I stormed into the Crestmoore Mercenaries' training yard, my mithril swords—Wind's Rebuke and Thunder's Edge—humming in my spatial ring. Bera and Tira were chained to the Cultivation Tower, grinding for Peak Master Earth like it was their life's blood, and Lila was off somewhere, who knows where.
Two days till the auction, my 10 Level 4 Spirit Stones and 170 Level 1s burning for that Legendary-grade Veilstone Sword.
Qi-blind or cursed, I don't sit still. N'Nazmuz's 30 kg dragged my bones, but I'd rather bleed than mope.
The yard stank of sweat and steel, mercenaries slashing dummies or each other. A Shadow Panther stalked the sidelines, fur black as a Void plains abyss, eyes like frost moons. Middle Master Darkness, no doubt. He locked onto me, unblinking, like I was his next kill.
"No Qi, elf?" His voice was low, sharp as a blade.
"Fight."I grinned, hand on my hilt.
"Killyaen. Got a name, or do I call you Whiskers?""Zephyr." He stepped forward, claws bared.
"Draw."
Mercenaries circled, tossing gold on how fast I'd eat dirt. I drew my mithril blades, their hum slicing the air. Zephyr lunged—a shadow with fangs. I leaped to dodge, my feet digging trenches in the dirt. The curse's weight anchored me, slow as a drunk Gromble, but Thunder's Edge nicked his flank. He didn't blink, claws slashing my arm. Blood dripped. I laughed—pain's just fuel.
"Your stance is weak," he said, dodging Wind's Rebuke as I parried a high claw, my boots gouging the ground again.
"Your claws miss worse than your old man's hunt," I shot back, lunging forward, dirt cratering under my step.Zephyr's eyes flickered—first crack I'd seen.
We clashed, my blades sparking against his claws. Stone split where I missed. He shadow-stepped, grazing my thigh, but I caught his rhythm, slicing Thunder's Edge across his chest—shallow, but it bled. Every leap and parry sank my feet deeper, leaving scars in the earth. Curse or not, I'm no cultivator's prey. We froze, blades locked, breath ragged.
"Draw," Zephyr said, gaze steady.
"Only 'cause I didn't wanna skin you," I smirked.He snorted, eyeing the torn-up ground.
Mercenaries cursed, bets dead. Zephyr's tail flicked. "You fight well, mortal. No Qi, raw skill. I respect it. I'll teach shadow-steps, non-Qi. Take a cut of your auction haul."Greed sparked. Auction cuts? Nah, I'm sharper than that.
My nose for loot—Zenoite, Lunargent, Wyrm hide—always sniffed out gold.
"Hold up, cat," I said, grinning like I'd found a Spirit Stone vein. "Why split auction scraps? You and me, we hit mercenary jobs. Big ones. I got a nose for rare shit—stuff that sells high, auction or market. More coin for both of us."
Zephyr's eyes narrowed, weighing me. "Missions pay less upfront."
"I'm a walking treasure map," I said, thumping my chest.
"Last quarry run? 5 kg of Zenoite, sold for 50 Level 2s. Stick with me, we'll drown in Spirit Stones."He stared, unblinking, then nodded. "You speak true. I trust results. Name the job."I grinned. Hooked him.
We trained till dusk, Zephyr barking orders—slide, pivot, strike.
"Faster. Left. Again." Every leap and landing dug my feet into the dirt, every lunge for a shadow-step left ruts. My curse burned, legs screaming, but his drills honed my footwork. "Not bad," he said, staring at the scarred ground. "You'll live."
"Live?" I laughed, wiping sweat.
"I'm carving my name in Crestmoore's legends."
At The Iron Bloom, I grabbed a tankard, Zephyr sitting across, ignoring gawkers. A drunk mercenary—Peak Knight Fire, built like a bull—lurched over.
"Oi, cat, your elf pet got a leash?"Zephyr's gaze didn't waver. "Leave."The drunk grabbed his shoulder, sneering. Mistake. Zephyr's claw pinned the man's hand to the table, blood pooling.
"I said leave." His voice was cold steel. The drunk fled, whimpering. The room stayed silent.
"Cool head," I said, raising my tankard.Zephyr leaned forward, eyes on the floor where my boots had left marks during training.
"Your feet. They dig into the ground—leaps, landings, lunges, parries. Why?"I leaned back, smirking.
"N'Nazmuz's curse. 30 kg of invisible weight, chained to my soul. Slows me down, makes every step a slog. But it's got perks. Builds muscle like a forge, gives me stamina to outlast most cultivators. I'm stronger, tougher—physically, not that Qi nonsense. Hit harder, last longer."
Zephyr's eyes gleamed, a rare spark. "Impressive. Most cultivators neglect their bodies, chasing Qi. You train raw, endure the curse, grow stronger. That's true grit."
His voice sharpened with respect. "A real cultivator doesn't ignore the flesh. You're more than I thought, Killyaen."
I grinned, leaning forward. "If you weren't male, I'd think you were hitting on me… hahaha!"Zephyr's lips twitched—first time I'd seen it. A smile, sharp and brief, like a blade catching light.
"Fool," he said, but there was no venom in it.I clinked my tankard to his claw.
"Keep praising me, cat, and I'll start charging you."
I leaned back, mind on coin. "Mercenaries posted a hunt. Western ridge, Void-touched Wyrm, spawning Glowvine nests. Pays 20 Level 3 Spirit Stones. Scales, vines—sell at auction or market. We split. Dawn tomorrow."
Zephyr nodded, eyes locked on mine. "Good choice. Your nose for loot better deliver."
"It will," I said, draining my tankard. "My last haul got me a mithril blade case—polished, carved with storm runes, worth 10 Level 2s alone. That Wyrm's scales? We'll sell 'em for enough to buy half Crestmoore."Zephyr's smile flickered again, smaller but real.
"Then we hunt well. Don't falter, Killyaen. Wyrm's no prey."I slammed my tankard down, grinning. "Falter? I'll gut that Wyrm and sell its teeth for a throne."