This Beast Tamer Has So Many Questions

Six days passed.

Six mornings, six questions, six quiet answers—and every single one of them was the same.

No.

Each day he chose a new common race from his reference book, studied it until he understood it as well as the page could teach him, and then asked some variation of the same essential thing: did it have a hidden path to greatness, and could he afford to walk it? And each day his talent answered with that same effortless, unmistakable certainty.

No. No. No. No. No. No.

Six doors checked. Six doors quietly closed.

And yet he wasn’t discouraged. Not in the slightest. He went through each day calmly, recorded each result in his notebook in his neat, deliberate hand, and turned the page to the next candidate without a flicker of frustration.

People have a strange idea about research.

They imagine it as something spectacular—flashes of insight, dramatic breakthroughs, the triumphant moment of discovery with the light streaming down. They picture the one shining instant and forget everything that surrounds it.

The truth is far quieter than that, and far less glamorous.

Real research is mostly repetition. It is asking the same question a hundred different ways. It is waiting—for results, for conditions, for the slow accumulation of small facts into something larger. It is recording, and reviewing, and recording again, and eliminating one possibility after another after another until, if you are patient and fortunate, a single answer is finally left standing. For every brilliant flash of discovery, there are a thousand uneventful hours of careful, methodical, deeply unspectacular work.

Most people would have found it tedious.

He found it peaceful.

It suited him, this rhythm of quiet days and careful notes. A boy who had spent his first life confined to a hospital bed, learning to find contentment in small and stationary things, was perhaps uniquely built for the patience the work demanded. Where others needed excitement, he needed only a question, a book, and a place to write. The slow, steady accumulation of truth was, to him, its own kind of joy.

The days weren’t spent entirely behind his desk, of course.

Between questions, he went out for a walk. He visited more breeding houses across the city, observing new species, comparing what he saw against what he’d read, filling the corners of his mind with details he might one day need. There was always something new to look at, some small habit or feature he hadn’t noticed before.

But on one of those days, he went somewhere different.

He went to the Breeder Association.

It wasn’t hard to find. The official Breeder Association building announced itself from streets away, towering over its neighbors—a vast, luxurious structure of pale stone and gleaming glass that seemed almost deliberately built to remind everyone who passed of the prestige and importance of the profession it housed. Beside it, the ordinary shops and offices looked small and plain. Breeders, the building seemed to say, were not ordinary people. They were the ones who shaped the very creatures the world depended on.

Inside, the air was cool and hushed, the floors polished to a mirror shine. He made his way to a registration terminal and entered his identification.

The panel lit up, and his records assembled themselves on the screen.

There was his freshly issued graduate certificate confirming his completion of the full four-year breeder college course. And beneath it, his balance of Scholarly Points.

One hundred and sixty.

He allowed himself a small, private moment of satisfaction at the number. One hundred and fifty-five earned across four years of coursework, examinations, and accepted findings—every point clawed out of genuine effort—plus the five Professor Aldwin had gifted him on the day he awakened. For a fresh graduate, it was a respectable sum. Not extraordinary, but respectable. Hard-won.

He navigated through the electronic catalogue, curious to see what those points could actually buy.

The categories scrolled past, organized and exhaustive. Rare resources of every kind—spiritual herbs, refined materials, catalysts he’d only ever read about. Spirit beasts themselves, available for purchase outright. Spirit beast cubs and eggs, sorted by species and potential. Vials of demonic beast blood, precious and tightly regulated, the raw stuff of new bloodlines. And on and on, an entire economy of research distilled into a glowing list of prices.

It was fascinating, and more than a little dizzying, to see the cost of his future laid out so plainly.

But one category stopped him.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Laboratories.

Fifty points to rent for a single year.

They were, the listing explained, a benefit extended specifically to breeders just starting out—and the moment he read the details, he understood exactly why such a thing existed. Breeding was an expensive profession to enter. Punishingly so. Without resources, space, and equipment, even the most brilliant new graduate could do little more than read books and take notes. A laboratory of one’s own was the difference between dreaming about research and actually doing it.

And these laboratories were extraordinary.

Each one came equipped to house spirit beasts of nearly any kind. The listing described a range of built-in environments—climates and terrains tailored to different types and attributes —so that a beast of ice, wood, or water could live in genuine comfort rather than mere confinement. There was a fully furnished laboratory space, stocked with proper equipment. There was a living area for the breeder themselves, so that one need never be far from one’s work.

And best of all—the part that made him lean closer to the screen—the interior space was expanded. Folded and enlarged through spatial techniques, each laboratory was vastly larger on the inside than the outside could ever suggest. A modest door might open onto something closer to a private estate.

It was the kind of resource that would have cost a fortune to acquire any other way. And it couldn’t be bought with money at all.

Only Scholarly Points could rent one—which meant only those who had earned their place could ever hold the key. A gift reserved for new graduates alone, a foothold given to those just beginning the long, expensive climb.

Fifty of his hundred and sixty points.

He stood there a while, looking at the listing, and felt something quietly click into place in his chest.

He was going to need a laboratory.

But not quite yet.

First, he had questions to ask. A species to find. A path worth all of this to uncover. The laboratory would wait until he knew exactly what he meant to do inside it.

He closed the catalogue, registered the day’s visit, and stepped back out into the bright, busy street.

He didn’t go home.

The day was still young, and something about the towering Association building had left him restless—eager to keep moving, to keep looking. So instead of turning toward the apartment, he caught a bus heading further out, toward the quieter edges of the city where the buildings thinned, and the green crept in.

He rode it to nearly the end of the line, then got off and simply walked, with no particular destination in mind. The air changed as he went. The noise of traffic faded behind him, replaced by birdsong and the rustle of leaves, and the streets gave way to lanes lined with fields and gardens and small, sun-warmed farms.

And then he caught it on the breeze.

Flowers. The sweet, heavy scent of them, drifting thick through the warm afternoon air.

Beneath it, a sound. A low, steady, contented humming.

Buzzing.

He followed both without really thinking about it, around a bend in the lane—and there it was. An apiary, tucked among the flowering fields. Rows of neat hives stood basking in the sun, and around them drifted a haze of bees, their small bodies glinting faintly as they went about their work, ferrying between blossom and hive in the lazy, tireless way bees always do.

He stopped at the edge of the field and watched them for a while, quiet and still, letting the warmth and the scent and the gentle drone wash over him.

And then, on impulse—on the purest spur of the moment, with no study and no preparation and none of his usual careful deliberation—he focused on the bees, and asked his question for the day.

“Does this species have an evolution path capable of reaching King level—and can I afford its first evolution?”

The answer surfaced in his mind, as natural and effortless as ever.

Yes.

He stood very still.

Yes. For the first time in seven days, yes.

They were Amberwing Bees.

He knew them at once—everyone did. They were, without exaggeration, among the most common spirit beasts in the entire world. So utterly unremarkable that scholars genuinely argued over whether they deserved to be called spirit beasts at all. In almost every respect they were indistinguishable from ordinary bees: the same size, the same habits, the same simple little lives.

The only thing that set them apart—the single thread that earned them a place among spirit beasts—was their honey. An Amberwing Bee’s honey was richer, sweeter, and far more nourishing than the ordinary kind, threaded through with faint traces of spiritual energy. It was a genuine treat, prized by humans and spirit beasts alike, and so it was that these humble little insects were raised in apiaries and gardens absolutely everywhere, bred and kept across the whole of civilization without anyone sparing them a second thought.

Who could have guessed it?

After six days of grand common beasts and careful study and patient elimination, the answer he’d been searching for turned out to be hiding in something this small. This ordinary. A creature so common most people wouldn’t even glance at it twice, buzzing contentedly over a field of flowers at the edge of the city.

But that—that was exactly what made all of this so thrilling. The truth had been sitting in plain sight the entire time, in the most overlooked creature imaginable, waiting for someone willing to ask.

A grin spread across his face before he could stop it.

He didn’t waste a moment.

Practically buzzing himself, he hurried back toward the bus, and on the way home he stopped at every shop that might help—buying up every book, pamphlet, and scrap of information on Amberwing Bees he could lay his hands on. It wasn’t much. Nobody wrote extensively about a creature so common and so unimpressive; the pickings were thinner than he would have liked. But he gathered what little existed and carried it home like treasure.

That night, he dove in.

He read everything—their biology, their behavior, their hives, their honey, every small and previously unimportant detail. Modest as the material was, he devoured all of it, his notebook filling page after page in his neat, eager hand.

Because he had found it. At last. His first research subject. The first spirit beast he would devote himself to, the first door he would pry open with his own two hands.

Elias didn’t know it yet.

But that small, ordinary bee, humming over a field of flowers at the edge of the city, would one day shake the entire world.

It was the beginning of his legend.

Amberwing Bee

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