen leaned back, smirking.
"Aw, Cat's Whiskers, don't hiss so loud. You'll scare the kids." He nodded toward a gaggle of village children chanting,
"Cursed Cat, Cursed Cat!" Janko's face reddened, his fists clenching.
The trap sprang as Janko stomped past the cart. With a twang, the net launched, tangling him in sticky, moozze-scented cords. He stumbled, crashing into a flour sack that burst, coating him in a powdery cloud. The square erupted in laughter as Killyaen vaulted off the barrel, bowing theatrically.
"Behold, the Plumed Cat rises!"
Bera, wiping her hands on her apron outside the Black Stone Tavern, snorted.
"You're gonna get yourself gutted one day, Killyaen." Her voice carried a teasing edge, her dark eyes sparking with amusement. Killyaen sauntered over, dodging a pebble Janko flung from the net.
"Gutted? Nah, Bera, I'm too pretty. Wanna check my scars later?" He winked, leaning close enough to catch her lavender scent.She swatted him with her apron, her cheeks flushing.
"Keep dreaming, you Gromble bastard." But her smile betrayed her, and Killyaen's grin widened. Their banter was a dance—sharp, flirty, and just shy of dangerous.
Janko, finally disentangling himself, roared, "I'll bury you in the Zenoite minefield, you qi-blind freak!" He stormed off, flour trailing like a ghost. The kids jeered, one tossing a moozze tail that stuck to his back. Killyaen chuckled, pocketing the empty Moonflower vial. Another masterpiece.
Inside the tavern, the air was thick with ale and gossip. Killyaen slid onto a stool, his muscles aching from rigging the trap. N'Nazmuz's curse pressed down like an invisible yoke—30 kilograms of relentless weight—but he ignored it, used to its grind. Goran, polishing a tankard behind the counter, fixed him with a stern glare.
"You're pushing Janko too far, boy. He's no cultivator, but he's got a mean streak."Killyaen shrugged, twirling a dagger from his belt pouch.
"Let him try. I've got Wind's Rebuke and your training, old man." Goran, Peak Element Lord Fire, Level 13, had honed Killyaen's non-Qi swordsmanship to a razor's edge. In Opeka, where sparse spiritual energy capped most at Beginner Master, Level 5, Goran's strength was a quiet legend, rarely flexed.
"Training ain't enough if you're dead," Goran grunted, tossing him a rag.
"Clean the tables, or I'll make you spar till you're limping."Killyaen groaned but complied, weaving through patrons.
Mima, the village gossip, was holding court at a corner table, her voice shrill.
"Them Spirit Stones, they're real, I tell ya! Hoarded by Solspire's elites, glowing like stars. My cousin saw one in Crestmoore—mythical, they say, but I know better!" Her eyes darted to Killyaen, narrowing.
"And you, boy, with your pranks—dark magic, that's what it is!"Killyaen flashed a grin, wiping her table with exaggerated care.
"Dark magic? Mima, if I had that, I'd be charming you instead of Bera." The table roared, and Mima huffed, muttering about "cursed beacons" and "ruins of old gods." Killyaen's ears pricked at the phrase, his mind flashing to Chronicles of the Dragon-Gods, a tattered book he'd read last night. It mentioned "ancient ruins" tied to Azurion, the Water Dragon-God. His amulet pulsed again, warmer this time, but he brushed it off, blaming the tavern's heat.
Later, at the training field, Goran put Killyaen through grueling sword drills. Killyaen's wooden sword flashed, slicing through straw dummies. His movements were fluid, curse-enhanced strength letting him leap and strike with brutal force. Sweat stung his eyes, but he relished the burn, each swing a step toward his dream: awakening his Qi at one of those mythical ruins.Goran parried a thrust, his own blade crackling with suppressed Fire Qi.
"Focus, boy. You're strong, but sloppy. A Zenoite Krovar'd eat you alive."
Killyaen nodded, panting, his thighs screaming under the curse's weight. Goran's praise was rare, and he savored it.
As dusk fell, Vuk, the warrior herbalist, joined them, his Middle Great Legend Earth, Level 8, presence steady as stone. He carried a sack of herbs, his weathered face creasing in a smile.
"Killyaen, you're stirring the village like a hornet's nest. Heard Janko's plotting with some moozze traps."
"Let him," Killyaen said, sheathing his swords. "I'll turn his traps into art." Vuk chuckled, then lowered his voice.
"Found something odd in the Zenoite minefield today—a carving, waves like Azurion's. Reminds me of them old tales, 'glowing blue relics' in Solspire's ruins.
"Killyaen's amulet pulsed sharply, its faint glow hidden beneath his tunic. He kept his face neutral, but his heart raced. Ruins. Relics. Azurion. The words echoed the book's cryptic passages.
"Just tales, Vuk," he said lightly, but his mind churned. Opeka's isolation kept such knowledge mythical, yet these hints felt too real.
That night, Killyaen sprawled in his tavern loft, flipping through Legends of the Middle Sea. Its faded pages spoke of "ruins of old gods" in Solaria, guarded by beasts and glowing with Dragon-God runes. His amulet pulsed in sync with his reading, its warmth spreading through his chest. He traced the split-leaf design, wondering about the High Elven runes he somehow knew by heart. Aeregion. Supreme Elf. The names felt distant, yet his ambition burned—to leave Opeka, find those ruins, and awaken his Qi.
Downstairs, Bera's laughter rang out, followed by Janko's grumbling. Killyaen smirked, already plotting his next prank. Janko's flour-coated defeat was sweet, but the "Cursed Cat" deserved an encore. And maybe, just maybe, those ruins held the key to his destiny.