SSS-Ranked Awakening: I Can Only Summon Mythical Beasts

The four of them walked in silence.

Their footsteps echoed along the polished stone path leading from ElderGlow’s eastern courtyard toward the grand Colosseum.

The morning sun stretched across the sky like golden fire, casting long shadows behind them. Birds called overhead, the faint breeze whistled past training grounds, and the main building loomed distant behind them—its towers and halls steadily receding.

Damon, Anaya, Daveon, and Celeste—ElderGlow’s Year Three chosen—marched side by side, bruised, battered, and uncharacteristically quiet.

“I can still feel her elbow in my spine,” Daveon finally muttered, wincing as he adjusted the strap of his vest.

“That’s because she put her elbow in your spine,” Anaya said flatly, flipping one of her daggers in her hand without looking. “Right after she knocked me off my feet like a sack of coal.”

“Not sure what stings more,” Celeste said, brushing a leaf from her shoulder, “her blows, or her commentary.”

“She didn’t train us,” Damon muttered, his silver hair slightly mussed and darker at the roots with sweat. “She dissected us.”

“She calls that tough love,” Anaya added. “I call it trauma.”

Still, none of them had any real complaints.

Leana’s “training” might’ve left bruises on bone and pride alike, but it also shook off any remnants of complacency. It reminded them that talent alone would not be enough—not this time.

Besides, with the pills she’d given them, they would return to their peak conditions with just a matter of time. An hour at most.

The Year Three Trials were about to begin.

And unlike the Year Ones and Twos, this wasn’t just about ranking or impressing an instructor. This was about reputation. Legacy. Advancement.

The next generation of elite warriors, tacticians, summoners, and spellblades would be chosen from this very group to join with the Year Fours and Fives. The final battlefield placements. The overseas assignments. The invitation-only sect affiliations. Everything hinged on these next few days.

When they arrived at the Colosseum, the grand structure was still mostly empty—rows upon rows of stone seating spiraling upward, with banners of all four academies fluttering along the parapets.

The arena floor was vast, already being altered by a team of rune engineers and geomancers preparing the stage.

Damon took in a slow breath as they entered through the side gate reserved for competitors. They were among the first to arrive.

Celeste scanned the sky. “Still early.”

“Good,” Damon replied. “I like watching them arrive.”

And one by one, they did.

Wyrmere was the first to follow—a trio cloaked in dark green robes, moving with the eerie synchrony the academy was known for. Their leader, a pale girl with silver eyes and tattoos across her scalp, walked barefoot across the arena tiles, her steps leaving soft pulses of mana in their wake.

Next was Crowgarth.

If Wyrmere was shadow and discipline, Crowgarth was thunder and presence. Four students marched in, each armored differently—one carried a great maul nearly as large as a wagon, another wore an infernal mask etched with bone-like runes.

Their leader, a tall youth named Tavros, had a bare chest layered with crimson scars and an aura that scorched the air around him.

Celeste leaned closer to Damon and muttered, “So… just another normal day for them.”

Then came Thornevale.

Dressed in sleek grey and gold, they looked more like nobles than warriors. Their boots gleamed, their posture perfect, and every movement was like a choreographed dance. But make no mistake—they were deadly. Thornevale’s discipline was as sharp as their blades.

Their representative leader, a cold-eyed swordswoman named Kaelis, gave ElderGlow’s team the briefest of nods as they passed.

“Think she knows me?” Anaya whispered.

“She looks like the type that remembers everyone she’s beaten,” Daveon said. “Which is everyone.”

Then he shook his head. “But us, I don’t think she does. This is the second encounter with her after all.”

“It was just a nod of acknowledgement, nothing more.” Damon pointed out and Celeste simply nodded.

They sat in their respective preparation areas, stone alcoves carved into the inner curve of the Colosseum. Each academy’s space had its own enchantments—privacy sigils, mana amplification runes, even basic healing circles. But the energy in the air wasn’t calm.

It was coiled.

Electric.

Outside, the Colosseum began to fill. Students from all years and classes poured into the audience seats. Teachers and instructors took elevated balconies. Alumni from the capital arrived through teleportation circles and were granted private boxes lined in gold.

Damon noticed it all with that same quiet intensity he carried everywhere.

And then the fanfare sounded.

A low hum rose through the arena, as four glowing projection screens blinked into life above the field. On them, the symbols of the four academies rotated slowly, then settled into a static pattern.

A figure appeared on a hovering platform above the arena—tall, robed in green and brown. Dean Oryll of Wyrmere—chosen this year as the opening ceremony host for the Year Three to Year Five competition.

His voice boomed with magical clarity.

“Welcome, all—students, masters, and honored guests—to the Year Three Grand Trials.”

Applause echoed through the arena. Fireworks burst in elegant waves above.

“These trials are not for the faint of heart. They are not mere spectacles. These are the tests by which tomorrow’s leaders and guardians are chosen. What you witness here shall shape not only rankings and titles—but futures.”

The applause quieted. Focus returned.

“Today’s trial,” Oryll continued, “will test more than your spells or your strength. It will test your intuition. Your survival. Your choices.”

He lifted a hand—and the arena ground rumbled.

The sand and stone split open, revealing a complex structure beneath. Multi-leveled platforms began to rise—circular staircases, twisting ramps, puzzle-like walls laced with sigils and illusion arrays.

Damon squinted. “It’s not just combat.”

“No,” Celeste said softly. “It’s definitely not. It’s combat and magic essence manipulation.”

The other three paused, not knowing how to respond to her joke.

As the structure finished assembling, Oryll gestured again. Four glowing orbs floated into the sky—each one splitting into twenty smaller ones.

“These,” he said, “are your Path Orbs.”

The crowd hushed.

“There are twenty paths through this structure. Only four lead to victory. Each team must choose how to split their members and pursue the orbs. Each path is different. Some require magic. Others require combat. Some—both.”

Damon’s pulse slowed. Not from nerves.

From focus.

“This is the Trial of Divergence,” Oryll declared. “And it begins… in fifteen minutes.”

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