Humanity was laughably weak.
In the grand tapestry of existence, they were but smudges, classified as Alpha Terra beings—the lowest rung of the biological hierarchy. Even with the full might of their bodies and minds honed to perfection, forming twelve dazzling cores of energy, a human would be as threatening as a candle flame before a roaring tempest when faced with a Luminara creature. Against an Eterna being? They might as well offer polite applause and hope for mercy.
It wasn't just that humans were weak; it was that they were static. Fixed. Unchanging. While the beasts of the world grew ever larger, sharper, stronger—shifting and evolving with every passing generation—humanity remained firmly tethered to its mortal shell. They were a species designed, it seemed, for mediocrity. And so, the inevitable happened: humanity began its slow, dismal march toward extinction.
Then came summoning.
No one knows where the art of summoning originated. Scholars speculate it was a desperate act of a dying species, the arcane equivalent of a cornered rat finding a particularly sharp tooth. Whatever its origin, summoning became humanity's salvation. With this single discovery, the weakest creatures in existence learned to pluck the strongest from their lofty pedestals and bend them to their will.
The first summoner was likely as surprised as the creature they summoned—a towering Astra beast of molten stone and crackling lightning, its fury caged within a fragile circle of runes etched into the dirt. "You will obey me," the summoner had whispered, and to everyone's astonishment, the creature had.
Even now, the powerful beings of the cosmos—Luminara titans and Eterna demigods—are baffled by summoning. How could such insignificant beings, these Alpha Terra wretches, have the audacity and ability to command the primal forces of existence? But for humanity, there was no time to dwell on the "why." There was only the "how."
With summoning, humanity clawed its way back from the brink. They carved out bastions of strength amid a world of monsters, wielding power not their own but greater than any they could have dreamed of. For the first time in history, humanity stood a chance—not because they were strong, but because they had learned to wield the strength of others.
In this new age, there was only one profession that mattered. Summoning.
Swordsmanship, once the epitome of valor, became a quaint relic, practiced by romantics and fools. Why bother mastering a blade when a summoned Luminara being could cleave mountains with a flick of its claw? Mages who sought to perfect their mana cores were similarly dismissed as antiquated thinkers. A summoner with a Silver grimoire could command beings that mages could only dream of.
If you wanted power, you summoned it. Everything else was a waste of time.
Some found this truth harsh. Others found it exhilarating. But no one could deny its practicality. Humanity was a summoning race now, its survival pinned on its ability to call forth gods and monsters and make them obey. It wasn't fair. It wasn't noble. But it worked.
And for humanity, that was enough.
The instructor's voice droned on, a low hum in the vast lecture hall, as though he were not merely delivering a lesson but reciting some ancient prophecy with all the enthusiasm of a man describing a damp loaf of bread. I pursed my lips and tried, desperately, to focus. Something about the History of Summoning, he'd said. Something important.
But my thoughts were elsewhere.
This was my first lesson at the Royal Academy, the crown jewel of summoner training in the Kingdom of Thane. People whispered its name with awe and reverence—as if the stones themselves hummed with the power of the countless summoners who had walked these hallowed halls. For me, it was more terrifying than awe-inspiring.
At sixteen, I had been enrolled here alongside my twin brother, Kael, by decree of our father. He had said it was time for us to awaken our potential. But potential was a dangerous word. It dangled expectations in front of you like a ripe fruit, only to remind you—when you failed to reach it—that some trees grow taller than others.
Today, though, was a day of reckoning. The day we would receive our grimoire and summon our first familiar. Both were more than ceremonial; they were destiny etched in mana and blood.
The grade of the first grimoire a summoner awakened was everything. It didn't merely showcase one's talent—it defined it. Forever. There were no do-overs, no second chances. If your first grimoire was Bronze, you might as well prepare for a life of mediocrity, your name lost in the footnotes of history. Silver meant competence, but competence was hardly worth writing home about. Gold, though—that was glory, the kind of glory that carved statues and wrote legends. And Diamond? Well, no one in the Kingdom had ever awakened a Diamond grimoire. Those were the stuff of myths and madness.
The grimoire wasn't the only thing. Your first summon corresponded directly to your grimoire's grade. My father, a Gold-grade summoner, had awakened alongside an Omega Luminara Mana Beast, the Jade Dragon. A creature so majestic that its roar alone could topple mountains—or so the stories claimed. He never mentioned the part where he spent years taming it, though. Legends have a way of skipping the messy bits.
I turned my head, my silver hair falling in soft waves across my shoulders, and glanced at Kael. He sat tall, poised, exuding a quiet confidence that made my stomach twist uncomfortably. He had the same silver hair, but on him, it gleamed like polished steel. On me, it just looked... unremarkable.
"Kael," I murmured under my breath, the word like a whisper of regret. His posture was impeccable, his eyes focused on the instructor with an intensity that bordered on theatrical. He wasn't just here to learn. He was here to prove himself. To father, to the academy, and, most painfully, to me.
I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought. Comparisons to Kael were as inevitable as they were futile. He was the star, the prodigy, the one everyone whispered about in hallways before falling silent when I passed by.
My nails bit into the wooden desk as I forced myself to focus. Today wasn't about Kael. It was about me. My grimoire. My summon. My potential.
Even if every instinct in me screamed that Kael's grimoire would gleam with the golden radiance of our father's, while mine... well, mine might just be another footnote in the ledger of mediocrity.
The instructor concluded his lecture with a dismissive wave, his monotone breaking for a moment as he announced, "Now, students, we proceed to the Manifestation Hall. There, the awakening of your grimoire and the summoning of your first familiar shall determine the course of your futures."
The hall erupted into a symphony of chair-scraping and excited murmurs. My heart pounded like a war drum as I stood, the weight of expectation pressing down on my shoulders.
"Don't worry, Elara," Kael said, his voice smooth, assured. He hadn't even turned to look at me, his gaze fixed forward, his smile faint but maddeningly self-assured. "You'll do fine."
Fine. The word stung. Not great, not exceptional. Fine.
I nodded, not trusting myself to respond. My father's voice echoed in my mind, heavy with authority and disappointment: 'A summoner is defined by their first step, Elara. There's no room for hesitation.'
The corridor to the Manifestation Hall was long, gilded with reliefs of past summoners and their legendary familiars. Dragons, phoenixes, colossal titans—all rendered in gold, each one a reminder of the heights I was unlikely to reach.
But still, I walked forward.
Fine would have to do.