The Harvest Moon Festival bathed Opeka's square in a warm glow, Dragon-God lanterns—etched with Azurion's swirling waves and Aurelion's blazing crests—swaying from rooftops and stalls. The air carried the scent of roasted Gromble fat and spiced ale, while villagers in embroidered linens danced and laughed under the moonlight.
Killyaen, the self-proclaimed Supreme Elf, stood atop a rickety table at the Black Stone Tavern, his olive skin catching the lantern light, gold-flecked eyes gleaming with mischief. His gold-tipped braid swung as he raised a wooden lute, its strings twanging defiantly.
"Gather round, you dusty lot!" Killyaen's voice sliced through the chatter.
"Tonight, the Supreme Elf sings the ballad of the Cursed Cat!" The crowd erupted, some cheering, others tossing good-natured jeers. Janko, slouched by a sour ale barrel, glared, his face still faintly floured from Killyaen's pranks. The "Cursed Cat" nickname had gripped Opeka, and Killyaen fanned its flames. Strumming an off-key chord, he sang, "Oh, Janko, Janko, with whiskers so fine, / Moonflower sap makes your fur glow divine! / You yowl in the square, all sticky and wet, / The Cursed Cat's legend we'll never forget!"
Laughter roared, and Bera, wiping mugs behind the counter, smirked, her Beginner Novice Fire spark flaring as she flung a rag at him.
"Sing worse, why don't you?" she teased. Killyaen winked, dodging. "Only if you dance for me, fire-hips."
Janko, three mugs deep, tried to retort but slumped, muttering slurred curses. Killyaen leaped off the table, his split-leaf amulet bouncing against his chest, its faint runic pulse unnoticed amid the chaos. The hum stirred a fleeting vision—crumbling stone, glowing relics, echoes of "cursed ruins" from Legends of the Middle Sea. He brushed it off, weaving through the crowd with a belt pouch stuffed with Moonflower sap vials and Flaevyn feathers, his prank arsenal primed.
As the festival swelled, a new event drew cheers: the arm-wrestling tournament, a rough-and-tumble tradition held on a splintered wooden platform. Villagers crowded around, betting copper coins and ale mugs. Killyaen, never one to miss a spectacle, joined the lineup, his grin sharp. N'Nazmuz's curse—30 kilograms of constant pressure—made his muscles strain, but its enhanced stamina and regeneration gave him an edge. He plowed through opponents: first a burly farmer, then a wiry stablehand, his arm slamming theirs down with deceptive ease. The crowd chanted "Supreme Elf!" as he flexed, tossing suggestive winks at Bera, who rolled her eyes but laughed.
In the final, Killyaen faced Marko, the village blacksmith, his forearms thick as Gromble thighs. Marko's grin matched Killyaen's as they locked hands, the platform creaking.
"Let's make it fun, Supreme Elf," Marko rumbled. "Loser walks the festival in just their undergarments—three days straight." Killyaen's eyes lit up, his voice dripping provocation.
"Deal, but when I win, I'll have Bera stitch your drawers with Moonflower sap. You'll glow like a Cursed Cat!" The crowd howled, and Bera called,
"I'm not stitching anything for you fools!"
The match began, veins bulging under Killyaen's olive skin as the curse's weight pressed harder. Marko's strength, honed by years at the forge, held firm. For a moment, Killyaen's curse-driven power—equivalent to a Beginner Knight—pushed Marko's arm back, the crowd gasping. But Marko, with a sly grunt, shifted his weight, and Killyaen's arm slammed down, the platform shuddering. The crowd exploded, chanting "Marko! Marko!" Killyaen, panting, laughed wildly.
"You cheated with that ugly mug distracting me!"
True to the bet, Killyaen stripped to his undergarments—a pair of tattered linen drawers—right in the square. The crowd roared as he strutted, unashamed, his gold-tipped braid swinging, amulet pulsing faintly. "Behold the Supreme Elf's finest armor!" he bellowed, flexing for the giggling onlookers. He grabbed a vial of Moonflower sap from his pouch, dabbing it on his chest to glow faintly under the lanterns, turning his loss into a spectacle.
"Janko, take notes—this is how a true Cursed Cat shines!" Janko, still sulking, spilled his ale, muttering about "demonic elves." Bera tossed a bread roll at Killyaen's head, shouting,
"Cover up, you glowing idiot!" but her flush betrayed her amusement.
By dusk, Killyaen, still in his drawers, joined Goran for training behind the tavern. Goran, Peak Element Lord Fire, tossed him a wooden sword, unfazed by his attire.
"Focus, boy," he grunted. "Wind's Rebuke isn't a prank." Killyaen, the curse's pressure straining his movements, spun the sword with precision, slicing air so fiercely a nearby lantern swayed. Goran nodded.
"Curse or no, you move like a Peak Knight." Sweat beaded on Killyaen's brow, the curse's rapid healing easing the strain as he mastered the non-Qi technique.
As night fell, the festival's bonfire blazed in Aurelion's honor. Killyaen, still glowing faintly from sap, sat on a barrel, ale in hand, his drawers earning chuckles from passersby. Vuk, Middle Great Legend Earth, ambled over, his weathered face lit by the flames.
"Chasing myths, lad?" he said, voice low. "That 'glowing blue relic' in the ruins? Tales say it's near Solspire." Killyaen's amulet pulsed stronger, but he masked his curiosity with a smirk.
"Relics? I'm just here for ale and Bera's skirts." Bera, overhearing, lobbed another roll. "Dream on, Supreme Elf," she shot back, her tone warm.
The festival wound down, lanterns dimming. Killyaen, still in his drawers, slipped to the tavern's attic, poring over Chronicles of the Dragon-Gods. A passage on "ruins of old gods" made his amulet hum, syncing with his heartbeat. The Zenoite minefield, guarded by Rotting Blind Mice and whispered to hide ancient carvings, loomed in his mind. His fame as Opeka's prankster king—now glowing in his undergarments—was secure, but a deeper call tugged toward Solspire's secrets.