I Only Summon Villainesses

Perhaps Yuan was only slightly disappointed, or perhaps she was deeply disappointed — there was no way for me to know. Because my entire fate in this moment rested on whether my attention remained fixed on the pages. The instant my focus slipped away from the words dragging me deeper in, I would awaken a very colossal mountain.

And we wouldn’t want to give Yuan such satisfaction, would we?

She had to understand that there was hard work involved in fucking me, and she had to cherish the privilege of all those relentless fucks I had given her on the ship. The more she realized how delicate and difficult it was, the more she would appreciate it.

Which was why my focus remained glued to the pages of the book as I read about Mr. Jia Long’s first encounter with a summoner. Being a bloodline art user himself, and possessing the Dragon Bloodline of the Moon, he was a vicious entity in the night — able to see clearly in darkness and control reflections under moonlight.

Mr. Jia Long defined summoning as a box and described bloodline power as the vast world outside that box. Its versatility was unmatched. The people working tirelessly to reduce the number of bloodline art users knew this, which was why they hunted them so viciously, branding them Heretics.

In truth, they were simply weak summoners — people incapable of matching the versatility of bloodline art users.

Even though the rank of either a summoner or a bloodline art user could not grow indefinitely, the difference was stark. A summoner was bound to their summon, trapped with whatever strengths and weaknesses it possessed. But a bloodline art user could study their own limitations and learn ways to overcome them.

His first experience with a summoner had taught him this harsh lesson.

He had been both unlucky and lucky, clashing with a Demonic Summoner.

Demonic Summoners were the true heretics — at least since time immemorial. They were a particular breed of people whose affinity for evil ran so deep that they could call upon creatures dwelling in the infernal depths of the spirit world. Some were even capable of summoning spirit beasts — abominable monsters twisted and warped by spirit essence.

The Demonic Summoner he encountered was so powerful that he could go toe-to-toe with a Level 9 Profane-tier spirit beast on the verge of evolution — a monster that had once wiped an entire nation from the face of the continent of Ashara. Mr. Jia Long wrote that the scars of that profanity could never be erased from the world.

The man commanded a creature whose skin burned with black flames, carved through with deep red grooves of heat. The summon had a mane like a lion’s, but its mane was made of raging crimson fire that burned with violent intensity. The creature itself was humanoid, towering over four meters tall.

’Oof… that’s quite tall…’

And he, as a seventeen-year-old boy, had been forced to fight against that.

His only saving grace had been his overpowered bloodline ability.

Yet despite being young and inexperienced, he survived the battle—not without scars, but the point was that he survived.

Mr. Jia Long expressed that if he were to meet that summoner again at the time of writing, the man would likely still be the same as before, while he himself had grown by leaps and bounds since that battle.

The second confrontation would surely not end the same way the first did.

Sadly, I never got to find out whether Mr. Jia Long got his wish, as the outcome wasn’t recorded in this book.

’Perhaps I may be lucky enough to find it somewhere as I continue reading.’

Then he spoke of the existence of a very rare kind of summoner — the one percent of the one percent — individuals capable of drawing power even from divinities.

But he knew so little about them that no matter what trail he followed in search of answers, he was always too late.

In his early years, there had been scattered activities involving these kinds of summoners, but over time their traces vanished. He believed the church was responsible, hoarding information and erasing knowledge.

It was unfortunate that the church’s existence predated most recorded creation in this era, and many of history’s significant figures had been reshaped by them. Nothing in the world could be taken at face value. Everything had to be studied.

He therefore advised never trusting anything that came from the worshippers of the gods — the followers of the Radiant Judge, the Weavers of Fate, the devotees of the Lord of Conquest, the Order of the Lady of Mysteries, or the demon that devours all knowledge.

The druids of the First Tree — the Mother of Life.

Even the quietest and least influential among them: the Order of the Final Rest, worshippers of death.

Each religion had twisted its own version of truth into something macabre, and none of them could be fully trusted. Anything touched by humanity inevitably became tainted.

The gods themselves had been tainted for millennia.

Mr. Jia Long even wrote:

Humanity might have driven the gods to their deaths. In twisting the truth to preserve their power, they had slowly lost it.

This made a surprising amount of sense. I rarely encountered deities — even through miracles, which should have been the most profitable way for a god to prove their existence and reinforce their authority.

All I saw were people twisted by the ideologies of other people, wearing those beliefs like armor and fusing them to their skin with fiercely heated iron.

As the thought spiraled into something deeply philosophical in my mind, I suddenly felt warmth and wetness envelop my little buddy.

Now it was becoming much harder to focus on Mr. Jia Long’s lessons.

’Oh crap… I’m so sorry, Mr. Reincarnator… looks like you’re going to have to chill a little for me.’

My mountain was slowly responding as Yuan buried it in her mouth and wrapped her tongue around it.