The Legends of Beast Summoner

Dawn cracked over Lan Xian like a blade across still water.

The sky burned gold and rose, washing the mountain-tipped city in soft light. Merchants had not yet opened their stalls, and temples had not begun their morning chants, yet the arena—The Circle of Genius—was already teeming.

Lan Xian's great coliseum, ringed by ancient stone dragons and banners of old glory, stood at the heart of the city. This place had witnessed emperors duel for thrones, masters rise from obscurity, and prodigies fall in disgrace. And now, it awaited the blind summoner from the Abyss.

The stands filled faster than a prayer in a storm. Elders clutched prayer beads. Children clambered up columns for a better view. Cultivators of every sect whispered among themselves, hungry for spectacle.

At the center of the arena, golden lines shimmered—arcane seals from centuries past, designed to suppress, absorb, and contain immense power.

A perfect battlefield.

A stage.

And Xiao Feng stepped into it with the silence of falling snow.

His robes were simple, dark with embroidered sigils of silver thread. His hair was tied back with a single dragon-scale band. Blindfold in place, steps measured, he walked like one who had already arrived.

Ying Long landed beside him in a burst of silver wind, folding his wings with grace. Chen Hao stood behind, arms crossed, face unreadable—but the fire in his eyes was unmistakable.

From the opposite end, the challenger emerged.

Zhao Lin.

Young heir to the Seven Radiant Clans, favored son of the Southern Light Sect. A golden spear across his back. His hair braided in the warrior's knot. Confidence radiated off him like heat off a sword fresh from the forge.

"Blind beast boy," he called, voice smug, "I hope you said your goodbyes to your pets. They won't survive the morning."

Xiao Feng tilted his head slightly."For what comes next… is not my wrath."

Zhao Lin scoffed, planting his spear into the arena floor. "I don't need forgiveness. I need victory."

The arena master, draped in ceremonial crimson and gold, raised a hand.

"This is a sanctioned duel," he declared, voice booming. "No death. No interference. Spiritual bonds only. Let the spirits bear witness!"

The seals flared.

A golden barrier shimmered to life, encasing the arena in light.

Then—

"Begin."

Zhao Lin didn't wait. A flicker of light—and he vanished.

Then reappeared midair, spear thrust down like lightning.

Xiao Feng didn't move.

Instead, he whispered:

"Awaken."

The arena shook.

A summoning sigil—ancient, complex, far older than Lan Xian itself—flared beneath him.

From it, emerged a dragon of mist and silence, vast and coiling. Long Shuang, the Whispering Serpent. Its scales shimmered translucent. It didn't roar—it hummed. The sound struck the soul, bypassing the ears.

The spear struck… and passed through the mist.

Zhao Lin's eyes widened—just in time for the serpent to twist behind him and slam him into the arena floor.

Gasps filled the stands.

But Zhao Lin was quick—rolling, flipping up, aura flaring. His spear split into three copies, dancing in his hands. "You're not the only one with tricks, beggar."

He launched forward again—this time, blazing with lightning. His footwork was refined, a technique known only to the Radiant Clans: thunderstep.

Each strike targeted Xiao Feng directly, aiming to bypass the dragon entirely.

Xiao Feng stood still.

Then lifted a hand—just two fingers.

The air rippled.

A second sigil ignited.

From it emerged a white tiger wreathed in chains—Baihu the Sealed Fang—its body coiled with ancient runes, muscles rippling like the sea in a storm. One eye glowed gold. The other—shut by a celestial seal.

It pounced.

The crowd cried out as Baihu collided with Zhao Lin mid-strike. Metal met claw. Spirit energy exploded, sending dust and wind through the stands.

Zhao Lin flipped again—landing hard, panting.

"Two summons?" he muttered. "And not even tired?"

Xiao Feng turned his face slightly, as if listening to something in the wind.

"You brought a spear," he said softly. "I brought what I am."

Zhao Lin roared in frustration. His aura spiked.

Then—he removed a seal from his wrist. A forbidden one.

Gasps rippled.

"No," Ying Long muttered. "He wouldn't dare…"

But he did.

From Zhao Lin's back, a phantom emerged—a malformed spirit, stitched together from the remnants of fallen beasts. It snarled with too many mouths, eyes weeping blood.

A chimeric abomination.

A Soul-Grafted Summon—illegal.

The arena master stood up. "Zhao Lin! You are breaking the—"

But the crowd was screaming now.

The beast lunged, tearing toward Xiao Feng like a nightmare reborn.

Even Long Shuang and Baihu stepped back.

But Xiao Feng… smiled.

Softly.

"Now I understand," he murmured. "This wasn't about pride. You were afraid. Of what I'd become."

His third summoning mark ignited.

A lotus bloomed beneath his feet.

From it rose a phoenix, but not of fire.

It was born of ashes and silence. Wings of charcoal. Eyes of stars.

Yanli, the Flame That Fell.

The phoenix sang—and the song pierced the beast's soul. It faltered mid-charge, screeching.

Xiao Feng stepped forward.

"You summon abominations. I summon memory."

He touched the ground.

And for a moment—the arena vanished.

They stood in the Abyss.

Xiao Feng and Zhao Lin.

No audience. No banners. Just darkness and stars.

"This is what I walked through," Xiao Feng said quietly. "This is what I endured. You wanted to test me… Now feel what I faced."

Zhao Lin's breath hitched.

The chimeric summon wailed, unraveling before their eyes.

His spear crumbled.

The Abyss faded.

They stood once again in the arena.

Zhao Lin collapsed to his knees.

The phoenix flared once—then vanished. Baihu bowed its head. Long Shuang coiled protectively around Xiao Feng before dissolving into sigils.

Silence ruled.

No one clapped.

No one cheered.

They simply watched.

Xiao Feng turned to the crowd.

"This was never about defeating him," he said, voice calm but resolute. "It was about showing you… that power earned through pain is not something to mock."

He turned to Zhao Lin, now trembling.

"Perhaps now, you understand why I walk with dragons."

Then he turned his back—and left the arena.

Lan Xian did not buzz with laughter that day.

It buzzed with awe. With silence. With whispers of redemption and power balanced with restraint.

At the city's edge, beneath a cherry blossom tree just beginning to bloom, Xiao Feng stopped.

Chen Hao leaned beside him, tossing a small rock. "You broke the arena."

"I gave it perspective," Xiao Feng replied, smiling faintly.

Ying Long snorted. "You nearly gave that boy a spiritual seizure."

They chuckled.

But then silence.

Real silence.

The kind that comes only after storms.

After acceptance.

Xiao Feng exhaled. "He wasn't the enemy. My real battle is not with him. It was with the fear… that I'm not who I used to be."

"And?" Chen Hao asked.

"I'm not."

A pause.

"I'm something far more dangerous."

That night, Xiao Feng sat beneath the stars again.

Only this time, the stars didn't feel distant.

They felt close.

Like old friends watching over him.

Ying Long slept beside him, wings tucked. Chen Hao was sharpening his sword, half asleep.

And Xiao Feng listened—to the world, to his dragons, and most importantly—

—to the silence inside.

Where once there was chaos… now there was calm.

Where once there was fear… now there was balance.

And the journey?

It had only just begun.