The Crestmoore training yard was a battle-scarred expanse of churned dirt and splintered training dummies, baking under a noon sun that felt like a Fire Qi furnace. I stood in the center, N'Nazmuz's curse weighing my bones like a 30 kg anchor, every step gouging ruts in the earth. My mithril swords, Wind's Rebuke and Thunder's Edge, hummed in my hands as I faced Zephyr, the Shadow Panther whose Peak Master Darkness cultivation made him a blur of claws and shadow. His emerald eyes glinted, sizing me up. "You're sharper, fleshling," he growled, voice like a blade on whetstone, as he dodged my Heaven Splitter slash, its wind aura slicing a nearby dummy to splinters. "Curse or no, you're no prey." I grinned, my braid whipping as I lunged, the curse's drag turning my movements into a brutal dance. "Supreme Elf, Whiskers," I shot back. "Try keeping up."Zephyr's shadow-step flickered, his claws grazing my tunic before I parried with Thunder's Edge, sparks flying. The curse made every dodge a grind, but my strength—honed by weeks of hauling its weight—channeled into a counter-slash that carved a shallow trench in the dirt. Zephyr leapt back, his black fur blending with the shadows of a nearby oak. "Your form's tighter," he said, circling, his tail flicking like a whip. "That Heaven Splitter's got bite now." I smirked, wiping sweat from my brow. "Told ya, I'm a legend in the making."
We went at it for an hour, my blades clashing against his shadow-wreathed claws, the yard echoing with steel and snarls. By the end, I was panting, legs burning from the curse, but Zephyr's rare nod of approval felt like a badge. "You'll carve mountains, Killyaen," he said, his smirk showing fangs. "Just don't trip over that braid."
Satisfied, I sheathed my swords and headed to the Beast Tamer Guild to check on Stinky, my Emerald Beetle, who hit Peak Novice during the night. The guildhall loomed at Crestmoore's market edge, a stone fortress etched with beast runes, its air thick with hay, elixir fumes, and the tang of beast sweat. Stinky's pen was a wreck—chewed Glowvine, cracked Zenoite pebbles, and a faint whiff of something foul. The beetle, now the size of a human head, skittered over, his emerald shell catching the light like polished jade. "Look at you, big guy," I said, crouching despite the curse's pull. I pulled a sack of Crystal Worm excrement from my spatial ring—Stinky's favorite. He dove in, mandibles crunching, his clicks vibrating with joy. "Slow down, champ," I laughed, dodging a playful nip that nearly took my finger. The curse made crouching a chore, but I stayed, scratching his shell as he ate, his shell pulsing brighter with each bite—Peak Novice, teetering on a breakthrough.
Varkoth, coiled around my forearm like a shadow gauntlet, hissed in disgust, his black scales dimming. "Spoiled snek," I muttered, fishing out a pouch of dried meat—rare birds and rodents from Starbloom Woods, their smoky flavor his obsession. He snapped it up, crimson eyes glinting with smug satisfaction, his serrated crest flaring. "Don't get cocky," I said, scratching his scales. "Stinky's stealing your spotlight." Varkoth's tail flicked, jealous as ever, but he coiled tighter, his Shadow Bind aura pulsing faintly. I spent an hour in the pen, feeding Stinky more excrement and dodging his enthusiastic headbutts, the curse's weight turning every sidestep into a slog. "You're worse than Tira when she's mad," I told Stinky, grinning as he nudged my hand, leaving a smear of worm gunk. By the time I left, Stinky's shell glowed with a faint Crystal Qi sheen, his Peak Novice rank solidifying. Varkoth just glared, probably plotting to outshine him.
Next, I trekked to the Starveil Auction House, my boots kicking up dust in Crestmoore's bustling market square. Vynix Quickcoin, my twitchy Gnome auctioneer, was a whirlwind of parchment and ink, hyping tomorrow's "historic" sale. Bidders from Solaria and Adena were already sniffing around my Crystal Orchid and Sabertooth fangs, their starting bids of 100 and 15 Level 5 Spirit Stones drawing whispers. The past four days—scavenging Duskwind Vale's outskirts, Starbloom Woods, and Ironveil Plains—had filled my spatial ring with more: Zenoite shards, Glowvine tendrils, Moonflower sap, Ice Wolf pelts, and a few Geodrite fragments. I dumped the lot on Vynix's desk, setting a total starting bid of 150 Level 3 Spirit Stones. "No telling what these'll fetch, Killyaen," he squeaked, eyes gleaming like electrum coins. "Could hit Level 5 by the end!" I smirked, my obsession with the Alabaster Shroud—that Light Qi tunic starting at 10 Level 6 Spirit Stones—locked tight in my head. My VIP booth, tinted crystal and all, would keep my bids hidden. "Just make me rich, Quickcoin," I said, tossing him a wink. He nodded like I'd crowned him, still buzzing from the 50 Level 2 Spirit Stones I'd slipped him last time. Loyal as a tamed Krovar.
That night, The Iron Bloom was a powder keg, and Zephyr and I were the spark. The tavern buzzed with merchants, cultivators, and drunks, the air thick with ale, smoke, and laughter. Zephyr, his Peak Master Darkness aura cloaked to avoid spooking the crowd, lounged beside me, his rare smirks egging me on. "Let's burn this place down," I whispered, pulling Moonflower sap, Flaevyn feathers, and Gromble oil from my spatial ring. Firebloom ale flowed like a river, and we were half-drunk, plotting chaos.
First target: a sloshed apothecary, Middle Scholar Earth, snoring at the bar, his beard flecked with herb dust. I crept up, Varkoth's Umbral Shroud cloaking me in black mist, and painted glowing whiskers on his face with Moonflower sap. He woke, rubbing his cheeks, smearing neon green across his nose. "What in Valthorne's name?!" he bellowed, sparking roars of laughter. "Supreme Elf strikes!" I crowed, dodging a flung tankard that crashed into a table.
Next, we targeted a grizzled hunter, Beginner Master Fire, bragging about slaying a Crystal Wyrm. Zephyr pinned his cloak with a shadow-claw while I glued tiny horns—ripped from a goat-like beast in Starbloom Woods—to his hood with Gromble oil. He stood, oblivious, horns wobbling as he roared about his kills. "All hail the Goat King!" I shouted, and the tavern erupted, chanting as he stormed out, red-faced, horns bouncing. Then we rigged a pompous merchant's boots with Glowvine tripwires, sending him sprawling into a barmaid's lap. Her squeal and his spilled ale—splashing a nearby sect disciple—ignited howls of laughter. The disciple, a Middle Novice Water, flung a weak Qi orb that missed and doused a candle, plunging half the tavern into shadow.
For the finale, I tossed a Feather-Tickler Trap—crafted from Flaevyn feathers and infused with a pinch of Crystal Qi—into a group of rowdy mercenaries. The neon-pink feathers exploded, sticking to their beards, tunics, and swords. "Dance, boys!" I yelled as they flailed, cursing, feathers fluttering like a pink blizzard. One mercenary, a burly Beginner Scholar Earth, tried to charge me, but Zephyr's Shadow Bind froze his boots, and he faceplanted into a pile of spilled Gromble jerky. The crowd lost it, chanting "Supreme Elf!" and "Shadow Whiskers!" for Zephyr. Even Varkoth, coiled tighter around my arm, seemed to bask in the chaos, though his crimson eyes glared at a drunk who got too close. "Easy, snek," I muttered, sipping ale. "You're not the star tonight."We weren't done. I slipped a Zenoite pebble into a bard's lute strings, making his next song warble like a dying Krovar. The crowd roared, tossing coins as he fumbled, oblivious. Zephyr, grinning now, used his shadow-step to swap a sect elder's Firebloom ale with a mug of diluted Moonflower sap—harmless but glowing blue. The elder spat it out, his beard sparkling, and the tavern shook with laughter. "You're chaos incarnate," Zephyr growled, his eyes gleaming with respect as we clinked mugs. "Crestmoore won't forget this." The chaos peaked past midnight, coins and ale flying, the crowd chanting our names. My amulet pulsed faintly—some Azurion ruin nonsense, probably—but I drowned it with another swig, picturing the Alabaster Shroud glowing on me, Bera's fiery glare, Lila's earth-shaking scowl, and Tira's inevitable attempt to burn my braid.
By dawn, the tavern was a wreck, and I was grinning ear to ear. Tomorrow's auction loomed, my loot ready to rake in Spirit Stones, my blades two days from being reforged with Teridian shards. Stinky was thriving, Varkoth was smug, and Zephyr was the best damn partner-in-crime a Supreme Elf could ask for. I toasted the panther one last time. "To legends, Whiskers," I said. "And to making Crestmoore bow." He smirked, fangs glinting. The auction would be my stage, and I'd steal the show—tunic, swords, and all.