The final push in Duskmire was a bloody blur, but I'm Killyaen, the Supreme Elf, and no bandit camp outlasts me. My cracked Pyroclast Dual Swords were scrap now, but my fists, juiced by N'Nazmuz's curse, had already smashed Roen Sabertooth's jaw into oblivion. The 30-kilo weight dragged my steps, my stamina leaking, but the strength it gave me made every punch a thunderbolt. Varkoth, my Peak Scholar Darkness Basilisk Emperor, coiled on my arm, his two-meter length a silent threat, his crimson eyes burning with unspoken glee. No words from him—my qi-blindness cut off any spiritual sense—but his hisses and tail-flicks were enough to know he had my back. Zephyr, the Peak Master Darkness Shadow Panther, limped beside me, his fur patchy from burns. "You're a walking disaster, Perverted Elf," he growled, but there was respect in it. Jogen, the Beginner Master Wind cultivator, gripped his spear, his shyness fading into a quiet fire. "W-We're almost done, right?" he asked. I smirked, tossing Roen's saber teeth in my palm, each worth 20 Level 2 Spirit Stones. "Almost, shy boy. Let's burn this camp to ash."
We'd gutted most of Roen's crew, but a few stragglers hid in Duskmire's ravines. I wasn't leaving loot or threats behind. The camp's Zenoite palisade was cracked, tents smoldering, but the narrow mouth still held potential for ambushes. I scouted it myself, Varkoth's Umbral Shroud cloaking me in black mist, my boots gouging shale thanks to the curse. I found a hidden cave near the Glowvine stream, its entrance rigged with crude tripwires—bandit work, sloppy. "Amateurs," I muttered, disarming them with a Zenoite shard. Inside, I spotted three cultivators: two Middle Scholars (Water, Lightning), one Beginner Scholar (Earth). I signaled Zephyr and Jogen, whispering, "Trap 'em, then kill." I rigged a new Moonflower sap mine, hiding it under Glowvine, and tied a tripwire to a Zenoite net stuffed with shards. "Varkoth, spook 'em," I hissed. He slithered off my arm, his two-meter form rearing up, scales shimmering. The bandits screamed, scrambling back as his Dread Glare froze them for 0.7 seconds. The Water Scholar tripped the mine, sap exploding in a blue flash, shredding his legs. I tackled the Lightning Scholar, my curse-fueled fist caving his chest. Jogen's spear skewered the Earth Scholar, his stone spikes missing under Varkoth's Umbral Shroud. Zephyr's claws finished the job, blood pooling. We looted: 15 Level 1, 3 Level 2 Spirit Stones, a lightning-etched dagger worth 10 Level 1 Spirit Stones.
The camp was ours now. I scoured every tent, my scavenging knack in overdrive, pulling 20 Level 1 Spirit Stones and a fire-etched axe worth 15 Level 1 Spirit Stones from a chest. Varkoth hissed, coiling back onto my arm, his eyes glinting like he approved. My amulet pulsed again near a Zenoite shard, whispering, "The Child weaves the Shadow." I rolled my eyes. "More ruin nonsense." We burned the tents, leaving Duskmire's ravines scarred but silent.
Back in Crestmoore, Elder Sani met us at the Mercenary Sect hall, his Lightning Qi crackling. "Six days. Impressive." He handed over 150 Level 2 Spirit Stones, the bonus reward. I split it three ways—50 Level 2 Spirit Stones each—and divvied the loot: Zephyr took the water-etched dagger and lightning-etched axe, Jogen the wind-etched spear and darkness-etched shield, and I kept Roen's saber teeth, Starflame Beast Core, radiant claymore, and the rest of the Spirit Stones. "Fair's fair," I said. Zephyr snorted. "You kept the best, Perverted Elf." Jogen nodded, clutching his share. "T-Thanks, Killyaen."
That night, The Iron Bloom was a riot of ale and cheers. My wounds ached, the curse dragging my steps, but the crowd's chants—"Supreme Elf!"—lit me up. Vira, a curvy blonde in a tunic tighter than a Zorath's saddle, sidled up, her fingers grazing my thigh. "Your codpiece needs polishing, Supreme Elf," she purred, her breath hot with ale. I grinned, my provocative side roaring back. "Careful, Vira, my supreme sword's ready to unsheathe." She giggled, stroking my groin guard, whispering, "Ride me like a Zorath." The crowd roared, tossing gold coins—20 total. Zephyr smirked, raising his mug. "Keep it sheathed, Perverted Elf." Jogen, bolder, clinked mugs. "To glory!" Vira's lewd purrs—"Tame me, elf"—drew cheers, my amulet pulsing near a Zenoite mug. I ignored it, lost in her curves.
Later, I dragged Vira to my room, her giggles slurred. I yanked her blonde braid, pinning her to the wall, her tunic ripping as I growled, "Time for a Starveil filly to buck." Her nails raked my shoulders, moaning as I thrust deep, my cock driven by the curse's beast-like strength, the bedframe groaning. I licked her from ankles to lips, savoring her sweat-slick skin—calves, thighs, hips, breasts—lingering on her gasping mouth. "Harder, Supreme Elf!" she cried, legs wrapping my waist, urging me deeper. I flipped her, gripping her hips, pounding relentlessly, her screams shaking the walls. I pulled her hair, arching her back, each thrust a thunderclap, the curse's power rattling the bed. Vira's moans peaked, her body trembling as she climaxed, nails clawing my back. I followed, collapsing beside her, her curls splayed across my chest. Varkoth, in his Shadowveil pouch, hissed, "Lusty fleshling." Dawn found us tangled, breathless, my legend louder than ever.