The caravan's a battered shadow of what it was, rolling through Vyris's scrublands like a wounded beast. Four wagons burned to ash in the Blazefang Clan's attack, leaving us with eight creaking survivors, their Geodrite and Spirit Stone cargo rattling under patched tarps.
Torvald, still pale from his wound, barks orders to move fast—Lyria's orders, really. The Peak Heavenly Lord Sky cultivator rides ahead, her Starforged bow glinting in the sun, scouting for threats. The curse's 30 kilograms of pressure drags at my limbs, making every bounce on my Zorath's saddle feel like I'm hauling a Zenoite boulder. My stamina's burning, but the thought of Zortag's gates keeps me grinning. Brakus's gravelly voice echoes in my head: "Zortag's a fortress carved into a cliff, Killy. Districts walled off tight—civilian, mining, military, noble, trade, central, and a massive farmland hugging the mountain's base. You'll see it from the ridge." I shake off the memory, urging my Zorath to keep pace with the caravan's frantic clip. No more stops. No more vultures.
The scrublands stretch endless, all cracked earth and thorny Starpetal bushes that snag my cloak. The air's dry, tasting of dust and faint Gromble fat from the wagons' cooking fires. Kess rides beside me, her Zephyrine whip coiled at her hip, her sharp eyes scanning the horizon. "You're sweating like a Gromble in a forge, Zeno," she teases, her smirk cutting through the tension. The curse is eating my stamina, but I flash a grin. "Just warming up for you, Kess. Gotta keep those curves in my sights." She snorts, her cheeks flushing slightly, and flicks her whip just close enough to make me flinch. "Keep dreaming, prankster." Her Wind Qi hums faintly, and I can't help but admire her control. Middle Scholar Wind—she's no pushover. The curse slows my dodge, but my charm's still quick.
We push hard for days, the caravan's pace brutal. Lyria's Sky Qi keeps us safe, her arrows ready to drop anything that moves wrong. My muscles scream under the curse's weight, but I've trained for this. Every night, when we camp, the curse's passive healing kicks in, knitting up bruises and easing the ache in my bones. It's a small mercy, like a sip of ale after a brawl. Torvald's wound is holding, thanks to Lyria's Sky Qi, but he's grumpier than a Zenoite Krovar with a thorn in its paw. "Zortag's close," he growls one evening, pointing to a distant ridge. "We hit that crest, you'll see the city. Keep your daggers sharp, Zeno." I nod, patting my Magnetism-infused dagger and Icethorn Dagger, both tucked under my cloak. The chipped Magnetism blade still hums, and the Icethorn's chill keeps my hand steady. My spatial ring hides the rest of my gear—nobody's business but mine.
The days blur into a haze of dust and hoofbeats. Kess keeps me sane, trading jabs and stories. "Ever pull a prank in a city like Zortag?" she asks one afternoon, her whip twitching like it's itching to lash something. I grin, the Supreme Prankster stirring. "Not yet, but I'm thinking a Glowvine-sap bomb in their trade district could light up the night." She laughs, loud and free, and for a second, I forget the curse's drag. "You're trouble, Zeno," she says, her eyes sparkling. "Good trouble." I wink, leaning closer despite the curse slowing me. "Stick around, Kess. I'll show you chaos." Her smirk widens, and I'm half-tempted to push my luck, but Lyria's sharp whistle snaps us back to the trail. Focus, Killy.
On the fifth day, trouble sniffs us out again. Not Blazefang Clan this time—just a pack of rogue mercenaries, their cloaks unmarked, probably outcasts from Vyris's slums. They hit us at dawn, a dozen strong, mostly Beginner Scholars to Middle Experts, wielding Teridian spears and Zephyrine blades. Torvald's Fire Qi roars, torching the first wave, but they've got numbers. I grip my daggers, the curse making my arms feel like lead. A Middle Expert Earth cultivator charges me, his Geodrite mace swinging. I duck, slower than I'd like, and slash with the Icethorn Dagger, its chill biting through his leather armor. He stumbles, and I follow with a Heaven Splitter strike, the curse's 30 kilograms of pressure driving my Magnetism-infused dagger into his chest. The blow's heavy, my enhanced strength making up for the sluggish speed. He drops, and I'm already moving, tossing a Zenoite Sparkler into a cluster of mercenaries. The sparks blind them, and Kess's whip lashes out, Wind Qi slicing their legs.
Lyria ends it before it gets ugly. Her Sky Qi arrows rain down, each one a streak of astral light that pierces armor and bone. The mercenaries scatter, leaving two dead and a scattering of loot—some silver, a few Level 1 Spirit Stones, and a cracked Tempestite knife. I scavenge what I can, slipping the stones and knife into my spatial ring. Consumable, gone once used, but they'll come in handy. Torvald claps my shoulder, wincing from his half-healed wound. "Good work, Zeno. You're earning your keep." I grin, but my stamina's shot, the curse draining me dry. I slump against my Zorath, letting the curse's passive healing ease the cuts and bruises from the fight. Kess tosses me a waterskin, her smirk softer now. "Don't die on me, prankster," she says. I wink, gulping the water. "Not a chance, gorgeous."
The ridge comes into view on the seventh day, a steep climb that tests my Zorath's stamina as much as mine. The curse makes every step a slog, but the promise of Zortag keeps me moving. We crest the hill at dusk, and there it is—Zortag, sprawled like a beast carved into the mountainside. Brakus's description didn't do it justice. The city's a fortress, its Geodrite and mithril walls glinting under the fading sun, built into a cliff that towers over the valley. Districts fan out like a half-moon, each walled off tight, their gates guarded by cultivators I can't quite gauge. The civilian district's a maze of stone houses and smoky taverns, buzzing with life. The mining-forging district belches smoke, its forges glowing red with Pyroclast and Teridian. The military district bristles with barracks and training yards, spears catching the light. The noble district sits high, its spires of Luminite and Starforged Etherium gleaming like they're mocking the rest of us. The trade district's a chaotic sprawl of markets and airship docks, while the central district anchors it all, a plaza of polished stone where I spot the Iron Chain Inn Brakus mentioned. The farmland district steals the show, a massive crescent hugging the mountain's base from one cliff edge to the other—fields of golden crops, patches of forest, stables with Zoraths and Grombles, and a lake reflecting the twilight. Walls divide each district, impassable without permits, unless you're a noble strutting through like they own the place.
I whistle low, my gold-flecked eyes wide. "That's Zortag, huh? Looks like a prankster's paradise." Kess chuckles beside me, her whip coiled. "Don't get any ideas, Zeno. Those gates don't open for troublemakers." I grin, the curse's weight forgotten for a moment. "Trouble's my specialty, Kess. Just wait." Lyria signals the caravan to move, and we descend the ridge, the wagons creaking under their load. The air shifts, heavier with the scent of mithril and Starpetal, and I feel the city's pulse even from here. My alias as Zeno's served me well, but Brakus said I could use my real name here. Killyaen, the Supreme Elf, is about to make his mark.
The control gate looms ahead, a massive Geodrite arch manned by Peak Scholar Earth cultivators. They check Torvald's permits, their eyes lingering on me. I flash my papers, keeping my grin easy. "Killyaen, merchant's guard," I say, dropping the Zeno alias. They nod, waving us through. The central district's a bustle of activity—merchants haggling, cultivators sparring, and the Iron Chain Inn's sign swinging in the breeze. The caravan halts, and Torvald claps my shoulder again. "You did good, Killyaen. If you're ever back this way, I've got a spot for you." I nod, my chest tight. The surviving cultivators—fifteen now—unload the wagons, their faces weary but relieved. Lyria's already gone, her Sky Qi fading into the city's hum.
Kess lingers, her sharp eyes softening. She steps close, her Wind Qi brushing my skin, and slips a jade slip into my hand. "My place," she says, her voice low, her smirk wicked. "If your path swings by, come find me. Don't make me regret this, prankster." She winks, and I swear my heart skips despite the curse's drag. I pocket the slip in my spatial ring, grinning like a fool. "Count on it, Kess. I'll bring the chaos." She laughs, turning away, her whip swaying with her hips. I watch her go, the Supreme Prankster already plotting my next move. Zortag's waiting, and Killyaen's ready to stir it up.