I graduated yesterday.
That fact still didn't feel real.
The certificate sat folded in my bag, creased from being opened and closed too many times, like if I checked often enough it might suddenly turn into something worth money. Everyone else from my year had celebrated—contracts signed, families cheering, beasts summoned in controlled flashes of light.
I had walked home alone.
Graduation from the Central Beast Academy meant one thing in this world: it was time to bind your first true companion. A Beast that would define your path, your survival, your worth.
And I couldn't afford one.
The streets of Lower Crescent Ward were loud with life. Vendors shouted about mana-infused feed, contract scrolls, portable pens. Even the air felt heavier here, thick with residue from active Beasts—ozone, wet fur, faint sulfur.
I kept my hands in my pockets and my head down.
The cheapest 2☆ Starter Beasts went for more money than my family made in a year. Even the "budget" ones—Fire Hounds with stunted growth, half-trained Rock Tortoises—were snapped up weeks before graduation.
People like me were expected to settle.
A sheep.
A cow.
Maybe a work mule with minor endurance traits.
Useful. Safe. Forgettable.
I didn't want to be greedy.
I just… didn't want to disappear.
So I walked.
No destination. Just letting my feet carry me away from the Academy district, away from the polished stores with glass displays and uniformed clerks who smiled too professionally.
That was when I saw it.
The sign was crooked.
Not broken—just slightly off, like it had been hung by someone who hadn't bothered to measure twice.
> CUBIC CREATURES
The letters were blocky. Not stylized, not glowing, just… squared. Painted by hand.
I stopped.
My heart thumped harder than it should have.
"Cubic," I whispered.
That word didn't mean anything special in theory. Shapes were shapes. But something about it felt… different. Almost playful. Like a private joke I wasn't in on yet.
The shop itself was small. Old stone walls, wooden door, a single window showing the silhouettes of pens and tanks inside. No guards. No flashy banners. No advertised star ratings.
Ordinary.
Which somehow made it worse.
I hesitated, hand hovering over the door handle.
You're just wasting time, I told myself. You know you can't afford anything good.
But my feet betrayed me.
The bell above the door chimed softly as I stepped inside.
Warmth washed over me first—not heat, just comfort. Like stepping into a room that had been lived in properly. The air smelled faintly of hay, clean water, and something mineral I couldn't place.
The interior was larger than it looked from outside.
Pens lined the walls, neatly spaced, each with simple plaques instead of glowing sigils. Tanks sat on reinforced shelves, water gently circulating. There was no overwhelming noise—no roaring, no snarling. Just quiet life.
And people.
At the counter stood a man about twice my age, broad-shouldered, with weathered armor leaned against the wall behind him. His gear was practical, scarred, patched. A Bronze Treasure Hunter, if the insignia on his belt was anything to go by.
One of the many professions born after The Great Mutation.
He was arguing—politely—with the shop owner.
"I'm telling you," the Hunter said, arms crossed, "those foxes are unnatural. Third one today that jumped a locked chest."
The shop owner laughed softly.
"That's why you bought them."
"Still feels like cheating."
"Treasure hunting usually does."
The Hunter snorted, reaching into his pouch. Coins clinked—heavy ones. Not cheap alloy.
I froze near the door, suddenly self-conscious.
The shop owner finally noticed me.
He wasn't what I expected.
Young. Maybe only a few years older than me. Dark hair pulled back loosely, sleeves rolled up, faint scratches on his hands like he worked more than he talked. His eyes were calm in a way that made you feel like he'd already decided something about you—and wasn't judging.
"Take your time," he said easily. "No rush."
I nodded, swallowing.
My eyes drifted to the pens.
They really were 1☆ Beasts.
A pair of wooly sheep with faint earth affinity. A horned cow chewing cud, mana lines glowing dully along its hide. Small creatures—lizards, birds, things meant for farms or minor labor.
Ordinary.
My chest tightened.
Of course.
The Hunter finished his transaction, grumbling good-naturedly as he left, fox carriers floating behind him like obedient lanterns.
The bell chimed again.
It was just me now.
The shop owner leaned against the counter. "First contract?" he asked.
I startled. "I—yeah. I mean. I graduated."
"Congratulations."
It didn't sound empty when he said it.
"I… don't have much," I admitted, heat creeping up my face. "I was just looking."
"Everyone starts somewhere."
I almost laughed at that. Not everyone.
I walked deeper into the shop, eyes tracing the tanks. Most held simple aquatic Beasts—mana koi, algae feeders, a sluglike thing that filtered toxins.
Then I saw it.
A bucket.
Just… a bucket.
Clear water, faintly steaming, sitting near the counter like it didn't belong.
Inside floated a small creature.
Round. Dark, it looked burnt even. But definitely Smooth.
It looked like a squid—but simplified. No visible tentacles, just soft, folded limbs tucked beneath its body. Its eyes were closed, its mouth curved into a gentle smile.
It radiated contentment.
I stopped breathing.
"What is that?" I asked quietly. "I've never seen it in any textbooks."
The shop owner glanced over.
"Oh. That's the Ghastling."
"Ghast…?" My brain stalled. "Like a Gho—"
"Not that kind," he said quickly. "Poor thing lost its mother. Stayed inside her bones for who knows how long."
I knelt without thinking, peering into the bucket. The creature drifted closer, as if sensing attention.
"It's adorable," I breathed. "Can I buy it?"
The answer came gently, but firmly.
"No."
I looked up, startled.
"I already made a contract with her," he continued. "She's not for sale."
"Oh. I'm—sorry." Embarrassment burned through me. "I didn't mean—"
"It's fine."
He didn't seem annoyed. If anything, there was something protective in the way he glanced back at the bucket.
I stood, dusting my knees, trying to regain dignity.
"Well," he said, tilting his head, "judging by your clothes and the way you're avoiding the price tags… I'd guess you can't afford much beyond a sheep or a cow."
It stung.
But it was true.
I nodded.
"I figured."
He tapped the counter thoughtfully.
"How about a deal?"
I blinked. "A deal?"
"You pay me in interest," he said casually, "and I'll give you a decent Beast Pet."
My heart slammed into my ribs.
Interest?
"That's… that's not how contracts work," I said slowly. "I don't have collateral."
"You have time."
I hesitated. Every warning lecture from the Academy screamed in my head. Predatory contracts. Lifetime debt. Hidden clauses.
But something about his tone wasn't sharp.
"What kind of Beast?" I asked.
He smiled.
"A Vex."
The word meant nothing.
"…What the hell is a Vex?"
He turned, reaching behind the counter, muttering, "Yeah, that's usually the reaction."
Light flared.
Something small burst into the air—blue, translucent, humming with mischief. It zipped around the shop, knocked over a feed scoop, stole my ribbon, and laughed.
Actually laughed.
A high-pitched, ringing sound.
I yelped.
The shop owner sighed.
"I'd suggest," he said, rubbing his temple, "getting it to like you first."
The Vex hovered inches from my face, emerald eyes gleaming.
And for some reason—
I had the distinct feeling he just wanted to get rid of it.
I stared at the floating menace in horror.
"Wait," I whispered.
"What the hell is a Vex?"