Boundless Evolution: The Summoning Beast
Chapter 66: The Stages Explodes

Chapter 66: The Stages Explodes

Lucas, meanwhile, stood atop the platform, still frozen in the lingering light of the ceremony.

All around him, the other young initiates stirred like ripples in still water.

He heard their voices—not distant or abstract, but clear and close.

"He really has a seven string wind affinity," one boy whispered, awe clinging to his words.

"Look at him," said another, "Only a noble could keep his composure like that."

A group of older initiates stood near the edge, murmuring with a mix of admiration and unease.

"The last time a seven string was recorded was half a century ago," a girl said under her breath.

One boy edged forward cautiously, his expression caught somewhere between envy and respect.

"What does it feel like?" he asked, barely audible.

Others didn’t come closer.

They hung back, eyes wide, whispering with quick glances.

A few backed away entirely, as if Lucas had become something alien—untouchable.

A younger child, no older than ten, stood closest to the steps and stared up at Lucas, eyes full of awe.

"Are you a hero now?" she asked quietly, wonder shining in her eyes.

Before Lucas could answer, a sneer came from behind the crowd.

A boy, dressed in the fine-stitched robes of a minor noble house, crossed his arms and scoffed loud enough for others to hear, "Hero? Please. That orb just glows—it doesn’t mean anything."

He stepped forward, his chin raised arrogantly, "Besides, he needs a summon to follow him around? How pathetic. Real heirs don’t need babysitters. He’s nothing but a coward hiding behind a beast."

Some of the younger kids flinched at the venom in his voice, but others looked at Lucas with a new mix of awe and doubt, confusion rippling across their faces.

Lucas didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The flood of voices surrounded him, layered in admiration, fear, and expectation.

He was still standing in the same place—but he no longer felt like the same person.

The phrases tumbled into his ears, piling on top of one another.

Lucas heard every syllable, every accolade, every subtle pressure buried beneath the praise.

The grandeur of the moment swelled around him like a tidal wave.

He looked up, desperately searching for something steady to anchor him.

His gaze found the noble balconies.

Seraphina and Bennett stood among the highest tiers, unmoved by the chaos of celebration around them. Their faces bore the cold serenity demanded by nobility—dignified, composed—but Lucas could read beyond the surface.

Their eyes shimmered not just with pride, but with an edge of calculation.

They were already measuring this moment, already preparing for what it must become.

They were proud, yes—but more than that, they were aware.

The weight of legacy settled on Lucas like iron chains.

He tried to take a step forward. His legs responded sluggishly, faltering. His knees nearly gave out.

The smile he had practiced slipped away, revealing the raw edge of uncertainty beneath.

For a terrifying instant, it felt like the earth might vanish from beneath his feet.

Ash appeared at his side with the quiet grace of a shadow. Silent and swift.

His golden eyes swept the area with the cold precision of a predator reading the wind, but his outward composure was disarmingly calm.

To the crowd, he was just another escort, but to Lucas—he was reassurance made flesh.

’You did well,’ Ash muttered, voice low and steady, meant only for Lucas’s ears. His tone held no theatrics, only a quiet truth.

Lucas exhaled shakily, the breath escaping him like air from a punctured drum, "That... was a lot."

Ash gave a faint, knowing smirk. He crossed his arms, as if simply watching the crowd with casual interes, ’You stood your ground. That’s what matters.’

His eyes never stopped moving.

Every flicker of motion, every anomaly in the celebratory rhythm—he cataloged it with practiced efficiency. But to Lucas, Ash seemed completely relaxed.

Lucas gave a nervous chuckle, feeling the tightness in his chest loosen just a little.

’I need to tell Bennet...’ Ash decided in his head as the unease in his body only seemed to grow.

He didn’t move. But something shifted in his stance.

His head tilted ever so slightly toward the noble stands, his sharp eyes narrowing as they scanned the highest balconies.

He attempted to send a telepathic message to Bennett, informing him about the weird feeling he was getting but the distance proved too great as his telepathy was still far too weak.

His eyes furrowed briefly in frustration but his attention was then caught on something else.

Below the sitting area of the Valens, a silver wolf devouring the sun was etched into the banner of one of the reserved balconies. He immediately recognised it this time.

The Valtair crest.

At the noble balconies, tension brewed like a storm cloaked in velvet and gold.

Applause rang throughout the arena, but up here—among the ancient families and watchful houses—it was all posturing.

Their smiles were forged from diplomacy, their claps measured and mechanical. Beneath their silks and jewels, they whispered like snakes in long grass and a slow migration began.

Nobles leaned in toward the Valens with rehearsed admiration, "A brilliant revelation," murmured one with a voice like syrup, "Your son will become a pillar of the kingdom, Lord Valen."

Another noble, eyes like flint, nodded, "To awaken such a high level, his destiny has been written to leave a mark on our history books. Remarkable. House Valen must be proud."

A third, older and veiled, raised a goblet, "The court has taken notice, my lady. And so has the capital."

Amid the wave of congratulatory murmurs and strategic smiles, Seraphina and Bennett stood in practiced grace—pillars of House Valen beneath the weight of their dynasty’s watching eyes.

Seraphina offered nods, gentle courtesies, her voice poised, yet her mind distant. She saw the nobles circling, felt the shift in the air—how warmth could so easily become weapons, how praise was a veil for recalibration.

But even as her trained instincts whispered caution, something unfamiliar bloomed in her chest: pride. Pure. Unfiltered.

Beside her, Bennett remained the still point in a turning world. His jaw was set, arms behind his back, unmoving. But inwardly, the stillness was cracking.

As he looked down at his son—tall, composed, radiant—something long buried stirred within him.

Hope.

For just a breath, they weren’t tacticians. They weren’t masks. They were parents.

And in that fragile, flickering second, Seraphina allowed herself to believe.

That maybe, just maybe... their son would not inherit a broken future.

He would forge a new one.

Further down the tiered balcony, nestled beneath shadows and silken drapes, House Valtair watched in silence. Their banner hung heavy in the still air.

A silver-haired man, his face cut by an old dueling scar, stared at Lucas with a glint of restrained malice.

"This is unprecedented. I did not expect him to outclass both his father and his grandfather," he muttered.

A woman beside him, draped in layers of obsidian silk, tapped her chalice rhythmically, "He was supposed to ignite, not shine."

"Which makes it even more urgent," the man growled, "We can’t allow this spark to become a blaze."

"And it will be so," she raised her glass, smiling thinly, "He won’t survive the day. They’re already moving."

Beneath the arena, the true storm was beginning to stir.

A hidden chamber—just beneath the central platform. It was ancient and cold. Forgotten by time, but not untouched by purpose.

Seven cloaked figures stood in a precise circle, surrounding a glowing sigil etched into obsidian stone. Their robes bore symbols stitched in crimson thread, old glyphs from a language the world had chosen to forget. At their center stood a woman—their leader.

Silver thread wove through her hooded cloak, catching light that wasn’t there.

She raised her hand, and all fell silent.

Her voice was soft. Measured. But beneath it was the weight of centuries.

"Their heir’s talent has emerged," she said, her tone heavy with disdain. "He has exceeded all of our expectations of him."

One of the cloaked figures—a towering man wielding a staff of blackened bone—spoke solemnly, "Stronger than anything recorded. He will match his grandfather’s legacy now if he is given time."

Hearing this, the lady spoke again, "Stay focused. We are not here to measure. We are here to end."

Another, older, his robes fraying with age, nodded, "We must take him and many more. Let the roots rot with the fruit."

The leader’s mouth curled into a cruel, reverent smile. "Let Zavareth be reborn through the silence we deliver."

An acolyte stepped forward, trembling with purpose. His robes bore the runes of sacrifice—etched into his skin, glowing with unstable aether. He held the sealed crystal close to his chest, veins pulsing with ritual power.

"I am the vessel," he whispered. "Let my death be the spark."

The others began a low, guttural chant. Not for their own deaths—but for what would rise after.

"Only he burns," the leader murmured. "We ascend through the fire."

She dropped the ignition rune.

The acolyte screamed—a sound swallowed instantly as his body burst in a bloom of violet-black aether. His flesh became light, his bones a tremor. The ground shuddered. The blast roared upward.

Ash walked beside Lucas, guiding him off the stage with casual ease. His demeanor was calm, almost too calm—but his eyes never stopped moving.

The Valtairs sat still.

No movement. No signal. No sign.

For a second, Ash doubted himself.

Then he felt it.

Aether.

Twisted. Rising. Hungry.

’Lucas,’ he growled, ’Down the stage. Now.’

Lucas blinked. "What—"

’Run!’

The aether pulse surged—then ruptured.

The platform beneath the nobility fractured with a scream of stone.

Flame and corrupted light shot upward in a vortex of destruction, blowing the arena open like a cracked shell. Sound died. Then returned as thunder—a concussive blast that ripped through the sky.