The Adachi ranges are inhabited by a wide variety of monsters and beasts. Once I fought a djinn — a tricky winged bastard who taunted me at every turn. That was when I was young — probably about twelve. I was still learning the game and he punished me greatly for it.


    I remember the way he spun around the tower, bat-like wings drifting along the wind, deep yellow eyes looking through my soul. I stood from the tower’s precipice and levied crimson lightning against him, pelting the bolts as if they were spears. He danced in the air, laughing maniacally while deftly weaving my shots.


    “Is this the best The Adachi Clan can give me? One sorry little boy throwing a temper tantrum?” he sneered, voice echoing through the valley. Then, he shot up, trying to cleave me with his axe. I ducked down, his axe missing most of my head. Most. It whistled through and skinned a decent chunk of my scalp off. It took a while for that to heal.


    The fight continued on like this for a while; him cutting in close, me shooting off more bolts. He scored some nasty blows on me which, at the time, cut so deep and so vastly that the wounds actually scarred over — something I thought was impossible beforehand, given my status as a Thunder Watcher.


    I was fighting with anger. Hatred. Taking out all the pent up rage I had due to my mother’s death, still fresh in my mind. But that wasn’t helping me. It might’ve worked before against the hyena monkeys and half-giant devs, however, this opponent was different. Deliberate.


    Cunning.


    So, to defeat him, I had to rapidly develop my own sort of cunning.


    We fought through the night. He won most of the exchanges. Yet, for some reason, he never decided to delve into the Adachi lands. I was curse bound to fight him, but I wouldn’t have minded if he used those smoke-based magicks of his to kill some of our Elders. Yet, he seemed fixated on toying with me.


    Eventually, when the sun began to rise once more, bathing our battle in deep orange hues, I feigned that I was out of amulets and angel dust. He bore into me, taking me off the tower and clutching me in his talons, forgoing the axe to lift me high into the sky, above the clouds.


    “This was fun,” he whispered in my ear. “But I grow bored of you, boy. Any last words?” The grips of his talons loosened slightly; his bloody claws withdrawing from my shoulders.


    “Go back to the Jahanam from whence you came,” I responded. I thought it was a cool and a fitting line to say — something that one of those heroes in Kai’s old war books would spout. Of course, this was when I still yearned to be a hero of sorts. Before I got tired of it all.


    The djinn simply smiled and let go of me.


    And that was when I activated my last amulet, hidden around my neck, underneath my shirt. Crushing it sent a wave of red lighting pulsing through me. I lassoed that lighting up at the confused djinn, wrapping it around his leg. He screamed as I dragged him down to the ground. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    I made sure to whip him against the Thunder Tower as well, petty as I was.


    And just before we hit the ground, I swung the bolt like a rope, making it go taut and bringing the djinn down before I landed.


    The crash knocked me out for a little thankfully. I probably almost died — my regeneration was working slowly, after all. When I came to, pain coursed throughout my body. My legs were broken, as were my arms and probably a few ribs.


    The djinn was in much worse shape. His leg was severed from my lightning rope and cauterized — his wings were burned from trying to slow his rapid descent. His breath came like a wheeze and I remember how balefully he looked upon me, upon this boy who had just outsmarted him.


    Despite my pain, I smiled at him.


    “I curse you. I curse you I curse you I CURSE YOU!” the djinn managed to yell in a deranged fit of his own. I laughed at him at first. Then, he spoke some verses in a language I didn’t know — a language that dug its icy claws in my spine and embedded itself in my body like a virus. My laughing quickly ceased.


    “The elk will take you,” the djinn whispered. “It will take you one day boy. And when it does, remember that it was the djinn, Baroth of the Eleventh Kingdom, that spelt your doom.”


    I expected him to die soon after, but he lived on for some time. A few hours at least. Wheezing and coughing and bleeding black all over the rocks. By the time I finally healed, however, he was gone. His body returned to dust and flame.


    For the next few years, I kept an eye out for this elk he spoke of. Never did it cross into Adachi lands. Never did I see a monster even remotely akin to a deer. So… I forgot about the curse: chalked it up to some vague metaphorical threat or final taunt of the djinn.


    Until now that is.


    …


    The curse the djinn placed upon me flared. I could feel it the moment I heard the growling — I just didn’t recognize the feeling at first. But now that Hilda has started sprinting away, calling for help, I can look up and see the visage of the creature who hounds me.


    The Elk doesn’t look like any normal deer.


    It has eight legs, four of which have metallic talons attached to its hooves. It must’ve used those talons to scale the tree, for it perches on one of the large branches, eight black eyes bearing into me. Oddly enough, the creature also sports wings: one angelic white wing on its right, one djinn-like bat wing on its left. The Elk — if this thing can even be deemed an elk — snorts with fury before dropping down in front of me. Its landing shakes the ground, causing a few crisped brown leaves to fall from other trees — the last dregs of autumn.


    It stands thrice my size, twice my width, bleating and blaring like a goat and lion — its four incredible antlers burning with blue fire.


    And that’s not even the worst thing.


    I want to laugh. Because I notice that this Elk is dripping snot and black worms are writhing in its flanks. Its legs have boils — its skin is rotting.


    It carries the plague.


    “Alright then Baroth,” I say, dropping the sword and reaching for an amulet. “Let’s finish this eight year grudge match.”