Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made

Braavas didn’t get the chance to finish his words.

The Gloom inside the room felt the sudden holy energy of Grace penetrate into its nature, and at that exact moment, both windows of the citadel chamber shattered inward in explosions of glass and stone.

The main entrance — a heavy iron door reinforced with Gloom-hardened roots — burst from its hinges with a sound like a thunderclap, smoke and debris billowing into the room.

Through the left window, a figure erupted in a corona of blue-white lightning. Thor landed in a crouch, the Hammer of Force already spinning in her grip, her armour crackling with barely contained electrical fury.

The arcs of energy leaped from her shoulders and her gauntlets illuminating the chamber in strobing flashes. She rose to her full height, the storm gathering in her eyes.

Through the right window, Kestrel burst through riding her emerald dragon spectre. The great serpentine beast roared furiously before dissolving into a trail of green light.

Kestrel dropped to the floor like a cat, both Dragonswords already drawn, and settled into a low stance. The dragon spectres coiled around her arms, their ethereal heads resting above the tip of the blades, hissing at the Demon Head.

The smoke from the shattered door swirled. From within it, a figure stepped forward casually, carrying a big, fearless smile on his face.

Lancet.

His sunlight hair danced above his head. The Radiant Guillotine rested on his shoulder, thrumming with an energy of its own that didn’t fear Gloom.

Braavas reacted instantly. His long, heavy arm shot out and seized the giant blade-staff from where it rested against the wall. The blade lit up red the moment his hands wrapped around it and he swung the deadly thing horizontally, meaning to bisect the Summoner where he stood.

But from the smoke behind Lancet, something spun through the air with a high-pitched hum.

A shield. Golden and blazing, it struck Braavas square on the underside of his snout-like jaw with the force of a divine uppercut. The impact made a sound like a cathedral bell being dropped from a great height.

CLANG!!!

Braavas’s head snapped back, his mismatched eyes rolling, and his entire asymmetrical body stumbled backward into the far wall. The red roots along the stone crunched under his weight. The blade-staff clattered from his grip.

The shield spun back into the smoke, and stopped. A hand in golden armor emerged and caught it in the air.

The smoke cleared.

Astensia stood on Lancet’s left, her Blessed Blade in its normal form resting in one hand, her shield in the other. Her bright blue eyes—still tinged with the anger from before—surveyed the chamber.

And on Lancet’s right, Spectra stepped into view. She had recovered enough to stand, to move, to fight. Her white hair was still a little disheveled from her earlier collapse, but her crimson eyes were sharp, alert, and already scanning the room for threats.

Lancet raised the Guillotine, pointing it directly at the stunned Demon Head.

”Who’s ready to cut off a Head?!” he shouted with a grin.

During the climb here, he’d tried to come up with a line for this very moment. Every cool hero had a line, and not that Lancet saw himself as a hero but he wanted one.

That was the best he could come up with.

Spectra smiled at the stumbling Braavas. It was her usual smile; charming, evil, laced with condescension. The Demon Head was a pitiful sight, slumped against the wall, still dazed from the shield strike. It would be almost too easy.

And then her gaze drifted past him.

Past the broken furniture. Past the pulsing red roots.

To the screen on the far wall and the face that filled it.

Her smile vanished.

Her body went rigid. The casual grace drained from her posture as she embraced by a trembling, taut emotion. It overwhelmed her in seconds.

Her crimson eyes, already sharp, now sharpened to a point that could draw blood. They locked onto the horned visage, the deep red eyes, the stone wings shifting in the background.

That face. That hellish face.

It was a face she had not expected to see this soon.

”Baal,” she whispered.

The name escaped her lips like a dying breath, barely audible, but somehow it filled the entire chamber.

On the screen, Baal’s glare evolved. The fury that had been building since Braavas’s report found a new target, a new focus. His cow-head lowered, his nostrils flared, and his deep red eyes fixed on the white-haired woman standing in the shattered doorway.

”Spppeeeeecccccttttrrrraaaaaa,” he intoned, drawing the name out into a long, venomous hiss. It could not be confused as a greeting. That was the sound of a hundred and fifty years of hatred being given a shape.

Spectra’s eyes burned. Inside of it was rage. Pain. Memory.

She saw her life and her death flash before her eyes. The invasion in her home, the death of her children. It was so long ago but now the wound was fresh yet again.

A century and a half of death, of nothingness, of being un-made, and now the architect of her destruction was staring at her through a magical window as if she were an inconvenience to be managed.

”Baal!” she cried this time. It was raw and wet with emotion, the kind of sound that came from a place deeper than the throat. Her hand shot out to the side, and Gloomfire erupted around it, roaring with her fury.

Lancet followed her eyes and noticed the screen. Once he saw the cow head and the horns, his smile disappeared..”Oh, shit.”

”BAAL!!!!”

Spectra exploded forward.

Her feet left the ground. The Gloomfire around her hand expanded, trailing behind her like the tail of a comet.

Everything around her no longer existed. All she saw was the Demon Lord Baal who brought upon her her legendary, tragic death. And all she wanted now was to kill him.

So Spectra burst forward with all the rage of a vengeful mother, speeding into the dark screen. She had no idea what would happen.

But the Demoness couldn’t give a damn.