03. Powdered paws

Opeka's central square baked under the late summer sun, dust kicking up around a creaky cabbage cart I'd rigged into a masterpiece of chaos. Tucked beneath its splintered slats, a spring-loaded net of moozze tails, slathered in sticky Gromble oil, quivered, itching to snag Janko—the "Cursed Cat" still fuming from my glow-in-the-dark barn prank and that Moonflower sap-soaked ale bucket. I perched on a barrel, wooden sword at my belt, a vial of inky Moonflower sap twirling in my fingers. My pouch bulged with prank gadgets—scavenged beast parts and scraps—proof that a qi-blind trickster like me didn't need fancy Spirit Stones to own this village.

Janko swaggered in, his wiry frame screaming trouble, black whiskers from my last prank still clinging to his face. "Supreme Elf!" he barked, spotting me. "Keep your filthy tricks off me, or I'll gut you like a Gromble!" His eyes darted, hunting for traps. The square's kids, sensing blood, started chanting, "Cursed Cat! Cursed Cat!" I leaned back, grinning. "Easy, Whiskers. Hiss any louder, and you'll scare the moozze." His face went redder than a Lava Dragon's scales, fists twitching.I yanked the hidden cord, and the net sprang with a twang, wrapping Janko in sticky cords. He flailed, crashing into a flour sack I'd "borrowed" from Mima's stall. The sack burst, dusting him white as a Plumed Cat.

The square roared, kids pelting him with moozze tails. I vaulted off the barrel, bowing. "Behold, the Powdered Paws of the Cursed Cat!" Janko thrashed, roaring, "You're dead, Killyaen!" but the net held, and I was already halfway to the Black Stone Tavern, N'Nazmuz's curse dragging my steps with its 30-kilogram weight, stamina burning like cheap ale.

Bera leaned against the tavern door, her apron hugging curves that made my blood hum. "You're begging for a beating, prankster," she said, her Fire Qi flickering playfully in her fingers. I sauntered close, dodging a moozze tail Janko flung. "Beating? Nah, Bera, I'm too tasty. Wanna check my scars later?" Her dark eyes sparked, cheeks flushing as she swatted me with her apron. "Dream on, Gromble-brain." But her smirk was pure fire, and I was ready to burn.Lila sashayed out, her blouse low enough to stop a Zenoite Krovar mid-charge. "Nice trap, Supreme Elf," she purred, brushing my arm, her honeyed skin catching the sun. "Got any tricks for me?" Bera's mug-polishing turned vicious, her Fire Qi flaring. "Lila, stick to serving ale, not stealing trouble," she snapped. Lila's hips swayed as she laughed. "Jealous, Bera? Can't handle a real spark?" I grinned, caught between two flames. "Ladies, plenty of me to go around," I said, dodging Bera's rag and Lila's teasing shove. Their rivalry was sweeter than Gromble fat, and I was the lucky bastard stirring the pot.

Inside, the tavern reeked of ale and gossip. I slid onto a stool, the curse's weight aching my thighs, but I ignored it—years of hauling barrels under that 30-kilogram pressure had forged muscles that could wrestle a Gromble. Goran, behind the counter, fixed me with his grizzled glare. "You're poking a hornet's nest with Janko, boy. He's no cultivator, but he's mean." I twirled a dagger from my pouch. "Let him try, old man. I've got Wind's Rebuke and your training." Goran, Peak Element Lord Fire, snorted, tossing me a rag. "Clean tables, or I'll spar you till you're crawling." I groaned, weaving through patrons, my wooden sword tapping my hip.

Mima, squawking at a corner table, spotted me. "Spirit Stones, boy! They glow like stars in Crestmoore! My cousin saw one—mythical, but real!" Her eyes narrowed. "Your pranks? Dark magic, I say! Cursed beacons, ruins of old gods!" I flashed a grin, wiping her table. "Mima, if I had dark magic, I'd be charming Bera's skirt off, not dusting your table." The patrons hooted, but Mima's "ruins" talk nagged me.

Last night, Chronicles of the Dragon-Gods whispered about Azurion's wave-carved ruins. My amulet pulsed faintly, like it agreed, but I blamed the tavern's heat and Bera's smirk.Elder Mara swept in, her Earth Qi steadying a wobbling table with a charm. "Killyaen, your nonsense disrupts Opeka's peace," she said, her Peak Master Earth voice like grinding stone. I tossed her a moozze tail. "Just keeping it lively, Mara. Gotta honor the Supreme Elf, right?" She snorted, her charm nudging a spilled mug upright. Opeka's scarce Qi limited her spells, but she wielded them sharper than my dagger.

At the training field, Goran drilled me with sword forms, my wooden blade slicing straw dummies. The curse slowed my swings, stamina draining, but my curse-forged strength sent straw flying. "Focus," Goran barked, parrying with his Fire Qi-suppressed blade. "A Zenoite Krovar'd gut you." I nodded, sweat stinging, relishing the burn. A nick on my knuckle sealed itself as we paused, the curse's passive healing kicking in. "Solspire's got Awakening Altars," Goran said, wiping his brow. "Might fix that qi-blindness." My amulet pulsed, but I shrugged. Altars didn't get me Bera's fire or Lila's sway.

Vuk joined us, his Middle Great Legend Earth presence solid, a sack of herbs slung over his shoulder. "Killyaen, Janko's plotting moozze traps," he said, chuckling. "Stirring the village like a storm." I sheathed my sword. "Let him. I'll make his traps art." Vuk's smile faded, voice low. "Found a carving in the Zenoite minefield—waves, like Azurion's. Reminds me of Solspire's 'glowing blue relics.'" My amulet pulsed sharply, hidden under my tunic. I kept my grin easy. "Just tales, Vuk." But my heart raced. Ruins. Relics. Azurion. Too close to Chronicles' cryptic words.

That night, in my tavern loft, I sprawled with Legends of the Middle Sea, its pages muttering about Solaria's "ruins of old gods" guarded by beasts and Dragon-God runes. My amulet pulsed in sync, warm against my chest. I traced its split-leaf design, High Elven runes I somehow knew tingling under my fingers. Supreme Elf. The title felt like a taunt, but my ambition roared—leave Opeka, find those ruins, awaken my Qi.

Downstairs, Bera's laugh mixed with Lila's teasing, and Janko's grumbling promised revenge. I smirked, sketching a new prank: a "Glow-Burst Bomb" to paint Janko glowing green tomorrow. Let the Cursed Cat squirm. Ruins could wait.