I Only Summon Villainesses

The Caravan rolled forward like a long, crawling beast through the forest before dawn.

Marvelously enough, there was a path — a path right under our noses — yet no strange or uninvited guest would’ve been able to find it. The people of Mishard were quite meticulous in their approach to security, which was very understandable given the Church’s reputation. Hidden trails, concealed markers, the whole works.

But then it struck me: at the end of the day, these were just other people who believed in another god. What difference did it really make? Religion in and of itself wasn’t the perverse concept — people perverted it. The world you found yourself in didn’t matter. It happened all the same.

’Same script, different stage.’

“You lot don’t look from around here… going on a short journey?”

We sat on one of the open wagons toward the back of the Caravan, leaning against one side of the wall. There were barrels of six-knows-what toward the front, closer to the coachman’s side. People sat opposite us too.

It was one of them who had spoken. A worn man who looked to be in his sixties, with spiked grey hair, eyebrows that were fading, and tiny narrow eyes. Could he even see with those?

Tristan smiled plainly. “We’re natives truly. We’ve just not been around for a while.” He placed his hand on his chest. “My elder brother died defending Lagonieer. After that, I had to fend for myself somehow. Survival took me out of the city, legacy brought me back.”

The man looked at him curiously.

“Oh? Lagonieer.” He sounded wistful. “Ah, you make me remember the good old days. No matter how cold and ruthless they were, at least we were not cowards.”

Tristan played along with the man, laughing subtly.

“Indeed, it used to be so inspiring watching our men tear down the advances of the Crusaders with sheer strength derived from the Codex of Conquest.”

“Haaaa… Combat is prayer, victory is sermon, death in battle is ascension.” The man gently slammed a fist on his chest.

A couple others repeated the gesture silently.

Tristan did too, then said, “Old man, you served as a Blood Pillar, didn’t you?”

“Oh? You can tell?” The man chuckled proudly. “Indeed, indeed. Days I lived proud of my deeds and life. Now, time has gotten the best of me. While the fervor of iron and conquest remains, the flesh cannot bear it.”

Tristan smiled wistfully.

“What rank did you retire from?”

“Ha. I was a Battle-Priest before I retired.”

“Wow…”

It was difficult to tell if Tristan was genuinely surprised or just acting. The amazement looked real, sounded real — but with Tristan, everything did.

“Old man, you’re the real deal! My brother was only a War-Acolyte! Man, you commanded hundreds of men.”

“And commanded them to victory, a hundred times!” The man laughed smugly.

And Tristan, having found that sweet spot, capitalized on it. He continued rubbing the old man’s ego with his words, stroking it like a prized instrument. Every story he told was perfectly tailored to sell his fictional “brother” short in order to glorify the old man in better contrast.

It was truly intriguing to see. Tristan was a charismatic man. At first, I’d just thought he had the perfect words — knew so well how to reel ladies in with them. But it turned out he was actually just a very charismatic fellow, period. Women, old soldiers, probably merchants and nobles too. Anyone with an ego to stroke and a story to tell.

’No wonder he’s the assistant guild master of the mercenary guild.’

At that moment, a question surfaced in my mind — something I’d been curious about back then too.

’If he’s the assistant… then who’s the guildmaster?’

Whoever it was, they certainly weren’t around. And thinking about them now, I wondered how they would react to the death of their entire guild. The mercenary world didn’t seem like one that took losses lying down.

We twisted through the forest. Dawn rose, morning came, and Tristan’s conversation with the man died down at some point. Now people were sleeping on the wagon, lulled by the rhythmic creaking of wheels and the soft rustle of leaves overhead.

Octavia had fallen asleep too, her head resting on my shoulder, the bumpy ride bouncing it gently with each rut in the road. A while later, I helped her rest on my thighs to be more comfortable.

I certainly wasn’t. But a man had to be able to exert self-control at times like this. Very important stuff.

We traveled through the day with absolutely no hiccup. Through the harsh afternoon heat, there was a soft drizzle of rain that we continued through, but it was nothing tough.

Since it was coming to the end of the Spring season — and the month of Bloomrise itself, which was the third month of the year according to Ealdrim’s calendar system — the rain was almost welcome. There were twelve months in a year and seven days in a week, although the names of these months and days were vastly different from ours on Earth, named after their six gods instead.

For example, we were currently on Mystday, which was the third day of the week. The day before was Aethday, and the day before that was Solday, the first day of the week. The following days would be Tyrday, Verday, Mortday, and lastly Stillday — which we’d been told in the academy was the day of silence before divine order.

The Caravan rolled to a stop as we neared our first checkpoint. The search took a while, of course, conducted by the Feudal Lord of the region. Most likely Count Vhictor’s people, so I didn’t suspect it would be long before we were allowed to continue.

And indeed, my prediction proved accurate. In a few minutes, the Caravan rolled back into motion. The bumpy ride continued, everyone maintaining a mysterious silence as we journeyed forward.

Night began to befall us, and the Caravan had to stop and make camp somewhere. Seeing how the day had gone by peacefully — absolutely no attack, no ambush, no mysterious cloaked figures emerging from the treeline — my mind was beginning to calm.

And I was beginning to think… ah. Maybe Nisha was right after all.

Maybe this time, it was going to be different.