Shining Shadow

I woke up in the Golden Coin's plush bed, the kind of luxury that'd make a king jealous, but the silence was deafening. Bera, Tira, and Lila had stormed off to the Cultivation Tower, still pissed about that bandit stunt I pulled—seducing that prisoner for loot while they glared daggers. "Three days to cool off," Tira had snapped, her phoenix tattoo practically glowing with fury. Fine by me. I wasn't about to grovel. Chaos is my blood, and they knew it when they signed up. Still, the empty room gnawed at me, the curse's 30 kg weight dragging my bones like an anchor. I smirked, shaking it off. "Time to stir some shit, Tradewind."

The city hit me like a punch to the face—golden streets, Qi pulsing through every brick, and a hum of wealth that made my greedy heart skip. I wandered, letting the curse guide my steps, my Starforged Tunic humming faintly to ease the strain. My Cryonsteel-lined trousers—looted from that bandit camp—hugged my legs, cool and sleek, a Rare-grade prize that screamed "Supreme Elf."

The markets were a circus: traders barking about Starbloom Scepters, cultivators swinging Fire-etched Warhammers, beasts hauling Geodrite crates. But the women—gods, they were the real show. A Night Elf strutted by, her slit skirt flashing a thigh tattoo that'd make Varkoth blush—if snakes could blush. A draconian beauty flexed her scaled curves, hips swaying like a predator's dance. A human trader juggled coins and cleavage, winking as I leered. "Tradewind, you gorgeous bastard," I muttered, grinning ear to ear.

I needed something to kill time, so I hit the bookshops first. The first was a dusty pit, scrolls and tomes stacked to the ceiling, reeking of old parchment and Wood Qi. A gnome clerk squinted at me, his spectacles glinting. "What's an elf like you want?" I shrugged, leaning on the counter. "Swordsmanship, barehand brawling, Aeneria's history—hell, even cultivation basics. Something to keep me sharp." He scurried off, returning with a haul: Storm Technique: Advanced Forms, Barehand Brawling for the Bold, Aeneria's Bloody Past, and Cultivation for Dummies. I snorted at the last one. "Qi-blind, remember? But I'll take it for shits and giggles." I tossed him 10 Level 1 Spirit Stones, shoving the books into my spatial ring. "Pleasure doing business, shortstack."

Next, I stumbled into a tailor's shop, its windows draped in silks and leathers pulsing with faint Qi. A pair of boots caught my eye—black as a Shadow Panther's hide, silver stitching glinting like stars. "Rare-grade," the tailor said, stroking his beard. "Boosts agility and speed. Perfect for a man who moves like you." I slipped them on, the curse's weight easing a hair. Hot damn, they felt good. "How much?" I asked, already haggling in my head. "30 Level 5 Spirit Stones," he said, smirking. I laughed, leaning in. "30? For these? I've seen better on a Gromble's corpse. 15, or I walk." He bristled, but I kept at it, tossing insults and grins like daggers. "20, you silver-tongued devil," he finally growled, "but don't tell a soul." I slid him the Stones, lacing up my new prize. "Deal, old man. You're a saint."

The city library was my next stop—a stone giant carved with swirling runes, its shelves towering like mountains. I prowled the aisles, hunting for anything on High Elves, but the sections were barren. A curly-haired librarian—Milli, her name tag read—sauntered over, and I nearly dropped my jaw. Olive skin, gold-flecked eyes, curves that'd make Bera's fire dim. "Lost, handsome?" she purred, voice like honey. I flashed my best grin, leaning on the counter. "High Elves—got anything on 'em?" Her smile flickered, eyes darting like a cornered beast. "That's… forbidden history. You'd be smart not to ask around." My pulse kicked up. Forbidden? That's my catnip. "Sounds like trouble I'd enjoy. How about lunch? You talk, I listen." She hesitated, then nodded, blushing. "Somewhere private. Follow me."

We slipped into a tavern, its silk-draped walls and herb-scented smoke wrapping us in secrecy. Milli fidgeted, twisting a napkin. "High Elves are a ghost story," she whispered. "Their traces—gone. Books burned, their language lost to time. Ruins exist, scattered, but they're cursed—full of traps, beasts, restless souls. No one comes back right in the head." I leaned in, soaking it up like a kid at a campfire tale. "Why erase them?" She shook her head, voice trembling. "I don't know. Just… don't dig. It's not worth it." Her fear hit me like a brick, and I backed off, switching gears. "Fine, gorgeous. My turn." I spun tales of Opeka, my pranks, my chaos—skipping the steamy bits with the girls. Didn't need that getting back to Tira's ears. Milli laughed, her tension melting, eyes sparkling. "You're insane, Killyaen. But charming." I winked. "Born that way, Milli."

Before we split, I asked, "Know a quick way to earn Spirit Stones without missions?" She smirked. "The coliseum. Winners get rich—if they don't die." I kissed her hand, grinning as she stumbled off, cheeks red, swaying like a drunk. "Thanks, gorgeous. I owe you one."

The coliseum loomed like a stone god, its arches buzzing with Qi, the crowd's roar shaking the air. Inside, it was a damn city—tavern, blacksmith, alchemy shop, even a beast-taming stall. I hit the tavern, ordering ale and scoping the room. In the corner sat a grizzled fighter—scarred, one-eyed, silver mustache and goatee framing a Peak Master aura. I grabbed two ales and sauntered over. "Mind company, old-timer?" He grunted, eyeing me. "If you're buying." I slid him the ale. "Got questions about this place. How's it run?" He downed it, smirking. "Three more, and I'll sing." I laughed, ordering the round. "You're my kind of bastard."

He leaned back, voice like gravel. "Coliseum's simple: sign up, fight, win. Solo or team—your call. Opponents go from Novice to Grand Master. Prizes match the risk: Stones, gear, beasts. But it's a meat grinder. Seen men die for pocket change." I nodded, sipping. "The crowd?" He chuckled. "Love a spectacle—flashy moves, blood, shame. Feed 'em that, and you're gold." I grinned. "Chaos is my specialty." He raised his mug. "To the mad ones." We clinked, and I drained mine, gears turning.

On my way out, I passed the beast-taming stall. A Shadow Panther cub snarled in its cage, eyes like midnight. "Rare," the handler said. "Yours for 50 Level 5 Stones." Tempting, but I waved it off. "Maybe next time, furball."

Back at the inn, I hit the training yard. Varkoth uncoiled from my arm, his five-meter form stretching eagerly. "Father, let's play," he hissed, scales glinting red-black. I nodded, lacing my new boots. "Time to test these—and that Shadowstep from Zephyr." I darted, the boots making me a blur, Varkoth lunging with fangs bared. I dodged, grinning. "Too slow, snake!" He hissed, amused. "Father grows swift." We sparred for hours, my curse's strength clashing with his speed, sweat soaking my tunic.

That night, I sprawled on my bed, flipping through Storm Technique: Advanced Forms. Whirlwind Strike jumped out—a spinning slash that'd turn me into a living tornado. With the curse's weight, it'd hit like a goddamn siege engine. "Perfect," I muttered, drifting off, the book slipping from my hands. My split-leaf amulet stayed in the spatial ring—didn't need its nagging pulses tonight.