Summoners were not rare.
But true Summoners, those with Exclusive Skills capable of calling forth powerful entities without the use of sacrifices, were almost nonexistent.
In the long history of this world, such individuals were remembered not as adventurers or heroes, but as disasters given human form. Walking calamities. One man armies that, if left unchecked, inevitably turned battlefields into graveyards and nations into footnotes.
Most summoning arts demanded balance. Blood, lives, artifacts, or years of preparation. Something had to be given to pull something powerful from beyond.
Exclusive Summoners broke that rule.
They paid with themselves.
Mana. Internal energy. Lifespan, sometimes. The body was the altar, the spell circle carved into flesh rather than stone. And while this limitation slowed them early on, those who survived long enough to adapt became monsters in their own right.
Which was why the moment Aldrin's existence became known, his fate was sealed.
He was now considered a potential calamity.
One that had to be purged before it matured.
Aldrin understood this better than anyone.
He sat cross legged within the cavern Brago had shaped for him, deep beneath a mountain swallowed by the northern fogs. The cave was unnaturally smooth, its walls reinforced with layers of hardened obsidian and infernal stone. Heat radiated faintly from the floor, just enough to keep the cold from killing him in his sleep.
It was not comfortable.
But it was safe.
For now.
"This is as far as we can remain hidden without moving kingdoms entirely," Brago said, standing near the cave entrance. His presence alone warped the air, faint heat distortions rippling around his armored frame. "The fog and undead presence will mask us for some time. But hunters adapt."
Aldrin nodded, his expression calm despite the weight pressing down on him.
"I know," he said. "That's why I'm not wasting this time."
He placed a hand over his chest.
The process he was about to undertake was one practiced by mages across the world. Magic circles formed directly around vital organs, carved through mana manipulation rather than steel. These circles became permanent conduits, increasing mana capacity, regeneration speed, and spell efficiency.
Common.
Yet deadly.
Even trained mages died attempting their first internal circle without proper guidance. A misaligned rune could stop the heart. A flawed flow could collapse the lungs. Most academies required years of study before even allowing students to try.
Aldrin had books.
And Brago.
"The first one should be placed at the heart or lungs," Brago said, his voice steady. "Either will drastically increase your intake of mana. The lung circle synchronizes with breath, drawing ambient mana with every inhale. The heart circle acts as a secondary function, reinforcing circulation and storage."
"That matches what I read," Aldrin replied. He exhaled slowly. "The heart is more dangerous."
"But more efficient," Brago finished. "And you are not someone who plans to remain weak."
Aldrin smiled faintly.
"It's strange," he said. "I should be terrified. Tampering with my own heart like this. But all I feel is… anticipation."
"That is ambition," Brago said. "And it is why Summoners never remain small."
The ritual began.
Aldrin closed his eyes and guided mana inward, compressing it until it formed a thin, burning thread. Pain flared instantly. It felt like his chest was being squeezed from the inside, pressure building with every breath.
He did not scream.
He focused.
The thread carved its path, forming the first ring around his heart. Every pulse sent agony through his body, each heartbeat threatening to knock his concentration loose. Sweat poured down his face as his mana reserves fluctuated wildly.
Minutes stretched into hours.
Brago watched without intervening.
To help now would be to cripple Aldrin later.
Finally, after nearly two hours, the circle stabilized.
The pain did not vanish, but it dulled, settling into a constant ache. Aldrin gasped, clutching his chest as the mana flow normalized.
The system notifications came immediately.
Mana surged through him like a tide.
He checked his reserves instinctively.
2,200.
Then higher.
4,000.
5,200.
Aldrin laughed softly, breathless.
"So this is what it feels like," he murmured. "No wonder mages risk dying for this."
"You have taken your first irreversible step," Brago said. "There is no returning to mediocrity now."
Aldrin leaned back against the stone, exhaustion finally catching up to him.
"With this," he said, "I can finally test those spells I've been holding back on."
He meant it.
Up until now, his casting had been conservative. Careful. He could not afford experimentation when every mistake risked leaving him defenseless. Now, with more than double his previous reserves, possibilities opened.
But those possibilities came with time limits.
"It's been a few days since our encounter with Zeke's elite squad," Aldrin said quietly. "Two more days until my weekly summon is ready again. Twenty three and a half days until my next monthly summon."
He clenched his fist.
"I'm not strong enough yet to face what's coming."
"You will not be," Brago replied bluntly. "Not alone. That is the truth of Summoners. Power comes from accumulation."
That was when Firak returned.
The ghoul emerged from the shadows near the cave entrance, movements silent despite his twisted frame. His claws were stained dark, dried blood clinging beneath the nails.
"Any signs of them?" Aldrin asked immediately.
"None at all," Firak replied, his voice raspy but controlled. "Sir Brago's teleportation magic was thorough. Their trackers will find nothing but broken trails."
His head tilted slightly.
"However… I discovered undead forces in an abandoned town several kilometers east. Organized. Likely servants of a more powerful individual."
Aldrin's expression sharpened.
"Necromancer?"
"Or vampire," Firak said. "Possibly both."
"I see," Aldrin replied after a moment. "Do not make contact yet. Avoid detection."
"As you command."
Firak hesitated.
"You will feed?" Aldrin asked.
"I will," Firak said. "The forest provides."
Aldrin nodded.
"I'll manage with clean water and whatever's edible. We don't draw attention."
Firak bowed and vanished back into the fog.
Silence returned to the cave.
Aldrin stared at his hands.
Living like this was uncomfortable. Cold. Dangerous. Constantly moving or hiding. Always calculating risk.
But beneath the stress, beneath the fear, something else burned.
Satisfaction.
'I'm not under anyone's shadow anymore,' he thought.
No guild master.
No hero.
No system assigned path.
Just his will.
Just his power.
A soft laugh escaped him, echoing faintly through the cave.
"Hahaha… this time," Aldrin whispered, eyes glowing faintly with mana, "I decide what I become."
And somewhere far away, forces far greater than him began to move.
Because calamities never went unnoticed for long.