I Can Summon Legendary Figuress

"Five S-Ranked summons..."

"Doesn’t that mean he has been summoning S-Ranked beings since his very first contract?"

"That’s completely insane..."

The murmurs spread through the crowd like wildfire, refusing to die down. Even those who had watched the diagnostic runes solidify twice on the array struggled to process what they were seeing.

Five S-Rank summons was not merely an indicator of raw talent; every single entity contracted had to be evolved, and sustained by its master’s soul capacity.

S-Rank evolution parameters were notoriously brutal some demanded fatal survival trials, others required extinct materials, and many forced the summon into environments where survival was considered a miracle.

Without the backing of a sovereign power, even an unparalleled prodigy would eventually hit an insurmountable wall.

Yet Ethan had five active contracts, meaning he either possessed a bottomless fortune, had stumbled across ancient opportunities, or was backed by a hidden monster.

To the aspirants on the platform, he was a terrifying competitor. To the high officials observing from the upper balconies of the Bastion camp, he was a volatile variable that demanded immediate scrutiny.

"Investigate him."

"The Kingdom of Bark."

"The Algar family."

As the records circulated among the proctors, a senior archivist suddenly broke the rhythm: "He carries the Dawn Faction’s token."

The air on the dais cooled noticeably.

A tall woman detached herself from the central pavilion and descended toward the testing stage. She possessed a sharp, breathtaking beauty that made nearby candidates instinctively lower their voices.

Her silver hair fell past her waist, and a frigid, crystalline pressure radiated from her stride, causing frost to bloom along the stone beneath her boots.

She was known simply as Glacial, a core representative of the Dawn Faction.

Glacial walked directly toward Ethan without acknowledging the surrounding crowd. Before he could react, her slender fingers reached down, unhooked the Dawn medallion from his belt, and raised it high into the morning light.

The dawn crest gleamed brightly for the entire arena to witness.

Bartholomew’s weathered brow furrowed deeply. The message was unmistakable: the Dawn Faction was publicly claiming their stake, and Glacial was offering no room for ambiguity.

"Do you really need to flaunt it so brazenly?" Bartholomew sneered, crossing his arms.

Glacial offered no response, holding the crest steady.

Bartholomew’s irritation flared, but before he could press further, an attendant hurried up and whispered into his ear.

The elder’s expression shifted, a subtle, patronizing smirk returning to his lips.

"Glacial, you know the Bastion’s founding charter as well as I do," Bartholomew spoke up, projecting his voice across the platform. "Only the candidate decides their ultimate faction alignment. You can signal your preference, but you cannot unilaterally claim him."

Glacial lowered the token, her eyes cold.

"Furthermore," Bartholomew continued, his smirk widening, "our records show he currently sits as the head of an established noble house in Bark. The Pureblood Faction has always maintained open doors for genuine nobility."

It was a blatant political maneuver. While the Dawn Faction held the martial summit through their historical tie to Karth, the Mad God rarely involved himself in mundane administration. The Pureblood Faction, by contrast, held generational influence over the Bastion’s supply chains, territories, and political councils.

Glacial held Bartholomew’s gaze for several quiet seconds before her lips curled into a cold, derisive smile.

"If you say so, you racist pig."

Several proctors choked on their breath as Bartholomew’s eye twitched with suppressed rage.

Unbothered, Glacial clipped the medallion back onto Ethan’s waist and softened her gaze slightly. "Show them what you’re capable of today. If your performance satisfies me, I’ll have a proper gift waiting when you ascend the mountain."

Without waiting for a reply, she spun on her heel and strode back toward the pavilion.

Ethan watched her retreat, muttering under his breath, "A gift?" He had no idea what an elder of the Dawn Faction considered a worthy reward, but he wasn’t one to turn down high-grade resources.

Bartholomew cleared his throat loudly, reasserting control over the stage.

"The second phase of the selection begins now!" his voice boomed across the platform. "This trial measures pure kinetic destruction."

Runic arrays flared across the stone as several colossal gongs materialized in a neat row, each suspended at varying elevations and marked with distinct tier numbers.

"Each gong is calibrated to your respective tiers" Bartholomew explained, raising a hand. "Summoners may call upon their strongest active summon to execute the strike. You are granted exactly one attack, and only those who generate six full resonances from the alloy will advance."

Tension clamped down on the arena. The gongs were forged from resonant spirit-iron, designed to translate raw destructive output into cascading vibrations. One resonance indicated baseline tier power, but achieving six required force capable of punching far above one’s natural rank.

The first candidate, a Tier 5 stepped up to the fifth gong, focused his aura, and drove an explosive fist into the center.

*BOOM!*

The metal shivered violently.

One resonance. Two. Three.

The metal went still, and the warrior ground his teeth in defeat before stepping down.

Next, a summoner manifested a horned armored beast that slammed its heavy claws into the plate.

*Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!*

Four resonances—impressive, but still falling short of the threshold.

One by one, aspirants stepped forward. Many failed to produce more than three waves, and only a scarce handful triggered all six to earn their advancement.

The Bastion was systematically filtering out inflated ranks, demanding combatants capable of turning theoretical potential into lethal force.

Ethan watched the process with a measured gaze, entirely unconcerned about his own turn.

"Hey," a lighthearted voice chimed from his flank.

"Five-summons guy."

Ethan turned his head to see a young man standing beside him, balancing a massive, ornate wooden trunk on his shoulder.

He looked completely unassuming, young, with an innocent countenance and plain linen clothes, yet his bright eyes carried a sharp, mischievous glint.

"What’s your name again?"

"Ethan Algar."

Ethan studied the youth, his eyes dropping toward the boy’s belt where a matching Dawn medallion hung casually.

Ethan raised a brow. "You’re Meng?"

The youth blinked, then flashed a broad, cheerful grin. "The one and only."

He casually let go of the heavy wooden trunk. Instead of crashing down, the massive container locked motionless in midair, floating as if weightless.

Ethan’s eyes narrowed slightly. Ulric had explicitly mentioned that only two candidates across the four kingdoms had received direct Dawn tokens this year: himself, and this boy.

Meng wasn’t just a prodigy; he was the bearer of a genuine S-Rank class.

"So we’re going to be faction brothers?" Meng asked, pointing a finger with an easy laugh.

"Looks like it," Ethan replied.

"I like the sound of that." Meng leaned back against his floating trunk.

Ethan examined him closely. The boy projected no oppressive aura, but Ethan’s instincts recognized the familiar presence of a hidden dragon—the kind of combatant who appeared utterly harmless right until the moment they took the field.

"What class was that again?" Ethan asked.

Meng’s grin widened into something razor-sharp as the lid of the hovering trunk cracked open, unleashing a violent, pressurized gale that made the surrounding contestants stumble backward.

Meng rested his palm lightly against the rushing current.

"Air Nomad."

Ethan’s gaze sharpened. The title sounded deceptively simple, but the S-Rank authority vibrating within that compressed vortex was unmistakable.

Ulric’s warning had been entirely accurate: Meng was dangerous precisely because he looked like he couldn’t hurt a fly.

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