SSS-Ranked Awakening: I Can Only Summon Mythical Beasts

The Trial of Divergence had ended.

Its toll, however, lingered like smoke in the aftermath of battle with lots of explosions.

One by one, the remaining teams emerged from their individual paths—wounded, tired, but alive.

The once-proud formations of Thornevale, Wyrmere, and Crowgarth were somewhat fractured now. Some limped. Some had to be carried. Some didn’t return at all.

Crowgarth’s Tavros appeared second, dragging one of his teammates—his face bruised, his knuckles scraped raw.

Behind him, Lirra emerged, blood on her collar, one eye swollen shut. The fourth member, Grent, had been pulled from the trial earlier—his name now marked red in the trial projection, denoting a failed extraction.

Wyrmere’s final three emerged five minutes later—one of them barely conscious, supported by his partner. Their fourth however, was missing, lost to the illusion-based trials deep in the memory mazes.

Thornevale came last.

Kaelis stepped out with grim grace, a shallow gash across her jaw and a cracked pauldron. Two of her teammates followed. Their fourth—Serik—was missing. Extracted mid-trial.

The projections in the sky shifted to the updated tally board.

Year Three Trial of Divergence Results:

1. ElderGlow Academy – Full team success. Fastest completion.

2. Thornevale Academy – Three of four completed.

3. Crowgarth Academy – Three of four completed.

4. Wyrmere Academy – Three of four completed.

The crowd’s reactions were mixed—cheers from ElderGlow’s side, grim muttering from the rest. Even some instructors exchanged glances.

ElderGlow had stunned them all.

But the moment wasn’t made for celebration.

Not yet.

Floating blue sigils activated in the arena, and the arena-wide recovery glyphs triggered. A shimmering pulse of energy swept over the trial participants. Bruises began to fade. Cuts closed. Fractures eased. Not full healing—just enough to stabilize. The students would heal soon enough.

The pills that soon appeared in front of each of them would make sure of that.

Dean Oryll’s voice echoed once again.

“Twenty-minute recess. Use it wisely. The next test begins at midday sharp.”

Damon sat on a stone ledge at the edge of the preparation area, elbows resting on his knees, breathing slowly. The glow of the recovery field still shimmered faintly across his skin, slowly patching up the damage from his mirror battle.

Anaya collapsed beside him. “I want to sleep for ten years.”

“Just ten?” Daveon mumbled from where he lay sprawled on his back, eyes half-shut.

Celeste stood nearby, cleaning her glaive with calm precision. “That test was designed to break us.”

“And it nearly did,” Damon said. “But it didn’t.”

Anaya tilted her head. “You think they made it harder on purpose?”

Damon didn’t answer.

But he was already thinking it.

Somewhere up above, someone had decided to see what they were really made of.

And they hadn’t been disappointed.

Meanwhile, back at the Teleportation Array Room of the academy, a pulse of magic essence light erupted inside the teleportation chamber—a circular, rune-laced platform mounted in one of the academy’s buildings linked to the Dean’s office.

The guards stationed there stepped forward automatically—expecting a courier, maybe a guest instructor.

They did not expect what they saw.

From the fading blue light stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man with silver hair, pale skin, and piercing blue eyes that radiated generations of command.

Family Lord Terrace.

Head of the Terrace Family. High blood of Shirefort’s Eastern Continent. And father of Damon.

He wore a long silver cloak over dark military attire—polished boots, black vambraces, and a blade sheathed at his back that pulsed with sealing runes older than most civilizations. He was fully dressed.

At his side walked a much smaller figure—barely shoulder-high beside him, silver-haired, with the same blue eyes. Her white robes flowed like mist, and her expression was one of casual curiosity.

Lady Reyla. Sister of Lord Terrace. Aunt to Damon.

Though she looked no older than thirteen, her presence crackled with suppressed power. She had long ago refused to age, bound by an ancient vow she never explained to anyone not even her brother.

The guards froze.

Their weapons dropped halfway before one of them gasped.

“L-Lord Terrace? Forgive us—we didn’t—”

“I arrived unannounced,” Lord Terrace said calmly, his voice deep, low, and sharp as a command. “There is nothing to forgive.”

Behind him, three more figures stepped through the array.

The most notable of them: Razel Acheon, heir of the Acheon family—Daveon’s older brother.

His hair was black, slicked back, his eyes like glassy obsidian—no visible light, no trace of warmth. He wore a dark grey robe with no sigils, no crest. Just a wide collar that revealed the black lines of a spiritual brand across his chest.

“Notify Dean Godsthorn,” Lord Terrace said without delay. “Tell him we’ve come as representatives of the Council of Eastern Family Lords.”

The guards bowed instantly. “Yes, my lord! At once!”

They sprinted from the room, voices echoing down the marble corridor.

Lady Reyla yawned and twirled a lock of her hair. “You could’ve at least warned them. That one almost wet himself.”

Lord Terrace didn’t reply. His gaze was already scanning the ceiling, as though he could see through it and into the arena above.

“Let’s see how the boy’s doing,” he murmured.

Razel folded his arms. “And let’s hope he’s doing better than mine.” A smile broken out on Razel’s cold face.

~~~~~

Back in the observation deck of the arena, Dean Godsthorn was mid-conversation with Dean Oryll, his voice low.

“They lasted longer than expected. Even the pressure-damaged paths.”

Oryll nodded. “Crowgarth’s team held up through sheer rage. But your boy… he didn’t just survive. He dismantled his trial.”

“Hmm,” Godsthorn mused. “I expected as much. His father would’ve done just that too.”

Then came the interruption.

A breathless guard appeared at the edge of the elevated platform and knelt sharply. The enchantments flared in warning, and the other instructors bristled with alarm.

Godsthorn narrowed his eyes. “Speak. Before I incinerate your shadow.”

The guard didn’t flinch.

“My apologies, Headmaster. I bring news on behalf of Lord Terrace of the Terrace Family. He has arrived on academy grounds—alongside Lady Reyla and representatives of the Acheon and other lines.”

A beat of silence.

Even Oryll blinked.

Godsthorn straightened slowly, his expression unreadable.

“He came unannounced?”

“Yes, sir.”

Godsthorn exhaled, the corner of his lip curling. “Finally. Speak of the devil and he appears.”

He turned and descended the marble stairs in long, deliberate strides.

The other deans watched in silence as the old man left the platform.

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