The western ridge stabbed the dawn like a shattered sword, shale grinding under my boots, thorns clawing my cloak. My mithril swords—Wind's Rebuke and Thunder's Edge—hummed in my spatial ring. Bera and Tira were locked in the Cultivation Tower, chasing Peak Master Earth like it was their damn birthright, and Lila was off gods-know-where, probably swindling a lord.
One day till the auction, my 10 Level 4 Spirit Stones and 170 Level 1s burning for that Veilstone Sword. This Wyrm hunt—20 Level 3 Spirit Stones, plus scales and Glowvine to sell—would stuff my coin.
Damn curse dragged 30 kg on my bones, but I'd rather bleed than sit. Zephyr's black fur melded with the shadows, his moon-cold eyes scanning the ridge.
"Move faster, elf," he said, voice sharp as a claw."Faster?" I grinned. "I'll be selling your pelt by noon, cat."He snorted, tail flicking. "Your greed outtalks your blades."
We climbed, the air heavy with Void-taint, like oil in my throat. The Wyrm's Glowvine nest was near, its rot-and-ether stench stinging my nose.
My scavenging knack twitched—rare loot was close. But before I could boast, a dagger hissed past my ear, thunking into a rock. I spun, curse slowing my turn, and saw two figures drop from a ledge—mercenaries, eyes glinting with murder.
"Ambush," Zephyr growled, claws bared.The first, a Middle Knight Wind rogue, darted in, twin daggers flashing. The second, a Peak Knight Fire brute, lumbered behind, his axe glowing red-hot. Hired blades, but for who? I drew my mithril swords, their hum cutting the mist. The rogue lunged, daggers aiming for my throat. I parried with Wind's Rebuke, my feet gouging ruts in the shale—curse's weight anchoring me.
Sparks flew, and I slashed Thunder's Edge, nicking his arm. He hissed, quick as a viper, but I'm no prey.
"Your dad throw knives this bad?" I taunted, dodging another dagger, my boots scarring the ground.Zephyr shadow-stepped, claws ripping into the brute. The axe grazed his flank, but Zephyr's growl was ice.
"He'd gut you faster," he said, tearing the brute's chest open. Blood sprayed, hot and coppery. The rogue came at me, daggers weaving. I leaped—curse digging my landing deep—and swung Heaven Splitter, cracking one of his blades. He stumbled, and I slammed my shoulder into him, curse-forged strength hurling him into a cliff. He crumpled, groaning.
Zephyr pinned the brute, claws at his throat. "Who sent you?" His voice was like a blade.The brute spat blood. "Auction bidder… wants the elf's bid stopped. Veilstone Sword's his."I grinned, wiping blood from my cheek.
"Flattered. Spill, or I carve you into boots."
"Shadowveil Clan," he choked. "That's all."Zephyr's claw pressed deeper. "Lie, and you're meat."
"Truth!" the brute gasped. Zephyr knocked him out, skull cracking on stone.
I crouched, yanking the rogue's spatial ring, then the brute's. Greed's my fire—why waste loot? The rogue's ring held 50 Level 1 Spirit Stones, 10 Level 2s, a short sword (5 gold), and two healing potions, murky but strong. The brute's had 30 Level 1s, 5 Level 2s, a fire-etched dagger (10 gold), and one potion. I pocketed it all, ring heavier, grin wider.
"Thieves' treasure," I said, tossing Zephyr a Level 2 Spirit Stone. "Finder's fee."He caught it, eyes steady.
"You miss no coin."We bound the mercenaries with Glowvine scraps, leaving them for the patrol.
Shadowveil Clan, huh? Rich pricks, scared I'd outbid their silk-pants boss. Good. Fear meant I was winning.
"Enemies already," Zephyr said, cleaning his claws. "You're a threat."
"Let 'em come," I said, sheathing my blades. "I'll sell their gear too."
We reached a ravine, the Wyrm's Glowvine nest pulsing with Void energy, green tendrils coiling like veins. The beast—Middle Master Darkness, scales like obsidian, eyes like dying stars—lurked in the center, tail lashing shale loose. It roared, mist swirling, and charged. I leaped, feet cratering the ground, and swung Thunder's Edge. Scales sparked, tough as iron, but my curse-forged strength held. Zephyr shadow-stepped, claws raking its eyes. It shrieked, tail whipping. I dodged—curse slowing me, heart pounding—but took a hit on my arm, bone jarring but whole. Stamina's my edge.
"Flank it!" Zephyr barked, dodging a bite."Flank your old man!" I shot back, rolling under a tail swipe, my landing gouging earth. I slashed Wind's Rebuke, chipping a scale. Zephyr's claws tore a gash, black ichor oozing. The Wyrm thrashed, snapping Glowvine. I poured everything into Heaven Splitter, mithril blades singing, and carved through its belly. It collapsed, scales clattering.
My legs burned, curse dragging, but I stood, grinning."Strong cut," Zephyr said, panting. "Your grit delivers."
"Told you I'm a legend," I said, wiping ichor from my blades.
We harvested—7 kg of Wyrm scales, worth 21 Level 2 Spirit Stones. 4 kg of Glowvine, glowing like moonlit veins, good for 20 Level 2s. A Wyrm Fang, sharp as my wit, could fetch 4 Level 3s. My scavenging eye caught a glint—Zenoite, 8 kg, worth 8 Level 2s. I chipped it free, ring groaning with loot."Your nose for treasure," Zephyr said. "It's real."
"Stick with me, cat," I said, hefting the Zenoite. "We'll own Crestmoore."
Dusk painted Crestmoore's streets gold as we hit The Iron Bloom. The barkeep slid us tankards, eyes wide at our ichor-stained gear. We split the 20 Level 3 Spirit Stones—10 each, heavy in my palm. Add the mercenaries' loot—80 Level 1s, 15 Level 2s, a sword, a dagger, three potions—and I was swimming in wealth.
Tomorrow's auction would be a bloodbath, and I'd be the blade.
"You draw enemies," Zephyr said, sipping water. "Good. You're dangerous."I raised my tankard. "Danger's my middle name. Well, that and 'Gold-Hound.'"
A mercenary leaned over, voice low. "Heard you hit the Wyrm. Shadowveil's got a bounty on you—500 gold, dead or alive. Want a lead on their bidder? 50 gold cut."I scoffed, tankard slamming down.
"500 gold? A lizard scale fetches 600! My head's worth more than a damn reptile's hide!" I thumped my chest, voice booming. "When Crestmoore hears of my talents, I'll be worth a mountain of Spirit Stones!"Zephyr's lips twitched—a rare smile.
"Your only talent is attracting trouble and similar shit."
I laughed, spotting Vira entering, blonde hair glowing under the lamplight. A prank sparked. "Hey, kitty," I said, leaning close. "Wanna bet? First to bed that blonde wins 10 Level 2 Spirit Stones from the loser."Zephyr eyed Vira, confident. "20."
"Done!" I grinned.
"You go first, kitty. I'll sit in the corner so my shine doesn't steal her eyes."
Zephyr didn't know Vira and I were tight. He sauntered over, all alpha swagger, and purred something low. Vira laughed, sharp and loud. "Allergic to fur, sorry!" Zephyr froze, tail stiff, and slunk back, eyes blazing. I locked that line—fur allergy—for future jabs.My turn.
I strolled up, grabbed Vira's hand, and planted a kiss on her cheek.
"Miss me, blonde?" She smirked, and I dragged her upstairs, no words needed. The night was loud—bedsprings creaking, walls shaking, my curse-fueled stamina unstoppable. Zephyr, perched on the tavern roof, ears flat, fumed. How did that trouble-magnet elf outshine an alpha like him? How long could Killyaen keep going? He growled, cursing his lost bet and that smug elf's endless energy.
Morning light crept in, Vira gone, my grin wide. I found Zephyr downstairs, tossing him a mocking wink.
"Fur allergy, huh? Pay up, kitty." He slid 20 Level 2 Spirit Stones over, scowl deep.The mercenary was still there. "25 gold for your lead," I said."40," he smirked.Zephyr's claw tapped. "30. Speak, or bleed."The mercenary paled. "Deal. Name's Varko, runs Shadowveil's bids. Hides in Starveil Auction House, private box. Guards—Peak Knight Wind, two of 'em."I tossed 30 gold, mind racing.
Varko, huh? Crash his box, scare him off the sword, maybe loot his guards. Zephyr's eyes met mine."We scout him," he said. "Before the auction. No errors."
"Scout?" I laughed. "I'll spook him into gifting me the sword."Zephyr's lips twitched—damn near a smile.
"Fool. Don't die."I clinked my tankard to his claw. "Die? I'm too rich. Tomorrow, we rattle Varko, then buy Crestmoore with Wyrm loot."The ridge's blood, the Wyrm's scales, Shadowveil's pathetic bounty—it screamed one thing: Killyaen was no pawn. Curse or not, I'd carve my name in gold, and Zephyr's claws would help me do it.