In the dim, echoing halls of the contracting arena, amid the acrid scent of ozone from lingering lightning residues and the distant rumble of thunder echoing from the storm-cages, stood a pitiful Thunderbird—its once-majestic plumage dulled to a ragged, ash-gray mess, feathers matted and broken, one wing hanging limp from old injuries. Its eyes, milky and unfocused, stared blankly into nothingness, rendering it blind and utterly despised by the gathered crowd of aspiring beast tamers. Mocking laughter rippled through the air like sharp cracks of electricity, the spectators' voices dripping with scorn as they whispered about the "cursed reject" that no one in their right mind would touch.
Yet the moment I laid eyes on this forsaken bird—feeling an inexplicable pull in my chest, hearing the faint, wheezing rasp of its labored breaths, and sensing the faint, flickering warmth of latent power beneath its battered form—I decided then and there to make it my first contracted beast. The arena fell into a stunned hush before erupting into jeers; fingers pointed, faces twisted in disbelief, and cruel taunts echoed off the stone walls: "He's brain-dead!" "Only a fool would bind himself to a blind, worthless cripple!" Their ridicule hung heavy in the humid air, thick with the metallic tang of disdain.
Little did they know, I had awakened a god-tier beast taming talent, granting me the ability to utilize the world's strongest god-tier skill: Beast Taming in Advance. With it, I could peer into bloodlines, unlock hidden potentials, and even evolve beasts far beyond their natural limits—pushing this Thunderbird through its ancient lineage to ascend to its final, divine form: the supreme god among Thunderbirds, a being of cataclysmic storms and unyielding fury.
To achieve this, I began by optimizing the Thunderbird's basic evolution technique, refining it meticulously in my mind's eye until it reached a proficient level. The process demanded precision: guiding the bird's inner energies with my own, feeling the electric pulses surge through its veins like crackling rivers of blue-white lightning, the air around us humming with building static that raised the hairs on my skin. The cost for my beast was deceptively simple yet grueling—merely to cycle that raw, volatile energy through its core a full 100 times, each rotation building heat that scorched the ground beneath its talons, filling the air with the sharp scent of ionized atmosphere and the low, vibrating growl of restrained thunder in its throat. Once complete, its body would tremble with readiness, muscles coiling anew, feathers beginning to gleam with faint iridescence, poised to begin the next stage of evolution.
In order to pass the official beast tamer test and silence the doubters, I soon arrived at the grand academy gates, the Thunderbird perched silently on my shoulder—its blind eyes unseeing, yet its presence already thrumming with the promise of storms to come
I thought to myself internally, a quiet fire igniting in my chest as the jeers of the crowd still echoed in my ears like distant thunderclaps, their mocking voices fading against the deeper, resonant hum of truth pulsing through my veins.
What did these fools truly know? This was no ordinary Thunderbird trembling weakly before them. In the ancient lore of my previous world—the sacred stories whispered around crackling campfires under vast, star-strewn skies, where the sharp scent of pine smoke mingled with the earthy dampness of rain-soaked soil—the Thunderbird was the Sky Protector of Native American mythology: a colossal avian spirit of unimaginable power, its wingspan blotting out the sun like rolling storm clouds, feathers shimmering with iridescent blues and golds that caught the light like forked lightning frozen in time.
It was the mighty bringer of thunder, lightning, and life-giving rain—the deep, bone-rattling boom of its voice shaking the mountains, the blinding crackle of electric arcs snapping from its piercing eyes, the cool, ozone-tinged downpour that followed, washing the world clean with the fresh, metallic scent of renewal. When the Thunderbird flapped its massive wings, the air itself roared in response, gusts whipping through ancient forests with the force of gales, leaves rustling in frantic symphony as dark clouds gathered overhead, heavy and pregnant with the promise of storm.
Revered across countless tribes—the Ojibwe, Lakota, Algonquin, and beyond—its image was carved into totems of weathered cedar, the smooth wood still carrying the faint resinous aroma centuries later, painted with vivid pigments that evoked the raw fury of tempests. To them, the Thunderbird was a fierce guardian of humanity, its talons sharp as serrated blades, its cry a thunderous war-call that banished evil spirits lurking in shadowed wilderness—the cold, slithering malice of underwater serpents or malevolent entities that whispered corruption in the wind. With unmatched strength, it battled these dangerous creatures, the clash of cosmic forces sending shockwaves through the earth, felt as tremors underfoot and seen in the brilliant flashes illuminating the night.
To some nations, it embodied divine law, an unyielding enforcer of cosmic order whose presence demanded respect, the air growing heavy and charged in its vicinity, static raising hairs on the skin. To others, it symbolized renewal and balance in nature—the cycle of destruction and rebirth, where scorched lands bloomed anew under cleansing rains, the sweet petrichor rising from the soil like an offering to the heavens.
Its essence was never merely a weather myth told in hushed tones around glowing embers; it was a sacred, living reminder of the profound harmony between the heavens and earth—the electric vitality of storms intertwined with the steady heartbeat of the land, the roar of thunder harmonizing with the gentle patter of rain on leaves.
Even today, in the memories of my previous world, the Thunderbird endures as an eternal symbol of raw power, unyielding protection, and the unbreakable spiritual connection between nature's wild fury and the human soul—a legacy that thrummed within my contracted beast, waiting to awaken.
However, the moment I stepped onto the sprawling campus of the Beast Tamer Academy—my boots crunching against the gravel path still damp from the morning mist, the air thick with the mingled scents of blooming arcane herbs, sizzling mana crystals from nearby training fields, and the faint, perpetual ozone tang of contracted beasts—the weight of countless stares bore down on me like an invisible storm front.
Whispers erupted immediately, sharp and biting, carried on the cool breeze that rustled the banners overhead with soft, flapping snaps. "Ha ha ha, look at that!" a group of students clustered near a stone fountain snickered, their voices laced with cruel amusement that cut through the distant clamor of sparring beasts and the low hum of enchanted barriers. "Isn't that the defective Thunderbird everyone's talking about? The feathers on its wings are almost all gone—patchy and brittle, like scorched parchment crumbling at the edges, barely clinging to the scarred skin beneath."
Another voice joined in, mocking and loud enough to echo off the towering marble arches: "He must have been scammed hard by some unscrupulous beast dealer in the black market alleys—paid a fortune for a blind, half-dead reject!" Laughter followed, bright and heartless, mingling with the splash of water in the fountain and the occasional crackle of lightning from a far-off training arena.
People glanced over from all directions—some pausing mid-conversation under the shade of ancient oaks whose leaves whispered in the wind, others leaning against polished railings with arms crossed, their eyes narrowed and gleaming with ridicule, lips curled in smirks that revealed flashes of white teeth. The collective gaze felt prickling on my skin, hot with judgment, accompanied by the subtle shift of fabrics as heads turned and the soft thud of footsteps slowing to watch.
My Thunderbird shifted slightly on my shoulder, its remaining feathers ruffling with a faint, dry rustle, its warm, scaled talons gripping gently through my cloak, the faint vibration of its subdued breathing steady against my neck. I ignored their mockery entirely—the stinging words dissolving into meaningless background noise like distant rain on rooftops—and walked straight toward the testing grounds, my stride firm and unyielding on the winding path lined with glowing runes that pulsed softly underfoot, the promise of vindication thrumming in my blood like the first rumble of an approaching tempest.