SSS Class Awakening: I Can Forge My Beast Soul Avatars
Chapter 12: Training Center

Chapter 12: Training Center

The line formed quickly in front of the class, split into two rows — males on one side and females on the other.

Without any further delay, the students immediately advanced toward the training site for their practical lessons.

The training ground was located down the sloping hallway of Class 5, branching off into a dedicated wing of the academy.

As they walked, Atlas learned from Seraphine that every single class — all five tiers — had their own specialized training grounds designed specifically around their operational capabilities.

Seraphine kept darting subtle glances at him, her expression a mix of amusement and confusion.

Atlas caught her staring and raised an eyebrow, adjusting his pace to match the rhythm of the line.

"Is there something on my face?" he asked quietly.

"Nah, not really," she replied softly. "I was just thinking that you stand out like a sore thumb. You look a bit odd — probably because you haven’t gotten an official uniform yet. Against the deep blue of everyone else’s clothes, yours really pop."

It was only then that Atlas remembered he was still wearing the drab, worn-out clothes from the orphanage. He hadn’t been issued an academy uniform yet.

’She’s not wrong...’ he thought, looking down at his faded tunic before scanning the surrounding students and passersby.

"Wait..." Atlas paused, glancing back at her. "The uniform design isn’t uniform for everyone?"

"Oh, no," Seraphine explained. "Everyone gets to customize their own cut and style, as long as you don’t break code by making it too short, shabby, or using the wrong material and colors, just visit the school tailor and get yours. You can tailor it to whatever fit suits you best — just like mine."

Atlas took a proper look at her uniform, noting the tailored lines and comfortable, functional cuts.

’Ah, that’s actually great. It means I won’t have to wear some stiff, uncomfortable standard issue. I can just sew something functional that abides by the rules.’ He nodded to himself, resting a hand on his chin.

His thoughts were cut short as they finally stepped through the grand archway of the training site.

Atlas’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. He had expected something impressive, but this was on an entirely different scale.

The training center sat in the middle of a sprawling, sunny grassland where the crisp wind carried the scent of dry earth, wild flora, and beast musk.

Where traditional stone walls might have stood, low wooden fences and fluttering departmental banners marked the perimeter.

The ground beneath their boots was packed earth and gold-green grass, worn smooth in long lanes by claws, hooves, and heavy boots.

At the far end, a raised wooden platform equipped with railings served as the Instructor’s Perch, where senior trainers observed the field with signal flags and brass horns.

The first section was built around the Warden Columns — tall wooden posts with cross-beams spaced in tight zig-zags across the turf.

Beginners walked their beasts through in a straight line, mastering voice and whistle commands to build fundamental synergy.

Intermediate tamers, who had established a solid bond, weaved through at a steady trot, calling out split-second turns while their beasts ducked under the lower arms.

Masters ran their beasts at a full sprint, the creatures leaping seamlessly between columns without brushing a single beam.

Knocking a post meant a complete reset from the gate.

Off to the side, old weapon racks had been repurposed into the Lance Gallery and Scent Barrels.

A-frames held blunted training lances set at varying heights; scaled hounds and small drakes sprinted the length while keeping their heads low, while aerial beasts practiced low-altitude passes without snagging a feather.

Next to it, large wooden barrels were filled with hides, feathers, and herb bundles.

A tamer would provide a target scent, release their partner, and time how fast the beast picked out the correct barrel and returned to heel — a crucial drill for maintaining focus amid loud, chaotic environments.

Toward the rear, stacked wooden crates formed the Leap Tier, a series of rising platforms and long jumps where beasts practiced controlled bounds and tamers learned to read momentum and landings.

Framing the entire arena was the Stable Gatehouse, the heavy entry and exit point for every run, where pairs cooled down at water troughs before heading up the grassy embankment for performance review.

The entire valley was loud, bright, and meticulously engineered for one purpose: forging absolute trust and timing between a tamer and their beast under the open sun.

"Wow... this is incredible," Atlas murmured under his breath, stepping further into the open field. "As expected of a top-tier academy."

Mr. Crosswell led Class 5E down toward their designated sector of the grounds.

Upon reaching their marked zone, the teacher turned around and raised a sharp hand signal. The entire class halted instantly.

"Alright, class, we’re here," Mr. Crosswell announced, his booming voice cutting through the open air.

"First, count off and make sure everyone is accounted for. As you already know, we are behind schedule, so every minute counts." He gestured toward the neighboring training fields where other classes above them were already deep into their routines.

Atlas looked past Mr. Crosswell’s shoulder and froze.

’Is that... a giant eagle?!’ he thought, watching a massive, razor-feathered raptor dive through the sky before landing flawlessly on its tamer’s leather-armored shoulder. ’That’s insane!’

He turned his head to the left and saw another student casually petting a half-grown, armored tiger on the head, feeding it strips of raw meat. ’What the hell... this place is wild!’

"Atlas! Atlas!" Mr. Crosswell’s voice barked, snapping him out of his trance. "Pay attention! I am addressing the class."

Atlas winced, jerking straight. "Sorry, sir!"

"Right," Mr. Crosswell continued, scanning the group.

"Today’s practical focuses on Synergy — the art of establishing mutual, instinctive understanding between you and your beast. A Beastmaster’s true power isn’t measured solely by how strong their beast is, but by how synchronized they are with it."

He raised a finger to emphasize his point. "You could possess a legendary dragon, but if you lack synergy, you will never grow. The beast will do as it pleases while you waste years trying to force obedience. True mastery comes from absolute alignment."

He held his right hand out into the open air. "Allow me to demonstrate."

A dense swirl of white, shimmering mist materialized beneath his palm, expanding into a rotating magic circle on the grass.

A moment later, a massive silhouette bounded out from the vapor.

As the mist dissipated, the beast came into full view.

It was an imposing, mountain-bred hound with a thick, plush coat of charcoal, slate, and silver-gray fur. Its amber eyes were sharp and deeply focused, its ears pricked forward in total alertness.

Around its broad chest, it wore a heavy-duty leather harness fitted with brushed metal buckles and an engraved departmental emblem.

"This is my bonded partner, Charles," Mr. Crosswell introduced, patting the beast’s broad head.

"He and I will demonstrate a standard synchronization run through the obstacle course. For those of you who cannot yet summon or maintain your beast, form a separate line on the left. You’ll be assigned conditioning drills instead."

Only two students stepped out of line and walked to the left: Atlas and Seraphine.

Mr. Crosswell blinked, glancing between them. "Just the two of you?"

He sighed softly, nodding.

"Very well. Pay close attention anyway — you’ll need this knowledge the moment your summons manifest." He turned back to the rest of the class and gestured toward the active obstacle course. "Watch closely."

The course was a complex maze of high hurdles, low-clearance tunnels, moving balance beams, and automated target-launchers designed to simulate a live battlefield.

Both tamer and beast wore synchronized digital timers pinned to their chests to measure their split-second coordination.

"Timers set!" Mr. Crosswell called out. "Count us down!"

"Three! Two! One! GO!" the class shouted in unison.

The moment the countdown ended, instructor and beast exploded forward like twin bullets.

They moved as a single entity — Mr. Crosswell slid under a low beam as Charles leaped flawlessly over it; the hound ducked a swinging padded barrier while Mr. Crosswell vaulted over the pivot point.

They didn’t exchange a single spoken command or hand signal. Every evade, jump, and sprint was executed in perfect, fluid harmony.

Before the students could even finish catching their breath, the pair crossed the finish line.

The digital display flashed: 00:14.02 for Charles, and 00:15.01 for Mr. Crosswell — a difference of exactly one second.

"Wow... that was clean," Atlas muttered, thoroughly impressed. "It’s like they share the exact same mind."

Seraphine kept her composure, though a subtle look of respect crossed her face.

"As expected of Mr. Crosswell. He always makes it look effortless."

Mr. Crosswell walked back toward the class, Charles trotting calmly at his heel.

"That is what synergy looks like," the teacher explained, unbuckling his timer. "When you and your beast act as one, you don’t need open communication on the battlefield. You move instinctively. And the only way to achieve that is through relentless training."

He gestured to the open course. "The rest of you, pick a lane and begin your drills. I’ll be monitoring your performance."

As the main group scattered toward the obstacles, Mr. Crosswell turned and began walking over to address Atlas and Seraphine directly.

But before he could speak, an obnoxious, mocking voice echoed from the path behind them.

"Well, well, well. If it isn’t Crosswell and his pathetic little flock," a slicked-back man sneered, flanked by two students in high-grade, embroidered uniforms.

"I’m sorry, did the academy completely run out of real students, or did you personally pick these trash scraps up from the slums?"