Killyaen, self-styled Supreme Elf and Opeka's prankster king, sprawled in the Black Stone Tavern's loft, a leather-bound book splayed across his lap, his grin softened by rare focus. Goran had eased off extra training, satisfied with Killy's dual-sword mastery, freeing him to dive into his tomes.
One gripped him: a weathered volume on cultivation, its pages thick with meridians, dantian, levels, elements, and spiritual stones.
Killy had no magic, his qi unawakened despite facing three Altars of Awakening—ancient platforms meant to spark an element tied to Aeneria's Dragon-Gods: Azurion's water, Rubirion's fire, Saphirix's sky, Verdantrix's nature, Aurelion's light, or Nocturnix's shadow. Each ritual ended in silence, his spirit unmoved.
The altars were sound, powered by Aeneria's Heart, but Killy's qi stayed dormant, leaving him below even the Initial Beginner level.
He swore to master combat without magic, hungering to awaken his qi and join the cultivators of Solarija, one of Aeneria's twelve human kingdoms.
His curse, chosen for strength, chafed his body but didn't block his qi—it only dented the floor. Curiosity drove him, and he devoured the book, chasing the power he craved.
In Opeka, magic was commonplace, even among the weakest. Farmers conjured Beginner flames for hearths; weavers spun Apprentice wind charms into cloth; kids flicked sparks to scatter chickens.
The book mapped meridians—energy pathways through the body—and the dantian, where qi pooled, fueling cultivation. Aeneria's twenty levels, from Beginner to the fabled God Creator, each with Initial, Middle, and Peak sub-levels, promised strength, longevity, or godlike feats.
Cultivators needed to reach Peak to break through to the next level, a grind Killy hadn't even started. Elements shaped spells, and spiritual stones—gems Mirna rambled about—held pure qi for cultivation or artifacts.
Killy, sketching a meridian line, muttered, "Supreme Elf, cultivator? I'll get there."
Dusk settled, and Killy's book-blindness gave Janko, the "Cursed Cat," his shot.
Stung by Killy's festival ballad and glowing barn fiasco, Janko had skulked, his pride in tatters. He plotted a prank to humiliate Killy without sparking another village chant.
His plan: sneak into the tavern, rig a sack of chicken feathers above the loft ladder with a tripwire, and smear honey on the rungs. Killy's descent would shower him in feathers, sticking to the honey, branding him a "Plumed Elf."
Janko lumbered in, sack and honey pot in hand, but his bulk betrayed him. Fumbling, he splashed honey over his beard and shirt, cursing softly. As he tied the sack, sticky fingers tangled the rope, and he slipped, knocking over a broom.
Bera, spotting Janko's sticky silhouette from the kitchen, had mended her rift with Killy, their fire rekindled, and grown protective. "Not today, Cat," she growled, snatching the broom.
Storming out, she bellowed, "Janko, you sticky oaf!" and swatted his shins. Panicked, Janko flailed, his honey-slick hands ripping the sack. Feathers exploded, coating his beard, shirt, and boots, the honey gluing them tight. Stumbling, he crashed into an ale barrel, toppling it. Ale sloshed, soaking him, feathers clinging like a molting goose.
Patrons howled, clutching their sides as Janko flopped, squawking, a feathered, sticky, ale-soaked mess.Killy, roused, leaned over the loft, book in hand, grinning. "By Azurion's tail!" he roared, "the Cursed Cat's a drowned goose!"
Vaulting down—curse-heavy, thudding the floorboards—he improvised a chant: "Plumed Cat's a sticky mess, feathered fool in distress!" Patrons joined, clapping, as Killy mimed a goose waddle, flapping mock wings. "Planning a honey throne, Janko?" he taunted, tossing a rag at Janko's feathered face.
Janko, red-faced and dripping, roared, "I'll snap you, Elf!" and lunged, pride ablaze.The brawl erupted. Janko swung a meaty fist, but Killy ducked, his curse-enhanced agility weaving through the crowd. Killy shoved a chair, Janko tripping over it, crashing into a table.
Mugs shattered, ale sprayed, and patrons scattered, some cheering, some cursing. Killy grabbed a broomstick—not to strike but to poke Janko's ribs, jeering, "Waddle, Plumed Cat!" Janko, enraged, flung a stool, missing Killy but cracking a wall beam. Bera, broom raised, shouted, "Enough!" but slipped in the ale, toppling chairs. The tavern groaned—tables splintered, a shelf collapsed, mugs rolled.
Goran, a Peak Master, sighed, his aura quelling the chaos. He yanked Janko, back, growling, "Out, both!" Killy, grinned, dodging a final swing, the tavern a semi-wrecked mess.
As the crowd thinned, Bera leaned on the bar, eyeing Killy stacking tankards, his book nearby. "Supreme Mage, starting wars now?" she teased, flicking a dishcloth. Killy dodged, grinned.
"Saved your tavern, Broom Queen. Janko's decor needed flair." Bera snorted, eyes glinting. "Keep flapping, elf. No more kitchen rescues."
Killy smirked, tossing the rag. "Still my hero, Bera. Secretly smitten?" Her swat missed, her laugh ringing, their spark crackling without lingering on their heat.
Near night's end, as Killy swept feathers, Vuk, a Warrior herbalist, shuffled in, earth-stained hands cradling a mug.
Spotting Killy's book, Vuk's weathered face creased. "Cultivation, lad? After that mess?" he rasped, settling nearby.
Killy paused, broom in hand, grin fading. Vuk sipped ale, voice low. "Your qi's asleep, boy. Altars don't fail—you didn't spark. But there's talk of First Altars, from when Azurion and his kin walked Aeneria.
One's said to lie near Solarija's capital, in ruins from the Great War. A Scale of Azurion marks it, glowing blue under moonlight, guarded by a sect older than Solarija. Those altars woke qi in the stubbornest souls, even pushed Peak cultivators to breakthroughs.
They're lost—ruined or hidden. Find one, and your Supreme Elf nonsense might hold weight."
Killy's eyes widened, the First Altar a revelation, its Scale and sect igniting a new quest, his book now a map to that legend.
Goran, nursing ale, muttered, "Lad's got more luck than sense."
The tavern hummed, Mirna's spiritual stone tales—blaming Killy's "cursed gems" for the brawl—swirling. Marko, dropping by with a whetstone, chuckled at the wreckage. "Need a tougher tavern for this chaos," he said, clapping Killy's back.
Killy, back in the loft, traced a meridian, Aeneria's cultivation world vast, the First Altar's myth blazing in his mind. Word spread that the village elder, a Master headwoman, had summoned Killy and Janko for dawn, her earth charms ready to judge their tavern-trashing antics.