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The wheels of the rickety cart screeched against the dirt trail as the mountains of Brightmoor disappeared behind him, swallowed by the pale blue mist of morning. Zephyr Valorian sat near the back, arms crossed over his modest satchel, each jolt reminding him of how far he had fallen. The last two weeks had passed like a slow bleeding wound, and now, this final humiliation loomed ahead.
He was being shipped off to Lowmoor Academy.
Not because he was talented. Not because his power held any promise.
But because someone needed to feed the beasts.
He hadn't been offered a scholarship, nor even a letter of recommendation. No formal acceptance scroll gilded with academy wax. Just a half-crumpled job listing from the village clerk. "Beast Caretaker – Feed and maintain training stables. Must possess agricultural or beast-nourishment skills. Meals and shelter included."
That was what Beast Feed Cultivation got you.
The academy's walls appeared in the distance, low and flat, built more for function than prestige. There were no soaring towers, no enchanted statues at the gates, no gemstone-inlaid sigils. Just gray stone, moss-streaked roofs, and weather-beaten flags that fluttered weakly in the wind.
Above the wooden gate, faded paint read:
Lowmoor Academy of Beast Professions
Zephyr's heart sank further.
Even the name sounded like a consolation prize.
The cart came to a halt. The driver, a balding man with cracked lips and a flask that smelled of pepper wine, jerked a thumb toward the gate. "This your stop, kid."
Zephyr stepped down, clutching the satchel to his chest. The morning air was cold, but not nearly as cold as the silence inside him.
A guard stood at the gate, yawning behind a thick scarf. He was short and round with half-laced boots and eyes that judged in an instant.
"Name?"
"Zephyr Valorian."
The guard blinked and then pulled a half-folded parchment from the wooden board behind him.
"F-rank... Cultivation-type." He paused, snorted, and handed back a brass tag. "Feeding duty. Beast Row Three. Caretaker Wing B. If a Rockhide bites your arm off, you'll be replaced by lunch."
Zephyr nodded without expression and passed through.
The academy grounds were busier than he expected. Not crowded, but alive. Groups of students with armguards and dull metal training spears crossed the courtyard. Beasts trotted in harness beside them—none higher than Rank C. This was not a place where elite tamers learned to control elemental serpents or ride gryphons into battle. This was where people learned to serve tamers.
He passed two instructors arguing over a feed chart, a boy struggling to rein in a Flame Goat, and a young woman crying as she treated a torn boot. Nothing here was glorious. Nothing was bright.
Still, it was somewhere to begin.
His assigned quarters were simple: a one-person room inside the Caretaker Dorm, walls of dull plaster and a floor that creaked under every step. A narrow bed sat beside a wooden desk and a trunk with rusted latches. On the pillow was a pamphlet labeled Caretaker Orientation – Feeding Protocol, Beast Behavior, and Cleaning Rotations.
He barely skimmed it. His body was tired, but his mind churned too much to rest.
The real welcome came the next morning.
"Up! You've got thirty minutes before the boars think you're breakfast!" a voice bellowed from the hallway.
Zephyr threw on his coat and boots, grabbed the wooden feed tokens from his desk, and hurried toward the stables. A thick fog clung to the ground, dampening the world into a muted gray.
Stable Row Three was worse than he imagined.
Ten wide pens filled with beasts of all shapes and smells. The first pen held three Scruffhorn Boars [Rank E – Hardy herbivores with aggressive attitudes, used in footwork drills. Known to charge anything red. Zephyr was wearing a red scarf.], and the second was home to a twitchy pack of Silver Claw Pikas [Rank D – Speed-type rodents, sensitive to noise, eat five times their body weight in a day].
The third pen, however, was the worst.
A Rockhide Lizard lay sprawled over a mound of hay, its granite-like scales glistening with dried mud and something that smelled like old blood.
[Rockhide Lizard – Rank D Beast: Defense-type reptile with natural stone armor. Difficult to train, prone to tail whipping, immune to fire magic.]
"Don't look it in the eyes," someone muttered beside him.
Zephyr turned.
A short man, no older than thirty, with sleeves rolled up to reveal tattooed forearms and scars like claw marks across his hands, stood beside a pile of feed sacks.
[Name: Grent – Age 29, Rank E Skill: Muck Manipulation. Veteran beast caretaker at Lowmoor. Known for foul mouth, vast experience, and surprising empathy for weaker beasts.]
"You're the F-rank kid, right?" Grent asked, lighting a pipe. "Figured. You've got that fresh manure look."
"Zephyr," he said.
"Feeding duty, huh? Well, your skill might actually help. These sacks are enhanced with raw mana grains. Better if the one carrying 'em knows how to coax a little life from the stuff."
Grent handed him a bucket. "Start with the pikas. They're fast. Don't let 'em nip your fingers off. Oh, and if they pile on you… scream."
Zephyr spent the next six hours lugging feed, dodging bucking hooves, and chasing escaped rodents. The work was grueling. Hot. Filthy. His back ached, his legs burned, and his palms were raw. By midday, he collapsed beside the trough, panting.
And still, strangely, he didn't hate it.
Because for the first time since his Awakening, something responded to him.
His skill—Beast Feed Cultivation—wasn't flashy. But when he poured a handful of grains into the Silver Claw pen and closed his eyes, focusing, something happened.
The feed shimmered faintly.
The air filled with a soft warmth, and the pikas quieted, clustering around the food with soft chirps instead of frenzy.
It wasn't magic in the flashy sense.
But it worked.
He could feel the beasts calm. Could feel the food resonate with them.
Maybe he couldn't fight. But he could do… something.
That night, Zephyr sat alone in the Caretaker Hall, sipping lukewarm broth from a wooden bowl. Around him, other caretakers joked, played cards, or discussed feed formulas. No one spoke to him. No one offered a seat.
He didn't mind.
He had a roof. A job. And, for the first time, a quiet thread of pride in his chest.
Somewhere out there, Alira Ves had said he was more than he seemed.
He didn't know what that meant. But he would find out.
Even if it took him years.