Opeka's autumn air bit with a crisp edge, the village settling into its post-festival rhythm of rattling carts and whispered tales. The Black Stone Tavern glowed like a beacon in the dusk, its stone walls humming with laughter and ale.
Killyaen, self-proclaimed Supreme Elf and Opeka's chaos maestro, was out back in the training field, gripping a wooden practice sword, his grin sharp enough to slice the wind. The Harvest Moon Festival's "Cursed Cat" ballad had etched his name deeper into village lore, and with Janko cowering—terrified another prank would shred his tattered "Cursed Cat" reputation—Killy's mischief hunted fresh targets. But first, he had a blade to conquer.
Goran, the seven-time Arena of Immortals champion, circled Killy, his broad frame a looming cliff. "Wind's Rebuke, no slop," he growled, tossing Killy a second wooden sword. "And learn Thunder's Edge—follows Rebuke, uses the curse's weight for a double-force slash. Pivot, then strike up."
He demonstrated, his blade cracking the air, swift despite his bulk. Killy mimicked, weaving through the grass, the curse's strain tugging his muscles. Wind's Rebuke was his now, the blade whistling as he spun, but Thunder's Edge was a beast—his first slashes wobbled, one nearly grazing his own ear.
"Focus, you idiot," Goran barked, parrying a clumsy strike. "Or you'll be scrubbing swords with your pride." Killy, sweat-soaked, pushed on, the curse's stamina fueling him past exhaustion.
By afternoon, Thunder's Edge sharpened, his upward slashes humming with power, the curse anchoring each blow. Goran's eye glinted with rare approval.
"Spar, now. Show me you're not just a loudmouth."The spar was a storm, wood clacking like thunderclaps. Killy danced, Wind's Rebuke flowing into Thunder's Edge, his curse steadying him against Goran's onslaught. The old warrior pressed, but Killy's cunning shone. Feinting left, he pivoted, slashing upward with Thunder's Edge, and—crack—Goran's wooden sword split, the top half thudding to the grass. Goran froze, then laughed, a deep bellow that shook the field. "First time you've got me, Supreme Elf," he said, clapping Killy's shoulder. "Don't let it swell your head."Killy, panting, grinned like he'd toppled a dragon. "Too late, old man!"
He strutted to the tavern, sore but smug, his mind already brewing chaos to keep Opeka's spirit alive. Janko's silence left a void—his fear of Killy's pranks kept him meek—but the village merchant, a portly tavern regular with a braying laugh and a weakness for ale, became Killy's muse.
The man often staggered home drunk, his barn housing a Dox—a lumbering beast, used for pulling carts or riding—left unguarded. Killy saw a canvas.
For two nights, Killy planned, scouting the merchant's barn under moonlight. The Dox, grey and wrinkled, snorted in its stall, its blunt snout twitching. Killy gathered his tools: a bucket of pig's blood from the butcher, reeking but fresh, and a spiral-horned Iklos horn, pilfered from a hunter's shed. The Iklos, enormous beast with hooves that shook the earth, had horns that curled like dark corkscrews, and this one, one feet long, gleamed faintly. Killy also nabbed a jar of pine sap for glue, sticky enough to hold but removable with effort.
On the third night, after the merchant wobbled home from the tavern, Killy struck.He crept into the barn, the curse's weight slowing his steps but not his nerve. The Dox stirred, its beady eyes glinting, but a handful of oats kept it calm. Working fast, Killy slathered the beast's hide with blood, painting jagged stripes that glistened like wounds in the dim light. He smeared the snout, leaving crimson streaks, and coated the legs, making it look like it had waded through a slaughter. The horn was trickier—Killy climbed a stall beam, sap jar in hand, and slathered the Dox's forehead, pressing the Iklos horn firm. It jutted absurdly, a spiral of menace on the placid creature.
By dawn, the Dox was a nightmare, the "Demonic Unicorn" as Killy dubbed it, snorting in its blood-streaked, horned glory. Morning unleashed pandemonium. The merchant's scream pierced the village, drawing a crowd to his barn. The Dox waddled out, horn wobbling, blood stripes gleaming, and the square exploded in laughter. Kids shrieked, pointing at the "Demon Dox," while Old Lady Mirna wailed, "It's cursed! Only a spiritual stone can save us!" Her cronies clutched shawls, muttering about Killy's "dark magic." Marko, at his forge, doubled over, his hammer forgotten. "Killy's outdone himself!" he gasped, as villagers swapped bets on how long the merchant would fume.
The man, red-faced, shook a fist, vowing to catch the culprit, but the Dox's placid chewing—horn tilting comically—only fueled the mirth. By noon, kids were chanting "Demon Dox! Demon Dox!" and drawing horned beasts in the dirt, while the merchant scrubbed his beast, cursing sap's stubborn grip.Killy, serving ale in the tavern, kept his grin neutral, though his eyes danced.
That same day, his mischief spiraled. In the tavern kitchen, Bera was baking bread, her apron flour-dusted, her dark curls spilling from her scarf. Killy lounged nearby, teasing her about her "secret pie recipe" and dodging her swats. While she stoked the oven, he slyly tied a strip of her skirt to the stove's handle with a loose knot, the fabric catching just enough. "You're a pest, Supreme Elf," Bera snapped, turning to knead dough.
Killy, grinning, pinched her backside, cackling as she roared and spun, wooden spoon raised.Bera chased him, fury blazing, but as she burst into the tavern's main room, the knot tugged, and her skirt tore free, leaving her in patched underwear and a thin apron. The apron, flour-streaked and slightly sheer, clung to her ample curves, her full breasts straining the fabric, barely concealed.
The tavern froze, then erupted. Most patrons—farmers, millers, a few rowdy travelers—hooted, sloshing ale, shouting, "Look at that!" and "Bera's stealing Killy's festival show!" But a quieter few, older regulars who'd watched Bera grow up, scowled, muttering, "She's like our daughter, that's shameful!" and "Killy's gone too far."
Bera's face flushed scarlet, her eyes welling with tears. She clutched the apron, mortified, and fled to the kitchen, her sobs echoing as the door slammed.
Killy's laughter died, his grin replaced by a rare pang of guilt. He'd meant a laugh, not this. Ignoring the patrons' cheers, he slipped into the kitchen, finding Bera by the oven, wiping tears with a rag, her apron still barely covering her. "Bera, I'm sorry," he said, voice low, no trace of his usual swagger. "I didn't think… I went too far."
He touched her shoulder gently, bracing for a slap. Bera turned, her eyes red but fierce, raising a fist. Killy closed his eyes, ready for the blow, but instead, her lips crashed into his—a quick, fierce kiss that stunned him silent.
The kitchen door creaked, and a cheer erupted. Patrons, crowded at the bar and peeking over the counter, had seen it all. "Impressive, Killy!" a farmer bellowed, as others clapped and whistled. "Baby elves comin' soon?!" a miller slurred, sparking a chant: "Elf babies! Elf babies!"
Bera, flushing deeper, shoved Killy away, her fist half-raised again, but a shy grin betrayed her. Killy, dazed, grinned back, ducking as she swatted him with the rag.
"Out, you menace!" she snapped, but her voice softened.
The tavern buzzed into the night, Killy serving ale under Goran's glare, dodging toasts about "elf babies" and Bera's half-hearted swipes. The square hummed with "Demon Dox" chants, Mirna's spiritual stone tales growing wilder, kids sketching horned beasts. Janko, skulking by his barn, stayed silent, his fear of Killy's pranks a heavy chain.
Killy, bruised from training, stung by guilt, and buzzing from Bera's kiss, felt alive. Another day in Opeka, another legend carved