Re-Awakened :I Ascend as an SSS-Ranked Dragon Summoner - Chapter 521

Chapter 521: Oasis
Far away, across Earth and beyond the Milky Way’s spiral arms, past the void between galaxies where light traveled for epochs without meeting anything but darkness, there existed a planet called Hollowstar.

The surface near the equator was dominated by what could only be called an oasis, though that word felt inadequate.

A network of freshwater springs fed into pools that ranged from five feet across to massive bodies that stretched a hundred meters in diameter. The water was clear enough to see bottom even in the deepest sections, and smooth stones lined the edges—black basalt worn smooth by centuries of water flow, white quartz veined with pink, chunks of something that looked like jade but reflected light differently.

Vegetation grew in clusters around these pools. Trees with bark that peeled in papery strips, revealing wood underneath that ranged from deep red to pale cream. Their leaves were broad, waxy, shaped like teardrops the size of dinner plates. Between the trees, ground cover spread in thick mats—something that resembled moss but grew in spiraling patterns outward from central points, creating natural mandalas of green and bronze.

The air smelled clean. Not sterile, but clean in the way wind smells after rain, carrying hints of water and growing things without the rot that usually accompanied organic matter. The temperature hovered somewhere comfortable—warm enough that bare skin wouldn’t chill, cool enough that exertion wouldn’t immediately lead to exhaustion.

Creatures moved through this landscape, though calling them animals felt wrong. They looked like butterflies if butterflies grew as large as human hands, with wings that caught light and split it into colors that didn’t exist in Earth’s spectrum.

They drifted between the trees and across the water, landing occasionally on the broad leaves before taking flight again. Their presence added movement to an otherwise still environment, but they made no sound. No calls. No wing-beats. Just silent drifting.

There were no predators visible. No signs of struggle or competition. Nothing that suggested the brutal struggle of survival that dominated ecosystems everywhere else in the universe.

It looked, in every practical sense, like paradise.

The landscape continued like this for kilometers—pools and trees and those strange butterfly things—until something disrupted the natural pattern.

Structures rose from the ground where vegetation thinned.

Buildings.

Fifty of them arranged in loose clusters, with pathways of packed earth connecting them.

The buildings themselves were simple. Four walls. Sloped roofs. Windows cut into the walls at regular intervals. They were built from the local stone—that same black basalt and white quartz fitted together without obvious mortar, creating walls that looked almost woven. The roofs were thatched with something that resembled palm fronds but grew more rigid, overlapping in layers that would shed water efficiently.

But the most notable structure sat at the center of this settlement. A mansion, though that word carried connotations this building didn’t quite match. It was larger than the others—three stories tall, maybe sixty feet on each side, with a central courtyard visible through an arched entrance.

The same stone construction, but more elaborate. Carvings along the doorframes and window edges showed geometric patterns, repeating designs that suggested deliberate artistry rather than random decoration.

What humans would be doing on a world this distant was the obvious question. Why build here? Why settle in a place so far from everything else that light from Earth wouldn’t reach this planet for millions of years?

The settlement looked empty at first. No movement between the buildings. No sounds of habitation. The pathways showed signs of use—packed earth worn smooth by countless footsteps—but no one walked them now.

Then, following one of those pathways away from the main cluster, past a grove of those red-barked trees, the source of absence became clear.

They were all gathered in a clearing near the largest pool. Women—roughly fifty of them—sat in a loose semicircle.

They wore clothing made from wool or something similar, dyed in earth tones. Simple wraps around their chests, leaving shoulders and arms bare, with skirts that fell to mid-calf. The material looked handwoven, practical rather than decorative, though some showed subtle patterns in the weave.

The women were beautiful. Not in identical ways, but in the sense that each one could have stopped traffic on any street on any world. Varied features—some with darker skin, some pale, hair ranging from black to blonde to red.

Ages ranged from what looked like early twenties to perhaps fifty, though the older ones carried their years well. No makeup. No jewelry. Just natural features that seemed almost too perfect to be random.

And surrounding them, seated on the ground or standing in restless clusters, were children. Easily a hundred of them, ranging from toddlers barely steady on their feet to what looked like ten-year-olds. All of them making noise—talking, laughing, arguing, asking questions in overlapping waves that created a constant background hum of young voices.

The kids wore similar clothing to the women. The boys bare-chested with simple shorts made from that same woven material. The girls in smaller versions of the women’s wraps. None of them wore shoes.

One of the older children stood up from where he’d been sitting cross-legged near the front. A boy, maybe nine or ten, with scruffy brown hair that stuck up in multiple directions. He was bare-chested like the other boys, his shorts reaching just above his knees. He waited until the noise died down slightly before speaking.

“Mother 1,” he addressed the oldest-looking woman in the semicircle, his voice carrying across the clearing. “Will you tell us about Father today?”

Mother 1 smiled. She looked perhaps fifty, with silver threading through dark hair she wore in a long braid. Her face showed laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, but her bearing was straight, dignified. “What would you like to know, child?”

“Everything!” a younger girl shouted from the back, and several other children echoed the sentiment.

Mother 1 laughed, the sound was warm and patient. “Everything is quite a lot. But I suppose we can start at the beginning.” She settled more comfortably on the stone she’d been using as a seat. “We were all once maidens. Beautiful, yes, but ordinary in our own ways. We came from different places, different worlds, different circumstances. Some of us were chosen. Some of us sought him out. But all of us came to Father willingly.”

“Why?” a small boy asked.

“Because he offered us something no one else could,” another woman said, this one younger, maybe thirty, with auburn hair. “Purpose, safety. A future that would never end as long as we served him well.”

“Father married all of you?” the scruffy-haired boy asked, his tone suggesting he’d heard this story before but still found it confusing.

“Yes,” Mother 1 confirmed. “All of us. He gave us this place. These homes. Everything you see around you—the water, the trees, the food we eat, the clothes we wear—all gifts from Father. And in return, we give him our devotion and our service.”

A girl raised her hand. “When we grow older, will we marry father too? And why would he marry all of you? Couldn’t he just pick one?”

Several of the women exchanged glances, something passing between them that the children couldn’t quite interpret.

“Father’s needs are… complex,” Mother 1 said carefully. “One woman could never fulfill everything he requires. But together, we can give him what he needs. And he, in turn, gives us purpose beyond what any single life could offer.”

“Is that why we’re here?” a younger boy asked. “Because of what Father needs?”

“You’re here because you’re gifts,” another woman said, her voice carrying warmth that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Each of you represents Father’s generosity. His power. His vision for the future.”

“Mother 3,” a girl spoke up, “tell us about the magic again!”

Mother 3, a woman with black hair and features that suggested Asian heritage, smiled. “What you call magic is a gift. A gift passed down from Father to us, and from us to you. It flows through your blood, sits in your bones, waits for you to learn how to use it properly. But remember—” her tone became serious, “—this gift isn’t yours to waste. It belongs to Father. We’re simply caretakers of what he’s generously allowed us to touch.”

“Why does Father have magic?” a younger child asked.

“Father doesn’t have magic, dear,” Mother 1 corrected gently. “Father *is* magic. He exists beyond what you can understand right now. When you’re older, when you’ve progressed further in your training, perhaps you’ll begin to glimpse what he truly is.”

The scruffy-haired boy frowned, clearly thinking hard about something. “Mother 1, I have a question that’s been bothering me.”

“Ask, child.”

“Father never ages. I’ve seen the old drawings, the ones in the mansion. He looks exactly the same now as he did in pictures from before some of you were even born. But you all age. I’ve watched you age. And some of the mothers have died over the years.” He paused, seeming to gather courage. “And… and some of us. Some of the children. They leave on travels or adventures or whatever you call them, and they never come back. Nobody talks about them after they leave. Why?”

The temperature in the clearing seemed to drop several degrees despite the pleasant weather. Several women shifted uncomfortably. Mother 1’s smile remained, but something behind her eyes went hard.

“Those are questions for another time,” she said, her voice carrying finality that hadn’t been there before.

“But—”

“Another time,” Mother 1 repeated, standing. “For now, it’s time to eat and begin classes. Everyone, please make your way to the dining hall.”

The children groaned—some disappointed at the abrupt ending, others just generally complaining about having to move. But they obeyed, standing and forming loose groups as they began walking back toward the settlement.

The women followed, herding stragglers, answering simple questions about what would be for breakfast or who was teaching which class today. The scruffy-haired boy walked near the back, his expression thoughtful in a way that suggested he wasn’t satisfied with having his questions deflected.

The dining hall was one of the larger structures, with long tables arranged in rows and a serving area at one end. The food was simple but plentiful—bread that looked homemade, fruit that grew on the trees around the settlement, something that resembled porridge, water from the springs served in carved wooden cups.

The children ate quickly, energy barely contained, already thinking ahead to whatever classes waited. The women ate more slowly, talking among themselves in low voices that didn’t carry to young ears.

After breakfast, they all moved to what they called the school. Another building, this one divided into multiple rooms. Each door had markings carved into the wood frame—vertical strokes, ranging from one to seven.

The children began splitting off, heading to different doors. The youngest went to the door marked with a single stroke. Older children progressed to doors with more strokes. But the progression wasn’t purely by age. Some children who looked eight or nine headed to the single-stroke door, while others who looked six or seven walked confidently toward doors marked with three or four strokes.

Age wasn’t the prerequisite. Something else determined placement.

By the time they reached the door marked with six strokes, only one child entered—the scruffy-haired boy from earlier. A single woman followed him inside, closing the door behind them. The room beyond was smaller than the others, with space for maybe ten students, but set up for individual instruction.

The door marked with seven strokes remained empty. No children entered. No teacher waited inside.

Back at the single-stroke room, chaos reigned as the youngest and least experienced students found their seats. The teacher—one of the younger women, maybe twenty-five—waited patiently for them to settle. When the noise finally died to something manageable, she smiled.

“Good morning, students. Let’s begin with our daily reminder. Starting with you—” she pointed at a small girl in the front row, “—tell me why you’re here.”

The girl stood, her voice small but clear. “I’m Seventy-Three. I’m here because I bear only one pillar.”

“Good. Next.”

A boy stood. “I’m Eighty-Nine. I’m here because I bear only one pillar.”

Around the room it went, each child standing, stating their name and giving the same answer. Twenty students total, all bearing only one pillar, whatever that meant.

When the last child finished, the teacher nodded approvingly. “Very good. Now, today’s lesson is about understanding your place. This is important, so I need everyone to listen carefully.”

She walked to the center of the room, her presence commanding attention despite her young age.

“You are not equals,” she said simply. “Not to each other, not to the students in other rooms, not to the mothers, and certainly not to Father. Some of you will progress. Some of you will remain where you are. Some of you are simply less important than others. This isn’t cruel. This isn’t unfair. This is truth, and Father values truth above all else.”

The children absorbed this without apparent discomfort. Several nodded as if this was obvious information being restated.

“But,” the teacher continued, “regardless of your importance or lack thereof, you all must train. Do you know why?”

“Because Father is not a weak man!” the class chorused together, clearly having memorized this response.

“Exactly. Father is strong. Father is powerful. Father commands respect across worlds you haven’t even heard of yet. And his children—even the least of his children—cannot be weak. Weakness dishonors him. Weakness suggests his blood runs thin. Weakness is unacceptable.”

She moved to the back of the room where a section of floor had been modified. Stone tiles had been removed, revealing a bed of coals underneath. They glowed red-orange, radiating heat that made the air shimmer.

“Today we strengthen your bodies,” the teacher said. “Who can tell me why a strong body matters?”

“A strong body houses strong pillars!” the class answered in unison.

“And strong pillars lead to…?”

“Service to Father!”

“Very good.” The teacher gestured to the coals. “Form a line. Each of you will walk across these coals. No running. No jumping. Walking. Steady steps from one end to the other.”

Several children hesitated. A few looked genuinely scared. But most simply accepted this as part of their training and began forming a queue.

The first child, a boy who looked maybe six, stepped onto the coals.

His scream was immediate. High-pitched. Desperate. He tried to run, but the teacher’s voice cut through his panic.

“Steady steps! If you run, you anger Father! Do you want to anger Father?”

The boy forced himself to slow down, tears streaming down his face, each step accompanied by sounds of pain that should never come from someone so young. When he finally reached the other side, his feet were blistered and red.

“Good,” the teacher said. “Next.”

Another child. Another set of screams. Another set of burns.

One by one, they walked across the coals. Some cried quietly. Some screamed until their voices gave out. One girl fainted halfway across and had to be pulled off by the teacher, who then made her go again once she regained consciousness.

In the next room over, the students with two strokes could hear the screaming through the walls. Some shifted uncomfortably. Others looked at each other with expressions that suggested relief—relief that they weren’t in that room anymore, that they’d progressed beyond that particular torture.

The progression continued through the rooms. Three strokes. Four strokes. Five strokes. Each room teaching something different, each lesson building on foundations laid in previous years, each child advancing when they demonstrated sufficient mastery of whatever pillars they possessed.

But it was the room with six strokes that was of the most interest.

The scruffy-haired boy—the one who’d asked uncomfortable questions earlier—stood alone with his teacher in the small space. She was one of the older women, maybe forty, with gray streaking through brown hair.

“Are you ready, One?” she asked, using his number rather than treating him like a child.

“Yes, Mother 5.”

“Then show me your pillars. All of them.”

One stepped to the center of the room. He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath. Then his entire body erupted into flames.

Not figuratively. Actual fire covered him from head to toe, yellow-orange flames that licked upward without apparently burning his flesh or the simple shorts he wore. The heat radiating off him made the air in the room shimmer. Mother 5 stepped back, shielding her face.

Then the flames became smoke. One’s solid form dissolved, becoming gray vapor that poured upward toward the ceiling in churning clouds. For three seconds he existed only as smoke, then he reconsolidated.

The moment he became solid again, lightning crackled around his body. Blue-white electricity arced between his fingers, danced across his skin, filled the room with the smell of ozone. The light was bright enough to leave afterimages.

The lightning faded. One blurred, moving across the room at speeds that made him nearly invisible. He circled the space three times before stopping exactly where he’d started, not even breathing hard.

Then he demonstrated strength. He gripped the edge of a stone table—solid basalt, easily ten times his body weight and lifted it overhead with both hands. Held it there. Set it down gently without the stone cracking.

Finally, his arms began to change. Flesh rippled, reformed, became something else entirely. Fur sprouted. Muscle swelled. His hands became paws tipped with claws like knives. Not full transformation, just his arms from shoulder to fingertip, but the resemblance to a tiger’s limbs was unmistakable.

One stood there, breathing hard now, arms still transformed. Then his body began convulsing.

His tiger arms shifted back to human, but the shaking didn’t stop. He dropped to his knees, eyes rolling back, foam appearing at the corners of his mouth. Mother 5 lunged forward, catching him before he could hit the floor.

“Father forgive me!” she shouted, cradling One against her chest. “Father, please, I pushed too hard! Forgive your servant!”

The door burst open. Other women rushed in, followed by children from neighboring classrooms. They all saw One convulsing, saw Mother 5’s panic, and immediately understood.

“Father forgive Teacher!” someone shouted.

“Father, mercy!” another voice called.

They all began saying it, overlapping pleas for forgiveness from someone who wasn’t even present. The words became a chant, desperate and frightened, as if speaking them loudly enough might prevent something terrible from happening.

Then the shadows in the corner of the room began moving wrong.

Not stretching or shifting naturally with light sources. Moving. Gathering. Coalescing into a pool of absolute darkness that looked less like absence of light and more like a wound in reality.

A portal opened, and someone stepped through.

A young man, maybe mid-twenties. Brown hair worn short, unremarkable features that wouldn’t stand out in any crowd. He wore simple clothes—plain trousers and a shirt that looked nothing like the woven material everyone else wore. He could have been anyone. A farmer. A merchant. A scholar.

Except he very clearly wasn’t.

The moment he entered the room, every voice cut off. The chanting stopped. The women dropped to their knees, heads bowed. The children followed immediately, some of them trembling.

The young man walked forward without hurrying. He bent down, easily lifting One from Mother 5’s grip. The boy’s convulsions slowed in his arms, then stopped entirely, though he remained unconscious.

“Continue with classes,” the man said. His voice was quiet, calm, carrying no particular emotion. “This doesn’t require interruption of the day’s schedule.”

Then he turned and walked back toward the portal, One cradled against his chest like a sleeping child. The shadows swallowed them both, and the portal closed as if it had never existed.

For several seconds, nobody moved. Then Mother 5 stood on shaking legs, smoothing her skirt, visibly trying to compose herself.

“You heard Father,” she said, her voice not quite steady. “Back to your classes. Now.”

The children scattered. The other women returned to their rooms. Within moments, the building returned to something resembling normal routine, though everyone moved with extra care, extra attention to their tasks, as if trying to prove their diligence.