The Elder's eyes twinkled as Aethon finished absorbing the last of the three Tier 2 cores. A warmth spread through his chest, his wings fluttered instinctively, and a deep hum resonated from his body.
"You've done it," the Elder said firmly. "You are no longer Tier 1. You are now a Tier 2 being."
Aethon's eyes widened. "Wait… really? Already?"
"Yes," the Elder nodded. "The cores advanced you far more quickly than a normal being could ever hope. One Tier 2 core is worth about fifteen Tier 1 cores. But don't be fooled. Strength without control is more dangerous than weakness."
Aethon frowned but nodded. He tried to take a step forward—and nearly launched himself headlong into the stone wall. His wings buzzed uncontrollably, his feet slipped, and he landed flat on his back with a painful thud.
"Argh!" He groaned. "What just happened?!"
The Elder's expression was calm, even amused. "Exactly what I warned you. Your body is faster, stronger, sharper than before. You must learn to tame it. Until then, you'll be tripping over your own strength."
For days Aethon stumbled through training, sometimes overshooting his jumps, sometimes swinging his arms too forcefully and shattering practice dummies with a single tap. The Horned Beetle Tribe watched from a distance, half in awe, half in amusement at the young successor's clumsy attempts to master his new power.
Finally, after a week, the Elder brought him once more to the arrow chamber. The walls were lined with dozens of slits, their mechanisms primed.
"This time," the Elder said, "you are ready. Survive ten minutes inside, and you will have proven mastery over your Dragonfly gifts and your new tier."
Aethon took a deep breath. His heart pounded, but this time it was not with fear—it was anticipation.
The Elder gave the signal.
Arrows fired in a deadly storm, faster than any mortal eye could track. But Aethon was no longer mortal. His compound vision widened, his future-sight flickered, and his new speed carried him between volleys. He slipped through narrow gaps, rolled beneath spiraling shafts, and twisted midair with his wings to avoid strikes.
At first, he faltered—an arrow nicked his shoulder, another grazed his leg. But within days, his movements grew sharper, more fluid. By the end of the week, Aethon stood in the chamber's center, not a single arrow able to touch him.
Panting but smiling, he lowered his stance. "I… did it."
The Elder clapped his thick hands together. "Yes. You've grown stronger. You've proven yourself worthy of this."
From behind him, two tribe members stepped forward, carrying a long cloth-wrapped bundle. With reverence, they laid it at Aethon's feet.
"What's this?" Aethon asked, curiosity flaring.
"Your weapon," the Elder said.
Aethon carefully unwrapped the bundle. Inside lay a polearm, its haft dark and reinforced, its blade curved like a halberd's edge. It shimmered faintly, not with magic but with raw craftsmanship.
"This is… incredible," Aethon whispered. "You made this… for me?"
The Elder's mandibles twitched in what seemed like a smile. "We forged it from ordinary Tier 3 material. But with the techniques of the Horned Beetle Tribe, its strength equals that of a Tier 4 weapon. Our forging arts allow us to raise any material to its peak—and beyond. This is the proof of our tribe's legacy."
Aethon hefted the weapon, but the weight nearly pulled him forward. He steadied himself, realizing the Elder's warning was true.
"You are only Tier 2," the Elder reminded him. "You cannot yet draw out its full power. But even restrained, it will serve you well."
Aethon grinned despite the strain, running his hand along the haft. "Thank you. Truly."
The Elder placed a hand on his shoulder. "Do not thank me yet. Your journey is only beginning. You've mastered the Dragonfly's gifts. Now you must seek out other tribes and inherit their powers. Start with the other beetle clans—they will be more likely to welcome you than outsiders."
Aethon rested the halberd across his lap, still marveling at its balance and weight. But one question gnawed at him, pressing through the excitement.
"Elder," he said slowly, "you told me I need to go to the other beetle tribes… but which one? Where do I begin?"
The Elder's antennae twitched as if he had expected this. He sat back on his stone seat, mandibles clicking thoughtfully.
"There are several tribes you could seek, each with their own gifts," the Elder said. "But the choice is yours—and it will shape the kind of warrior you become."
He raised one thick finger.
"The Dung Beetle Tribe."
Aethon blinked, his face twisting in faint disgust. "Dung beetles…?"
"Yes," the Elder said without a hint of shame. "They are filthy in habit, yes, but do not let appearances blind you. Their strength is unmatched across all Arthropods. It is said that their might may rival, and sometimes even surpass, the power of dragons. And dragons, as you know, are famed for their unstoppable force and nearly unbreakable bodies. If you seek raw power, you would find it there."
A second finger rose.
"The Tiger Beetle Tribe."
"The fastest?" Aethon guessed, recalling old whispers from travelers.
The Elder nodded. "Correct. Their speed is legendary. Even at Tier 1, a tiger beetle moves with the speed of a Tier 3 creature. Their bursts of movement rival the falcon clans of the skies and even surpass the fastest cheetah beasts of the plains. If you value agility above all else, the Tiger Beetle Tribe is where you should go."
A third finger rose.
"The Ironclad Beetle Clan."
Their name alone carried a weight. The Elder's tone grew more solemn. "Their shells are among the toughest defenses in the world, equal—sometimes even superior—to dragon scales. In the wild, an ironclad beetle can endure forces thousands of times its own body weight without breaking. Imagine that ability heightened through cores and training. If you wish to become an unbreakable shield, their path is yours."
The Elder lowered his hand, his compound eyes locking onto Aethon.
"Three tribes. Three paths. Raw power. Unmatched speed. Or absolute defense."
Aethon's fingers tightened on the haft of his halberd. His heart raced—not with fear, but with the thrill of choice. Each path carried its own risks, its own identity. And whichever he chose would determine the battles he could win… and the enemies he might one day face.