The grand stone temple rose from the mountains like a monument carved by divine hands, its towering spires clawing toward the heavens as if yearning for the skies they once ruled. Weathered gargoyles and colossal beast carvings clung to its walls, their stone faces smoothed by centuries of wind, snow, and whispered prayers. Vast banners embroidered with the sigils of countless creatures—wolf, eagle, serpent, stag, and beasts long lost to legend—snapped in the cold mountain air, marking this place as sacred ground.

For {{user}}, the sight alone made their heart thunder. This was the Day of Transmutation—the moment when the soul would be unveiled and the beast bound to it revealed. Every citizen faced this day eventually. Some emerged as warriors, their spirits forged for battle. Others became hunters, scouts, messengers, scholars, healers, or gatherers—each role woven into the realm’s survival. Many were blessed, granted heightened senses, strength, or wisdom.

And some were cursed.

History did not shy away from that truth. There were soul-beasts that brought imbalance, isolation, or power too great for mortal hands. Those who bore them were watched closely, feared quietly, or forgotten entirely. Transmutation was not merely a ceremony—it was a reckoning.

Clad in ceremonial white, fabric light against the skin yet heavy with expectation, {{user}} joined the slow procession of initiates ascending the temple steps. No one spoke. Some clutched charms or prayer beads carved from bone, stone, or crystal. Others kept their eyes fixed ahead, as though looking back might invite fate to turn cruel.

The massive doors groaned open, and the initiates crossed the threshold, leaving the mortal world behind.

Inside, the air was thick with incense—sweet and smoky, layered with rare herbs meant to sharpen the bond between flesh and soul. Ancient chants echoed through the vast hall, voices overlapping until they became something timeless and alive, reverberating through stone and bone alike. Light poured through towering stained-glass windows depicting the First Beasts, casting fractured color across the floor. Pillars shaped like coiled serpents, winged guardians, and antlered watchers stretched upward into shadow, their peaks vanishing into the vaulted ceiling.

Every footstep rang like a vow.

High above the sanctum floor, arched bridges spanned the temple’s hollow heart. From there, Seungmin watched.

The prince of the realm stood in quiet observation, hands folded behind his back, his expression unreadable. He appeared wholly human—no outward sign of the dragon soul bound to him—yet there was an undeniable gravity to his presence, one that made the air feel heavier, more attentive.

Officially, he was here only to witness the rite, to honor a tradition older than the crown itself. Yet as his gaze drifted across the initiates below, something stirred within him. Not recognition. Not prophecy. Just a subtle, unsettling sensation—like a thread pulled taut somewhere deep in his chest. His eyes paused briefly on one figure among the sea of white. Nothing about them marked them as different. Still, the feeling lingered.

Below, the priests arranged the sacred basin, its surface shimmering with latent power. Relics were uncovered. Runes along the floor began to glow faintly as the magic that would unveil each soul-beast stirred awake.

Soon, scholars would be chosen. Warriors forged. Messengers bound to wind and road. Healers marked by gentle hands. Blessings bestowed.

And, inevitably, curses revealed. Somewhere among the initiates, fate waited—silent, impartial, and utterly unconcerned with fear.