Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made

It came through the press of bodies like a battering ram, its asymmetrical shoulders ploughing aside its own troops. The scarlet coral-like growths on its raised shoulder pulsed with each heavy step, and the spike jutting from its spine caught the light.

Its stretched, ugly skull swung toward her, the bulging eye quivering with rage while the sunken one stared out from its deep socket with cold cunning.

The snout-like jaw opened, rows of yellow teeth bared in a roar, and it brought the massive red axe down in an overhead chop that could have split a building.

Astensia caught it.

The Blessed Blade, reforged in an instant from the Buster Sword to a broad-bladed longsword more suited for the parry, met the axe edge-to-edge.

The impact rang across the battlefield like a struck anvil. The ground beneath Astensia’s feet cratered, but she did not buckle. Her arms, sheathed in golden light, held firm. The Demon Commander’s bulging eye widened in shock.

In an attempt to scare her, it roared at her face, assaulting her nose with its horrible stench.

Astensia didn’t even react. Not one blink. As if it weighed nothing at all, she shoved him back, stepped inside his reach, and swung the sword at its midsection.

CLANG!

Surprisingly, the Commander was fast enough to block.

Astensia narrowed her eyes then lifted the sword to swing again.

They traded blows with a speed that belied their sizes. His axe was a crimson blur, each swing carrying the force of a collapsing wall.

She wove around them, her blade transforming fluidly to different weapons. ”Blessed Scythe!” ”Blessed Rapier!” ”Blessed Spear!”

Of course she also had to fight off other Demons that attacked her. And it was when the Commander attempted to use this as an opening that it meant its end.

It overcommitted to a horizontal sweep meant to decapitate her. She ducked under it, the axe passing close enough to shear a strand of golden hair. In that moment of overextension she struck.

The Blessed Blade became a simple, straight longsword, and she drove it forward with both hands.

The Commander was actually going to block it, but Astensia Ironwill forced the world to intervene again. Her attack increased speed and punched through the red hide, through the layers of muscle and into the Demon Commander’s chest before the axe could shield it.

The Commander froze. The bulging eye went wide. The sunken eye somehow widened too, a trick of the distorted flesh. It gurgled out a roar, black ichor spilling over his yellow teeth. Then it dropped to his knees, the red axe falling from its grip and embedding itself in the dirt.

Astensia wrenched the blade upward with the full force of her holy strength. The sword cut through ribs, through the spine, through the base of the skull, and exited through the crown of his head in a spray of black blood and crimson Gloom.

The two halves of his skull—the stretched, ugly, misshapen face—peeled apart and fell away. The body, still kneeling, swayed once and then crashed forward, shaking the earth one final time.

THUD.

Silence swept across the field.

The remaining Demons, what few had not been obliterated, broke and scattered into the red haze. The Heroines stood amid a landscape of corpses, their weapons dripping, their chests heaving, the glow of their power slowly receding.

Lancet lowered the Guillotine and turned.

Across the blood-soaked earth, in the crater where she had fought her solitary war, Spectra was slumping to the ground. All the Purgatory Demons were dead. Her Hellstaff clattered beside her as her body, now returned to its human form, crumpled into the ash.

”Spectra!” Lancet’s cry tore through the silence. He used Golden Leap and jumped to her. The others followed immediately.

He reached her first, dropping to his knees and gathering her into his arms. The transformation had fully receded. She was dainty now, pale and delicate, her face unsmeared by Gloom.

There was a peaceful expression on her face. If someone saw her now, they would never assume that she was the dreaded Mother of Demons. Her white hair pooled over his arm like spilled silk.

”Does she breathe?” Kestrel asked, her dragon spectres coiling anxiously over her shoulders.

Lancet looked up, his eyes finding Espel. ”Espel?”

The Entropy Healer knelt beside them without a word. From her palm, a stream of pink Bloomwings fluttered forward, settling gently on Spectra’s forehead, her chest, her wrists.

They glowed as they seeped into Spectra’s body, investigating what was wrong.

Espel saw her Grace channels. They were fine, if slightly drained. But then her perception wandered deeper, and she found something else.

There was... a second network.

Strange, Espel thought. In this second channel, a dark red energy was flowing through it. It appeared that this channel was built for Gloom. One of them, a major conduit running near the heart, was cracked—a hairline fracture seeping faint traces of dark energy into the surrounding tissue.

Espel’s eyes snapped open behind her closed lids.

Lancet looked at her. ”What?” he asked.

She said nothing, keeping her face serene. Quietly, with the softest touch of her magic, she directed the Bloomwings to that fracture. The pink light intensified for a heartbeat, two, and then the crack sealed, smooth as healed skin.

She withdrew the butterflies and opened her eyes.

”Well?” Lancet’s voice was tight.

”She’ll be fine,” Espel said.

A soft murmur escaped the figure in Lancet’s arms. Spectra’s eyes fluttered, then opened. It was her normal, alluring human eyes.

She stared up at Lancet’s face for a long moment, then her gaze drifted to the four Heroines standing in a semicircle around her.

”What a strange dream this must be,” she muttered.

”Spectra?” Lancet called her softly.

She focused on him properly, and a ghost of her usual smirk touched her lips. ”Ah. Legendary Summoner.” Her eyes swept the circle again. ”Why is everyone looking at me like I’m dead? It would be so unfortunate if I was to die again, mhm?”

Relief broke across Lancet’s face like dawn. ”You’re not dead, Spectra. You did it. You killed all the Purgatory Demons.” He looked at her, proud and awed at the same time. ”You’re amazing.”

Her eyes lit up, the spark of her old vanity igniting despite her exhaustion. Then she laughed. It was weak and breathy, but still unmistakably her laugh. ”Of course I’m amazing. Water is always wet, dear Master Lancet.”

She floated up to her feet, pulling free of his arms like he was never even hurt. Lancet stared. Thor, who had been watching with an expression caught somewhere between relief and exasperation, rolled her eyes.

Spectra noticed. ”Did you miss me, thunderbird?”

”Shut up, Demoness.”

Spectra’s smirk bloomed fully. ”Aw. Such a cute little bird.”

Lancet rose to his feet, brushing ash from his knees. The warmth of the moment lingered, but his thoughts had already moved past it to something more important.

”I’m happy you’re alright, Spectra,” he said with a sober voice. ”But it’s not yet over.”

The others followed his gaze. The old citadel tower rose against the red sky, the walls choked with red roots and the crimson corruption. At its peak, something ancient and terrible waited.

Astensia’s hand tightened on the Blessed Blade.

”The Demon Head remains,” she said.