GTS Summoner Ch 1: The 100 Calamities!

In the darkness of night, on a barren field littered with jagged rocks and brittle dust, lay the bones of the forgotten dead, fragments of a

In the darkness of night, on a barren field littered with jagged rocks and brittle dust, lay the bones of the forgotten dead, fragments of an age long past. Silence pressed against the land, thick and unyielding, save for a faint whisper of wind brushing over the skeletal remains hidden beneath the earth.

On a rise at the center of this desolate landscape stood a figure draped in torn and weathered robes, dark as pitch, tattered edges fluttering in the night breeze. His hood obscured his face, yet a pair of burning eyes pierced through the shadows, weary and bloodshot, but glimmering with a fevered excitement that bordered on madness.

The man stretched his arms toward the star-lit heavens, his fingers thin and worn, shaking as if barely held together by sinew and will alone. His hands trembled, scarred and covered in calluses, bearing the marks of ancient rituals repeated over a lifetime. The stars glittered above him, cold and unfeeling, but in his gaze, they seemed to come alive, pulsing in unison with the thundering beat of his heart.

With a voice barely above a whisper, but carrying an ominous weight that cut through the silence, he began, "I call to the rage of the ages, to the silent voices unhindered by time."

As he spoke, his figure began to glow faintly, an eerie light creeping along the edges of his silhouette, illuminating his jagged form like a ghostly flame flickering against the night.

His voice deepened, resonating with ancient power as he chanted, "By the authority of the serpent with endless blue scales that coils between the unhindered place, by the command of the ethereal bull whose bellow shatters the Esoteric skies, I release upon humanity one hundred curses, one hundred misfortunes, one hundred daughters of the purist wrath."

The words fell from his lips like stones cast into a still pond, each syllable rippling with a dark resonance that seeped into the earth itself, spreading outward in unseen waves. The air thickened, charged with a foul energy that prickled the skin and clawed at the senses, as if the very fabric of reality braced itself against the weight of the curse.

He paused, and for a moment, the stars seemed to dim, the land holding its breath in dreadful anticipation. Then, with a final exhalation that seemed to pull from the depths of his very soul, he completed the incantation, his voice a low and hissing murmur:

"Let the unseen nightmares of old rise from their slumber; let the bound horrors tread upon the lands again. May they find humanity wanting, as dust beneath their feet, as shadows to be swallowed whole."

And as the last word faded into the night, his figure blazed with unholy light, his form now a mere silhouette against a crackling storm of energy. The barren field trembled, and from deep within the earth, beneath the scattered bones of the fallen, a rumbling began, soft at first, then building into a roar, as if the world itself had stirred awake to answer the madman's call.

***

The school hallway was eerily quiet as students huddled in classrooms, the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead the only sound breaking the stillness.

In the middle of the corridor, a disheveled man in his mid-twenties sprinted, his footsteps echoing off the lockers. His brown hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction as though he'd forgotten the concept of a comb. His dark grey jacket flapped behind him like the wings of a bird too eager to take flight, revealing a plain black T-shirt with an unfortunate coffee stain right in the center—a blotch of beige that might as well have been a neon sign for "I've had a rough morning."

"I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!" he muttered to himself, his voice tight with stress as he rounded the corner at a pace that seemed almost desperate. His name was Markus Miller, or Mark for short—26, a man who had somehow managed to both graduate and become a teaching assistant at this high school, despite his chronic disorganization.

He glanced at his watch as he neared the door to his classroom. The seconds seemed to stretch like molasses. "No way they'll let me in this time," he groaned, his heart pounding with dread at the thought of the disappointed stares from his students. Not that they cared, of course. They were teenagers. But that would be the least of his problems.

Just as he rounded the corner, preparing to make a beeline for his classroom, he collided with something—or rather, someone. He skidded to a halt, nearly crashing into a brick wall of authority. His eyes flew wide in panic as he looked up to meet the cold, steely gaze of Vice Principal Evelyn Hayes.

Her expression was a mixture of displeasure and professional indifference, the kind of face that could freeze a man in his tracks. She crossed her arms, her blazer crisply pressed, the sharp lines of her tailored suit making her look like she was always five steps ahead. Mark, breathless and disoriented, stopped so suddenly that he almost tripped over his own feet.

"Mr. Miller," she said, her tone making the words feel more like an accusation than a greeting.

Mark, caught off guard, stumbled backward, his hand flailing as though to ward off some invisible monster. "Oh! Uh, hey, Vice Principal Hayes! I—I didn't see you there! You're like a ninja, you know that?"

Hayes raised an eyebrow, her lips pursed tightly. She wasn't buying it.

"I'm just—uh—really late for class," Mark continued, his face flushing. "You know, that thing where you—uh, you know how it is. Teachers, right?" He waved his hands, clearly trying to deflect.

Hayes' gaze didn't soften. In fact, she looked like she might crack his skull open with nothing but a look. "You're late again, Mr. Miller," she repeated slowly, like the words had to marinate for a moment before he could truly grasp their meaning. "This is the third time this week."

"I know, I know!" Mark groaned, throwing his head back in exasperation. "It's a thing! A bad thing! But, uh, listen, can we call it... fashionably late this time?" He gave her a nervous grin that he immediately regretted.

Her silence spoke louder than words, the weight of her unamused stare pressing down on him like a ton of bricks.

"You really ought to do something about that, Mr. Miller. You wouldn't want to—" She took a step forward, almost like a predator moving in for the kill. "—miss anything important."

Mark's eyes widened, and his heart skipped a beat. "Important? What do you mean—?" His voice faltered as she tilted her head, as if she were the one asking the questions. He immediately closed his mouth, not daring to pursue that line of inquiry further.

"Well, I'm sure you have an excellent reason for your tardiness." Her voice dropped to a flat, disinterested tone. "I'll let you off the hook... this time."

His breath hitched, and his hand instinctively wiped the coffee stain on his shirt, as though that might make him look slightly less like a disaster. "Thanks! Really! You're the best!" he blurted, nearly bowing in gratitude.

Without a word, she turned and walked away, the click of her heels echoing down the hallway. Mark, still trying to collect himself, exhaled a long, dramatic breath as if he'd narrowly escaped a trap.

"Never doing that again," he muttered to himself, straightening his jacket and adjusting the coffee-stained T-shirt as if it might make a difference.

As he turned to head into his classroom, he couldn't help but chuckle to himself.

"Fashionably late... God, I'm an idiot."

***

By lunchtime, Mark was exhausted, practically counting the seconds until he could sneak a nap at his desk. He never really bothered with the teacher's lounge—too many unfamiliar faces, too much small talk, and way too many awkward silences. He was still figuring out his footing in this school, and the students seemed to regard him with a polite but wary distance, as if sensing that he was new to the whole teaching thing. Which, well, he was.

Mark had made it a habit to spend lunch alone in his classroom, usually with his head on his arms, catching a few minutes of peace. As far as he was concerned, this was as good a break as any.

He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and just as he began to drift off, the world around him erupted in chaos.

With a thunderous crack, the entire room shook so violently that Mark's eyes snapped open just as he was launched out of his seat. He went sprawling across the floor, his chair flying backward and smacking into the wall.

"What the hell!" he shouted, flailing to regain his balance as the room continued to shake like it was in the middle of an earthquake.

Desks slid across the floor, colliding into each other with loud, metallic clangs. One desk toppled and crashed into the classroom window, which thankfully held but now bore a fresh web of cracks. Another desk careened into the whiteboard, erasing half of yesterday's lesson in a single violent sweep. A bookshelf in the corner tipped, sending a cascade of textbooks tumbling to the ground, their covers slapping against the floor like thunderclaps.

A particularly aggressive jolt sent one of the heavier desks skidding across the room and slamming straight into the mirror by the door. The glass shattered instantly, spiderweb cracks spreading across the surface before several large shards fell out, crashing to the floor and splintering into a glittering mess.

Mark scrambled to his feet, gripping the edge of his desk for support, only for the desk to lurch and send him crashing back to the floor. Pens and papers rained down from every direction, scattered by the sheer force of the quaking. His coffee mug, left forgotten on his desk, slid off and exploded into a mess of ceramic shards and cold coffee.

"Are you kidding me?" he yelled, his voice nearly drowned out by the cacophony. "I just cleaned up in here!"

The shaking finally subsided, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. The room looked like it had been torn apart by a hurricane. Mark pushed himself to his feet, cautiously peeking around at the aftermath.

Half the desks were overturned, the whiteboard was hanging by a single screw, the mirror looked like a shattered mosaic, and there was a steady drip of coffee pooling from the remains of his mug.

Mark let out a deep sigh, throwing his hands in the air. "All I wanted was a nap," he muttered, exasperated.

As he surveyed the wreckage, a faint rumble sounded from beneath his feet, and he glanced down, eyes widening with suspicion.