I woke up sprawled on a creaky cot in The Iron Bloom, my head throbbing like a Zenoite Krovar had used it as a drum. The tavern stank of sour ale and Gromble grease, but the real pain was the absence of Bera, Lila, and Tira. My three queens—those fiery, curve-hugging goddesses—had been gone seven days, diving into some dungeon deep in Valthorne's wilds. Without their sharp tongues or skin-tight tunics to ogle, Crestmoore felt as lively as a quarry without Zenoite. Varkoth, my shadow serpent, coiled around my right forearm, his black scales gleaming like a Shadowveil bracer. His crimson eyes flicked open, giving me that smug "you're late, fleshling" stare. "Keep glaring, snek," I muttered, scratching his serrated crest. "You're not half as spicy as Tira's phoenix tattoo."
My mithril swords, Wind's Rebuke and Thunder's Edge, leaned against the cot, still sharp but no substitute for my ruined Pyroclast swords—Ember's Fang and Blaze's Claw. Those beauties were trashed in brutal clash with Roen Sabertooth, that claymore-swinging bandit lord in Starshade Hollow. His blade had nearly sliced my braid—and me—in two. Tharok Ironvein, Crestmoore's grizzled Dwarven blacksmith, had eyed the damage and growled, "Teridian shards, elf. Pure Fire Qi. Find 'em in Embercrag Expanse, or your swords are scrap." The Expanse was Valthorne's volcanic heart, a two-day trek from Crestmoore. No shards, no swords, and I wasn't about to face my queens empty-handed when they strutted back.
First, I had business to settle. My spatial ring—Goran's gift —was packed with loot I hadn't sold: Zenoite shards, Moonflower sap, Flaevyn feathers, Glowvine tendrils, Lunargent ore, Tempestite crystals, and those vicious Sabertooth fangs I'd pried from Roen's corpse.
The Starveil Auction House was prepping for a historic sale in four days, drawing nobles, sect schemers, and even Adena's elite, according to Vynix Quickcoin, the twitchy Gnome auctioneer. I'd told Vynix to secure me a VIP booth—tinted crystal, no peeking—so I could bid without every thug in Valthorne clocking the Supreme Elf. I handed him my loot list: a Crystal Orchid (Expert-grade, snagged from a Crystal Tarantula's cave) starting at 100 Level 5 Spirit Stones, and Roen's Sabertooth fangs at 15 Level 5 stones. Vynix's eyes had bulged like polished electrum. "This orchid'll hit Level 7 stones, Killyaen! Solspire's lords are rabid!" he'd squeaked. The fangs were climbing too. I slipped him 50 Level 2 Spirit Stones as a "thank you" for his hustle. The Gnome nearly wept, swearing loyalty like I'd handed him a crown. Bought and paid for.
Then there was this tunic in the auction catalog that screamed my name—the Alabaster Shroud. Woven from rare Alabaster threads, it glowed like moonlight on Duskwind Vale's rivers, stitched with golden runes and ribbons pulsing with Light Qi. Rare-grade, starting at 10 Level 6 Spirit Stones—steep, but worth it to make Bera's jaw drop and Lila's Earth Qi quake. Bidding on it would piss off Crestmoore's elite, those snooty nobles hoarding Light-element gear like it was their birthright. Did I care? Not a chance. I'd be halfway to Adena before they could whine. I kept my obsession with the Alabaster Shroud secret—nobody needed to know the Supreme Elf's plans.
Before heading to Embercrag Expanse, I had one stop. My Emerald Beetle, Stinky—Middle Novice now, up from Beginner Novice in Chapter 33—chilled at the Beast Tamer Guild. I slung my mithril swords across my back, N'Nazmuz's 30 kg curse slowing my steps like I was wading through Gromble sludge. Varkoth tightened his coils, his red veins pulsing. "Easy, snek," I said. "We're just visiting my other pet." The guildhall squatted at Crestmoore's market edge, a stone bunker etched with beast runes. Inside, it reeked of hay and elixir fumes. Stinky's pen was a chaos of chewed Glowvine and cracked Zenoite pebbles. The fist-sized beetle skittered over, its emerald shell gleaming. I tossed it a chunk of Moonflower sap, chuckling as it chomped like a kid with candy. "Miss me, Stinky?" I asked, scratching its shell. It clicked happily, nudging my hand. Varkoth hissed, eyes narrowing—jealous little serpent. I spent an hour feeding Stinky and dodging its playful nips, the curse's weight making every move a grind. "You're less trouble than Lila," I grinned.
With Stinky fed, I hit the road. Valthorne was a beast of a region—river valleys, mountains, plains, forests, each pocket with its own name. Crestmoore sat in Duskwind Vale, a trade hub ringed by Zenoite quarries and rolling hills. My target, Embercrag Expanse, was Valthorne's fiery core, a two-day trek through three zones: Starbloom Woods, a forest of Luminous Oaks; Ironveil Plains, a windswept stretch studded with Geodrite spires; and the Expanse itself, a volcanic basin where Teridian shards glowed like embers. The curse's weight would make it a slog, but with Varkoth clinging like a possessive lover, I'd manage.
Day one started in Starbloom Woods. The forest was a maze of Luminous Oaks, their Crystal Qi branches casting rainbow flecks across the mossy floor. A sentient oak, Middle Master Crystal, creaked as I approached, its branches blocking my path. "Fleshling," it rumbled, voice like grinding stone. "You tread my grove. Why?" I smirked, eyeing its shimmering bark—prime scavenging material, but I wasn't here to fight trees. "Just passing, twiggy," I said, tossing a crude wink. "Got any barmaids in those branches?" The oak's leaves rustled, unamused. I tried darting past, but its roots snagged my boots, nearly tripping me. The curse's 30 kg dragged my dodge, and Varkoth's Dread Glare did nothing against wood. I tossed a Moonflower sap vial—useless. A Glowvine net—nothing. "What the hell do you want, Oaky?" I snapped, patience gone. The oak creaked, amused. "You're an interesting fleshling. Tell me tales, and you may pass."
So I did. I spun stories of Opeka's chaos—Janko's "Cursed Cat" saga, from glow-paint barns to neon feathers and Gromble oil traps; my steamy revenge on Bera, Lila, and Tira, their curves glowing with shame as I outpranked them; and that wild night with Vira, the blonde market vendor, her screams echoing through The Iron Bloom. The oak's branches shook with laughter, leaves sparkling. "Fleshling, you're a storm of chaos," it said, dropping a glowing twig—consumable, pulsing with Crystal Qi. "This will ease your path through Starbloom." I pocketed it in my spatial ring, grinning. "Cheers, twiggy. Next time, I'll bring Vira." The oak groaned, but its roots parted, letting me pass.By noon, I hit Ironveil Plains.
The flatlands stretched endlessly, Geodrite spires jutting like jagged teeth. A pack of Silver Wolves, Beginner Master Ice, prowled nearby, their white fur glinting. One growled, baring fangs, but Varkoth's Dread Glare pulsed, freezing it mid-step. "Nice one, snek," I said, patting his crest. The wolves backed off, sensing my Heaven Splitter could crack skulls. I scavenged a few Level 3 Ice Spirit Stones—decent trade bait—and kept moving, the curse's weight dragging like an anchor. My stamina waned, but I pictured Tira's fiery smirk to push on. "Keep up, Killy," I imagined her saying. "Or I'll burn that braid."
Night fell, and I camped in a hollow near a Geodrite spire. Varkoth's Umbral Shroud cloaked us in black mist, hiding us from prowling Night Elves—Middle Scholar Darkness, their cloaks blending with the shadows. I chewed Gromble jerky, grimacing. "You're lucky you don't eat this slop," I told Varkoth. His eyes glinted, mocking me. The curse's passive healing kicked in as I rested, easing my aching legs. I drifted off, dreaming of the Alabaster Shroud hugging my frame, its golden runes making me look like a god. Bera would probably try to torch it out of jealousy.
Day two dawned scorching. Ironveil Plains gave way to Embercrag Expanse, a blackened valley of lava pools and ash where Teridian shards glowed like fireflies. The air reeked of sulfur, and the curse's 30 kg felt like hauling a Crystal Wyrm. Varkoth's scales dimmed, blending into my arm as we crept toward Flameheart Caldera, the valley's core. Tharok's intel pegged it as Teridian central, guarded by a sentient Lava Salamander, Middle Great Legend Fire. Just my luck.
I spotted the beast lounging in the caldera, a fifteen-meter monster with scales like molten Pyroclast. Its eyes burned like twin forges. "Oi, big guy," I called, gripping Wind's Rebuke. "Got any Teridian to spare?" The salamander hissed, spewing a Fire Qi blast that singed my boots. "Foolish fleshling," it roared, voice like a furnace. "You dare raid my hoard?" Varkoth's Shadow Bind wrapped my arm in black aura, boosting my grip. I dodged a fiery tail swipe, the curse slowing me but Heaven Splitter's weight turning my slashes into battering rams. Thunder's Edge sparked against its scales, barely denting them. Varkoth's Umbral Shroud cloaked us, throwing off its aim as I darted in, slicing its flank. It bellowed, claws raking the air, but I rolled under, the curse's drag nearly tripping me.
"Varkoth, glare!" I yelled. His crimson eyes pulsed Dread Glare, making the salamander flinch for a half-second. I seized the chance, plunging Wind's Rebuke into a scale gap and yanking out a fist-sized Teridian shard—consumable, glowing with Fire Qi. "Jackpot!" I crowed, stuffing it in my spatial ring. The salamander lunged, but Varkoth's mist cloaked us again, and I bolted, legs screaming under the curse. It didn't chase—too proud or too lazy.
I collapsed outside the caldera, gasping, the curse's healing soothing my scorched skin. Varkoth flicked his tail, smug as ever. "Show-off,"
I muttered.Back in Crestmoore by dusk, I dropped the Teridian shard at Tharok's forge. "Fix my swords, beardy," I said, winking. He grunted, eyeing the shard like it was his firstborn. "Two days," he growled. "Don't bug me, elf."
I headed to Starveil Auction House, where Vynix was in a frenzy. "This auction's historic, Killyaen!" he squeaked. "Bidders from Adena, even! Your orchid's drawing Level 7 stones already, and those fangs? Sky-high!" I'd given him another 50 Level 2 Spirit Stones earlier, cementing his loyalty. He beamed, practically bowing. I grinned, picturing the chaos when I snagged the Alabaster Shroud. Nobody knew I was after it, and my VIP booth would keep it that way.
At The Iron Bloom that night, I sipped Firebloom ale, Varkoth coiled like a shadow gauntlet. A Merrow merchant, Middle Scholar Water, sat nearby, her scale-stitched robe from the Middle Sea hugging curves that rivaled Bera's. I flashed a grin, ready to toss a line, but Varkoth hissed, crest flaring. "Chill, snek," I whispered. "She's no Lila." Still, I couldn't resist. "Nice robe, sweetheart," I called. "Bet it'd look better on my floor." She smirked, flicking a Water Qi orb that splashed my face—point taken. The tavern roared, and I soaked it up, the Supreme Elf in his element. My amulet pulsed faintly, probably some Azurion ruin nonsense, but I drowned it with ale. Four days till the auction, and I'd be ready—swords fixed, loot sold, and a shiny tunic to make my queens swoon or swing at me. Either way, Crestmoore would bow to Killyaen.