Shining Shadow

The night air was cool against my face as I sprinted through the Verdant Abyss, my heart pounding louder than the distant clash of steel from Horan's battlefield. Varkoth's Darkness Qi wrapped around me like a second skin, the Shadowveil Cloak amplifying his stealth veil until I was little more than a flicker in the shadows. My curse dragged at every step, my stamina draining faster than a barrel of ale at a Crestmoore tavern. My braid, that glorious gold-tipped thing, bounced against my back, a reminder of the Supreme Elf I was leaving behind. Tira's fiery scream still echoed in my ears, her outrage at my parting shot about her virginity burning brighter than her Fire Qi. Bera and Lila's curses weren't far behind, their Fire and Earth attacks lighting up the night I'd just fled. Worth it, I thought, a grin tugging at my lips despite the ache in my legs.

I'd pushed maybe a mile, dodging roots and low branches, when my body screamed for mercy. The curse's weight was like carrying a damn Zenoite Krovar on my shoulders, and my stamina was a flickering candle in a storm. I stumbled, catching myself on a gnarled tree, my chest heaving. Varkoth slithered beside me, his obsidian scales glinting faintly under the moonlight, his slitted eyes glowing with that eerie calm only a Basilisk Emperor could muster.

"Father," he hissed, his voice smooth as polished stone, "you falter. Mount me."

I raised an eyebrow, panting. "Mount you? No saddle, Varkoth. My ass'll be rawer than Bera's temper."

"No choice," he rumbled, coiling closer, his five-meter length rippling with muscle. "Rest now, or fall later."

I groaned but swung a leg over his back, settling awkwardly on his scales. It was like straddling a moving boulder—hard, uneven, and not remotely comfortable. Still, it beat collapsing in the dirt. "Fine, but if I slide off, you're carrying me in your jaws like a damn pup."

Varkoth's chuckle vibrated through his body, nearly bouncing me off. "As you wish, Father."

We moved through the forest, his serpentine grace cutting a silent path where my clumsy sprint would've woken every beast in the Abyss. I leaned forward, gripping his scales, and let my mind wander. "When we get close to the village, you're going into the beast ring," I said, keeping my voice low. "Gotta keep you hidden for a bit."

Varkoth's tail flicked, a subtle sign of displeasure. "You fear the females' wrath?"

I snorted. "Tira's got her deal to look after Bera and Lila, like we talked about at Crystal Lake. She'll keep her word—she's too damn

stubborn not to. But those two? Bera and Lila will hunt me like a Demon Rabbit if they catch wind I'm nearby. They're probably cursing my name right now, plotting to roast my balls over a Fire Qi spit."

"They are… persistent," Varkoth admitted, his tone laced with amusement.

"Persistent? They're a damn avalanche. And I'm not making it easy for 'em." I reached for the Magnetism-infused dagger at my belt, its weight familiar in my hand. My braid—my signature, my pride—swung into view, mocking me. "This has to go."

I grabbed the golden strands, the tips glinting like a beacon. With a grimace, I sawed through them, the dagger's edge slicing clean. My head felt lighter, but my chest tightened. The Supreme Elf was gone. I tossed the braid into the underbrush, a piece of Killyaen left to rot in the Abyss. My hair was short now, a messy blonde mop. It'd have to do.

"Varkoth, when we hit the village, I'm changing everything. Name, look, the whole damn act. No more Supreme Prankster. I'm going quiet, reserved. A half-elf runaway from Solaria's capital. Name's Zeno now."

"Zeno," Varkoth repeated, testing the word. "A shadow of your fire."

"Exactly," I said, forcing a grin. "No more crude jokes, no more chasing curves. Just a guy trying to survive."

Varkoth's eyes gleamed. "You will struggle, Father. Chaos is your blood."

"Shut it, snake," I muttered, but my grin widened. He wasn't wrong.

We reached the edge of a small village by dawn, its wooden palisade barely visible through the morning mist. I slid off Varkoth's back, my legs wobbly but grateful for the rest. "Time to disappear," I said, pulling my beast ring from my finger. With a thought, Varkoth's massive form shimmered and vanished into the ring, joining Stinky and Bertila. My heart twinged—Varkoth's taunts and strength had been my anchor through too many fights. But this was my path now.

I opened my spatial ring—the one Goran gave me back in Opeka, the only one I kept. The other three, packed with Spirit Stones and those inscribed panties for Bera and Lila, I'd left with Tira. The Fire-infused spear she'd claimed was in there too, a gift to keep her from torching me in my sleep. I stashed my Pyroclast Dual Swords, Ember's Fang and Blaze's Claw, along with the Shadowveil Cloak and Starforged Tunic. The split-leaf amulet, pulsing faintly, went in too. Anything that screamed "Killyaen" was locked away. I'd be Zeno, not the Supreme Elf, from now on.

The village was a sleepy speck called Thornwick, its dirt paths lined with thatched roofs and the faint scent of baked bread. My Cryonsteel-lined trousers and agility-boosting boots were all I kept out, but the boots needed a change. I found the tailor's shop, a cramped place with bolts of cloth stacked to the ceiling. The old man behind the counter squinted at me, his hands deftly threading a needle.

"Need a new look," I said, keeping my voice low, neutral. "Cloak with a hood, basic tunic, trousers. Nothing fancy."

He nodded, eyeing my worn gear. "Two Level 1 Spirit Stones, and I'll have it ready in an hour."

"Deal." I handed over the stones, my fingers lingering on the spatial ring. My inventory was lighter now, but it still held enough to get me to Forgehold. I also grabbed a vial of black dye from the tailor's shelf, tossing in an extra Level 1 Spirit Stone.

Back in the alley, I smeared the dye over my boots, turning their silver stitching into a dull black. Then I dunked my hair, working the dye through until my blonde locks were a drab gray. I caught my reflection in a puddle—short gray hair, plain clothes, a hooded cloak pulled low. Killyaen was gone. Zeno stared back.

The local tavern, The Rusty Thorn, was my next stop. My stomach growled, and I needed to hear the local gossip. The place was half-full, smelling of ale and roasted Gromble. I slid into a corner table, ordered a plate of stew, and kept my hood up, ears sharp. The patrons were buzzing, their voices carrying over the clink of mugs.

"Heard about that Qi-Less Demon in the Abyss?" a burly man said, leaning over his ale. "Tore through thirty orcs like they were paper. They're saying he's some dark-skinned elf with a gold-tipped braid."

My spoon froze halfway to my mouth. Dark-skinned elf? My skin was pale as moonlight. Idiots. Still, my pulse quickened as eyes flicked my way. My gray hair and plain cloak kept their gazes brief, sliding off me like water on oil. I exhaled, forcing myself to eat slowly, blending in. The talk shifted to trade routes and bandit troubles, but the "Qi-Less Demon" stuck in my head. My legend was growing, even if it was half-wrong.

After dinner, I headed to the stables, hoping to snag a Zorath for the trek to Forgehold. No luck—Thornwick was too small, its stables filled with mules and a single tired horse. The stablemaster, a wiry guy with a patchy beard, scratched his chin when I asked about transport.

"No Zoraths, friend," he said. "But I'm heading to Forgehold with a trade caravan tomorrow. Twelve days, three Level 1 Spirit Stones, food included. You in?"

I nodded, handing over the stones. "Name's Zeno. Keep it quiet."

He shrugged, pocketing the payment. "Quiet's my middle name."

The caravan left at dawn, a creaking line of wagons loaded with herbs, furs, and barrels of ale. I rode in the back of the stablemaster's cart, my hood up, keeping to myself. The other merchants and guards—mostly Novice and Expert cultivators—gave me curious glances but didn't press. My gray hair and plain clothes screamed "nobody," and I leaned into it, speaking only when spoken to, my usual banter locked away.

The first few days were uneventful, the road winding through rolling hills and sparse forests. My curse made sitting still a chore, the 30 kg weight pressing on my spine, but I gritted my teeth and endured.

On day four, trouble hit. A pack of Expert-level Razorfang Wolves—six of them, all teeth and Wind Qi—burst from the trees, their howls rattling the wagons. The guards scrambled, their spears and Fire Qi flaring, but they were sloppy, panicked.

I leaped from the cart, my agility-boosting boots—blackened but still sharp—carrying me into the fray. No Pyroclast swords, no Shadowveil Cloak. Just my Magnetism-infused dagger and the curse's enhanced strength. I moved fast, dodging a wolf's snapping jaws, and drove the dagger into its flank. The blade's Magnetism Qi pulsed, yanking the beast's metal-tipped claws toward it, throwing it off balance. I twisted, slamming my fist into its skull, the curse's power cracking bone. One down.

The guards rallied, inspired or just shamed by a "half-elf" moving faster than their Qi could manage. I danced through the pack, using minimal strikes—short jabs, quick slashes—letting the curse's strength do the heavy lifting. By the time the last wolf fell, I was panting, my stamina drained but my body intact. The stablemaster clapped my shoulder, grinning.

"Not bad, Zeno. You fight like you've seen worse."

I shrugged, wiping blood from my dagger. "Just staying alive."

Two days later, we hit a nastier ambush—three Master-level Ironclaw Boars, their tusks gleaming with Earth Qi. The guards froze, their spears useless against the beasts' armored hides. I cursed under my breath, my stamina still shaky from the wolves. No choice. I grabbed my Wind-infused dagger from the spatial ring—not my favorite, but it'd do. I darted in, my boots giving me just enough speed to avoid a boar's charge. The dagger's Wind Qi sliced through the air, carving a shallow gash in the beast's flank. It roared, turning on me, but I rolled under its legs, slamming the dagger into its underbelly. The curse's strength drove the blade deep, blood spraying as the boar collapsed.

The other two charged, but the guards found their spines, their Fire and Earth Qi hammering the beasts. I took down the second with a throat strike, my dagger's Wind Qi cutting clean. The third fell to a combined effort, one guard's spear finding its eye. I was drenched in sweat and boar blood, my curse screaming in my muscles, but I played it cool, nodding to the stablemaster.

The rest of the journey was quieter, the merchants whispering about the "gray-haired half-elf" who fought like a demon. I ignored them, keeping my hood up, my thoughts on Forgehold. The split-leaf amulet, tucked in my spatial ring, hadn't pulsed since I'd stashed it. Good. I wasn't ready for whatever destiny it was hinting at. My inventory was lean now, but I still had enough Spirit Stones to get by: 50 Level 7, 300 Level 6, 600 Level 5, 127 Level 4, 884 Level 3, 417 Level 2, and 245 Level 1 after the caravan fee. The Sky-infused bow, Water Qi whip, Sky Qi amulet, and Ironfang tusks from earlier fights stayed in the ring, unused. My new cloak and tunic—plain, unremarkable—kept me invisible.

On day twelve, the caravan crested a hill, and Forgehold sprawled before us. The capital of Adena was a beast of a city, its walls forged from Geodrite, glowing faintly with Earth Qi under the midday sun. Towers of Aurorium pierced the sky, their runes pulsing with power. The gates loomed, guarded by Peak Master cultivators in shimmering armor, their eyes scanning every traveler.

My heart thudded, not from fear but from something else—anticipation, maybe. I'd made it.

The stablemaster dropped me off just outside the gates, clapping my shoulder. "Good luck, Zeno. Forgehold's a rough place for a half-elf."

I nodded, pulling my hood lower. "I'll manage."

As the caravan rolled away, I stood alone, the city's hum washing over me. My gray hair caught the breeze, my blackened boots scuffed but steady. I touched the spatial ring, feeling the weight of my old life—Pyroclast swords, Shadowveil Cloak, Starforged Tunic—locked away. Killyaen was dead. Zeno was here.

"Goran," I muttered, my voice barely a whisper, "I made it to Adena's capital. Now to find your friend Brakus."

I stepped toward the gates, my curse pressing down but my resolve stronger. Forgehold waited, and with it, the answers I'd been dodging for too long.