WHILE OTHERS SUMMON DRAGONS I SUMMON LEGENDARY KNIGHTS

The acrid scent of ozone and burnt earth clung to the air, a familiar perfume of failure that always seemed to follow Kaelen. The grand summoning arena, usually a vibrant tapestry of arcane energies and triumphant roars, was a suffocating chamber of hushed whispers and thinly veiled contempt. Today was the day of the First Conjuration, the rite of passage that determined a young summoner's destiny within the gilded cages of the Imperial Academy. For Kaelen, it was merely another public execution of his hopes. He stood at the center of the colossal summoning circle, its ancient runes glowing faintly beneath his worn boots. Around him, the elite of the Academy—professors with eyes like chipped obsidian, Dragon-class summoners draped in silks and arrogance, and his peers, a sea of eager, mocking faces—watched with bated breath. They weren't waiting for his success; they were waiting for his inevitable collapse. "Kaelen, son of Elara, step forth," Professor Valerius's voice boomed, laced with a practiced indifference that cut deeper than any insult. Valerius, a man whose own Core Sigil pulsed with the raw power of a Storm Drake, had long since given up on Kaelen. "Initiate your conjuration." Kaelen's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. He closed his eyes, focusing on the faint, almost imperceptible thrum of his own Core Sigil, a swirling vortex of muted silver and shadow deep within his chest. Unlike the vibrant, elemental energies of his peers—the fiery reds, oceanic blues, or verdant greens—Kaelen's sigil felt… different. Empty, yet vast. A void. He extended his hand, palm open, and began the ancient incantation. The words, passed down through generations, felt hollow on his tongue, a ritual he'd performed countless times in private, always with the same disheartening result. A faint shimmer, a wisp of human-like form, then nothing. The Academy's verdict was unanimous: Kaelen could only summon "human-type apparitions," deemed useless, forbidden, a mockery of true summoning. As the final syllable left his lips, a tremor ran through the summoning circle. Not the explosive surge of power that accompanied a Dragon-class summon, nor the earthy rumble of a Beast-class. This was a subtle, chilling vibration, like a distant bell tolling for the forgotten. The air grew heavy, not with ozone, but with the scent of old dust and forgotten dreams. Then, it began. A spectral hand, pale and translucent, reached out from the shimmering void before him. It was slender, elegant, yet bore the faint, ethereal scars of ancient battles. Gasps rippled through the crowd. This was no wisp. This was… defined. The hand solidified, followed by an arm encased in what appeared to be spectral, ornate armor, shimmering with an inner light. A collective murmur rose, quickly silenced by Valerius's sharp glare. Kaelen's eyes snapped open, wide with a mixture of terror and awe. Before him, slowly coalescing from the swirling silver mist, stood a figure unlike anything ever seen in the Academy. It was tall, regal, undeniably human in form, yet radiating an aura of profound melancholy and ancient power. Long, silver hair cascaded over shoulders clad in spectral plate, and eyes—eyes the color of a winter sky—opened, fixing on Kaelen with an intensity that stole his breath. This was no mere apparition. This was a knight. A legend. And he was very, very real. "Who… who are you?" Kaelen whispered, his voice barely audible above the sudden, stunned silence of the arena. The knight's lips, thin and pale, parted. His voice, a resonant baritone that seemed to echo from the very foundations of the world, filled the vast space. "I am Sir Alaric, the Oathsworn Blade. And I remember… everything." The silence shattered. A cacophony of shouts, gasps, and bewildered exclamations erupted. Valerius, his face a mask of disbelief, stumbled backward. "A human-type… but so potent! Impossible!" Kaelen felt a searing pain behind his eyes, a sudden, crushing pressure that threatened to split his skull. His vision blurred, the edges of the arena darkening. The knight, Alaric, seemed to notice, his spectral gaze sharpening. A flicker of concern, or perhaps something darker, crossed his ancient features. "Boy," Alaric's voice resonated, now tinged with an unexpected urgency, "what have you done?" Kaelen swayed, his knees threatening to buckle. The pain intensified, a thousand forgotten memories, a thousand untold stories, flooding his mind, threatening to drown him. He clutched his head, his body trembling uncontrollably. The cost. The terrible cost. He had forgotten the warnings, the whispers of his grandmother about the price of meddling with forgotten things. His last conscious thought was of Alaric's piercing blue eyes, now wide with alarm, as the world around Kaelen dissolved into a swirling vortex of silver and black. He felt himself falling, not into the soft embrace of unconsciousness, but into a terrifying abyss of echoing whispers and fragmented histories. The summoning circle flared, a blinding pulse of silver light, then plunged into darkness, leaving behind only the stunned silence of an Academy that had just witnessed the impossible, and the terrifying, birth of a new era. Kaelen had summoned a legend, but at what price? And what secrets did this 'Oathsworn Blade' truly hold? The answers, he feared, lay buried deep within the encroaching madness of his own mind. The true nightmare had only just begun.