Inside the vast, domed testing arena, the crowd buzzed with a restless, overlapping hum of discussion—voices rising and falling like waves crashing against stone walls, laced with the sharp tang of nervous sweat, the metallic clink of mana crystals being fidgeted in pockets, and the occasional low grunt or screech from caged beasts echoing from the sidelines. The air hung heavy with tension, thick and humid, carrying the faint scorch of recent failed evolutions and the earthy musk of summoned creatures.
"I'm so panicked," a trembling voice confessed nearby, belonging to a pale-faced young tamer whose fingers twisted anxiously in the coarse fur of his Ironwood Gorilla slumped beside him. "My gorilla ran the evolution technique ten times yesterday and failed twice—each failure sending those agonizing shockwaves through its body, the wood-like bark on its skin cracking with sharp snaps, filling the training room with splinters and the acrid smell of singed sap. I don't know if I can pass today. If I fail… my beast will be erased." The words hung in the air, drawing sympathetic murmurs and averted eyes from those around, the gorilla's massive chest heaving with labored, rumbling breaths that stirred the dust on the ground.
Suddenly, I appeared in everyone's view, striding confidently into the central platform with my Thunderbird perched on my shoulder—its blind, milky eyes staring blankly ahead, ragged wings folded tightly against its scarred body, the faint warmth of its scaled talons pressing through my cloak, and the subtle, electric tingle of its latent power prickling my skin like static before a storm. A ripple of strange looks swept through the crowd: eyebrows arching in confusion, lips curling in barely concealed smirks, whispers sharpening into pointed gasps as heads turned in unison, the collective gaze feeling like a prickling heat on my back.
Disregarding those odd, judgmental stares—the soft rustle of shifting robes, the muffled snickers barely veiled behind hands, the cool draft carrying their doubtful scents toward me—I brought my Thunderbird directly to one of the designated testing stands, a raised circular platform of polished obsidian etched with glowing azure runes that hummed faintly underfoot, releasing a low vibration through my boots and a subtle ozone scent into the air.
The crowd's reaction intensified immediately: a wave of stifled laughter bubbling up like crackling sparks, fingers pointing discreetly, eyes widening in mock pity or outright scorn, the atmosphere thickening with the bitter taste of anticipation.
Standing at the proctor's podium, Proctor Elias Voss—a stern, silver-haired elder with a neatly trimmed beard, his deep green robes embroidered with golden beast sigils that shimmered under the arena's floating mana-lights—cleared his throat with a resonant authority that cut through the noise like a blade. His sharp gray eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction as he surveyed the assembled tamers, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"I will explain the test content first," Proctor Voss announced, his voice booming and steady, amplified by the arena's enchantments to echo off the vaulted ceiling with crystal clarity, commanding instant silence as all eyes turned to him, the weight of impending judgment settling over the space like the calm before thunder
Proctor Elias Voss's voice rolled through the vast arena like distant thunder, amplified by the enchanted dome until every syllable vibrated in the chest of every onlooker. "This test involves the basic evolution technique distributed to all of you exactly one month ago. You have ten chances. As long as your beast can complete a full seven cycles of the technique without catastrophic failure, you pass."
A tense hush fell; the only sounds were the nervous shuffle of boots on stone, the rapid breathing of anxious tamers, and the low, restless growls of summoned creatures echoing from the shadowed edges of the platform.
He continued, his tone calm yet commanding, "I will demonstrate it for you first."
With those words, he snapped his fingers—a crisp, sharp crack that cut through the heavy air like a whip. Instantly, a cascade of silvery brilliance descended from the glowing mana-lights overhead, swirling in luminous spirals that carried the cool, ethereal scent of midnight frost and ancient forests. The light coalesced on the obsidian platform in front of him, condensing with a soft, resonant hum that tingled across the skin and raised faint gooseflesh on exposed arms.
From the radiance emerged a magnificent Pale Moon Wolf—its sleek, muscular frame materializing in a shimmer of pale blue mist, paws touching down silently on the rune-etched stone. The beast was breathtaking: thick fur gleaming like polished moonlight, each strand shimmering with an inner argent glow that reflected the arena's floating orbs in fractured silver shards; eyes a piercing icy sapphire that seemed to hold the depth of starlit nights; long, elegant tail swaying with graceful power, stirring faint eddies of chilled air that carried the crisp, clean aroma of high mountain snowfields.
Everyone's eyes lit up at once—gasps rippling through the crowd, the sharp intake of breath audible over the sudden hush, pupils dilating as the wolf's handsome, regal presence commanded involuntary awe. A few tamers leaned forward unconsciously, the faint creak of leather belts and rustle of robes filling the space, while the wolf's steady, rhythmic breathing released visible puffs of frosty vapor that danced briefly in the warm arena air.
Proctor Voss rested one gloved hand on the wolf's broad shoulder, the fur there soft yet charged with latent energy that crackled faintly under his touch like static silk. "Beast: Pale Moon Wolf. Current level: High-grade, late stage. Notable skills: Howling Moon, Wolf Claw. Evolution route: Basic to Proficient. Evolution technique: Howling Moon Wolf—high-grade mastery."
A murmur of admiration swept the stands, accompanied by the soft clink of mana crystals shifting in pockets and the envious exhale of held breath.
Seeing this flawless demonstration, I felt a flicker of genuine surprise ripple through me—my pulse quickening with a warm rush, the Thunderbird on my shoulder shifting slightly, its ragged feathers brushing my neck with a dry, papery rasp. I remembered clearly how beast levels were rigorously categorized: Common, High, Lord, Transcendent, Monarch, and the legendary Emperor. Even with proficient mastery of the basic evolution technique—honed through countless grueling hours of guiding energy flows that scorched the veins and filled training halls with the acrid tang of overtaxed mana—a tamer would need at least three full years of relentless daily cycles to advance a beast from mid to high grade. Yet here stood living proof of that pinnacle, its moonlit aura bathing the platform in cool, shimmering light that made the surrounding runes pulse brighter in sympathetic resonance.
Seeing the majestic Pale Moon Wolf poised gracefully on the obsidian platform—its silvery fur rippling like liquid moonlight under the arena's floating mana-orbs, each breath releasing faint wisps of frosty vapor that carried the crisp, invigorating scent of high-altitude pines and glacial winds—teachers from the other examination teams began gathering around Proctor Elias Voss in a loose semicircle, their embroidered robes whispering softly against the stone floor with each purposeful step, the subtle clink of ornamental beast medallions dangling from their belts adding a rhythmic undertone to the growing anticipation.
One of the senior proctors, a wiry woman with sharp features and a voice like grinding ice, leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming with professional admiration as she addressed the assembled students. "Proctor Voss's Pale Moon Wolf possesses the most proficient mastery of the basic evolution technique in the entire academy. His execution of this seemingly simple method is so refined—energy flows seamless and pure, without a single wasted spark—that it surpasses the power and efficiency of some beasts' exclusive, high-tier evolution methods. You all better watch closely; we don't usually get to witness a demonstration of this caliber."
The other proctors nodded in solemn agreement, their murmurs blending into a low, resonant hum that vibrated through the charged air, accompanied by the faint crackle of mana as they adjusted their stances, robes shifting with the soft rustle of enchanted silk and the occasional metallic glint of silver-threaded hems catching the light.
Hearing this rare praise from the usually stern instructors—their words carrying the weight of authority and slicing through the lingering whispers like a cold lunar breeze—the surrounding students instantly snapped to rapt attention. Eyes widened across the stands, pupils reflecting the wolf's ethereal glow; breaths were drawn in sharply and held, creating a profound hush broken only by the distant drip of condensation from the dome's ceiling and the subtle, electric hum emanating from the platform's runes. Bodies leaned forward in unison, the creak of wooden benches and the soft scrape of boots on tiered stone filling the brief silence, every gaze locked unblinkingly on the Pale Moon Wolf as the arena seemed to contract around this singular moment, the air growing cooler and heavier with the collective focus, tingling with the promise of witnessing true mastery.