I swagger down to The Iron Bloom, my stomach growling louder than a Zenoite Krovar after last chapter's victory. That little show with Vira left Bera, Lila, and Tira in a puddle of shame and contempt—hells, I'm still grinning. The curse's 30 kg weight drags my steps, my stamina a bit shot from hauling those girls to the bed earlier, but I'm too damn pleased to care. I need food, ale, and a moment to bask in my triumph as the Supreme Prankster.
I slide into a corner table, ordering enough grub for three—roasted Gromble ribs, spiced tubers, and a mountain of bread. Ale, too, three mugs. I'm starving, and I earned this.
Bera and Lila are nowhere in sight, probably licking their wounds upstairs. Tira's at the bar, though, twirling a glass of liquor, lost in thought. Her new dress—tight, fiery red, hugging every curve like a lover—makes my supreme sword twitch. That phoenix tattoo peeks out, glowing faintly, and I'm tempted to saunter over and rile her up. But nah, not yet. I want to savor this win, stuff my face, and let the ale wash away the morning's chaos. Tira can brood for now; I'll poke her later.
I tear into the ribs, grease dripping down my chin, when the tavern door creaks. Bera and Lila stumble in, their clothes still soaked from our little spectacle, skirts and tunics clinging like second skins. Hells, the sight's enough to make a saint sin—curves glistening, liquids trailing behind them like a damn river. They pass Tira's barstool, Bera's face red as her Fire Qi, Lila's eyes downcast but sharp. Neither spares me a glance, thank the Dragon-Gods. They trudge upstairs, dripping all the way, and I smirk into my ale. Let 'em stew. They'll be back for round three soon enough.
I polish off the tubers, chugging ale like it's water, when Lila reappears. She's changed into fresh gear—a form-fitting tunic and pants, a pack slung over her shoulder. She's leaving. She stops at the bar, muttering something to Tira, who nods, her eyes flicking to me. Lila hugs her, quick and fierce, then turns and strides out of The Iron Bloom without a backward glance. I ain't an idiot—I know why she's bailing. And I'd be a damn fool to say it doesn't sting a bit. But stop her? Nah. What's done is done, and I don't backtrack on my art.
Lila's tough, a Beginner Master Earth cultivator, but maybe she ain't ready for the brutal world of cultivation. Not yet. I grin, muttering to myself, "Who knows what this is good for?" Sometimes, you gotta let the dice fall.
My plate's empty, my mugs drained, and the curse's weight eases a bit as I sit back, sated. Tira's still at the bar, staring into her glass like it holds the secrets of the First Altars. A woman like that shouldn't be left alone with her thoughts—too dangerous.
I saunter over, sliding onto the stool beside her, my ale in hand. I don't say a word, just sip and watch her from the corner of my eye. Her dress clings in all the right places, and I'm half-tempted to toss a crude quip about her curves, but I hold back. For now.After a stretch of silence, Tira speaks, her voice low.
"Lila's gone. You're not gonna stop her?"I shrug, swirling my ale.
"Why would I? She's grown enough to make her own calls. If she wants to blaze her own trail or crawl back to Opeka, that's her choice. Maybe she ain't cut out for the savage world of cultivation yet. Or maybe she just can't handle my supreme charm." I flash a grin, but it's softer than usual.
Tira turns, her eyes wide, damn near popping out of her skull.
"You… serious?" she says, her voice catching. "That's almost exactly what she told me. Not word for word, but the gist." She leans closer, her phoenix tattoo glinting, and I catch a whiff of her heat—spicy, like Fire Qi itself. "Who are you, Killyaen? One minute you're a perverted prankster, the next you're… wise. Mature. Like I'm talking to someone else."I chuckle, downing my ale. Hells, she's cute when she's rattled. But I ain't here to play philosopher. I stand, tossing a handful of gold coins on the bar—enough for my feast, my drinks, and hers. "Keep the change, Fire Girl," I say, winking. "Don't think too hard—you'll burn out that pretty head." I saunter out, leaving her staring after me, her jaw half-open again. Two for two, Tira. Supreme Prankster strikes again.
Outside, the Crestmoore sun beats down, and I remember the auction house. Nine days in those quarry caves, fighting Wyrms and collecting loot, made me forget the damn thing. I jog to the Starveil Auction House, the curse slowing my steps, my stamina still recovering from the morning's exertions. Inside, a clerk hands me a report of sold items—my haul from before the caves. I scan the list: 10 Level 4 Spirit Stones, 250 Level 1 Spirit Stones, and 500 gold coins. Hells, I'm richer than I thought. I scoop the stones and coins from the counter, sliding them into my spatial ring with a grin. Not bad for a qi-blind elf.I lean toward the clerk, a cute brunette with a skirt that's begging for a prank. "Got more items for the next auction," I say, lowering my voice. "Need a big room to unload 'em." She raises an eyebrow but calls the manager, a grizzled Peak Master Earth cultivator who eyes me like I'm wasting his time. "Better not be common junk, mortal," he grumbles, leading me to a private chamber. I smirk, pulling out the haul from the caves—piles of Zenoite shards, Crystal Wyrm scales, claws, teeth, a Beast Core, and a sack of rare herbs. The manager's eyes bug out, and I fight a laugh. Supreme Prankster, indeed.
He calls in workers to sort and appraise the heap, muttering about needing time. "Go do whatever you do, kid," he says. "We'll notify you when it's done. Nothing'll go missing—our contracts are ironclad. Stealing means death, and Starveil's rep spans every kingdom." I nod, trusting the system. Aeneria's auction houses, big or small, run on honor and greed—my kind of combo.
I head to Lord Crestmoore's stables to check on that glowing egg. The curse makes the walk a slog, my legs heavy, but I push through. At the stables, a familiar cultivator greets me—Jogen, a lanky Beginner Master Wind cultivator with a nervous smile.
"Killyaen, right?" he says, shaking my hand. We chat about beast taming, him explaining how beasts below Beginner Master can be tamed but might bolt once they hit sentience unless bound by a Beast Tamer Guild contract. "After that, it's their choice to follow or not," he says. I nod, filing it away. Useful for that egg, maybe.
He leads me to the nest, where the egg's grown darker, not brighter, which quirks my brow. Jogen scratches his head. "Odd, yeah? Usually, Spirit Beast eggs glow more as they absorb Qi." I shrug, not sweating it, and slot fresh Level 1 Spirit Stones into the nest's rune-holes to keep it fed. The egg hums, and I grin—whatever's inside, it's gonna be a beast.
Jogen blushes, his voice dropping. "Uh, those three girls you were with last time? They okay?" I flash a wide grin, leaning in. "Had a wild morning and noon, Jogen. They're recovering at The Iron Bloom, probably dreaming up ways to get me back." He laughs, redder than Bera's Fire Qi, and I clap his shoulder before heading out.
Back at the tavern, I rent a private room, the curse's weight easing as I collapse onto the bed. My mind drifts to Bera, Lila, Tira—their curves, their fire, Lila's exit. I smirk, imagining a steamy rematch, but the thoughts twist into a nightmare. I'm running naked across a field, the girls chasing me with axes, screaming about chopping off my supreme sword. I jolt awake, sweating, and laugh. "Hells, even my dreams are chaotic."My amulet pulses faintly as I lie there, probably some Zenoite shard nearby. I shrug it off, too tired to care about ancient ruins or prophecies.
The Iron Bloom's noise hums below, and I know Tira's still at the bar, sipping and overthinking. Bera's probably plotting revenge upstairs. Lila's gone, for now. This cultivation world's brutal, but I'm the Supreme Prankster, and I'm just getting started.