"And yet he speaks as if he stands on equal ground," another voice added, sharper this ti.
A faint snort followed.
"Lower races always mistake borrowed strength for their own."
The old man's gaze shifted.
His eyes settled on the elf who had spoken last.
Then the air changed.
The elf stiffened.
His breath caught before he could stop it. The color drained from his face as instinct scread danger. His legs nearly locked, knees trembling as if they no longer rembered how to stand. For a heartbeat, true fear showed in his eyes.
He swallowed hard.
But then he noticed it.
The instructors around him had not reacted.
The Sanctuary supervisor remained silent.
No reprimand followed.
No pressure descended from above.
The fear hesitated.
And hesitation gave way to sothing else.
The elf straightened.
He lifted his chin, forcing his spine upright, and slowly t the old man's gaze. His eyes were sharp now, challenging. Provocative.
As if daring him.
As if saying, go on. Do it. See who stops you.
The pressure vanished.
The old man did nothing.
No threat. No warning. No retaliation.
The elf smiled.
Michael saw all of it.
The exchange lasted only seconds, but it told him more than hours of observation ever could.
So this was why the elves had such a reputation.
A junior dared provoke a Rank Four.
And the elders did nothing.
And suddenly, the old man's earlier instruction made perfect sense. Do not bow.
Michael had thought, at first, that remaining upright would draw attention. That it might be interpreted as arrogance.
He was wrong.
If he had bowed, it would not have been seen as humility. It would have been seen as confirmation. Confirmation that, as a non elf, he was expected to lower his head regardless. Expected to conform. Expected to know his place.
Michael felt a faint sense of relief.
He was glad now that he had not bowed.
Aeloria's gaze remained on Michael.
"Then tell ," she said calmly. "Which undead will you be using?"
The field quieted.
Michael did not answer imdiately.
The air behind him shifted.
Two presences erged without sound.
Spartan stepped to Michael's right.
On the other side, Ghost appeared.
Several elves flinched without realizing why.
A ripple ran through the field.
The murmurs stopped.
So of the instructors stiffened. Others narrowed their eyes. A few
younger elves took an involuntary step back.
"So those are two of them," Aeloria said, her tone even. Her eyes
lingered briefly on Spartan, then on Ghost.
"Interesting choices."
Michael finally spoke.
"These two will participate," he said simply.
Aeloria nodded slowly.
"Very well," she said. "Then I will prepare my own."
Her gaze flicked once more to Michael, thoughtful.
"This should be instructive for you to learn sothing," she added
smoothly.
Michael did not respond to her words.
He watched as Aeloria lifted her hand to the small bag resting at her
waist.
The mont his eyes settled on it, recognition struck.
A spatial container.
Not the common type ant for objects, but one designed for living
beings.
Michael's gaze sharpened slightly.
He had seen similar items before. Rare. Expensive. Restricted. Containers capable of sustaining living creatures without harming their vitality, allowing beasts to remain dormant yet ready to be summoned at will. He had once seriously considered acquiring one himself. Not out of necessity, but for convenience. Even with undead, such an item would have been invaluable for long term storage and concealnt.
He had not been able to get one, first due to insufficient money, and later because he had obtained sothing better.
Aeloria's fingers brushed against the bag, and mana stirred.
It was subtle and refined, with nothing wasted. The container responded instantly, runes along its surface flickering briefly before sinking back into silence.
Aeloria's voice cut through the tension.
"I will summon two as well," she said calmly. "Both Rank Three, like
yours."
She paused, then added almost casually, "Do not worry. They are
obedient."
Michael did not relax.
If anything, his focus sharpened.
He knew the beasts of the royal princess could not be ordinary. They
might be as unique as his legion, but he refused to believe they would
be anything less.
They were either equal or superior.
As Michael watched the royal princess prepare to release her
summons, one thought settled firmly in his mind.
Whatever erged from that container would not be enough to make
him regret standing upright.
Aeloria turned the bag slightly, angling its mouth toward the open
field.
The space inside warped.
For a brief mont, it looked as though the opening held an entire
world behind it.
Then she moved her fingers in a simple motion and released the seal.
The first beast ca out like water slipping from a cup.
It was small.
Barely the size of a large dog, with a sleek body and a head shaped like
a narrow, elegant spear. Its scales shimred with a soft sheen, smooth and clean, like wet stone under moonlight. Along its back ran thin fins that rippled even though there was no wind, and the mont it landed, a cool mist spread across the grey grass.
The air around it felt damp.
Michael's eyes narrowed slightly.
A water type beast?
The creature lifted its head, and its pale eyes swept across the field
without fear. Then it looked at Aeloria and lowered itself slightly,
respectful.
Aeloria did not pause.
She reached into the container again.
The second beast ca out.
The ground shifted as it stepped forward, and the grey grass
flattened beneath its feet.
It was huge. Not rely large, but built like a moving wall. A hulking
beast with thick limbs and a broad chest, its hide layered in overlapping plates that looked like stone armor grown naturally from
its body.
Its head was lowered as it erged, horns curving backward like
carved pillars.
Several elves below swallowed.
The beast let out a low breath, and the sound rolled across the field
like distant thunder.
Michael stared.
Aeloria's summons were not ordinary.
As expected.
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