Killyaen, self-proclaimed Supreme Elf and Opeka's exiled chaos deity, swayed atop his Zorath, two days into the month-long trek through Solarija's wilds to Adena. His thigh gash, rib burn, and grazed arm from the Zenoite Krovar fight were faint scars, leaving him spry and cockier than a Flaevyn strutting through Opeka. "Bera's pot's calling my sword," he muttered, grinning.
His spatial ring gleamed, packed with twin swords (Wind's Rebuke, Thunder's Edge), Krovar scales, moozze tails, the blue shard pulsing with First Altar whispers, and Goran's Teridian dagger—ready to jab Brakus about "screwing weapons." The shard's glow nagged him, but Killy, qi-blind, shrugged it off. His groin guard, etched "Supreme Sword Sleeps Here," chafed, sparking filthy thoughts. "Broom Queen," he sighed, "my blade's weeping for your spoon."
Solarija's plains sprawled, gnarled trees humming with qi-beast roars. Alone, Killy missed his marks—Janko's scowl, Goran's bellows, Bera's taunts. "No one to prank," he grumbled, scratching his braid. "This Zorath's fouler than the Cursed Cat, but it's dull." The beast snorted, scales glinting, as if mocking. Killy patted it, smirking. "Don't tempt me, scaley. I'd slather you in Gromble oil, but you'd chew my braid."
On the second evening, stars piercing Solarija's sky, Killy spotted smoke curling like a moozze tail in a forest—campfire glow beckoning. His grin flashed, gold-flecked eyes gleaming. "Boredom's dead!" he whispered, tying his Zorath to a tree, its hooves pawing dirt.
Killy crept through brush, nimble as a moozze, until he perched in a tree's crown overlooking a camp. Two tents sagged by a fire, four warrior-tier cultivators—hardened men in leather, swords and qi-aura faint but real—lounging, passing a jug, laughter rough. "Tough bastards," Killy mused, qi-blind but sharp. "Drunk, but not Janko-level soft. Time for terror."
The Supreme Elf's mind churned, plotting a prank to eclipse Opeka's shrine and break these warriors' nerve. From his ring, he pulled moozze tails, Gromble oil, a Flaevyn skull, and Zenoite dust, plus a steel wire from Marko's forge. "Let's make 'em think death's knocking," he chuckled. Sneaking closer, he rigged a wire across the camp's edge, taut and neck-high, coated in oil to glint like a qi-blade. He tied moozze tails to vines, doused in oil and dust, to whip up like specters. The Flaevyn skull, carved with Zenoite to glow blood-red, hung above the fire, rigged to drop. He smeared oil on logs and stuffed moozze tails into a tent, ready to ignite. For the finale, he rigged a branch to snap, mimicking a qi-beast's charge.
Back in his tree, Killy yanked the vines.The camp became a nightmare. Moozze tails lashed, Zenoite dust swirling like blood-mist. The skull plummeted, screaming as oil-soaked cloth ignited, its red glow pulsing. Killy tossed oil-logs into the fire, unleashing a stench like a Gromble corpse, flames flaring green from Zenoite. The wire glinted, and a cultivator—lurching up—ran into it, the steel slicing his neck, blood spraying as he fell, screaming, head nearly severed. "Qi-assassin!" he gurgled, clutching his throat. Another tripped on a vine, a burning moozze tail whipping his face, searing his cheek. "Demon's curse!" he howled, staggering. Killy snapped the branch, its crack echoing like an Iklos charge. He roared, voice warped: "The Supreme Elf reaps your souls!" The tent ignited, moozze tails bursting in a screeching blaze.The cultivators broke. "We're dead!" one screamed, sword slashing air, blood streaming from his face. The near-decapitated man crawled, choking, as another dragged him, abandoning gear. The fourth pissed himself, bolting blind, crashing into a tree.
They fled, screams fading into Solarija's depths. Killy, hidden in the canopy, laughed so hard he nearly fell, clutching a branch. "Opeka's shrine was big, but this? I'm a nightmare god!" he gasped, sides aching from glee.
When silence fell, Killy dropped to the camp, grinning. He rummaged through the wreckage, grabbing two steel daggers, a heavy coin pouch, a charred ale jug, and a leather satchel. Inside, wrapped in singed cloth, was a fist-sized egg, its shell pulsing, warm, alive. "What in Bera's curves?" he muttered, gold eyes wide. "A Zorath spawn? Something worse?"
Shrugging, he stuffed it in the ring with the loot, snagging a bloodied boot for laughs. "Brakus might know, or I'll scare some sect fool with it," he said, kicking dirt over the embers. He slipped back to his Zorath, stashing everything in the ring, grinning. "Those warriors'll think a moozze demon ate their souls."
Killy rode into the night, the egg's warmth nagging, the shard's glow heavier. "Adena, you better be ready," he said, whistling "Cursed Cat," Solarija's wilds swallowing his laughter. Behind him, the forest reeked of blood and Gromble, the camp a monument to the Supreme Elf's terror.