The moment the Wyvern finished consuming his mana, its muscles visibly swelled beneath midnight scales.

  Notch stared, transfixed. The creature's mana core—now crystal clear to his enhanced perception—pulsed with deeper purity, energy flowing like water finding its natural course.

  Red core. That was significantly strong for a predator in this area. Most creatures in starting zones barely scraped orange. The hierarchy went white, gold, blue, red, orange, brown—top to bottom.

  A red-core predator?

  That was village-destroyer territory. The kind that required adventurer parties or professional hunters to handle.

  "You're pretty strong, aren't you?" Notch let out a nervous laugh.

  The Lesser Wyvern stared at him, blue eyes filled with unmistakable longing. The meal was finished.

  It wanted more.

  It struck Notch then—what he'd just summoned was pure, condensed mana. Top-tier mages didn't attempt this technique lightly. If you botched it, your core blew. Period.

  Yet he'd done it.

  Unintentionally, at that.

  Notch decided to try again. He stretched forth his hand and emptied his mind, focusing on the sensation of energy flowing through him. Then he forced mana out of his palm.

  The brilliant substance formed again, suspended mid-air this time. It felt stronger. More concentrated.

  Maybe focus made the difference.

  The Lesser Wyvern didn't need an invitation. It lunged forward, devouring the larger mana pool in seconds.

  Then its stomach began to rumble.

  The sound was deep and unsettling, reverberating through the creature's entire body. The Wyvern's expression shifted—discomfort, then confusion.

  "Shouldn't have eaten all that, huh?" Notch took a step back.

  The creature lowered its head, massive body curling inward. Wings tucked close. Tail wrapping protectively around itself.

  The posture was unmistakable.

  Notch's eyes widened. Lesser Wyverns only assumed this position during transition stage—a metamorphosis that pushed creatures to their next tier of power.

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  But that made no sense.

  Light red core meant it had just reached red tier recently. It shouldn't be transitioning for months. Maybe years. The process required time, accumulated experience, absorbed ambient mana.

  Unless—

  Notch stared at his hand, then at the curled-up Wyvern.

  The pure mana had directly forced a transition. Years of natural growth compressed into minutes of consumption.

  "Oh no." The words barely made it out.

  "What did I just do?"

  ---

  Notch sat on the grass beside the faintly glowing Wyvern, setting his hands against its armored body. The scales pulsed warm beneath his touch. He tried to comfort it somehow, running his palm along its side in slow strokes.

  After all, he'd caused this.

  Kinda.

  The Wyvern's breathing steadied. The glow intensified, then dimmed in rhythmic waves. Notch leaned back against the creature's bulk, watching light play across the scorched forest.

  Transition took time—hours, maybe. All he could do was wait.

  His eyelids grew heavy. Adrenaline drained away, leaving only exhaustion.

  Just for a moment, he told himself.

  Rest his eyes for a moment…

  ---

  "The sun's setting?!"

  Notch's eyes snapped open, half-lidded and groggy. Orange light filtered through skeletal branches, painting everything amber.

  He'd fallen asleep. For hours.

  He turned to check on the Wyvern—and froze.

  The creature before him was magnificent.

  Where before it had been imposing, now it was breathtaking. Scales shimmered with iridescence, shifting between midnight blue and deep purple. Its body was sleeker, refined, built for power and speed. Wings had elongated, membranes translucent and veined with liquid silver.

  But the mana core truly stunned him.

  "A Greater Pureblood?!" Disbelief flooded his voice. "That's not even supposed to be possible."

  Its features were more defined now—almost aristocratic. Mana flowed through its body faster, sharper, more efficient, like a perfectly tuned machine at peak performance. The core itself had shifted from light red to a deep, vibrant crimson, violet edging its glow.

  Normally, Lesser Wyverns only advanced to Wyverns—simply losing the lesser title. Straightforward evolution.

  Greater Pureblood?

  That required being born into a greater lineage. Bloodline was immutable.

  That's almost as rare as a Greater Draconic Hybrid, Notch thought. I gave it mana, sure—but that should accelerate growth, not rewrite genetics.

  As if sensing his thoughts, the Greater Pureblood drew closer, moving with grace it hadn't possessed before. It lowered its magnificent head and rested it gently in his lap, blue eyes meeting his with unmistakable affection.

  Like a companion would.

  "Easy, girl." Notch chuckled, patting her head. The scales were smoother now. Warmer.

  He'd realized she was female partway through the transition. Females released far more mana residue during metamorphosis—a protective mechanism during vulnerability. The air had been thick with it, shimmering like heat waves.

  For a peaceful while, they simply existed together. Notch stroked her head in slow, rhythmic motions while she rumbled softly in contentment. The forest remained quiet, as if nature itself held its breath.

  Eventually, reality intruded.

  "I've gotta go now," Notch said softly, regret coloring his voice. "And I can't take you with me… for obvious reasons."

  A ten-meter wingspan appearing in Draymoor would cause mass panic. Nobles would send battalions. Hunters would swarm the region. Disaster.

  The Wyvern tilted her head, studying him. Those intelligent eyes seemed to process his words.

  Then she began to shrink.

  Notch watched in amazement as her head compressed, folding until it was no larger than his hand. Her body followed, proportions aligning as scales slid and reorganized like liquid metal. Wings and legs vanished entirely.

  "Of course you can shapeshift," Notch murmured in awe. "Greater bloodlines. Should've remembered."

  Moments later, the Wyvern was indistinguishable from a snake—exceptionally beautiful, iridescent, but a snake nonetheless. She crawled up his body with serpentine grace, weight negligible, and settled comfortably around his shoulders like a living scarf.

  "Well… this can work. I think." Notch chuckled, patting her head—now small enough to fit in his palm. She flicked her tongue, tasted the air, then nuzzled his neck.

  "You need a name, though. Can't just call you wyvern." He thought for a moment. "How about Sylvester? Then Sly for short."

  Sly didn't care. Names were human things. She'd already decided the small human was hers—what he called her was irrelevant.

  Content, she coiled more tightly around his shoulders and closed her eyes.

  Long day for everyone.

  "Off we go!" Notch chirped, carefully gathering the six Hoppers he'd dropped.

  He made his way back toward the village, his new companion sleeping peacefully against his neck. By the time he reached the forest edge, the sun had nearly set. Hearth fires glowed warmly in Draymoor's houses.

  His mother would be worried. His father would have questions.

  But for now—walking through fading light with a Greater Pureblood disguised as a snake and enough meat to feed his family for days—Notch allowed himself a small smile.

  Then he noticed the footprints.

  Fresh. Human. Leading from the village boundary straight toward the scorched path he'd carved through the forest.

  Someone had come to investigate.

  And judging by the depth and spacing of the prints, they were still out here.