The First Summoner (Eng Version)

The night had swallowed Emilia's golden fields when Sophia and Belladonna crossed its borders. Under a charcoal sky speckled with icy stars, the titanic walls of Áuria, the City of Hanging Lights, rose ahead. Their journey had left a trail of dust, sparks, and peasant panic—involuntary witnesses to the passage of the demonic turtle.

"We're here, Belladonna! Good thing stone fences are unnecessary. Everyone has the right to come and go, fences just take away freedom and, most importantly, they push people away, don't they?" Sophia tapped lightly on the creature's steaming shell, its hind legs still spitting embers onto the imperial road.

Belladonna thought: *But that's precisely the point, that's why people build them!* Yet she nodded in agreement.

They exchanged a look of tacit understanding.

Belladonna:I pretend to agree so I don't upset her.

Sophia:Thank you. You're a true friend.

The sweet scent of wheat fields had yielded to a thick soup of urban odors: machine oil, salted fish, acrid spices, and underlying it all, the cold, biting salt of the Sea of Mists.

Belladonna responded with a guttural rumble that echoed off the black granite walls. The Obsidian Gates resembled the jaws of a slumbering colossus, crowned by verdigris bronze gargoyles with eyes of smoldering amber. On the battlements, guards stiffened in slate-gray armor watched, plasma-engraved double-headed eagle insignias on their chests. The tips of their lances pulsed with mana, emitting a low, menacing hum that cast trembling shadows over Sophia.

Mounted on Belladonna, Sophia entered Áuria's main street. It was a canyon of granite, paved with uneven, damp cobblestones, reflections of the salty mist dancing under the chaos of overhead lights. Violet mana-lights, suspended by mechanical claws, sketched dancing silhouettes on Gothic facades. Narrow shop windows displayed wares ranging from common clothing to weapons and armor.

"Focus, Belladonna… slow down," Sophia hissed, tightening the reins of fossilized tendons. The turtle advanced with steps that made potion bottles tremble on shelves. A solid cacophony enveloped her: the hiss of steam valves in lofty towers, muffled shouts from taverns, the clatter of hurried footsteps—studded boots, scaly paws dragging chains.

In that universe of shadows and steel, Sophia was a splash of absurd color. Every *cling* of the crooked star on her boot echoed like laughter at an imperial funeral. Hooded figures melted into walls, bony fingers stroking daggers. Horseless carriages, propelled by mana cores pulsing like blue veins, glided like specters over the pavement.

"Barracks… Ironheart…" Sophia murmured. Through her green lenses, cast-iron street signs revealed surveillance runes blinking red as they detected Belladonna.

The Black Fortress erupted at the avenue's end like a fang driven into the sky. Walls of obsidian steel, devoid of windows, exhaled a pale green light through vertical slits that seared the retina. Mana-suppression runes—circular glyphs that seemed to suck the air—covered the colossal gate. Two Sentinels blocked the entrance:

- Black armor, plates overlapping like dragon scales, vented steam from the joints.

- Faceless helms, only two vertical red slits for eyes.

- Blood-red cloaks that rippled without wind, embroidered with silver threads in patterns of broken chains.

Sophia raised her comlink. "Urgent summons from the Imperial Knights!" Her voice sounded metallic in the icy silence. Her lenses zoomed in on the red slits. "She is... my monster!" Belladonna chose that moment to lick an oil stain, spitting a blue flame.

One knight inclined his head. A mechanical *click*, and the visor lifted. Pale face, radial scars circling one blue eye.

For an instant, the knight just stared at her. Then the gate groaned open like a titan, revealing an atrium lit by green plasma torches.

Sophia slid from the saddle. The solitary *cling* of the star on her boot echoed in the sudden quiet. She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, hiding a cracked mana crystal that steamed. Ahead, the man who introduced himself as Sergeant Erik waited:

"Follow me, Ma'am. And please, keep... that... away from the hydraulic pipes." He pointed to exposed piping on the ceiling, which Belladonna eyed with longing. "The Commander doesn't deal well with 'accidents'. He's not a man of humor."

As they advanced down the vaulted corridor, boots echoing like hammers, Sophia felt dozens of eyes on her from the mezzanines. Soldiers in combat uniforms, others in plain clothes bearing the barracks' coat of arms, whispered:

"Is that her? The one who blew up Emilia's castle?"

"They say the turtle ate a lieutenant..."

"They call her the Witch of Chaos."

"But she *is* beautiful," said one, admiringly.

"Just let her hear you, and you'll find out why the rumors exist," replied another.

Sophia adjusted her glasses, zooming in on the final door: black steel, studded with bronze dragon skulls. Sergeant Erik knocked three times, the sound echoing like a coffin closing.

"Sophia... reporting, Sir."

From beyond the door, a voice like crushed granite responded:

"ENTER," it said to her.

And whispered, almost inaudibly:

"...And may the gods have mercy on my garrison."

The wooden door creaked shut behind Sophia. Cold light streamed through tall stained-glass windows—depicting epic battles—slicing the room, casting pools of ruby and azure onto the massive oak table. Before it, the seated man was a statue of authority.

Colonel Solís was an imposing figure. His navy-blue dress uniform seemed carved from stone, the Silver Sun medal gleaming. His face, marked by deep wrinkles beneath an impeccable silver mustache, was expressionless, but his pale, steel-colored eyes pierced Sophia the moment she entered. They showed no surprise, only assessment.

To his right, Colonel Sorin, burly with a meticulously trimmed black beard, wrinkled his nose at the sight of her, as if an unpleasant odor had invaded the room. His heavy gaze traveled from Sophia's unruly red hair down to the crooked star on her boot, which gave a solitary *cling* in the silence. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, disdain oozing from every pore.

It was Colonel Solís who broke the silence, his deep, gravelly voice echoing with absolute authority in the acoustically sharp room:

"Sophia. I thank you for responding to the summons with all possible speed. Sit. We have a problem that demands your... peculiar talents."

Sophia dragged a heavy oak chair, the scrape echoing like a groan. She sat facing them, ignoring Sorin's stare. She leaned back, too relaxed for the formality:

"Belladonna's outside, promised not to eat the pipes... for now. What haunts your lordships' dreams this time?"

Sorin let out a grunt of disapproval. Solís raised a gnarled finger, silencing him:

"The incident at Sunis, and the more recent one at Spring Mountain... that is, what was Spring Mountain." He leaned forward, hands interlaced on the table. "Ten days ago, an outpost on Velmoria's northern border was destroyed." He slid a photo of what looked like rubble.

Sophia picked up the photo. Through her green lenses, she saw a smoldering crater, the soil vitrified in sinister, twisted patterns:

"And how is this linked to Sunis?"

Sorin took over:

"There are witnesses who saw the light and shape of the explosion. Comparing the accounts, it's possible to affirm it's related in the same manner as Sunis."

"Precisely," confirmed Solís, his voice still calm, but with an edge like a blade. "The same pattern of destruction. The same energy signature."

Sophia pressed:

"But the beast that attacked Sunis... didn't Emperor Thorian slay it personally?"

"Perhaps there is another," stated Solís.

Sophia placed the photo back on the table:

"Right... makes sense. A very angry relative, or someone found an old recipe for resurrecting monsters." She looked directly at Sorin.

Solís exchanged a quick glance with Sorin, who seemed about to explode. Sorin rolled his eyes. Colonel Solís continued:

"Sunis was not an isolated incident. It was part of something larger. A shadowy organization, fanatics operating from the depths of the Frozen Mountain. They call themselves 'The Veil'." He spat the name like poison. "They seek to destabilize the Empire."

Sophia raised an eyebrow, her scar stretching:

"Do tell!"

"Now Spring Mountain..." Solís paused bitterly. "...Vanished. Like smoke in the wind. It simply... was no longer there." His voice carried deep frustration. "Now we have a pattern. This attack... identical to Sunis..."

The barracks' wooden door thudded shut behind Sophia, muffling Sorin's final grumbles. In the corridors, guards shrank against the walls as she passed, her boots echoing with the insolent cling of the metal star. Belladonna waited in the courtyard, thoughtfully chewing the edge of an imperial equestrian statue.

"Time to talk to those who actually understand monsters," announced Sophia, leaping agilely into the saddle. "To the Summoners' Guild!"

*****

The contrast couldn't be greater. Where the barracks smelled of discipline and restrained fear, Áuria's Guild District exhaled controlled chaos. Towers of white marble carved with bas-relief beasts gleamed under floating mana globes. Tall stone columns flanked an imposing iron gate, the entrance framed by Gothic arches with stained glass depicting legendary creatures.

Sophia slid from the saddle, stroking Belladonna's furnace-like purring shell. She approached the reception desk—an ebony structure guarded by an elf in golden-rimmed glasses—and presented her identification. The elf's eyes widened.

"Sophia? Follow me, please. Master Dragomir will see you immediately."

The path through hushed corridors was flanked by display cases holding pulsating dragon eggs and fossils of extinct creatures.

"Master Dragomir —" Sophia strode directly into the room, the *cling* of her boot echoing in the scholarly silence.

The man looked up from his desk. His long black hair was immaculate, square lenses reflecting the soft light. His black suit and red bowtie contrasted sharply with his pale skin. A small basilisk slept coiled in a crystal inkwell.

"To what do I owe your visit, my lady?" His voice was velvet-soft yet carried the weight of a thousand pacts.

"The Veil," Sophia stated bluntly, stepping closer to the desk.

Dragomir leaned back, steepling his fingers.

"A name that chills even the oldest bones." His gaze fixed on her, intense. "A cult of grandmaster summoners, led by an... entity that calls itself the 'Shadow Emperor.' They seek to bring Primordial Chaos into Velmoria."

Sophia smiled, pulling a mana-storage crystal from her pocket. Inside, a pattern of twisted blue energy pulsed like a diseased heart.

"Empirical data from the latest... event." She placed the crystal on the desk beside the sleeping basilisk.

Dragomir went still. An almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He picked up the crystal, examining it through his square lenses. Floating runes above an open grimoire rearranged frantically.

"Fascinating... the chaotic resonance, the echoes of a lower plane..." he murmured.

With a fluid gesture, he raised his hand. A bookshelf slid aside silently, revealing a tome bound in black wyvern hide, secured by bone locks carved with forbidden runes. Dragomir traced a finger over the locks, whispering words in a guttural tongue that made the air vibrate. The book opened itself, pages of yellowed eternal parchment fluttering like bat wings to page sixteen.

*****

Twilight drowned the room in shades of amber and gray. A man lay motionless on his back. He wasn't sleeping; he was dissolving into the deepening gloom like an alabaster sculpture abandoned in shadow. He appeared barely twenty, his features smooth—the pure line of his jaw, the serene mouth.

His hair, black and silken, slightly disheveled, framed his face, falling in dark curtains to his nape and parted precisely down the middle. Covering the left half of his face, a mask of pristine white porcelain clung to his skin like a second epidermis. Across its surface, crimson filaments snaked in intricate patterns—arabesques evoking winter-bare branches under frost. Where the eye should be, a narrow slit revealed a large, translucent amber iris. When light struck it, it glinted like liquid metal—a jarring contrast to the body's stillness.

He wore clothes of deliberate simplicity:

A raw linen shirt, buttoned to the throat, sleeves neatly rolled to the elbows;

Dark gray cotton trousers, falling with discreet elegance;

Boots of aged leather, soles nearly smooth from wear, yet clean.

Then the comlink on his right wrist shattered the silence—a sharp, electronic *beep*. Only the amber eye moved behind the mask, sliding slowly toward the device. Simon raised his arm with supernatural fluidity. On the small holographic screen pulsed a laconic message:

ASSIGNED INVESTIGATOR: SOPHIA VEINHART.

Pale fingers closed over the comlink, smothering its blue glow. In the half-light, the mask's crimson filaments seemed to vibrate for an instant, as if the winter branches had stirred beneath the porcelain skin. The name echoed in Simon's mind, cold and familiar:

Sophia.