I was excited this morning. No—thrilled. Bursting. Practically vibrating. Apparently, my subconscious enthusiasm had manifested overnight, because when I woke up, my entire room was covered in the shimmering mana crystals of my starlight forest.

Pale blues. Deep violets. Amber flares like dying suns. It was as though the aurora had spilled out of my inner realm and decided to nest in every corner of my bedroom. These crystalline blooms pulsed gently in rhythm with my breath, fractal branches twinkling in ambient hues as if the stars themselves had taken root in the wood and stone.

It was beautiful. Hypnotic. Honestly, I could've stared at it all day, watching the shifting light dance like celestial fish in some great dream-ocean.

But that wasn't why I was excited.

My egg was hatching.

My Diabolo Griffin egg.

My second spirit beast.

Who cared if it would cost me two potential skillcube slots from my second shell? Worth it. According to Gin—bless his madness—I could just devour those cubes for raw power later anyway, once my domain was more stable. But now? Now I was going to have a Griffin. A real, living, breathing, winged predator of sky and myth. My Griffin.

"Griffin, Griffin, Griffin…" I muttered under my breath, my body swaying back and forth on the balls of my feet as I stood in front of the incubation podium. I could feel the shell pulsing, the egg absorbing my ambient mana and miasma like a sponge drinks water. I had even pulled a chair up to it, but sitting was impossible.

This was happening.

I was giddy. Practically bouncing. I was grinning like a lunatic, eyes wide, posture tense. I was ready. So ready.

"Sire," came the ever-serene voice of Lumivis from behind me, his tone both patient and pointed, "might I please suggest you calm down?"

I sighed and stopped rocking, turning slightly to give him a sheepish glance. Of course he was right. He always was. I needed to center myself. Breathe. Maintain my presence.

But the problem was…

GriffinGriffinGriffinGriffin!

I bit my lip to suppress the manic grin crawling back onto my face. Calm. Dignified. I'm a Walker now. A representative of Demeterra's domain. A political and magical authority.

But screw all that—I was about to hatch a Griffin.

Every boy my age dreams of three things. The holy trinity of childhood imagination.

One: Being a Dragon. We've all done it. Played with mock skillcubes that let us breathe harmless illusionary fire and wear shimmering faux wings. I remember charging through the orchard with Car-Car at my heels, both of us pretending to hoard treasure (which usually meant stealing our sisters' jewelry or sweets). We were menaces. Chaos incarnate. But dragon chaos. And that made it sacred.

Two: Becoming a Knight. Not the ancient kind from myths. I mean real Knights—the legalized, government-endorsed gladiators of the Games. While Walkers handle threats across Otherrealms, Knights are domestic champions. Militarized duelists of unmatched prestige, bearing skillcubes like badge and blade. Trained for single combat in illusionary fields, they resolve conflict as per the Treaty of Ibithicia. Their wars aren't won with armies—they're won with spectacle. Strategy. Precision. Blood and thunder sealed behind veils of light.

Three: And of course, every boy who dreamt of being a Knight… dreamt of riding into battle on their noble steed.

And for me? That dream was shaped by Roland the Sky Shredder. He was the Knight. Every inch the hero, astride his majestic silver-plumed Griffin, wingspan wide enough to cast shadows over cities. Roland wasn't just a warrior—he was a legend. A symbol of what a child could become if they were brave, clever, and just a bit stupid enough to keep trying.

GriffinGriffinGriffinGriffin!

I had begged for one on my tenth birthday. I had asked so earnestly. Please, Mom, Dad—I'll take care of it! I'll even clean up after it when it molts! Naturally, they said no. Even if they adored me—and they did—it just wasn't practical. Not for a ten-year-old boy, not in the middle of childhood, not with the costs and logistics of feeding, training, and keeping a Griffin healthy. Even magically bonded ones.

Odd how that was only seven years ago.

Odd how now I was standing in front of a hatching egg. Mine. No parental permission needed. No illusions. No holograms. No mock cubes.

I had earned this.

By surviving the Halls. By forging contracts. By reaching into my inner realm and creating. By making my soul a place where something greater than myself could choose to be born.

The egg pulsed again, brighter this time. Hairline cracks formed along the shell, light gleaming between them in soft pulses. It was happening. The heat in the room rose, but not uncomfortably. It was like a forge being stoked but divine, ancient.

The mana in the room reacted instinctively, coalescing toward the podium. My inner realm stirred in response. The trees in my mind bloomed wider. The clockwork bird on my shoulder chirped in joy.

I braced myself, every muscle locked in reverence.

I had to grab the edge of the podium to steady myself.

I whispered it, breathless:

"My Griffin."

Lumivis, still as a statue, gave a slow nod behind me.

His feathers were the color of volcanic glass—obsidian so deep it drank in the morning light and shimmered with hidden heat. He stood about the size of a medium hound, compact but undeniably regal, with wings that rustled like silk and steel. There was something deceptive in his softness. Each feather had texture, but some had an edge—subtle, honed, meant for slicing if pressed. Beauty and lethality in one.

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I crouched down, keeping my hands folded in front of me.

"Hey, little guy," I whispered, a grin tugging at my lips. "You're gorgeous, but I'm not getting anything from my Gloss Reader about your Arte."

The interface remained blank, its shimmering panes flickering between diagnostic screens and error glyphs. No aura data. No classifications. Just a single note: Unidentified Mythic Lineage: Awaiting manual Dryadic confirmation.

Which meant one thing.

I needed a Dryad.

I tapped into my Gloss and composed a message without hesitation.

To: Prince Marryllyn Subject: Urgent Dryad Request

Your Grace, I humbly request your assistance. I have successfully bonded with a Diabolo Griffin—he has hatched, and I seek to understand the nature of his Arte. My Gloss is unable to register his details. I request a Dryad capable of soul reading and Arte clarification, and if possible, I ask for immediate warp assistance to my estate. —Walker Alexander Duarte-Alizade

No sooner had the message been sent than the room was filled with the scent of damp earth and dogwood sap. A pulse of verdant energy flickered in the air, followed by a shimmer of green mist.

She stepped into view.

Tall, with the graceful bearing of an ancient tree grown beneath careful moonlight. Her hair hung in soft, gentle braids of wilting dogwood flowers, delicate petals still clinging to curling branches. Her skin bore the hues of forest birch—light, carved in natural patterns, with deep emerald lines running like sap veins down her arms. She held a sphere the size of a child's head in her left hand—smooth and polished, made from dryadwood, humming with dormant power.

Her presence was still, and yet entirely alive.

She looked at the griffin and nodded once, solemnly.

Then she began to speak—not in conversation, but in invocation. Her voice was a soft, rhythmical hum, the tone of roots shifting beneath stone and of wind in deep canopies.

"Ah… A majestic creature, black as night, He shall be known when he takes flight. From wing to talon, beak to breath, He carries olden dreams of death. Yet also birth, and all between— Of void, and stars, and skies unseen.

I make this vow, I speak this creed, By grove, by root, by moon and seed.

All the land, and air, and sea, Shall mark his shape, set him free. He shall exist and shall exist not, His loyalty neither purchased nor bought.

His mind is his own, crucible and chain, His body his right, not claimed in vain.

From these words, I speak them thee: Your flesh is yours, from those ended rightly. Born of ruin, shaped of storm, The void does not define your form.

You are what you choose to be. Be beast or kin—be sky or tree."

As the last syllable of her invocation fell into silence, the dryad's wooden sphere pulsed with green-gold light—radiant and reverent, a blessing from something ancient and wild.

The light poured across the floor like spilled nectar and washed over the Diabolo Griffin.

He did not flinch.

He stood proud in the heart of it, his wings slightly parted, the obsidian of his feathers catching and reflecting the ambient glow. Flecks of silver shimmered across his body like veins of starlight. Twilight mana bled in soft pulses from under his feathers, threading along his spine and wingtips, causing faint motes of shadow to orbit him like curious fireflies.

And then it happened.

A low hum echoed from the sphere, and a glyph—a twisting sigil of immense complexity—burned itself into the stone floor beneath him. A perfect circle containing overlapping patterns: a spiral of black flame, intersected with a ray of violet light, and bounded by diamond-like loops that bent and wove around each other. A visual metaphor of entropy, renewal, and layered dimensional power.

It didn't last long.

The glyph shimmered, then vanished as if drawn into the Griffin's shadow. He shivered once, and the light of the forest dimmed slightly, as though the world had exhaled and been left breathless.

The Dryad opened her eyes again. They had changed—from soft bark brown to a living, mossy green that shimmered like dew on fresh leaves.

She looked at me now, not the griffin.

And then she bowed. Slowly, deeply. The kind of bow reserved not for royalty, but for miracles.

"I have never seen a beast like this," she murmured, her voice lighter than before, but firm with ancient weight. "His essence is raw, wild, unfinished… but determined."

I stayed quiet, feeling the weight of her words before she continued.

"In many ways," she said, straightening again, "your beast's Arte is… unusual. The closest classification I can offer is Body Manipulation, but with two significant caveats."

She turned to the griffin and gestured with her free hand. The creature cocked his head in that birdlike way—half curious, half condescending.

"One: He may take on the attributes of anything he slays and consumes. Not illusions, not borrowed traits. He ingests essence and rewrites himself. Wings, claws, shells, eyes—he can adapt and grow beyond the physical form you see now."

My breath caught. That explained the shimmer in his feathers, the faint noise of shifting bones I'd heard earlier. He wasn't just beautiful—he was evolving.

"And two," the Dryad said, stepping back from the Griffin, "he cannot affect the bodies of others. His power is not one of offense against flesh. He is not a corrupter, nor a parasitic horror. He is a bioweaver. A fleshsmith of the self. All changes are internal—earned, never stolen."

She paused, letting that sink in.

"I suggest you feed him a wide variety of fresh beasts," she added matter-of-factly. "They must be fresh. No processed meat. No stored mana-beasts. The essence must still be alive, or dying, for it to be absorbed."

I blinked.

That was… a lot.

My first Dryad, the one who assessed my Arte, had thrown me into a hallucination so intense I barely remembered it. She hadn't explained anything—not really. Just images and sensations and silence. But this one? She gave me paragraphs. Practical knowledge. Assumptions. Instructions.

Did she think I was more capable now? Or was this simply her style? Or…

Did she know I'd need to explain it to my Griffin?

As if reading my thoughts, she flicked a thin wooden card onto my nearby table. It landed silently, perfectly upright. My Gloss auto-scanned it as it touched the surface.

"Dryad Lila of the Hemlock Circle," it read. "Domain: Anamorphy, Fleshbinding, Nature-Spoken Contracts."

"Should you have further questions, Walker Duarte-Alizade," she said with a voice like rustling leaves, "I am available at court through Marryllyn's retinue."

She turned toward the exit, pausing only once to glance at the wall where my starlight forest bled slightly into the waking world. Crystals pulsed behind the mirrorframe, half-phased between dream and matter.

Her lips twitched—not in amusement, but something sharper.

"And please," she added with that same distant serenity, "hide your forest more carefully in the future."

Her eyes met mine, soft and sure.

"Or I will be tempted to plant a daughter in it."

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