Root sat near the back of the polished obsidian lecture hall, arms folded, back straight, gaze half-lidded.
Not out of laziness—but calculation.
His uniform—Crowned Tier, silver-threaded—reflected the soft light humming from overhead glyph-lamps. Around him, murmurs swirled from curious students: some glancing his way, others whispering about his file, his test scores, his origin.
None of them knew the truth.
The truth sat sealed inside the summoning egg stored in the highest-tier nurturing vault beneath the school. A creature the System had forgotten. A soul that once cracked the sky.
And now? It was classified as Unknown-Bound.
The professor entered without announcement.
An older man, rail-thin but sharp-eyed, with fingers stained in summoning ink and a robe that shimmered with evolution threads. He stepped before the wide rune-etched board and raised one hand. The murmurs died instantly.
"Welcome to Core Summon Theory, Year One," he said. "I am Archmagus Rell. You may refer to me as Instructor. If you call me 'sir,' I will deduct ten points. If you call me 'teach,' I will deduct your teeth."
Some chuckles. Mostly nervous.
The man continued, voice crisp. "Let's begin with what most of you only think you understand: Summon Bonds."
He tapped his ring against the board, and a shimmering diagram bloomed to life—a soul-shaped spiral with concentric circles spreading outward.
"All summons begin here," he said, pointing to the center. "Their form, element, temperament, and even evolutionary ceiling are all determined by bond compatibility. That bond forms not at the moment of summoning—but long before. It is the core of who you are."
Root remained still. He knew this was mostly true.
Mostly.
"In rare cases," Rell added, "the bond becomes unstable or transcendent. These students are assigned to personalized nurturing vaults—high-energy environments that allow the summon to develop without artificial suppression."
Several heads turned toward Root.
Of course.
His presence in the class had already set tongues wagging.
"Crowned Veras," the instructor said abruptly, not even looking at him. "As the only candidate ranked at Tier Zero—also known as 'Origin-Bond' grade—you've been assigned Vault Eleven."
More murmurs. One student gasped.
Vault Eleven was known to be reserved for legends.
Root gave a small nod. Measured. Disinterested.
Inside, though, he felt the faintest pulse from beneath the floor. The sealed egg was listening.
And deep inside its shell, something stirred at the mention of his name.
Professor Rell flicked his wrist, and the soul spiral on the board dissolved, replaced by a multi-tiered pyramid. Each layer glowed in a different hue—dull brown at the bottom, golden white at the top.
"This," he said, "is the standardized classification system for bonded summons."
He pointed to the base. "Common-Class. These are the weak, the basic, the predictable. They manifest with low elemental affinity and limited instinct. Most students in this room—most humans alive, frankly—will never rise beyond this tier."
Several students shifted uncomfortably.
Rell moved his finger to the next tier. "Above that: Greater-Class. Summons with advanced instincts and rare abilities. They often evolve once, maybe twice."
Then to the next: "Rare-Class. These beasts begin with unusual traits, unique forms. If nurtured properly, they can evolve three or even four times. Many professional summoners dream of reaching this level."
He paused—then finally gestured to the shining top of the pyramid.
"And then there are the Unbound-Class. Legends. These summons defy known taxonomy. They evolve not by species logic, but by narrative influence—shaped by decisions, emotions, crises. These entities often possess the capacity for sentience… or worse."
His gaze flicked briefly toward Root.
Most students followed it.
Root didn't blink.
The professor turned back to the board. "Now, understand this: evolution is not automatic. It is unlocked through confluence—a term meaning alignment between your soul and your summon's growth. Not all evolutions are physical. Some are behavioral. Others, cognitive."
A girl raised her hand. "Instructor, how many evolutions can a summon undergo?"
"Five," Rell answered, "in theory. But very few reach four. Fewer still reach five and remain stable."
Another boy—some noble's son with a perfectly pressed collar—asked, "What happens if they don't remain stable?"
The instructor smiled.
Cold.
"They collapse. Or worse—they remember things they were never meant to recall."
Whispers passed between students.
Root narrowed his eyes slightly.
That wasn't in the textbook.
But he knew exactly what the instructor was referring to.
Awakened Summons.
Creatures who reached the edge of narrative memory and began recalling alternate paths, forgotten timelines, or… suppressed identities.
Creatures like Veyr.
The professor turned again.
"Lastly, evolution requires space—both physically and spiritually. Those assigned to standard vaults will experience gradual, predictable growth. Those like Crowned Veras—assigned to high-bond nurturing chambers—may find their summons evolving in… unexpected ways."
Root said nothing.
But inside, beneath the surface of the academy, his egg pulsed.
A low, almost rhythmic hum.
The kind that didn't come from instinct…
…but memory.
Professor Rell let the pyramid diagram fade, then leaned forward against his desk, fingers interlocked. His tone shifted from lecture to something closer to a cautionary whisper.
"There is one last thing you need to understand," he said. "A summon is not a pet. It is not a weapon. It is not a badge."
His eyes narrowed.
"It is your reflection."
The silence grew sharp. Even the cocky nobleboys stopped fidgeting.
"Some of you will forge strong, stable bonds. Others will struggle. Some of you will lose control entirely—not because your summon is faulty, but because you are."
A few students lowered their heads.
"The most dangerous summons," Rell continued, "are not the strongest. They are the ones who break containment. The ones whose bond overwrites you instead of the other way around. That is why we monitor nurturing vaults. That is why we log every spike of aggression. That is why failure to form proper alignment will result in reassignment—or removal."
He let that word hang in the air.
Removal.
Root didn't flinch. But he did glance sideways at the glyph-scorched edges of the room. There were warding marks hidden in the walls—just enough to suppress a panicking first summon, or kill one if it broke loose.
They feared their own creations.
They always had.
Rell exhaled slowly. "This is your first and last warning. Your summon will inherit your deepest instincts, whether you like it or not. If you are arrogant, it will be violent. If you are weak, it will be afraid. If you are a liar…"
His eyes locked with Root's.
"…it may become something you can't control."
The classroom remained silent as a system chime echoed from the corridor outside.
[Bell Chime: Orientation Segment 1 Complete.]
Rell stood upright. "Dismissed. Return here tomorrow with your summon. Failure to form a link before Day Three will result in disqualification from all Crowned-tier privileges."
Students began rising. A few shot curious glances at Root as they passed him. He ignored them all.
His thoughts were already beneath the stone floors—down in Vault Eleven, where his summon pulsed like a sealed memory.
It didn't know him yet.
Didn't know itself.
But it would.
And when it did, the System wouldn't have time to react.
Root rose with the others, shouldering his satchel.
Tomorrow, he'd bring the summon to class.
The world would see a blank slate.
Only he would know…
They were looking at a god still learning how to breathe.