SSS-Ranked Awakening: I Can Only Summon Mythical Beasts

The dark veil of night had settled fully over the horizon when Damien slipped through the final line of forest brush just beyond Velthorne's outer perimeter.

The looming walls he'd seen from a distance now rose like giants before him—fifteen meters high and thick as mountain roots, the stone glowing faintly under the pale light of the twin moons.

He kept to the shadows, cloaked still by the residual magic of the shadow essence he'd consumed earlier. His presence was reduced to nothing more than a passing chill in the wind, a blur if someone looked too hard.

As he moved, his eyes drank in the grandness of Velthorne's entrance gates. They weren't merely reinforced iron—they were adorned. Engraved with the insignia of House Raegon: a twisted, rising black serpent coiled around a crimson lance.

"He really is a Lord." Damien murmured to himself

It was... extravagant.

Too extravagant for a place still called a "town."

Once within the outer gate, Damien expected squalor. Dilapidated buildings, low-borne homes, worn-out people.

The usual thing you saw in fringe towns, especially those ruled by tyrants. Instead, he was greeted by cobblestone roads, maintained lanterns burning soft with magic, and buildings made of quarried stone, timbered neatly, some rising as high as two stories.

"Town," he whispered to himself with an incredulous scoff. "This is a small city."

Guards patrolled the main thoroughfares in pairs, clad in standard black-lacquered armor, helmets open-faced for visibility.

Their pace was practiced, their hands resting lightly on their weapons—but Damien noticed the slight looseness in posture.

Complacency bred from lack of real conflict. Lord Raegon had this place locked down so well that even his guards had begun to feel invincible.

And it almost impressed Damien. Almost.

Raegon's efficiency in establishing control was undeniable. Order reigned here. Streets were clean. Merchants closed their stalls with confidence. No one seemed afraid.

But beneath the surface...

Damien's lip curled slightly in disgust. He remembered the siege of Westmont, how Raegon had brought forces against the city without provocation, ignoring both the people's will and the law of the land.

Power. That's all Raegon had ever cared for.

And now, Damien walked through a town that looked like it had thrived under that iron rule.

"Control doesn't equal peace," he muttered. "Just silence. And fear."

About thirty minutes deeper into the town, the atmosphere began to shift. Damien could feel it—like a pressure drop in the air, as though the town's heartbeat had changed rhythm.

The guards became fewer. The patrols stopped altogether.

The architecture changed.

No longer uniform and humble, the buildings here were richer—ornate stonework, polished wood, and decorative awnings embroidered with gold-threaded patterns.

Each building rose higher than the last, and Damien began spotting glass windows, some colored, a rarity even in most cities.

And then came the brothels.

At first, he mistook them for inns—well-lit, luxurious, and far too opulent for their surroundings. But the signs—both written and unwritten—were unmistakable: velvet-clad doormen, laughter that carried into the street, the faint scent of perfume and pipe smoke.

He passed a street where three brothels stood side by side, each more extravagant than the last. Their balconies overlooked the narrow street, women draped in silk calling down to the wealthy men wandering below.

Damien paused in the shadows.

One man stepped out from one of the brothels, his red tunic embroidered with silver, a gold chain swinging over his chest. A guard—no doubt off duty—followed him, laughing heartily, already half-drunk, a jewel-studded dagger at his waist.

They disappeared into the night, heading toward the outer ring.

Damien narrowed his eyes.

There was a flow here. A one-way current. Those from the outer ring rarely entered this zone of indulgence, but those who lived here? They passed through the gates like wind through trees.

The inner circle. The elite. The ones who thrived under Raegon's rule.

He had masked it well—built a haven for the rich in the heart of the town and guarded its existence behind the smokescreen of outer-ring security.

This wasn't just a town. It was a machine. And every brothel, every merchant, every indulgence was part of its clockwork.

Damien shook his head. Westmont would've ended up like this—a gilded cage for the wealthy, a facade of peace held up by shackles and silver. A play space for Raegon and his chosen ones.

"Thank the gods we fought back," he murmured.

He didn't stop to linger. He slid through alleyways, slipped past unwatched paths, and crossed guard checkpoints with the ease of a phantom.

At the heart of Velthorne, Lord Raegon's castle rose like a mountain of stone and ambition.

It wasn't sprawling like the castles of old kingdoms. It was tight, vertical, and well-defended—four towers, one at each corner, joined by thick curtain walls.

Balconies wrapped around the towers, with archers perched casually but attentively. The gate was shut but not sealed.

This was no ceremonial fortress. It was functional.

Damien crouched low beneath a balcony ledge across the street, watching the flow of guards, noting their rotations.

Raegon hadn't grown sloppy. Instead, it seemed like he'd increased security since his return.

Yet Damien wasn't here to break through walls.

He was already inside.

He smiled.

One more blockade. One final veil.

He crept across the castle plaza like a shadow, sticking to the walls, passing by two guards mid-conversation about one of the noble daughters celebrating her eighteenth birthday that night—inside the very castle.

"So there's a party. Good." He smirked.

Noise meant distraction.

Chaos was opportunity.

Damien reached the inner gate and crouched behind a statue of General Vhile, a long-dead general Raegon no doubt admired. The gate itself was fortified with twin guards and a pair of magically sealed iron doors.

But Damien wasn't planning on knocking.

He placed a hand on the base of the statue, then reached into his pouch and pulled out a coin-sized rune stone, inscribed with a teleportation marker.

With this rune stone in his hand, he could teleport to any distance or place his eyes could see but it expended too much magic eseen

It pulsed in his hand, reacting to his presence.

He closed his eyes, channeled the flicker of mana in his chest, and vanished, reappearing inside the courtyard of the castle, just beyond the inner gate.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

He stood, surrounded by stone gardens, trimmed hedges, and a central fountain. The laughter of the party echoed faintly from the keep beyond.

Damien looked up at the glowing windows, the sound of clinking glasses and string music carried by the wind.

Raegon was inside.