The Silent Summoner
No one remembers the name of the Silent Summoner.
Some say he was once a great champion, undefeated in battle. Others whisper that he was cursed, his voice stolen by an ancient spell. But those who have faced him… they say nothing at all.
Because they never return.
I had spent years climbing the ranks of Splinterlands, earning my place among the best. Victory after victory, I had mastered the art of summoning—until there were no worthy opponents left. That’s when I received the invitation. A single card, slipped under my door, marked only with a symbol I didn’t recognize.
The duel would take place at midnight. The location? A ruined arena at the edge of Mortis Vale, long abandoned. No spectators, no Summoner’s Council. Just me… and him.
The Silent Summoner.
The battlefield was unlike any other I had seen. The summoning circles were ancient, cracked with age, pulsating with dark energy. Across from me stood my opponent—cloaked, unmoving, his face hidden beneath a shadowed hood. He did not speak. He simply raised his hand, and the battle began.
His creatures materialized in eerie silence. No chants, no bursts of mana. Just… darkness. The Death Splinter answered his call, twisted beasts emerging from the void. I countered with my strongest Earth warriors, my druid summoner bolstering their strength. The clash was fierce—my frontline held firm, while my archers rained down arrows. I had planned for every move.
Or so I thought.
Then, without warning, my creatures stopped moving.
Not from fear. Not from magic. Something was missing.
Their connection to me… was fading.
Panic surged through me. I called to my summoner, urging him to cast his next ability. But the words wouldn’t come. My voice—gone. My thoughts—drifting.
Across the battlefield, the Silent Summoner lifted his head slightly. Though his face was hidden, I knew he was smiling.
This was his power. He did not win by strength. He did not win by speed. He won by silence.
Because a Summoner who cannot command… is nothing at all.
