Shining Shadow

The Ironfang Tavern was a furnace of noise and sweat, but I thrived in its chaos. A week stretched before N'Nazmuz's arrival, and I wasn't one to sit idle. My mornings were for blades, my days for books, my nights for secrets—but today, I craved the market.

Forgehold's Starveil Market sprawled like a beast, its Zenoite stalls pulsing with Fire, Sky, and Magnetism Qi. My scavenging greed itched, and my spatial ring—Goran's old gift, now stuffed with loot—felt too light for what lay ahead. Zortag's ruins loomed in my mind, their Star Qi flicker a siren's call. I needed supplies, potions, and anything to sharpen my edge.

I slipped through Forgehold's gates at dawn, the Aurorium light glinting off my black-dyed agility boots. The curse—N'Nazmuz's 30-kilogram weight—dragged at me, but my enhanced strength turned each step into a stride. My gray-dyed hair and plain cloak kept me Zeno, half-elf from Solaria, not Killyaen, the Qi-Less Demon. Wanted posters still lingered—100 Level 5 Spirit Stones for my head—but the Third Prince's hunt had dulled. I kept my Magnetism-infused and Icethorn daggers sheathed, my Sky Qi amulet humming faintly against my chest. The market awaited.

Starveil Market was a riot of color and power. Stalls lined Zenoite-tiled streets, their wares shimmering: Firebloom petals, Crystal Dust vials, Geodrite chunks. Cultivators haggled—Fire Scholars barking, Sky Experts gliding, Magnetism rogues whispering. I weaved through, my journal itching for notes. First stop: an alchemist's stall, its owner a wiry Earth cultivator with a scar splitting his brow. His table groaned with herbs—Razorvine, Bloodthorn, Starpetal—and tools. My eyes locked on a Starforged mortar and pestle, its edges glowing faintly with Star Qi. "How much?" I asked, voice low.

"50 Level 5 Spirit Stones," he grunted, eyeing my cloak. "No less."

I smirked, my greed sparking. "30, and I throw in a Frostfang." I slid an Uncommon-grade Ice Qi tooth from my ring, its chill biting the air. His eyes widened—he knew its worth. We settled at 35 Level 5s and the Frostfang. The mortar and pestle vanished into my spatial ring, alongside a massive Cryonsteel cauldron I snagged for 40 Level 5s from a neighboring stall. Its weight barely registered in the ring's void. I stocked up on alchemy supplies: 1 kg of Starpetal (20 Level 4s), 2 kg of Razorvine (15 Level 4s), and 500 g of Moonglow Moss (10 Level 4s). My Basics of Alchemy would get a workout tonight.

Next, a rare items shop, its Zenoite sign pulsing with Star Qi. The keeper, a Peak Master Sky cultivator, floated behind a counter lined with treasures: Mythical-grade Starlight Gauntlets, Legendary-grade Voidfrost Blades, Common-grade Firebloom Charms. My greed screamed, but my 525 gold coins and dwindling Spirit Stones mocked me. I eyed my spatial ring's contents—my Sky-infused bow, useless to me now, and the Crystalline Shield, a Rare-grade relic I'd never used. "Trade?" I asked, sliding the bow onto the counter.

The keeper's eyes flickered. "Rare-grade, Sky Qi. Decent." He offered 80 Level 5s. I countered with the shield, pointing to a belt shimmering with faint Luck Qi. "That instead." Its price tag read 200 Level 5s—steep, but luck could tip Zortag's scales. He hesitated, then nodded. The shield and bow vanished; the Luck-infused belt joined my ring. I caught a gleam in the corner: Luminite wire, thin as a whisper, strong as Cryonsteel. Perfect for my Vortex Strike—Zenoite wire snapped too often. I added razor-sharp Luminite blades to it, costing 80 Level 5s. A final find: Magmabronze spikes, Rare-grade, their heat pulsing. I grabbed 10 for 50 Level 4s, ideal for scattering in a fight to burn and impale.

The market's Mythical-grade wares taunted me—Starveil Cloaks, Celestial Blades—but their prices were a dream. I left with 395 Level 5s, 52 Level 4s, and a heavier ring, my greed sated for now. Back at the tavern, I prepped for Yellowoak Forest. Varkoth, Stinky, and Bertil needed to stretch, and I needed them sharp for Zortag.

Yellowoak's golden leaves rustled as I released my beasts. Varkoth's five-meter coils slithered, his Middle Master Darkness Qi cloaking him in shadow. Stinky, now a Beginner Expert Earth beetle the size of a small Gromble, churned the soil, his Emerald carapace gleaming. Bertila, my Middle Novice Crystal Silver Queen Mantis, leaped to a Peak Novice Crystal, her blades chiming as she sliced a branch. "Showoffs," I muttered, tossing them special grains and smoked Gromble meat. Varkoth hissed, "Father trains weaklings?" I grinned, flipping a dagger. "Keep up, snake."

We trained hard. Varkoth's Dread Glare froze a Glowmouse mid-scurry; Stinky's burrowing charges cracked boulders; Bertil's crystal strikes sparked off my Icethorn dagger. I practiced Whirlwind Strike, the Luminite wire humming as I spun, its blades a deadly blur. The Magmabronze spikes scorched the earth when I tested them, their heat lingering. "Zortag's coming," I told them. "Tunnels, traps, ruins. You ready?" Varkoth's eyes glinted. "We feast on shadows, Father." Stinky chittered, Bertil clicked—my crew was primed.

Back at the Ironfang, I worked the bar, the curse dragging but my stamina potions easing it. I brewed in my room, grinding Starpetal and Razorvine into Uncommon-grade salves—stamina, strength, and a new healing brew. My journal filled with tavern gossip: a smuggler's cache in Zortag, a noble's affair, a Voidfrost Wyrm sighting. N'Nazmuz's shadow loomed, his meeting a ticking clock. I'd be ready—blades sharp, potions stocked, beasts fierce.