Blood still trickled from my shoulder as we hunkered in a Duskmire cave, the air damp with Glowvine sap and the stench of our wounds. My Pyroclast Dual Swords, now cracked from blocking Roen's Starflame claymore, lay useless beside me. The curse's 30 kilos dragged like an anchor, my stamina fading, but the thrill of smashing Roen's jaw kept me grinning. Varkoth, my Peak Scholar Darkness Basilisk Emperor, coiled on my arm, his two-meter length a silent promise of chaos. His crimson eyes scanned the dark, hissing softly—no words, no spiritual sense thanks to my qi-blindness, but his loyalty was clearer than Crestmoore's ale. Zephyr, his fur singed, licked his wounds, muttering, "You're a lunatic, Perverted Elf." Jogen, clutching his spear, was less shaky now, his eyes wide with awe. "Y-You killed a Grand Master… with your fist." I smirked, tossing Roen's saber teeth between my hands. "Supreme Elf fists, shy boy. Stick with me, you'll see worse."
The plan was simple: clean up the stragglers. Roen's death left maybe a dozen bandits, scattered and spooked after Varkoth's terrifying debut. But Duskmire's ravines were still a death trap—narrow paths, shale cliffs, and Glowvine streams begging for more of my lethal setups. I wasn't the Supreme Prankster today; I was a walking graveyard. "We hit the camp at dawn," I said, sketching in the dirt. "The wide mouth's our stage—more room for traps." Zephyr's tail flicked. "You trust those cracked swords, Perverted Elf?" I grimaced, running a finger along the fractures. "Nope. Fists and traps it is." Jogen swallowed. "T-Traps again?" I nodded, pulling Zenoite chunks from the cave floor—my scavenging knack never slept. "Moonflower mines, Zenoite nets, and a landslide to bury 'em. Roen's gone, but his goons'll fight dirty."
I spent hours rigging the wide mouth. The Glowvine stream was perfect for hiding Moonflower sap mines—clay pots packed with sap and Zenoite shards, set to explode on pressure. I wove Glowvine into tripwires, linking them to a shale cliff I'd loosened with a crowbar. One tug, and tons of rock would crush anything below. Varkoth slithered through the shadows, his Umbral Shroud cloaking my work, making me a ghost in the dark. "Good snek," I whispered, his tail flicking approval.
Zephyr scouted, his shadow-steps silent, reporting six cultivators left: three Middle Experts (Fire, Wind, Earth), two Beginner Scholars (Water, Lightning), and one Peak Master (Darkness). "They're fortifying the palisade," he growled. "Scared, but not running." I grinned. "Good. Scared men make mistakes."
At dawn, we struck. I lit a Glowvine-fueled decoy fire, mimicking a caravan's glow. The Middle Experts charged—Fire, Wind, Earth—their Qi flaring. The Fire cultivator's flames licked the air, but he hit a Moonflower mine, the sap blasting his chest into ash. The Wind cultivator's gust scattered debris, but Varkoth's Dread Glare froze him, his eyes wide as I slammed a Zenoite-sharpened fist into his skull, the curse's strength caving it in. Jogen's spear pierced the Earth cultivator's thigh, his stone armor cracking under a second blow. Varkoth's Umbral Shroud cloaked us, letting Zephyr gut the Water Scholar, his waves useless. The Lightning Scholar's bolt grazed my arm, pain searing, but I tackled him, my curse-fueled fist breaking his jaw. The Peak Master Darkness cultivator swung a shadow blade, but I triggered the landslide trap. Shale roared down, burying him in a thunderous heap. We looted: 20 Level 1, 5 Level 2 Spirit Stones, a wind-etched spear worth 15 Level 1 Spirit Stones, and a healing potion worth 5 Level 1 Spirit Stones.
The camp was quiet now, tents smoldering, Zenoite palisades cracked. I scoured the ruins, finding 10 Level 1 Spirit Stones and a darkness-etched dagger worth 10 Level 1 Spirit Stones. Varkoth hissed, coiling tighter, his eyes glinting like he knew we weren't done. "One last sweep," I told Zephyr and Jogen. "No survivors."
We combed the ravine, finding two Beginner Scholars (Fire, Ice) hiding in a cave. Varkoth reared up, his two-meter form terrifying them into stumbling back. His Dread Glare stalled them, and Zephyr's claws finished the Fire cultivator. Jogen's spear took the Ice cultivator, his frost shield shattering. More loot: 15 Level 1 Spirit Stones, an ice-etched axe worth 10 Level 1 Spirit Stones. My amulet pulsed near a Zenoite shard, whispering, "The Child binds the Crystal." I snorted. "Ruin junk." My cracked swords worried me more—useless now, but my fists were enough.
We rested, my wounds stinging, the curse's faint healing easing the pain. Zephyr eyed me. "You fight like a demon, Perverted Elf." Jogen nodded, bolder. "Y-You're scary." I grinned, tossing Roen's saber teeth. "Stick with the Supreme Elf, boys. We're rich soon." The mission was nearly done, but Duskmire's shadows felt heavy, like eyes watching. I shook it off, Varkoth hissing as if laughing at my unease.