SSS-Ranked Awakening: I Can Only Summon Mythical Beasts

Chapter 397: Lyone’s Frist Official Mission

The road stretched out like a ribbon of cracked stone beneath the late afternoon sun. Wind swept across the plains, carrying the scent of dry grass and the distant chatter of unseen birds.

The carriage, drawn by Fenrir’s massive strides, moved with a steady rhythm that made the journey surprisingly smooth.

Damien leaned back in his seat, fingers drumming idly on the window frame. He had deliberately chosen this method of travel rather than flying with Aquila or Skylar. Flying was faster, yes, but also loud—too visible, too obvious. He wanted to see who might follow. And he had no doubt that someone would.

“Why a carriage?” Lyone asked, his arms crossed. “You could’ve had us soaring across the plains. This feels… slow.”

Damien’s lips curved faintly. “Because this way, they’ll come to us. And when they do, I’ll know who’s bold enough to chase us.”

Arielle, seated opposite him, kept her hood drawn low, her eyes half-closed as though she hadn’t been listening. But Damien caught the faintest curve of a smile tugging at her lips.

He didn’t elaborate further. Some truths didn’t need to be spoken twice.

It was less than three hours beyond Greshan’s borders when Fenrir rumbled low in his throat. The wolf slowed, its ears twitching forward as if catching whispers the others couldn’t hear.

Damien narrowed his eyes. “Stop here.”

The beast obeyed, halting the carriage just before a bend in the road where trees pressed close on both sides.

And there they were. Fifteen figures spilling from the undergrowth, armed with rusted blades, chipped axes, and bows strung with fraying cord. Bandits. Their mismatched armor and greedy grins left no doubt as to their profession.

One of them, taller than the rest and sporting a scar across his chin, swaggered forward. “Well, well, what do we have here? A fancy carriage, fine wheels, polished wood. Must be worth a fortune. Hand it over—and everything inside—and maybe we let you walk away alive.”

Damien stepped down slowly from the carriage. The bandits shifted uneasily, not because of him, but because Fenrir loomed silently at the front, its blue-fire eyes glowing faintly. They couldn’t sense its aura—Damien had ordered Fenrir to suppress it completely—but even hidden, power leaked at the edges, like the scent of blood from a closed wound.

“Move aside,” Damien said calmly. His voice wasn’t loud, yet it carried an edge that cut through the bandits’ laughter. “No one has to get hurt here.”

The scar-chinned leader sneered. “Hear that, boys? He’s begging us. How about this, traveler—say that again and I’ll chop you into pieces before I take your carriage.”

The men roared with laughter, banging their weapons against their shields.

Damien sighed, rolling his shoulders as though the entire exchange bored him. Then he glanced toward the carriage door.

“Lyone. Come out.”

The door creaked open. Lyone stepped down lightly, his boots crunching against the dirt. His hair shone beneath the sun, and the moment his eyes landed on the gathered bandits, hid hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword.

Damien turned toward him, his expression unreadable. “This will be your first official mission.”

His brows furrowed faintly. “Mission?”

“Yes,” Damien said, folding his arms. “Deal with them. All of them. I don’t care if you use your talent or not—do it your way. Just make sure not one of them is left standing when you’re done.”

Lyone froze for only a moment before his lips curved into a naughty smile. His fingers closed fully around the sword hilt. “As you wish.”

The bandits howled at the sight of his supposed innocence. “A little girl, is it? He’s sending the little boy to fight us!” one of them jeered. “We’ll take him alive, eh boys?”

Their laughter broke like glass the moment Lyone moved.

He blurred forward, faster than human eyes could properly track. His blade whispered as it left its sheath, silver flashing once—and the first bandit’s head rolled from his shoulders before he realized she had moved.

The others staggered back in shock.

“What—what the hell—”

But Lyone was already among them, cutting arcs through flesh and iron with surgical precision. Each swing was deliberate, economical, beautiful in its brutality. Where Damien often overwhelmed with sheer force, Lyone was a storm of sharp elegance, every strike measured to kill.

One bandit raised his shield high, screaming as he charged. Lyone’s blade pierced through it like paper, splitting both wood and man clean in half. Another tried to flank him from behind, only for his heel to crash into the bandit’s jaw with a crack that sent him sprawling limp to the ground.

Damien watched with narrowed eyes, neither surprised nor impressed, simply… evaluating.

“His stance is good. Footwork, tight. He’s been paying attention,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Arielle’s voice, quiet and smooth, drifted from inside the carriage. “And his cruelty matches yours. That boy doesn’t hesitate.”

Damien didn’t deny it. Lyone’s strikes carried no mercy, no wasted flourish. He was precise. Cold. Effective. He seemed to be emulating Damien.

Within minutes, the road was painted red. Eleven corpses sprawled across the dirt, their blood soaking into the earth. Only four remained—those who had dropped their weapons and stumbled backward, faces white with terror.

Lyone stalked toward them, his blade dripping.

“Wait—wait! Please! We surrender! Don’t kill us!” one screamed, falling to his knees.

Lyone’s expression didn’t change. He raised his sword.

“Stop.”

His blade halted mid-swing. He turned his head slightly. Damien stood behind him, arms crossed.

“They threatened me. Mocked me. Wanted to kill you,” Lyone said evenly, voice tinged with the cold edge of his anger. “Why stop now?”

Damien’s eyes lingered on the kneeling men—pitiful, trembling, broken. Then he shook his head. “Mercy is not for them. But killing dogs on their knees is a waste of your time. Leave them.”

His lips tightened. For a moment he looked as though he wanted to argue. But at last, he exhaled sharply and lowered his blade.

“As you say.”

The surviving bandits scrambled away, fleeing into the woods without daring to look back.

Lyone cleaned his blade with a strip of cloth, his eyes still fixed on the corpses he had left behind. Damien stepped closer, his tone calm but edged with authority.

“You did well,” he said. “Efficient. Direct. No wasted effort. But remember this—strength isn’t just killing. Sometimes restraint teaches a sharper lesson.”