Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made

Max stopped to read what was on the screen. It wasn’t just a backstory; it gave her trauma, a goal, and a reason to fight that had nothing to do with sucking up to Renan or anyone else.

He selected ⸢ Completed ⸥.

Ding!

⸢ First time Archetype Key! ⸥

⸢ You have been granted a Platinum Archetype Key to allocate the Class and Power of your first Heroine. ⸥

’Phew,’ Max sighed. ’I was wondering how I would get one.’

⸢ Calculating CP Cost... ⸥ the system continued.

⸢ Heroine, Astensia Valengard, costs 4100 CP ⸥

Max’s eyes widened. ’She’s that overpowered??’

The base CP cost for a Platinum Rank Heroine was 2000 CP. For Astensia to cost this much then she was most definitely going to be one of the most powerful Awakeners in the world.

Past or Present.

No wonder the system had gone crazy when he inputted her power. His only hope now was the Narrative Coupon.

⸢ Analyzing Narrative Depth... ⸥

⸢ Complexity: S-Tier. ⸥

⸢ Character Backstory: S-Tier. ⸥

⸢ Personality: A-Tier. ⸥

⸢ Motive: A-Tier. ⸥

⸢ Lore Attunement: S-Tier. ⸥

Max grinned, crossing his fingers.

⸢ ... Applying Narrative Discount. ⸥

Suddenly, the CP cost started to plummet.

4,100... 3,600... 2,500... 2,000

It settled at 1,900 CP.

Lancet pumped his fist. ’Yes!’ he celebrated in his mind. More than fifty percent off! That’s awesome!’

He had only 100 CP left. But he knew with Astensia as his first Heroine, he was going to get a lot more in no time.

The final box remained:

⸢ Minor Details ⸥

He thought for a moment before writing:

⸢ She has a hidden fondness for small, simple, cute things but hides it to maintain her image. She is strictly professional in combat. Knows how to train others ⸥

With that, he reviewed the final character sheet. It was a masterpiece.

⸢ HEROINE SHEET FINALIZATION ⸥

⸢ Name: Astensia Valengard ⸥

⸢ Rank: Platinum⸥

⸢ Class: Ironwill Knight ⸥

⸢ Weapon: The Blessed Blade (Greatsword) ⸥

⸢ Motive: Driven by an unbreakable oath to defend the weak, she serves her master but refuses to compromise with lesser evils or harm the innocent. ⸥

⸢ Personality: Brave and fiercely loyal with a dry, biting wit; she hides a gentle heart behind a stoic front and values iron will over raw strength. ⸥

⸢ Event: She is the unwritten legend who died holding the Greatest Gate alone against the Fifth Wave, sacrificing herself to buy the world time when the official history said it was a miracle. ⸥

⸢ Total Cost: 1,900 CP ⸥

⸢ Create? [YES] / [NO] / [LATER]⸥

⸢ Creation costs no Grace but Summoning requires Grace cost of 100 MP ⸥

Max paused. ’What the hell? So I do need Grace after all!’

He thought for a moment. ’Well, 100 MP is nothing but I feel like I’ve been fleeced for some reason.’

He took a deep breath. His finger hovered over the LATER button.

”Well, welcome to the draft, Astensia,” he whispered.

”Mr. Leogardt!”

The sharp voice sliced through the air like a guillotine, severing Max’s connection to the Golden Interface.

He blinked, the translucent gold of the Character Creation Console dissolving into the sterile white light of the lecture hall.

He looked up. Maecil Gudgarten was looming over his desk, her eyes narrowed into slits that promised a very creative detention.

”Are you with us, Lancet?” she asked, her voice dangerously sweet. ”Or has your spirit wandered off to a dimension where paying attention is optional?”

Max stared at her blankly for a split second.

’Right,’ he thought, the realization hitting him with a dull thud. ’Lancet. That’s me. I’m Lancet.’

For the last twenty years, he had been Max. Responding to ”Lancet Leogardt” felt like trying to answer to a stranger’s nickname.

But if he didn’t start overriding his default settings, he was going to get flagged as brain-damaged before the lunch bell rang.

”I’m here,” Lancet said, straightening his posture. ”Just... visualizing the Imposition of Will, Ms. Maecil.”

”Visualize it on my whiteboard,” she retorted, pointing a manicured finger at the front of the room. ”The Interface will not save you if you don’t understand the fundamentals. Close it.”

Lancet mentally swiped the window away.

⸢ HEROINE CREATION PAUSED. DATA SAVED ⸥

He exhaled. He had the weapon loaded in the chamber, but he couldn’t fire it just yet. He needed to survive the rest of ”Summoner 101” first.

And then, he had to start retaining Grace.

Maecil returned to the dais, smoothing her skirt with an aggressive tug. ”As I was saying before Mr. Leogardt decided to astrally project... Summoners are about resource management. We do not have the infinite Grace pools of the Elementalists. We have to be smarter. Sharper.”

She checked the clock on the wall.

”However,” she sighed, the fire leaving her frame, ”Orientation Day is chaotic, and the Dormitory Wardens are impatient. So, we are ending early.”

A collective sigh of relief swept through the room. Chairs scraped against the stone floor as nineteen students scrambled to pack their bags.

”Do not celebrate yet!” Maecil barked, causing a few students to freeze. ”You are to follow me to the Residential District for room assignment. Try not to get lost. If you wander into the Higher Grades Wing and get used as a spell experiment, I am not filling out the paperwork.”

Lancet chuckled.

The hallways of the Awakener Supreme Institute were designed to make you feel small.

The ceilings were at least thirty feet high, supported by columns of white marble veined with pulsing blue lyrium.

Banners of the four Class Groups hung from the rafters, showing their sigils.

The sigil of the Elementalists was a four-pointed star, with each angle pointing at the four main elements.

The sigil of the Specialists was a shield with two swords crossed in front of it.

For the Enchanters, it was an eye with a multi-pointed star as a pupil.

And finally, the sigil of the Summoners were two palms spread slightly open like a gate.

Lancet smirked as he walked past them, recognizing the descriptions from the light novel.

He walked at the back of the pack, hands in his pockets, watching Maecil march at the front like a mother duck leading her ducklings through a minefield.

They turned a corner into the Grand Atrium, and Maecil suddenly stiffened. The rattling of her spirit pendant stopped dead.

Coming from the opposite direction was another line of students. But unlike the nervous group of Summoners, these students walked with a strut.

It was not that their uniforms looked brighter or that they were richer. It was their posture and aura.

They stood straighter, prouder. Some of them were casually playing with flickers of fire on their thumbs or twirling water droplets between their fingers.

Leading them was a man who looked like he had been sculpted out of ego and hair gel.

He wore an expensive crimson suit with gold epaulets, his robe hung proud on his shoulder and his hair was a perfectly coiffed mane of burning auburn.

He walked with arrogance. The arrogance of a man who didn’t know what it meant to lose.

Phiodor Blaze was his name.

He was the Head Instructor of Elementalist Class 101. And Maecil’s arch-nemesis since their Academy days.

”Well, well,” Phiodor drawled, his voice carrying that smooth, baritone quality that made you want to punch him. ”If it isn’t the Spirit Caller. Taking the strays for a walk, Maecil?”

Maecil stopped, her heels clicking sharply on the stone. ”Phiodor. I see you’re still leading the circus. Did you teach them anything today, or just how to pose for magazines?”

Phiodor chuckled, a rich, condescending sound. ”Jealousy is an ugly color on you, my dear. We were just discussing... potential.”

He glanced over Maecil’s shoulder, his eyes scanning the group of Summoner students with open disdain. His gaze landed briefly on Lancet, and he smirked.

”I heard the rumors from the Awakening Hall,” Phiodor said, loud enough for both Class Groups to hear. ”A ’Dull’ Rank? And a new class called... what was it? Architect?”

The Elementalist students behind him snickered.

”Basically a glorified carpenter,” one whispered.

”Imagine awakening just to build furniture,” another laughed.

Phiodor shook his head, offering Maecil a look of mock pity. ”It must be hard, Maecil. Every year, you scrape the bottom of the barrel, hoping for a miracle. And this year? You get a carpenter with zero Grace retention. It’s almost poetic.”

Lancet watched Maecil’s shoulders tremble. The grip on her tome tightened until her knuckles turned white.

”He is not a carpenter,” Maecil said, her voice low and trembling with suppressed rage. ”And this Class... this Class will surprise you.”

”Oh, I’m sure,” Phiodor laughed, brushing a speck of nonexistent dust from his crimson lapel. ”Maybe he can build us a nice stage for the victory ceremony when my students sweep the Inter-Class Competition. Again.”

He signaled his students to move on. ”Come along, elites. Let’s not catch mediocrity. It’s contagious.”

As Phiodor walked past, the air around Maecil began to vibrate.

Lancet saw it: the faint, terrifying aura of a Gold-Rank Spirit Caller leaking out. Her bun seemed to quiver with spiritual pressure.

”That... pompous... gel-haired... peacock!” Maecil hissed, spinning around to glare at Phiodor’s retreating back.

She threw her hands up, abandoning all professional decorum.

”YOU HEAR ME, PHIODOR?!” she exclaimed dramatically. ”THIS IS THE YEAR! I WILL TAKE YOU DOWN! I WILL CRUSH YOUR PRECIOUS FIREBRATS INTO ASH! THE SUMMONERS WILL RISE! WE WILL BURY YOU!”

”Ms. Maecil?” a timid blonde girl in the front row whispered, terrified. ”People are staring.”

Maecil froze.

She looked around. A group of passing Enchanters were looking at her like she was mental.

A janitor paused its sweeping to observe the scene.

Maecil’s own students looked like they wanted to dissolve into the floor.

She blinked, the spiritual aura vanishing instantly.

She cleared her throat, smoothed her skirt, patted her bun, and adjusted her glasses.

”Ahem. Yes. Well...” Her voice returned to a strained, professional register. ”Passion is... important for Summoners. It fuels the Will.”

She turned on her heel, walking stiffly toward the large double doors at the end of the hall, her face burning a bright, embarrassed red.

”To the Assigning Room,” she squeaked. ”Quickly. Before I summon something illegal.”

Lancet chuckled before following her.

’I remember now one of the reasons I liked this damn novel,’ he thought, glancing at Miss Maecil. ’The comedy is pretty good.’