SSS-Ranked Awakening: I Can Only Summon Mythical Beasts

The crowd roared again as another fighter collapsed to the ground, rolling into the edge of the stone pit with a heavy grunt.

Tap! Tap!!

Blood dripped from his nose, and a single spark of residual magic fizzled out on his forearm as he gasped for air.

The announcer, a tall man with silver rings braided into his beard, lifted his arms with theatrical flair.

“Another one down! That makes five straight wins for our champion tonight! Raithe the Breaker!”

Raithe raised one fist to the crowd, his knuckles stained and cracked. His chest heaved, but there was no weakness in his stance—only practiced power and confidence bred by repetition. The crowd chanted his name like thunder.

Damien stood beside the railing, arms folded, eyes cold and calculating.

Lyone had barely blinked for the past three fights.

“That guy’s scary,” Lyone muttered. “He’s like… all muscle, no mercy.”

“Sharp eyes,” Damien said dryly.

The announcer stepped back into the ring and pointed to the gathering crowd.

“And now… the field is open. Who will face our reigning champion? Who dares step forward?!”

No one moved.

The few men who’d muttered about trying earlier now backed away, clutching their coin pouches with new caution.

Lyone’s head slowly turned to Damien. “Hey.”

“No,” Damien said immediately.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

“You were going to tell me to fight him.”

“I was going to say you should fight him and that I’d bet my life you’d win.”

Damien raised a brow. “Bet your life?”

“Figure of speech.”

He paused.

Then a grin curved his lips.

“But what if you did fight him? Really fight him. Just once.”

Damien was quiet for a moment.

Then he tilted his head, motioning Lyone away from the crowd. They walked toward a shadowed alcove between two nearby buildings, away from wandering eyes. The cheering and chants dulled behind them.

“You said you’d bet your life,” Damien said. “How about gold coins instead?”

Lyone blinked. “Wait… are you actually—?”

Damien pulled a small pouch from beneath his coat and handed it over.

It clinked with weight.

Lyone’s hands nearly slipped from the surprise heft.

“Two hundred gold?” he whispered.

Lyone’s eyes widened. “Seriously?!”

“I want this to look real,” Damien said. “Take ten gold. Use that first.”

Lyone nodded, still processing the sudden wealth.

Then Damien turned away and extended a hand to the open air.

“Summon Cerbe.”

A pulse of blue mana split the shadows as a deep-blue portal rippled into being. From it emerged a towering figure—Cerbe, his loyal hound-like summon, as tall as a warhorse and cloaked in dark fur threaded with silver markings.

Lyone took a step back. “Woah.”

“Cerbe,” Damien said softly. “Human form. Stay beside him. Look dangerous.”

Cerbe shifted.

In a flash of magic and snapping joints, the beast’s form shimmered and twisted, bones reshaping, limbs elongating. Where the hound once stood, now a man emerged—tall, broad-shouldered, his eyes still glowing with a beast’s menace. His features were clean, but his presence radiated raw intimidation.

Lyone stared, wide-eyed. “I’m gonna look like a prince with a personal executioner.”

“That’s the idea.”

When Lyone returned to the betting ring, he kept his posture composed.

Cerbe followed closely behind, arms folded, eyes scanning the crowd like a predator on a leash.

People moved out of the way.

Lyone approached the betting table.

“Ten gold. On the newcomer.”

The bookie looked at him, surprised. “What newcomer?”

Lyone pointed.

Across the pit, Damien was stepping through the ropes.

The crowd murmured as he entered—cloaked in long dark sleeves, silver hair catching the light, no expression on his face.

The announcer blinked, visibly confused. “We have a challenger?”

The bookie shook his head, smirking. “Odds on him losing—three point five. Odds on him winning… eighteen to one.”

Lyone placed the coin. “Ten. On him to win.”

The bookie laughed. “You must hate money, kid.”

“I just have a lot.” Lyone gave the man a grin.

The first match began.

Damien faced off against Raithe in near silence.

There were no fancy introductions. No boasts.

Just a nod from the referee—and the clang of fists against fists.

Damien was fast—faster than most had ever seen in the pit. His movements were fluid, reactive. He avoided two punches and ducked under a roundhouse with the ease of someone watching the future play out.

But he didn’t fight back. Not fully.

He landed a few strikes—sharp, clean—but always just light enough to show control. Always giving space for Raithe to recover. And eventually, Raithe did.

He caught Damien off balance for just a moment and slammed him into the pit wall.

The crowd exploded in cheers.

Damien rolled with the hit, made no move to rise too fast.

The referee pointed. “Winner—Raithe!”

Lyone blinked. “Wait, you lost?!”

Damien stood slowly, dusting off his coat.

He turned, met Lyone’s wide eyes across the crowd—and gave a small, invisible nod.

It was going exactly as planned.

Five minutes later, Damien stood again at the edge of the pit, facing the announcer directly.

“I want a rematch,” he said. “One hundred gold on the line.”

The words echoed through the courtyard like a spell.

The bookie’s head snapped up. “How much?!”

“One hundred,” Damien repeated. “And this time, I won’t be holding back. He just caught me off guard.”

Raithe, who’d just finished wiping blood from his knuckles, grinned savagely. “Now that’s the spirit.”

The announcer could barely contain himself. “You heard him, folks! A rematch, with one hundred gold on the line!”

The bookie scrambled to adjust the odds. “New line! Odds on the challenger winning—thirty-seven to one!”

Lyone’s jaw dropped.

He stepped forward.

“…All of it,” he said, placing the pouch on the table. “One hundred and ninety gold. On him winning.”

The crowd gasped.

Cerbe stood behind him like a statue.

The bookie looked at Lyone, then Cerbe, then Lyone again.

“…You’re either stupid or a prophet.”

“We’ll find out.”

The second fight was nothing like the first.

From the moment the bell rang, Damien moved.

He exploded across the pit in a blur of motion, catching Raithe mid-stance with a kick to the ribs that sent him staggering. Before the man could recover, Damien was behind him—grabbing, twisting, flipping.

The crowd was silent.

Every strike Damien landed was clinical, controlled, and sharp as a blade.

Raithe tried to counter—he roared, launched a wild left hook—but Damien ducked, spun inside the arc, and cracked his palm against the man’s temple.

Raithe stumbled, lost his footing, dropped to one knee.

Damien waited.

“Up,” he said. “You wanted a fight.”

Raithe roared and charged again.

It ended in ten more seconds.

A final sweep, a flash of movement, and Raithe was on the ground—chest rising and falling, completely winded.

“Winner!” the announcer screamed. “The Challenger!”

Lyone nearly passed out.

The bookie was frozen in place, staring at the pile of gold he now owed.

“You… you actually—”

Cerbe leaned forward.

“Pay. The. Boy.”

Moments later, Lyone walked away with a heavy coin pouch.

He stared up at Damien, who was now stepping out of the pit, wiping his hands.

“That was…”

“Just enough,” Damien said. “Let’s go.”

Lyone grinned. “Remind me never to bet against you.”

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