The teleportation array in Forgehold's Formation Guild hums with a low, electric buzz, its Geodrite runes glowing faintly under the cavernous ceiling. I'm standing in the center, my gray-dyed hair tucked under a plain hood, playing the part of Zeno, the unassuming half-elf from Solspire. The weight of N'Nazmuz's curse—30 kilograms of invisible pressure—tugs at my limbs, making every step feel like I'm wading through mud. My stamina's already burning, but the thrill of hitting the road to Zortag keeps my grin sharp. The guild's Middle Scholar Earth cultivator, a wiry guy with a permanent scowl, eyes my forged papers and mutters about the cost. "Twenty Level 3 Spirit Stones for Rodenta," he says, voice flat. I wince—Brakus wasn't kidding about teleport fees for distant jumps. I slip the stones from my spatial ring, careful not to flash its contents. Nobody sees what's in there, not even this nosy guild rat. The array flares, and the world dissolves into a blur of light.
Rodenta hits me like a slap of cold wind. The border city squats at the edge of Adena's northern plains, its walls a mix of Geodrite and weathered stone, dwarfed by the Stormveil Range's jagged cliffs. The air's crisp, laced with the scent of pine and distant snow. My legs wobble as the curse's weight settles back in, draining my stamina faster than I'd like. I grit my teeth, forcing a swagger as I head to the Beast Tamer Guild to fetch my Zorath.
The guild's a ramshackle barn, stinking of hay and beast musk. My three beasts—Varkoth, Stinky, and Bertil—are safe in their beast ring, but I need a ride, not a fight. A gruff Beginner Master Earth cultivator hands me the reins of a Zorath, its sleek, four-legged frame rippling with muscle, horns glinting like polished Zenoite. I've ridden these beasts plenty, so I swing onto its back with ease, ignoring the curse's drag. Duskwind's my next stop, across the border in Eryndor. Time to move.
The trail to the border is a rocky slog through pine-dotted hills, the Stormveil Range looming like a grumpy giant. The Zorath's hooves kick up dust, and I keep my eyes peeled for trouble. Brakus's words echo: "You're a ghost, Zeno. No Supreme Elf antics." Easier said than done. My mind drifts to Tira's fiery hug in the cave, her phoenix tattoo glowing like a beacon. I shake it off, focusing on the path. The curse makes every bounce in the saddle feel like I'm hauling a boulder, but my training's hardened me—my arms could probably snap a Zenoite Krovar's neck by now. Still, I'm panting by midday, my stamina leaking like a cracked barrel. I pause to rest, letting the Zorath graze. The curse's passive perk kicks in, a faint warmth spreading through my muscles, easing the ache and stitching up minor scrapes from the ride. It's not much, but it keeps me moving.
By dusk, I reach the Eryndor border, a narrow pass marked by a crumbling watchtower. A squad of Middle Expert Wind cultivators—Eryndor's border patrol—eyes me warily. Their leader, a lanky woman with a Tempestite spear, scans my papers. "Zeno from Solspire, huh?" she says, her voice sharp as her weapon. I flash a grin, tossing in a wink for good measure. "Just passing through, gorgeous. Got business in Duskwind." Her eyes narrow, but she waves me through, muttering about "cocky travelers." I chuckle, urging the Zorath forward. The curse slows my movements, but my charm's still quick.
Duskwind's a speck of a city, all low stone buildings and wind-whipped banners, nestled in a valley where Eryndor's plains meet the tundras. The Formation Guild here's smaller, its array barely glowing under a Beginner Scholar Fire cultivator's watch. I hand over another twenty Level 3 Spirit Stones—my ring's feeling lighter already—and teleport to Glimmerfen, Vyris's trade hub. The jump leaves me dizzy, the curse's weight slamming back like a punch.
Glimmerfen's a beast of a city, its streets buzzing with merchants, airships humming overhead, and the scent of Starpetal and roasted Gromble filling the air. I weave through the crowd, my plain cloak blending in, though I can't resist eyeing a curvy vendor in a tight Lunargent skirt. Focus, Zeno. I've got a caravan to catch in Sendom.
Another teleport, another twenty Level 3 Spirit Stones. Sendom's a dusty outpost in Vyris's southern reaches, all cracked earth and squat adobe huts.
The Formation Guild's a shack, manned by a bored Middle Expert Earth cultivator who barely glances at my papers. The caravan's waiting at the edge of town, a ragtag line of wagons loaded with Geodrite, Teridian, and crates of Spirit Stones. The leader, a grizzled Peak Grand Master Fire cultivator named Torvald, sizes me up. "You're Zeno?" he grunts, his beard flecked with ash. "Brakus says you're good with a blade. Stay sharp. We're hauling wealth, and that draws vultures." I nod, patting the Magnetism-infused dagger and Icethorn Dagger tucked under my cloak. My Sky Qi amulet hums faintly against my chest, a small comfort against the curse's drag.
The caravan rolls out at dawn, a dozen wagons creaking under the weight of goods, guarded by twenty cultivators—mostly Middle Experts to Peak Scholars, a mix of Fire, Earth, and Wind. I ride my Zorath alongside, keeping to the rear. The trail to Zortag cuts through Vyris's scrublands, a flat expanse of cracked earth and thorny Starpetal bushes. The curse makes every hour in the saddle a grind, my stamina burning faster than a Fire Qi flare. I grit my teeth, focusing on the rhythm of the Zorath's gait. Torvald's second-in-command, a Middle Scholar Wind cultivator named Kess, rides up beside me. She's all sharp angles and sharper eyes, her Zephyrine whip coiled at her hip. "You're too quiet, Zeno," she says, smirking. "Expected more from Brakus's man. Got any stories to keep me awake?"
I grin, the Supreme Prankster itching to surface. "Oh, I've got stories, Kess. Ever hear about the time I rigged a tavern's ale barrels with Glowvine sap? Whole place lit up like a Sun's Ascent festival." She laughs, her whip twitching like it's tempted to lash me. "Keep that nonsense away from my wagon," she warns, but her eyes sparkle. I lean closer, the curse slowing my movement but not my charm. "No promises, gorgeous. Chaos follows me like a Shadow Panther." She rolls her eyes, but there's a flush on her cheeks. Score one for Zeno.
Three days into the trek, trouble hits. We're camped in a dry gulch, the wagons circled, when the air crackles with hostile intent. A pack of mercenaries, their black cloaks marked with a crimson claw sigil. The Blazefang Clan, Torvald spits, a rogue outfit known for hitting caravans. Their leader, a Peak Legend Fire cultivator named Varkis, steps forward, his Lavastone axe glowing red. "Hand over the cargo, and we might let you limp away," he sneers. Torvald's Fire Qi flares, but I can tell he's outmatched. The mercenaries number thirty, a mix of Middle Scholars to Beginner Legends, their weapons gleaming with Teridian and Aurorium.
I grip my daggers, the Magnetism-infused one humming faintly, the Icethorn's chill biting my palm. The curse drags at my arms, but I've trained for this. Torvald barks orders, and the caravan's cultivators form a defensive line. Kess's whip snaps, sending a Wind Qi gust that scatters the first wave of attackers. I dive into the fray, my daggers flashing. The Magnetism-infused blade pulls a mercenary's steel sword off course, letting me sink the Icethorn into his shoulder. He howls, dropping his weapon, and I kick him into the dust. The curse slows my dodge as a Beginner Legend Earth cultivator swings a Geodrite hammer at me. I roll, barely avoiding a crushed skull, and counter with a Heaven Splitter strike, my curse-enhanced strength driving the Icethorn Dagger through his armor. The 30 kilograms of pressure makes my swing sluggish but heavy, and he collapses, groaning.
The battle's chaos—Fire Qi blasts light up the night, Earth Qi walls rise and crumble, Wind Qi howls like a storm. Kess is a whirlwind, her whip slicing through mercenaries like a Zephyrine blade. Torvald's Fire Qi roars, but Varkis's Lavastone axe matches him blow for blow. We're losing ground. Two wagons are ablaze, and three of our cultivators are down, blood soaking the dirt. My stamina's fading fast, the curse draining me with every move. I grit my teeth, tossing a Zenoite Sparkler—a gadget I rigged with scavenged shards—into a cluster of mercenaries. It explodes in a shower of sparks, blinding them long enough for Kess to lash their legs, dropping them like sacks of Gromble fat.
Then Varkis lands a hit on Torvald, his axe carving a gash across the old man's chest. Torvald staggers, his Fire Qi flickering. I curse, ducking a mercenary's Aurorium spear, and drive my Magnetism-infused dagger into his thigh, twisting until he screams. We're outnumbered, and I can feel the tide turning against us. That's when the air shifts, a pulse of Sky Qi so potent it makes my skin prickle. A figure drops from the cliffs above, cloaked in Starforged Etherium, their bow glowing with astral light.
A Peak Heavenly Lord Sky cultivator—our hidden ace, hired by Torvald to tail the caravan. Their arrows rain down, each one a streak of blue-white energy that pierces mercenary armor like paper. Varkis roars, charging the newcomer, but a single arrow catches him in the shoulder, sending him sprawling. The Blazefang Clan scatters, their morale broken, and the survivors flee into the night.
The caravan's a mess—four wagons destroyed, five cultivators dead, and Torvald's bleeding out. The Sky cultivator, a woman with eyes like storm clouds, kneels beside him, her hands glowing with healing Sky Qi. "You're lucky I was watching," she says, her voice calm but sharp. Torvald grunts, wincing as his wound knits. I slump against a wagon, the curse's weight crushing me now that the adrenaline's fading. My muscles ache, but the curse's passive healing kicks in, easing the bruises and cuts from the fight. Kess limps over, her whip still in hand. "Not bad, Zeno," she says, smirking despite a gash on her arm. "Thought you'd be all talk." I flash a grin, too tired to flirt properly. "Give me a minute, Kess. I'll have you blushing again."
We spend the next day salvaging what's left. The surviving wagons are loaded with Geodrite and Spirit Stones, but we've lost half our cargo. Torvald's stable, thanks to the Sky cultivator, who introduces herself as Lyria. She's all business, her Starforged bow slung across her back. "Zortag's still a week out," she says. "We move light and fast now. No more stops unless we have to." I nod, checking my daggers. The Magnetism-infused one's edge is chipped, but the Icethorn's still sharp. My spatial ring holds my other gear—safe, unseen, and none of Lyria's business. I scavenge what I can from the battlefield: a few Teridian shards, a cracked Aurorium dagger, and a vial of Moonflower sap from a dead mercenary's pouch. Consumable, per the world's rules, but useful for my next gadget.
The caravan limps on, the mood grim. Kess rides closer now, her whip coiled but ready. "You're trouble, Zeno," she says one night, her voice low as we share a fire. "But the good kind." I chuckle, leaning back, the curse's weight easing slightly as I rest. "Trouble's my middle name, Kess. Stick around, and I'll show you chaos." She snorts, but there's a spark in her eyes.
The road to Zortag's still long, and I'm not there yet, but every step feels like I'm inching closer to something big. Not that I care much about destiny—right now, I'm just happy to be alive, with Kess's smirk and a new gadget idea brewing.