Senar... Senar Classifications... Fighter Vs Summoner...

As they walked through the dimly lit streets, Zarn glanced at Lina. "By the way, when's the government summoning event?"

She's twelve already—the legal age to perform a summoning. He had been meaning to ask.

Lina perked up. "Next week! The big summoning stations are for academy students and registered applicants. The rest of us use scroll stations."

Zarn hummed, already knowing as much. Not everyone who comes of age would perform a summoning, as not everyone was interested in dual training. Only the less privileged and those with weak talents in Senar usage put importance in the event. The less privileged can use the event as a platform to make it out of the slumps. The less talented can use it to take the Summoner path.

"Good luck with yours," he said offhandedly. The kids of powerful families and factions won't be there too, they most likely had done theirs immediately they came of age through the use of summoning scrolls.

Lina blushed. "Hehe, now that you've wished me luck, I can't fail."

Zarn paused mid-step before shaking his head. The allegations... How do I beat them?

Despite being Lina's height, Zarn was five years older. It was just how things were for him. But to Lina, he was simply a cool, composed boy her age.

And he had no idea how to deal with that.

He continued on, thinking about the little he knew of the event.

Summoning and contracting beasts from the Beast Worlds could be done in multiple ways, but only three were considered safe.

The first was the Summon Station, a platform that activated the necessary spells for summoning and contracting a beast simultaneously. This method was a direct evolution of the second—Summon Scrolls.

A Summon Scroll contained ancient spell formations designed to mimic the third method. The spells were structured in a way that allowed anyone to activate them simply by administering Senar.

And then there was the final method—Natural Summoners.

Unlike the first two, this wasn't a learned process but an innate ability. Those born as Natural Summoners didn't require external tools or spells. They could connect to the Beast Worlds on their own, reaching through dimensions and selecting their own contracted beast.

People like Zarn.

_________

The Local Hub was little more than a repurposed warehouse, its metal walls tagged with neon graffiti, the floor worn down by years of scuffles. A haven for slum dwellers—some came to watch, others to bet, and a few dared to dream. A single victory in the beast fights could be a ticket out of the slumps; a loss, however, could mean ruin.

Zarn and his group slipped through the entrance, melting into the chaotic crowd. The air reeked of sweat, cheap alcohol, and the faint metallic tang of blood. The atmosphere buzzed with anticipation as the next match was about to begin.

At the center of the ring, two combatants squared off.

On one side stood the reigning champion, a Fighter. No wasted movements, no unnecessary tension. Even in stillness, his stance exuded the kind of control only honed through countless battles. A thin veil of Senar pulsed beneath his skin—enhanced speed, strength, and reflexes at his command. His opponents rarely lasted beyond a minute.

Opposite him, the Summoner, younger and brash, stood with a cocky grin that did little to mask the flicker of nerves in his eyes. His Senar flared as he extended his arm, the air distorting for a brief moment before his contracted beast materialized—a Raque, a sleek brown panther with short fur and claws sharp enough to carve through steel. A raw force of speed and savagery.

Lina nudged Zarn as the Raque prowled low, its golden eyes locked onto the Fighter. "It'll try to overwhelm him early. Typical."

Mira folded her arms. "It won't work."

The fight began.

The Raque blurred into motion, a dark streak cutting across the arena floor. The beast moved fast, even for its kind—closing the distance in the blink of an eye. Its Summoner was smart, feeding Senar into its muscles, making it sharper, quicker.

The Fighter didn't flinch.

Just as the Raque lunged, his foot shifted.

A shockwave erupted from the point of impact as he pivoted and countered, his Senar-infused fist slamming into empty air where the Raque had been. The beast twisted mid-air, barely escaping the hit, but the sheer force sent it skidding across the dirt.

"That wasn't even his full speed." Mira stated.

The Raque rebounded instantly, adjusting its rhythm, darting left, then right, its movements erratic—testing, searching for an opening. The Summoner's control was precise. The beast feinted twice, then snapped forward, claws poised to carve into the Fighter's ribs.

Lina tapped her chin. "It's trying to force a reaction."

"Won't get one," Mira muttered.

The Fighter didn't react. He moved.

His body blurred—a step faster than the Raque could track. He dodged each swipe by a hair's breadth, weaving between attacks like he had rehearsed them beforehand. The beast was fast, but the Fighter was faster.

Then he shifted gears.

A sharp step forward—and suddenly he was on the attack.

His muscles tensed, Senar surging through his limbs as he slammed his foot into the ground. The arena cracked. The Raque flinched at the disruption, its momentum thrown off for a fraction of a second. But that fraction was all the Fighter needed.

Mira clicked her tongue. "It's over."

The Fighter closed the gap instantly, his fist smashing into the Raque's ribcage before the beast could react. A clean hit. The Raque flew across the ring, tumbling through the dirt before struggling to its feet.

The Summoner gritted his teeth and forced more Senar into his beast. The Raque twitched, its body flickering with renewed strength—

But the Fighter was already there.

A single Senar-infused palm strike to the skull—brutal, efficient.

The Raque collapsed.

The Summoner staggered as the bond between him and his beast wavered, the backlash of depleted Senar leaving him weak. The fight was over.

The warehouse erupted in cheers and groans. Bets were settled, drinks exchanged, and the cycle continued.

Fighters, Summoners, Assassins, Casters, Guardians, Enhancers, Healers, Hybrids… the many paths of Senar Users. All of them were natural evolutions of Senar control—except for one. The Summoner's path—

"Well, that was nice, wasn't it? Better than some show, huh?"

Mico's voice cut through Zarn's thoughts.

Zarn squinted at him. "What exactly is nice about watching your kind get beaten?"

Mico sucked in a dramatic breath, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Did you just compare me to that savage beast?"

Zarn blinked. "You're… a lion made of blue fire. Yea, you are of the same kind."

"This king—" Mico puffed out his chest. "—is not of the same kind as those beasts."

Zarn stared at him, then sighed. "I have never seen anyone as racist toward their own kind as you."

Mico scoffed, flicking his tail. "Please, I am refined. Cultured. A being of great intelligence and dignity."

"Yeah, yeah," Zarn waved him off. "Let's just find a way out of here."

He glanced over at the girls—who had somehow started bickering again. If he stayed around them too long, fists might start flying.

Best to leave before that happened.

Slipping out of the Hub, Zarn and Mico faded into the slum's winding alleys. Zarn walked aimlessly, relishing the rare feeling of energy in his limbs. The night had settled in, casting long shadows across the crumbling buildings.

For once, he decided to stray into unfamiliar territory—deeper into the slums, past the places he usually avoided.

He hadn't gone far when the sensation struck.

A prickle at the back of his neck.

He was being followed.

He kept his pace steady, pretending not to notice. Turning down a side alley, he caught a glimpse of movement behind him. More figures ahead. He frowned and adjusted course, weaving through the maze-like streets, but every turn brought more shadowed figures into view.

They weren't amateurs.

They were herding him.

Zarn's jaw tightened. He picked up his pace, slipping through the tightest gaps between buildings, hoping to shake them off. Mico prowled beside him, silent and tense. But the net was closing. Every escape route led to another corner, another shadow, another waiting threat.

Finally, he turned a corner—and stopped.

A dead end.

A dozen figures emerged from the darkness, their smirks illuminated by flickering streetlights.

Zarn sighed, casting a sideways glance at Mico, who rumbled in amusement.

"Well," Zarn muttered. "So much for a good day."