I'm Killyaen, the Supreme Elf, cursed by N'Nazmuz to lug around an extra 30 kilos like a sack of Zenoite rocks, my stamina leaking like a cracked ale barrel but my strength jacked up enough to punch through a Zorath's skull. Qi-blind, sure, but that doesn't stop me from being Crestmoore's most infamous prankster-turned-mercenary. My groin guard—etched with "Supreme Sword Sleeps Here"—gleams under my tattered cloak, and Varkoth, my two-meter Peak Scholar Darkness Basilisk Emperor, coils around my right arm like a Shadowveil bracer, his crimson eyes glinting with silent menace. He can't talk, and my qi-blindness means no spiritual sense chit-chat, but his hisses and tail-flicks scream loyalty louder than any words.
Today, I'm leading a ragtag crew—Zephyr, a Peak Master Darkness Shadow Panther with a tongue sharper than his claws, and Jogen, a Beginner Master Wind cultivator so shy he blushes at his own spear. Our mission? A three-star job from the Mercenary Sect to wipe out Roen Sabertooth's bandit camp in Duskmire's jagged ravines, costing Crestmoore 100–200 Level 1 Spirit Stones a month in raided trade. Roen's a Middle Grand Master with some legendary Starflame element, leading 20 cultivators—Experts, Scholars, and Masters, their elements a mystery until blades clash. The reward's 100 Level 2 Spirit Stones, 150 if we finish in seven days. With Bera, Tira, and Lila off chasing dungeon glory, it's just me, my basilisk, and two misfits against a small army. Easy, right?
The first day, we stood in the Mercenary Sect hall, the air thick with sweat and steel. Elder Sani, a grizzled Peak Lightning cultivator with a beard like tangled Glowvine, laid out the job. "Roen's camp is a fortress in Duskmire's ravines—narrow entries, shale cliffs, Zenoite palisades. Twenty cultivators: six Beginner Experts, six Middle Experts, four Beginner Scholars, three Middle Scholars, one Peak Master. Elements? Figure it out when they're trying to kill you." His eyes narrowed. "Roen's Starflame will melt your bones if you're sloppy." I grinned, patting my groin guard. "Good thing my supreme sword's fireproof." Zephyr's tail lashed, his growl low. "Focus, Perverted Elf, or we're cinders." Jogen clutched his spear, stammering, "I-I just want the stones." Sani snorted, tossing me a map scroll. "Seven days for the bonus. Don't die."
I unrolled the map, my mind racing. Duskmire's ravines were a maze of choke points, perfect for traps. The stream running through was choked with Glowvine—prank fodder in calmer times, but today, it'd be a weapon. "We'll scout tonight," I said, tracing the ravine's twists. "Zenoite stakes, Moonflower sap mines, boulder drops. No pranks, just graves." Varkoth's tail flicked, his scales shimmering. Zephyr raised a brow. "No Glowvine coins? You're serious for once, Perverted Elf." Jogen's eyes widened. "G-Graves?" I smirked. "Relax, shy boy. We'll carve 'em up." Scouting meant understanding the terrain, so I demanded trade logs from Sani. The reports showed raided caravans hit at two ravine mouths—one narrow, one wide. The narrow mouth had shale cliffs, perfect for collapsing traps; the wide one had a Glowvine-heavy stream, ideal for sap mines. I sketched plans: stakes to impale patrols, mines to blind and burn, boulders to crush. "Roen's tough, but he's not outsmarting a Supreme Elf," I muttered. Varkoth hissed, his crimson eyes narrowing as if agreeing.
We saddled Zoraths and rode out at dusk, my curse gouging hoofprints into the dirt. My amulet pulsed faintly near a Zenoite gatepost, a weird tingle I shrugged off as battle nerves. No time for ruin nonsense.We reached Duskmire's edge by nightfall, the ravines looming like a dragon's maw. The air was sharp with shale dust, the silence broken only by distant wolf howls. I dismounted, the curse's weight sinking my boots into the ground. "Zephyr, scout the camp. Jogen, scan for patrols. I'll rig the traps." Zephyr's shadow-steps melted into the dark, his Peak Master aura a whisper of menace. Jogen's Wind Qi flickered, his spear trembling as he sensed for enemies. I got to work, hauling Zenoite chunks from a nearby outcrop—my scavenging knack kicking in. I sharpened them into stakes, planting them in the narrow mouth's choke points, their edges gleaming under starlight. Moonflower sap, harvested from the stream's Glowvine, went into clay pots buried along patrol paths, rigged to explode on impact. I wove Glowvine into tripwires, tying them to boulder piles on the cliffs. Varkoth slithered off my arm, his two-meter length coiling through the shadows, hissing softly as he guarded my back. "Good snek," I whispered, patting his scales. He couldn't talk, but his eyes screamed "Don't screw this up, fleshling."
Zephyr returned, his fur blending with the night. "Twenty-five tents, Zenoite palisade, Roen's tent glowing like a star. Three sentries patrol the wide mouth." Jogen stumbled back, pale. "B-Beginner Experts, I think. Their Qi's… heavy." I nodded, gripping my Pyroclast Dual Swords. "We hit the sentries, thin the herd." We crept to the wide mouth, Varkoth's Umbral Shroud cloaking us in a 3-meter black mist. The first sentry, a Beginner Expert Water cultivator, stepped on a Moonflower mine. The sap ignited in a blue flash, vaporizing his legs. He screamed, and I lunged, Wind's Rebuke slashing his throat, the curse slowing my swing but cracking his ribs with force. Varkoth stayed coiled, eyes locked on the fight. The second sentry, Wind element, summoned a gust, but Varkoth's Dread Glare froze him for 0.7 seconds, his attack faltering. Zephyr's claws gutted him, blood spraying shale. Jogen's spear pierced the third, an Earth cultivator, his stone shield shattering under my Heaven Splitter, the curse splintering rock. "Aim, shy boy!" I barked as Jogen's Wind Qi grazed my arm, stinging like a wasp. The screams drew five Middle Experts: two Fire, one Lightning, one Darkness, one Ice. I lured them to the narrow mouth, triggering a Glowvine tripwire. Boulders crashed, crushing the Fire and Ice cultivators, their flames and frost snuffed. Varkoth's Shadow Bind tightened my grip, infusing Thunder's Edge with a black aura, cleaving the Lightning cultivator's arm as his Lightning Arc fizzled. Zephyr blinded the Darkness cultivator, whose shadow blade missed. Jogen's spear finished the last, his Wind Qi steadier. I looted their rings: 15 Level 1 Spirit Stones, a water-etched dagger worth 10 Level 1 Spirit Stones, and a healing potion worth 5 Level 1 Spirit Stones. "Not bad for a warm-up," I grinned, Varkoth hissing approval.
The next morning, Roen didn't wait. His Starflame aura lit the ravine like a fallen sun, a molten radiance that melted my stake traps into slag. "Hell's bells," I cursed, ducking behind a Zenoite outcrop. He charged with his full force—12 cultivators: two Peak Scholars (Fire, Lightning), three Middle Scholars (Water, Wind, Earth), three Beginner Scholars (Darkness, Ice, Fire), and four Middle Experts (Wind, Earth, Lightning, Darkness). My heart pounded, the curse dragging my steps, but my brain was on fire. "Zephyr, flank left! Jogen, hold the right!" I roared, gripping my dual swords. Varkoth slithered off my arm, his two-meter length rearing up, scales shimmering like Shadowveil. The bandits froze, eyes wide with terror at the Basilisk Emperor's crimson glare. "What in Azurion's name is that?!" a Fire Scholar screamed. Varkoth's Dread Glare stalled three—Darkness, Ice, and Wind Scholars—for 0.7 seconds, their attacks faltering. I seized the moment, triggering a hidden Moonflower sap net laced with Zenoite shards. It shredded the Water and Wind Scholars, their screams drowned by sap's hiss. Zephyr's claws tore through the Darkness Scholar, while Jogen's spear skewered the Ice Scholar, his Wind Qi slicing clean. The Fire Scholar's fireball singed my braid, but Varkoth's Umbral Shroud cloaked me, cutting his accuracy. My Heaven Splitter cleaved his arm, blood pooling.
Roen's Starflame claymore swung for Zephyr, its radiant arc melting shale. Zephyr, reckless, was too slow, his flank exposed. I dove, curse be damned, and crossed my Pyroclast swords to block. The impact cracked both blades, sparks flying as the curse's weight drove me to my knees. Pain seared my arms, but Zephyr was safe. Roen smirked, his saber teeth gleaming. "Foolish elf." I growled, adrenaline surging. Dropping my damaged swords, I lunged, the curse's strength fueling a fist to his jaw. Bone snapped, his head whipping back. I didn't stop—two more punches, each a thunderclap, sent him staggering. The final blow smashed him into a Zenoite outcrop, his skull cracking against stone. Roen slumped, lifeless, Starflame fading. The remaining bandits—Lightning Scholar, Earth Expert, and two Wind Experts—stared, frozen. Zephyr's claws and Jogen's spear finished them, but their eyes were on me, wide with fear at the elf who'd punched out a Grand Master. I knelt by Roen's corpse, noticing his saber-like canines. "Rare material," I muttered, yanking both free with a sickening crunch. Zephyr grimaced. "Got no limits, Perverted Elf?" Jogen gaped, speechless. I shrugged, pocketing the teeth, each worth at least 20 Level 2 Spirit Stones. Varkoth coiled back onto my arm, hissing smugly. I looted Roen's ring: 40 Level 2 Spirit Stones, a Starflame Beast Core worth 20 Level 3 Spirit Stones, and his radiant claymore worth 30 Level 1 Spirit Stones. The camp yielded 30 Level 1, 10 Level 2 Spirit Stones, and a water-etched dagger worth 10 Level 1 Spirit Stones.
We limped back to camp, my chest and shoulder bleeding, the curse's faint healing kicking in. Zephyr panted, "You're insane, Perverted Elf." Jogen, still pale, muttered, "Y-You broke his jaw…" I grinned, hefting Roen's teeth. "Supreme Elf style." Varkoth's eyes glinted, and my amulet pulsed again, a whisper of "The Child stirs the Shadow" I ignored. No time for cryptic junk—my swords were cracked, and we had a camp to loot.