The room was a testament to failure. Every object in the cramped, single-unit apartment seemed to bear the weight of debt and dashed hope. The bed was a cot. The shelves contained three books on rudimentary summoning theory. The apartment was poorly situated, allowing no breeze at all, making the air stale and stagnant. Jace stood in the centre of it all, assessing the full scale of the disaster he'd inherited.
He closed his eyes and activated the internal status screen again. He needed to internalise the numbers, to understand the raw, ugly truth of his current situation.
System: Summoner Status
Name: Jace
Stats: Power 35, Spirit 45, Constitution 40, Speed 38
Rank: Common Tier Summoner
Debt Status: Critical (3,000 credits owed to the Summoner's Guild)
Academy Trial Deadline: 7 Days
Three thousand credits. The number meant little to the mind of a Prince who once commanded treasuries. But the immediate, panicky fear from Jace's residual consciousness was loud. Three thousand credits was enough to buy a dozen top-tier Rare materials, or more pressingly, enough to buy freedom from conscription. Without a beast and without acceptance into the Academy, Jace's life was already over. His body would become property of the debt collectors.
'A Monarch bloodline trapped in a Common shell,' the analytical part of his mind mused. 'This vessel cannot support the scope of this spirit. The Spirit stat of 45 is the weakest point. It's the tether that limits any contracted beast.' He knew, instinctively, that a summoner's Spirit stat functioned as the baseline for magical capability and talents, as well as the maximum bond strength for any contract. His low Spirit meant that even if he somehow managed to contract an Epic or Mythic beast, the contract would strain to the point of collapse within hours, potentially leading to catastrophic backfire. The beast's power would be suppressed, and the resulting forced feedback on Jace's body would be lethal.
He paced the small space, worn floorboards creaking beneath his feet. He allowed the Prince's memories to surface. Not the painful, emotional ones, but the procedural ones. He ran through a mental checklist of options available to a Common Tier Summoner in a hostile, tiered society.
Option one: cultivation. He had the knowledge of the Royal Bloodline's instinctive cultivation methods. These could potentially bypass the physical cap. But these methods required time, and critically, high-purity materials that were impossible to acquire without money or influence. He had neither.
Option two: trade. Use his knowledge of mineral identification to find valuable materials in a place Jace knew as the Wild Continent. This required a reliable contract beast, a functioning Warp Gate pass, and enough Constitution to survive the volatile environment. His Constitution of 40 made the risk astronomical.
Option three: contract a beast. This was the most direct path. Secure a beast, use its power to gain resources, and build the foundation for a proper ascent. But no powerful, sentient beast would choose a summoner with stats this low. They'd sense the failure, the weakness, the debt.
The shame of his inherited failures was a fresh wound. Jace, the original, had failed the Academy trials twice, each time losing a potential contract in the process. His aura was tainted by failure, a stench that powerful beasts could detect instantly. He needed to overcome this reputation.
He walked over to the window, looking out over the bustling, indifferent city outside. The wealth of the Ironcrest Nation was evident in the gleaming towers of the Academy district, a brutal contrast to the squalor he currently inhabited.
One week. Seven days to escape a life of literal servitude and reclaim the first step towards his royal destiny. He had to risk the public summoning circle again. It was a humiliating, low-percentage play, but it was the only option that didn't require immediate capital. He had exactly two hundred credits left, enough for the entry fee to the most desperate, crowded and judgemental public circle in the district.
His focus sharpened. He had to leverage the one thing he possessed that no one else in this land seemed to know existed: the royal knowledge of ancient summoning rituals. The common summoning methods Jace had read about were crude, relying on sheer Spirit stat to brute-force a connection. The methods Aerion had been taught focused on the quality of the spiritual anchor, drawing on the resonance of the summoner's bloodline. This technique with Jace's current stats would be volatile and a little uncontrolled, but it offered the one chance in a million to pull a beast far above his current statistical tier.
If I use the ritual for targeting bloodline resonance, I might bypass the statistical suppression and summon something powerful, he reasoned. It's reckless. It'll drain my meagre Spirit completely. But a Common Tier body holding the blood of a Sovereign must have some inherent, chaotic resonance left.
The decision was made. He wouldn't attempt a safe, Common Tier contract. He'd go for the highest-risk, highest-reward gamble possible. He'd aim for the highest-tiered beast possible, forcing the system to recognise the ancient royal power, even if only for a fleeting moment.
He grabbed the threadbare cloak from the back of the chair. He needed to look presentable enough to be allowed into the summoning grounds. The Prince was a pragmatist. This was an infiltration mission. The battlefield was the city streets, the enemy was debt, and the weapon was knowledge. He checked his wrist. There was no ornate Chronometer, no Sovereign seal. Just the thin, pale skin of a twenty-year-old failure. He'd need to keep time the old ways, he mused, looking at the sun's position to the horizon. Just after midday. Plenty of time to get his errand done.
He allowed himself a brief moment of the Prince's arrogance. It was potent fuel. He would succeed where Jace had failed. He'd contract a beast. He'd enter the Academy, and then the climb would begin. The debt would be repaid, not in coin, but in the slow, agonising destruction of those who tried to stand in his way.
He stepped out of the apartment and locked the flimsy door behind him. The noise of the city was a dull roar. The weight of his failure was heavy, but the echo of the throne was louder. It guided his steps towards the heart of the district, towards the place where he'd either fail definitively or risk everything on a gamble.