The Summoning Ceremony
1772 Words
The Summoning Ceremony
Toren’s POV
The academy grounds had never felt so alive.
Banners in gold and deep blue fluttered from towering pillars, their edges shimmering with embedded enchantments that made the fabric ripple like living water. Rows of professors in ceremonial robes lined the summoning arena, their expressions stern and unreadable, staves clutched in hands that glowed faintly with restrained power. The grandstands were packed with parents—nobles in silken finery embroidered with house sigils, merchants draped in jewel-crusted velvets, warriors in scarred leathers polished to a gleam—all dressed in their finest, all hungry to witness greatness.
Toren walked with the other students in a single-file line, the path leading them directly past the grandstands. Eyes followed them. Judged them. Weighed them. Whispers slithered through the air like serpents, carried on the breeze laced with the scent of ozone and blooming nightshade—magical herbs burned in braziers around the arena to purify the essence flows.
He felt every stare like a hand pressing against his spine, cold fingers digging into muscle, threatening to paralyze him. Keep walking. Don't trip. Don't show the panic. His boots crunched over gravel infused with crushed mana crystals, each step sending faint sparks skittering up his legs, tingling through his veins like static electricity. The air hummed, thick with ambient essence, coiling around his skin, probing, tasting. It knew he didn't belong. Or maybe it knew too much.
Derik Valor sat near the center of the stands, posture perfect, expression carved from stone. Black robes draped his frame, absorbing light, making him a void amid the color. Toren’s mother sat beside him—no, not his mother, not really. In this world, she was Lady Elara Valor, hands folded neatly in her lap, face a mask of composed elegance. Her eyes skimmed over the line, never quite landing on him. Same as always. Silent. Distant. The sight twisted something raw in his chest.
Vex walked ahead of Toren, chin high, basking in the attention like it was sunlight. Golden crest on his uniform caught the light, flashing arrogantly. He belongs here, Toren thought bitterly. I’m just pretending. Sweat beaded under his collar despite the crisp morning air. His palms itched, essence stirring unbidden in his core—a deep, violet thrum that made his teeth ache.
The students stopped at the edge of the summoning circle—a vast arena etched with glowing runes. The circle spanned fifty paces across, floor of polished obsidian veined with silver conduits that pulsed like arteries, feeding into a central dais where a massive crystal orb hovered, suspended by invisible forces. Arcane winds whispered across it, stirring motes of light that danced like fireflies on the verge of storm.
A professor stepped forward, holding a small crystalline needle. Her robes were deep crimson, hood thrown back to reveal silver hair braided with essence threads. “Before summoning,” she announced, voice amplified by a subtle cantrip, echoing off the stone walls, “each student will undergo rank determination.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, excitement laced with anticipation.
Toren’s pulse quickened, a frantic drum in his ears. Rank determination? Flashes from his game code resurfaced—blood essence analysis, core affinity mapping. But this was no simulation. The needle in her hand gleamed, hungry. He didn’t know how this world measured rank. He didn’t know what it would say about him. He didn’t know if he wanted to know. F-Rank. That's what they expect. Stray. Weakling. But the hum in his gut whispered otherwise, a ancient rumble building pressure.
One by one, students stepped forward.
A prick of the finger.
A drop of blood.
A flare of light.
A rank announced.
“C-Rank.” A smattering of polite claps.
“D-Rank.” Sympathetic murmurs.
“A-Rank.” Cheers swelled, parents rising.
“B-Rank.” Wild applause, horns blaring from the stands.
Toren’s stomach twisted tighter with each name, nausea rising like bile. His turn crept closer. The line shortened. Students returned to formation, faces flushed with pride or shame. One girl, a tiny thing with freckles, got E-Rank—tears streamed as her father turned away. What if that's me? Worse?
Then—
“Vex Valor.”
The crowd hushed. Even the professors straightened, robes rustling like dry leaves.
Vex stepped forward with the confidence of someone who had never been told no. He extended his hand, smirking at the audience as if the ceremony existed solely for him. The professor pricked his finger without flourish.
A single drop of blood hit the crystal.
The arena lit up.
A brilliant gold flare shot upward, swirling around Vex like a halo, essence tendrils whipping the air into frenzy. Sparks showered down, igniting harmless motes that fizzled into golden dust. Gasps echoed through the stands, a wave of awe crashing over the arena.
The professor’s voice rang out: “Your rank is… B-Rank.”
The crowd erupted in applause, thunderous, feet stomping, voices chanting “Valor! Valor!”
Vex grinned, basking in the praise, bowing slightly as if accepting a crown. He flexed his hand, gold residue clinging to his skin like war paint.
Derik nodded once—approval, measured and controlled. Lady Elara offered a small smile, clapping delicately.
Toren watched, heart pounding. B-Rank? That’s… good, right? Top tier for a first-year. Better than I ever coded for him. But something felt wrong. The glow around Vex flickered—just for a moment—like a flame struggling against wind. A shadow rippled through the gold, hungry, unstable. No one else seemed to notice.
Except Toren.
And Derik.
Derik’s eyes narrowed, just slightly, a predator scenting weakness.
Vex strutted back to the line, brushing past Toren with a smug grin. “Try not to embarrass the family,” he whispered, hot breath carrying the tang of triumph.
Toren swallowed hard, throat clicking dry. Embarrass? Like you almost did? But he said nothing, fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into palms to ground himself.
The line dwindled. Five left. Three. One.
“Toren Vale.”
His name boomed, silencing the residual chatter. Heads turned. Whispers reignited: The stray. F-Rank fodder.
Legs leaden, Toren stepped forward. The arena seemed to expand, distances stretching. The professor's eyes met his—cool, assessing. She extended the needle. “Hand.”
He obeyed, palm up. Skin prickled as the tip pierced—sharp sting, then warmth as blood welled. A fat drop detached, hovering mid-air before plummeting to the crystal.
Time slowed.
The drop struck.
Silence.
Then—
Boom.
Not light. Not a flare. An eruption.
Violet essence exploded from the crystal, a torrent of coiling shadows and crackling lightning, surging upward in a helix that pierced the sky. Winds howled, ripping banners, scattering motes into a vortex. The ground trembled; runes flared overload bright, silver veins bulging. Toren staggered, knees buckling as power yanked from his core—raw, ancient, his. It clawed through channels he'd never known, filling him, stretching him. Pain lanced his veins, sweet agony, like veins flooding with molten starlight.
Screams from the stands. Professors raised staves, wards snapping into place—shields of light buckling under the pressure. The crystal orb above the dais shattered, shards raining down, exploding into harmless prisms.
Toren's vision blurred, violet haze enveloping him. Whispers echoed—not voices, but echoes. Ancient roars, pink scales flashing in his mind—tangled, cast out. Power crested, then snapped back, coiling inward like a serpent devouring its tail.
The professor stumbled back, face ashen. “S… S-Rank. No—beyond. Anomaly. Primordial coils detected.”
Chaos.
Grandstands in uproar. Nobles on feet, pointing. Derik rose slowly, eyes locked on Toren, calculating. Lady Elara's hand flew to her mouth, shock cracking her poise.
Vex whirled, face paling. “What the—?!”
Toren collapsed to one knee, gasping. Essence thrummed in his ears, heartbeat syncing to the runes' dying pulse. S-Rank? Primordial? Panic surged anew. Glitch. Overload. They're staring. Hiding it failed. Professors swarmed, hands glowing, probes jabbing his aura—painful tugs, peeling layers.
“Contain it!” one barked.
“Boy, meditate—now!”
He obeyed on instinct, sinking cross-legged, eyes shut. Breathe. Pull in. The violet storm obeyed, funneling back, leaving him hollow, trembling. Silence fell, heavy.
The headmaster—a towering elf with eyes like fractured emeralds—stepped to the dais. Voice boomed: “Rank confirmed: S-Rank potential. Unstable. Proceed to summoning with caution.”
Caution? Toren rose on wobbling legs, guided to the circle's heart. The runes reignited, wary, flickering under his steps. Summoning. In his game, this bound beasts—familiars tied by blood oath. What pulls to me?
He placed hands on the central rune, palm cuts weeping fresh blood. Chant rose unbidden: words in forgotten tongue, vibrating his bones. Essence poured out—violet cascade pooling, rising into a gate. Air tore open, rift yawning wide, winds screaming.
Shadows writhed within. Eyes gleamed—pink, iridescent scales. A claw extended, massive, testing. Not a beast. Something older. Bond snapped taut, pain ecstasy, power flooding back tenfold.
The gate slammed shut. Silence.
No beast emerged. Just a mark on his palm—pink scale etched in glowing lines, pulsing.
Murmurs swelled to roar. “What was that?” “No familiar?” “Failure?”
But Derik's gaze burned approval? No—hunger.
Toren retreated, head spinning. Survived. But exposed. Tension coiled tighter. The ceremony dragged on, but eyes lingered on him.
Vex’s POV
B-Rank.
B-Rank?
Vex's blood boiled as applause washed over him, hollow, mocking. He bowed, grinned—perfect mask—but inside, fury churned like acid. B-Rank. Father's nod was pity. Not pride. Gold essence clung to his skin, mocking its mediocrity. He'd trained endless nights, bled into runes, crushed weaklings underfoot. For this? Brothers of lesser houses pulled A-Rank clean. Even that sniveling merchant spawn hit solid B.
Strutting back, he shouldered past the stray—Toren—whispering venom. Embarrass us? You will. But then his turn.
The explosion.
Violet apocalypse. Arena quaking, wards cracking like eggshells. Vex shielded eyes, essence flaring instinctive—B-Rank shield held, barely. What the f**k is he? Stray's blood hit the crystal, and primordial coils? S-Rank? Headmaster's voice cracked on 'anomaly.'
Rift gate yawned—pink flash, scale-mark. No beast, but power. Raw. Father's eyes—locked, calculating. Elara gasped. Crowd bayed.
Vex's fists clenched, nails drawing blood. Steal my day? F-Rank trash? No. He'd crush it. Exams next—prove B-Rank superior. Father would see. Stray's a glitch. I'll break him first.
Fury simmered to vow. Watch your back, brother.
- Writer
