Crispin and Regulus stepped out of Silas's apothecary shop; the heavy oak door clicked shut behind them. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp moss and the distant, rhythmic song of the village forges.
He adjusted the strap of his reinforced satchel, feeling the significant weight of the fresh supplies. He carried twelve and a half kilograms of specialized reagents—five different base materials packed into individual two-and-a-half-kilogram bundles—that Regulus had negotiated from the stunned shopkeeper.
"Let's drop these off at the house before we go to class, okay?" Crispin said, glancing down at the silver sphere on his shoulder.
"Okay," Regulus replied.
The voice was still thin and metallic, a vibration that felt like wind through silver pipes, but the clarity was improving. Crispin beamed, a surge of genuine affection warming the bond. "I love that you've learned to talk. You did very well in negotiating with Silas. I think you might have a future in trade if the whole 'Sovereign' thing doesn't work out."
Regulus radiated pure pride, wiggling his quicksilver mass against Crispin's neck in a satisfied hum. They marched through the upper terraces; the red leather of Crispin's new armor creaked with a professional cadence that drew respectful nods from passing guards.
The walk back to the smithy was brief. They found Thorne at the secondary anvil, his massive shoulders rolling as he worked a length of glowing iron. Beside him, the soot-covered bud, Ash, sat perched on the edge of the cooling trough, his golden eyes wide with focus.
"Remember, little king," Thorne said, his voice a low, instructional rumble. "Taper the strikes on both sides. You want the metal even and uniform. If the density fluctuates, the horse will limp."
Ash nodded, his orange-ember surface pulsing with understanding. He shifted his position, unleashing a tiny, controlled jet of blue flame to maintain the metal's translucent white heat, then continued his rhythmic mimicry of Thorne's hammer strikes. He flipped the horseshoe with a nub of jelly, ensuring the temper remained uniform across the curve.
Crispin smiled at the sight, carefully stowing the heavy bags of reagents in his room before heading back toward the village center. The weight was gone from his back, replaced by the sharpening focus of a Guardian approaching a challenge.
They found the amphitheater already crowded when they arrived. Young tamers stood in loose groups, their beasts restless in the cool air. The Elder, Xereniti, stood at the center of the stone dais, his carved cane resting against the granite.
"Tamers," the Elder's voice rang out, rolling across the stone like a struck bell. "Today we discuss something regarding yourselves and not just your tames. Advanced Classes. Who among you has unlocked their true path?"
A hand rose near the front. Bethany, the girl who had claimed the golden dragon whelp, stepped forward. She was a full-figured girl with a mess of golden curls, possessing a kind, pretty warmth that radiated from her constant smile.
"Mercantile," she announced, her voice steady. "Subclass: Archer."
"Excellent, Bethany. With me," the Elder said, beckoning her forward.
He took a breath and raised his hand. "Vael'thiryn Sae'korr, Subclass: Shae'Vaelryn."
"What's that?" Someone muttered.
"Elvish Beastmaster, Assassin," Therone muttered. "Ancient and as deadly as they come."
Crispin locked eyes with him, and the half-elf silenced himself.
"Crispin, come!" the Elder commanded.
No other hands rose. A heavy, stunned silence descended upon the amphitheater. Everyone, including Lucien, whose black dragon whelp was currently trying to hide behind his boots, looked at them in slack-jawed amazement. Unlocking an advanced class so soon after the ceremony was a feat that spoke of high-risk engagement and successful evolution.
"Today is a field test," the Elder announced. "A Shadowmane lion has crept from the Shadow-Thicket. It is large and has been hunting the livestock of our outlying farmers. You two shall hunt it. I will oversee the engagement."
Other students' mouths fell open. Some eyes were wide with fear at the mention of the Shadow-Thicket predator; others narrowed in disappointment.
"The rest of you will work with our other trainers in the field," the Elder continued, nodding toward the line of village scouts. "Your goal today is to secure an Arch-Class Gem, or two lesser-class gems. This is a requirement before I move you to the next step in your progression. Trainers, take them."
As the rest of the class departed, the Elder turned back to Crispin and Bethany. "You two, follow me."
They left the amphitheater behind, moving through the heart of the village toward the outer gates. The countryside of Hollow Earth was a landscape of breathtaking beauty and crystalline brilliance.
They passed through sprawling farms where sun-crystals provided a constant, artificial dawn for the fungal crops. Streams of liquid silver bubbled over natural gravel paths, and ancient symbols that hummed with low-frequency power adorned the bridges they crossed.
They walked for about a league, the beauty of the fields slowly giving way to the jagged, darker terrain of the Thicket's edge. The Shadowmane Lion was easy to spot. It was a nightmare of charcoal fur and shifting shadows; its mane appeared to drift like smoke even in the still air. It currently hunched over a fallen goat, and its jaws worked with a rhythmic, wet sound.
The Elder stepped back, leaning on his cane. He remained silent, but his sharp, pale eyes fixed on the pair, absorbing everything.
"I say we harass its flanks," Bethany whispered, her kind smile replaced by the focus of an archer. "When it turns, Ashara and Regulus, you spin and keep it whirling. You look for good timing for spear thrusts, Crispin, and I'll cover you with my bow."
Crispin adjusted his grip on the Shadow-Twilight spear. "Agreed."
Bethany didn't hesitate. "Ashara, engage! Keep the target off balance!"
The golden dragon whelp launched into the air with a piercing scream, her scales catching the refracted light in a blinding display.
"You've got this, Regy," Crispin whispered. "We keep it busy so we all stay safe."
Regulus let out a little battle yell—a metallic, determined vibration—and drew upon his Drake Blueprint. His quicksilver mass shifted, wings sprouting and scales hardening into a miniature, draconian shape. He took flight, a silver streak following the golden light of Ashara.
The engagement was a choreographed chaos of fire and shadow. Two drakes circled the lion, diving in from opposite angles. Ashara unleashed a torrent of golden embers while Regulus used the refined blue fire he had learned at the forge. The lion roared, its charcoal mane flaring as it tried to swat the flying irritants from the air.
Regulus was a blur of tactical adaptability. He dived toward the lion's back, transitioning mid-air into his Cave-Spider form. He landed with the unnatural stability of his gravity-ore, biting deep into the lion's shoulder with his newly gained neurotoxin. Before the beast could roll, Regy melted back into his drake form and beat his wings to regain altitude.
Crispin moved in, using Sentinel's Poise to stay rooted even as the lion's tail lashed out like a whip. He watched the patterns, looking for the gaps in the shifting shadows of the beast's hide. He thrust the obsidian spear; the weapon hummed with Martial Resonance. Some strikes landed, piercing the charcoal fur; others glanced off the lion's dense, magically reinforced ribs.
The fight was a brutal struggle. At one point, the lion lunged with a speed that defied its mass; its claws nearly catching Crispin's throat. Regy saw the vector and dived straight at the lion's face, bathing its eyes in a blinding jet of blue flame. The beast recoiled, screeching in frustration, which gave Crispin the window to retreat and reset his stance.
Bethany was a constant, lethal presence on the periphery. She landed almost every shot; her arrows thudded into the lion's flanks with a mercantile's precision. She wasn't just firing; she was directing the drakes with short, sharp whistles, her Archer subclass allowing her to track the lion's minute muscle twitches before it even moved.
The neurotoxin and constant harassment were clearly causing the lion to lose its edge, making its movements sluggish. However, a Thicket predator became most dangerous when cornered. With a thunderous roar that shook the ground, the Shadowmane ignored the drakes and Crispin entirely. It put all its remaining strength into a desperate dash toward Bethany.
"No!" Crispin roared.
He ran frantically toward them; his boots tore into the gravel. A calculated strike wasn't something he had time for. He lunged, putting every ounce of his increased resilience into a final, desperate thrust. The obsidian spear sank deep into the lion's chest, and the Martial Resonance flared into a blinding white light as the beast's heart pierced.
The lion collapsed, its charcoal mane turning to stagnant smoke, but the momentum had been too great.
Bethany lay on the ground; a deep, ragged gash stretched across her chest. The enemy shredded her gown, and blood was already soaking into the parched earth in a terrifying, dark bloom.
The Elder rushed to her side, his hands trembling as he tried to staunch the flow. Ashara was crying—a high, mournful sound—as she nudged Bethany's head with her golden snout, trying to wake her.
"Get out of my way!" Crispin screamed, his voice raw with panic.
He pushed the Elder aside, not out of malice, but out of a singular, desperate purpose. He reached into his hip pouch and retrieved one of the elvish potions Regy had synthesized.
"Please work," he prayed, his fingers shaking as he uncorked the crystal bottle.
He pried Bethany's mouth open and poured the glowing liquid in. He held her mouth shut and rubbed her throat with a steady, rhythmic pressure, hoping the swallowing reflex would engage.
Nothing happened for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity.
The blood stopped. It stilled on the surface of the ground, then moved—flowing backwards, defying gravity as it crawled back into the wound. Bethany's body shook as if she were having a seizure; her muscles locked and released in a violent internal reconstruction. She settled. Her breathing became calm and deep.
Crispin watched in awe as the slashes in her skin closed. Beneath the ruined fabric of her gown, the flesh was whole and unscarred.
Bethany stirred, her eyes fluttering open. Ashara let out a frantic chirp of joy, and Bethany immediately reached out, pulling the golden dragon into her arms as she cried—this time from the overwhelming relief of survival.
"Regy, if that lion moves, you toast it," Crispin commanded, his voice trembling as the adrenaline faded. "Bethany? Are you okay?"
She remained quiet for a long moment; her tears cleared as she touched the center of her chest where the wound had been. She looked up. "Elder… thank you."
"Not me, little miss," Xereniti said, his voice soft with profound respect. "Crispin and Regy. He used a potion I have not seen the likes of in many years."
Bethany turned her gaze to Crispin and nodded slowly. "Thank you, Crispin. Truly."
He nodded back, unable to find his voice.
"Regy?" Bethany held out her arms, wanting the slime to come to her.
Regulus flowed from Crispin's shoulder, landing softly in her lap. She held both the golden dragon and the silver slime close to her; her tears finally dried as she absorbed the stability of the bond.
"The spoils of war," the Elder said, motioning toward the massive lion corpse. "As you are mercantile, you would best decide the fate of this creature with your skills."
Bethany looked at the lion, her expression thoughtful even as the remnants of the trauma lingered in her eyes. "A Shadowmane Lion skin would earn healthy gold in the market. It's rare."
"Excellent," the Elder noted.
"I didn't say that's what I chose," Bethany countered. She looked at the silver sphere in her lap. "Regy, you can assume the forms of what you assimilate, right?"
Regy's surface flushed a modest azure, but he bobbed in a distinct nod.
"I thought so when I saw the drake and the spider," she said, a small, knowing smile returning to her face. "I vote Regulus assimilates it. If it produces a gem of any sort, we sell it and split the coin. But the blueprint? That belongs to the sovereign. Crispin?"
Crispin looked from her to Regy, then back again. "I'm okay if Regy wants to."
Regulus didn't need to be asked twice. He bounced from Bethany's lap onto the lion's corpse. His surface churned with a violent, dark blue current as he started the Sovereign Assimilation. The charcoal fur and shifting shadows unraveled, drawn into the liquid-silver mass as the next evolution of the king took root.