Fwoooooshhh…

The wind whispered through the clouds, parting just enough for the moonlight to pierce the sky as Skylar, Damien’s Shadowfang Wyvern, glided silently over the sleeping world below.

Damien sat upright on the wyvern’s back, his silver hair catching fragments of light as they flew over fields, forests, and faintly glowing rivers.

In front of him, nestled between his arms, Lyone kept trying to stay awake, his small form swaying gently with the rhythm of flight.

He was fighting sleep with all the stubbornness a boy his age could muster, but it was a losing battle. Soon enough, Damien knew he would fall asleep. The wind and night sky would make sure of it.

They had flown for nearly two hours.

When Damien finally spotted the gentle glow of lanterns on the edge of a clustered settlement, he gave Skylar the signal to descend.

The wyvern tilted its wings and angled downward, spiraling once over the rooftops before landing in a hidden clearing a few hundred meters beyond the village borders.

The town—Merrowind, according to the tattered road sign—was quiet, cloaked in pre-dawn stillness.

Most of its occupants were deep in sleep, their chimneys no longer smoking, their doors barred for the night. A faint breeze stirred the trees as Damien slid off Skylar and gently helped Lyone down.

“We walk from here,” Damien said in a low voice. “No one should see the beast.”

Lyone nodded groggily, rubbing his eyes. “Is this where we’re going?”

“No,” Damien replied, adjusting his cloak. “It’s a stop. Nothing more. Consider it a checkpoint.”

They stepped through the village’s unpaved roads, passing shuttered shops and rows of quiet homes.

The stones beneath their boots were uneven, worn by years of foot traffic and the occasional passing cart. The stones weren’t regularly checked either.

Damien kept his senses open, scanning every flicker of movement or shift in sound, but the town was truly asleep.

At the center of Merrowind was a modest tavern, its hanging sign creaking slightly on its hinges. A single candle still burned behind the small front window, the universal signal that the tavern accepted late visitors.

Damien approached the door and knocked twice.

A groggy man in his late fifties answered a moment later, eyes squinting as he peered up at Damien and the boy beside him.

“No rooms left,” the man said, voice thick with sleep. “Festival crowd’s here. Try the barn if you don’t mind straw.”

Damien slipped a gold coin between his fingers and held it up. “We don’t need two rooms.”

The innkeeper’s eyes lit up at the sight of gold. “You’ll take what I’ve got, then. Room with two beds. Top floor, corner.”

He opened the door wider, muttering to himself as Damien and Lyone stepped inside. The tavern’s common room was empty save for a few dirty mugs left on wooden tables and a fire burning low in the hearth.

Damien guided Lyone to a table near the far end.

“Sit,” he said, then called toward the kitchen. “Two plates. Anything hot. Doesn’t matter what.”

Lyone sat as instructed, his eyes blinking slowly as the weariness began to overcome him. A young barmaid appeared minutes later with two bowls of thick stew and slices of coarse bread, placing them in front of the pair with a tired nod.

The stew was warm, simple, and exactly what they needed.

They ate in silence.

Lyone only managed halfway through his bowl before his body gave up. He blinked one last time, then leaned on the table with a soft thud, eyes shut and breathing slow.

Damien stood up, walked around the table, and nudged him gently.

“You’re done.”

“I’m not tired…” Lyone mumbled half-heartedly.

“You’ve said that three times,” Damien replied. “The next time, I’ll leave you here to rest in the stable.”

Lyone grumbled something unintelligible, but stood and followed as Damien led the way upstairs.

The second floor of the tavern was even quieter than the first. A narrow hallway led them to the last door on the right. Damien unlocked it with a small iron key given by the innkeeper and pushed it open.

The room was plain, but warm. Two beds sat parallel on either side, separated by a narrow table and a shuttered window. A simple rug covered the floor, and a pitcher of water with two glasses waited atop a small dresser.

Damien stepped in first and checked the corners out of habit. Once satisfied, he gestured Lyone inside.

“Pick a bed. Lay down.”

Lyone eyed both mattresses, clearly wanting to ask which was Damien’s, but opted for the one closest to the window. He dropped onto it with a soft sigh.

As Damien hung his cloak and removed his outer armor, he felt the boy’s gaze on him again.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” Lyone said, voice soft but clear.

“Ask what?”

“About… my abilities. Why I wanted to follow you?” He hesitated. “Why I saw you in the sky when it should have been impossible?”

Damien stilled, then turned toward him, eyes calm.

“No.”

Lyone blinked. “No?”

“I’m not asking anything tonight,” Damien said, walking to the other bed and sitting down. “We’re resting. That’s it.”

“But—”

“When we get to where we’re going, we’ll talk.” Damien laid down and folded his arms behind his head. “For now, sleep.”

The room fell into silence.

Outside the window, a cold wind began to blow. The clouds were shifting, and the moon was vanishing behind them. Somewhere in the trees beyond the village, an owl hooted once, and then all was still again.

Lyone lay awake for a few minutes longer, eyes open, watching the ceiling as if it held answers. Eventually, sleep took him too.

Damien didn’t move.

He stared at the ceiling, mind ticking. The boy wasn’t normal. That much was obvious. But he couldn’t shake the familiarity of that obsidian charm. Or the dreams. Or the strange ripple he’d felt before meeting Lyone—like time bending.

He didn’t know yet if Lyone was a blessing or a burden.

But he would find out soon. “Hope you’re not a burden though.”

~~~~~

The sun rose high over ElderGlow Academy, bathing its spires, towers, and courtyards in golden light. The usual calm and scholarly energy had shifted into something far more electrifying.

Today marked the official beginning of the Continental Convergence—the grand contest between the four greatest Institutions of the continent: ElderGlow, Crowgarth, Wyrmere, and Thornevale.

The tournament grounds had been transformed overnight. A massive coliseum-like formation surrounded the main testing field, layered with glowing enchantments and magical surveillance runes that shimmered in the air.

Floating platforms—anchored by runic stones—hovered above the crowd to serve as viewing booths for Deans, Guardians, and other dignitaries.

Every seat in the arena was filled.

Students, scholars, nobles, and visitors from each represented territory buzzed with anticipation. Banners from the four institutions waved with pride, their colors stark against the clear blue sky.

Dean Godsthorn stood at the highest central platform, flanked by the other Deans. His voice boomed through an amplification rune.

“Welcome all, to the beginning of the Continental Convergence—a test not just of strength, but of spirit, skill, and unity.”

Applause followed his address, but it was short-lived. This wasn’t a festival. It was war dressed in formality.

The opening event was simple—the Equal Trial.

All contestants, regardless of their Institution, would be evaluated through the same set of tests—one year group at a time.

Not to determine who would be eliminated, but to gauge their current capacity. This data would be used to plan pairings and battles for the contest to come.

No favoritism. No manipulation. Just raw metrics.

From their designated waiting chambers, hundreds of students were called forward by year.

First, the Year Ones.

Bright-eyed, rigid with nerves, the youngest batch stood in formation on the testing grounds.

Their tasks were swift but unrelenting—measuring everything from speed on enchanted tracks to essence output through rune-calibrated obelisks.

Agility tests used platforms that shifted and vanished mid-jump. Combat intelligence was tested with holographic illusion scenarios simulating battlefield decisions.

Next came the Year Twos, whose trials were considerably harder. They faced live mana constructs in duels, navigated gravity-altered mazes, and were judged on advanced spellcasting precision.

A few even sustained minor injuries—greeted with applause and silent pride from their mentors.

Then, silence fell again.

Because it was time for the third group.

The Year Threes. Damien’s group.

From the left side gate of the arena, the oldest student competitors began to walk out in groups of four per Institution. Their cloaks swayed with purpose. Their eyes held no fear—only intensity.

Among them, Damon stood shoulder to shoulder with Anaya, Daveon, and Celeste—the best ElderGlow had produced.

Miss Leana stood just behind them on the side platform, arms folded, face unreadable. But her eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—were locked on them.

Damon could feel the heat of a dozen eyes from the other institutions boring into them. Wyrmere’s team looked older than most, built like warriors molded in iron.

Thornevale’s group moved with eerie synchronization, their expressions cold, calculative. Crowgarth’s students had a more rebellious air to them—relaxed in posture but alert in their gaze.

Damon whispered to Anaya, “Looks like this just got real.”

Anaya smirked without turning her head. “Let’s give them something to write about.”

Their group stepped forward.

One of the rune instructors raised his hand, and with it, the platforms shifted.

Five floating trial stations descended into view—each glowing with distinct energy.

A voice echoed through the arena, magically enhanced.

“Begin Phase One: Speed Assessment.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep