SSS-Ranked Awakening: I Can Only Summon Mythical Beasts

Light crawled slowly across the floorboards, slipping through the narrow wooden slats of the inn’s window like golden fingers. It traveled the length of the room in silence, cutting across the two narrow beds and illuminating the faint curl of dust in the air.

Then it landed on Damien’s closed eyelids.

He opened them the moment it touched his face.

No hesitation. No yawn. Just a sharp breath in and the silent swing of his legs to the floor.

The soft sound of bare feet on wood.

He crossed the room with trained quiet, slipping into the small bathroom tucked behind a folding screen. The sound of rushing water echoed faintly, followed by the rhythmic splash of a face being washed.

Ten minutes later, Damien emerged, fully dressed, cloak clipped to his shoulders and knives already hidden beneath its folds. His silver hair caught the morning light in soft flashes as he crossed to the desk where a strange, gelatinous creature sat unmoving.

The red slime blinked once, pulsing faintly with awareness.

“Watch him,” Damien said quietly, nodding toward the bed.

The slime *blooped* once in acknowledgment and didn’t move again.

Damien took one last look at the boy curled up under the thin inn blanket, still breathing slow and even. It was easy to forget how young he looked when asleep. Like the last days hadn’t clawed their way into his bones.

He left without a sound.

—

The hall outside was empty, save for the faint creaks of wood and the distant mumble of voices from the lower floor. The scent of fresh bread and stewed root vegetables wafted up the stairs—early prep for the tavern breakfast.

Damien moved like a breeze down the corridor, cloak trailing behind him. One floor down, he pushed through the tavern’s side exit and stepped into the pale morning light.

The city outside was a quiet pulse of waking life.

This was no capital, no bustling trade hub. Just a tucked-away settlement nestled between old farmlands and river valleys. The air was cleaner. The streets less crowded. Buildings leaned into each other like tired friends, and ivy crawled freely up brick walls untouched by regulations or city watch complaints.

Birds darted between chimney tops. Vendors began setting up their stalls—clanging wood against wood, muttering curses under their breath as carts jammed or stubborn nails refused to sink.

Damien walked with hands tucked into his coat pockets, eyes wandering lazily.

He passed an open fountain carved from gray river-stone, its water bubbling gently in the center of a plaza. A cat lounged nearby, tail flicking lazily. Further on, he caught the scent of dried lavender from a florist’s open window, and stopped for a moment to inhale.

The peace here was unsettling.

No alarms. No steel ringing on steel. No fear burning in the distance.

Just *life*.

And Damien realized how alien it felt. Foreign, even.

He continued walking until he reached the market edge, then turned and retraced his steps, committing paths and key exits to memory. Not because he expected trouble—but because he always expected trouble.

—

Back at the inn, Lyone stirred beneath the sheets.

He blinked at the golden light, then sat up slowly. His eyes scanned the room with mild panic.

Empty bed.

Empty room.

His throat tightened. “Damien…?”

No answer.

He pushed the blanket aside and stood up, bare feet meeting cold wood.

Then—*bloop.*

His head snapped toward the desk.

The red slime sat still, wiggling gently like a half-melted candle. It pulsed once and tilted its mass toward him, as if acknowledging his presence.

“…You’re still here,” Lyone whispered, then let out a long breath. “So he didn’t leave…”

He crossed the room cautiously, examining the creature with suspicion and mild fascination.

“You’re his… summon?” he asked it.

The slime pulsed again in confirmation.

“Well, you’re weird, but you’re the only proof I’ve got.”

The tension in his shoulders eased, and he turned toward the bathroom, still mumbling under his breath.

“He could’ve left a note or something. Or a message. Or maybe taught your gooey face how to talk…”

—

Damien returned just as Lyone stepped out of the bathroom, rubbing his wet hair with a thin towel. They froze—eyes meeting.

Damien didn’t say anything at first.

He simply tossed a bundle across the room. It landed in Lyone’s arms with a soft *whump*—a clean shirt, pants, a cloak, and a belt.

“Get dressed,” Damien said. “We’re leaving for breakfast.”

“Right,” Lyone said quickly, clutching the clothes. “Thanks.”

He turned, then stopped. “You… didn’t have to go out alone, you know.”

“I did,” Damien replied without looking at him. “To make sure we wouldn’t wake up surrounded by guards.”

“Oh.”

Damien turned back toward the door. “Luton. Let’s go.”

The slime made a quick hop and splatted neatly onto Damien’s head, settling like a red crown.

Lyone watched them go, one brow raised.

“Still not normal,” he muttered.

—

They met again at the bar counter ten minutes later.

Damien stood quietly, eyes fixed on something out the window. Lyone approached, slightly more put together, and handed him the room key.

Damien took it and handed it off to the innkeeper without a word. The older woman gave him a knowing smile. She’d seen the type—quiet, careful travelers who didn’t stay long.

And didn’t need to.

Outside, the streets were now alive with chatter, color, and motion.

Children darted between carts. Bells chimed in bakery windows. Music played faintly from a distant violin as some traveling player tried to earn morning coin.

“This way,” Damien said, walking with practiced ease.

Lyone followed close behind, sticking to his side as people flowed past them.

He glanced up after a few steps. “You already picked a place?”

Damien nodded. “It smelled right.”

“…Right?”

“You’ll understand in a second.”

And he did.

The scent hit like a spell—warm cinnamon, roasted sugar, and something flaky and buttery melting into the air. Lyone’s steps faltered.

“That smells—”

“Incredible,” Damien finished. “I know.”

The bakery ahead was modest in appearance—brick and timber with a hanging wooden sign etched with a steaming loaf. A line had already formed, people murmuring in soft anticipation.

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