Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made

He felt heat rise to his cheeks and fought to keep his expression neutral.

”Of course, your Majesty. I am honored to be invited by you. Truly.”

Liu Xiu’s smile deepened. Then her screen flickered, and she was gone.

Spectra gave Lancet a small nudge on the shoulder. ”You’re going up in the world, dear Master Lancet.” She clicked her tongue approvingly. ”I’m so proud.”

Lancet said nothing. His face was very red.

The war room was now quiet, the five walls now dark and still. The Council Members rose from their seats, one by one, and approached the group.

Ressis was the first. She took Lancet’s hands in hers, her elegant features soft with sincerity. ”You have my deepest thanks, Lancet Leogardt. And my deepest apologies. We should have trusted you from the beginning.”

”We were blinded by protocol,” Uren said, shaking his head. ”By fear of what breaking the truce might mean. But you saw the truth, and you acted. That took courage.”

”Courage and wisdom beyond your years,” said Xin La. ”The world is lucky to have you.”

Obel approached last. He placed a heavy hand on Lancet’s shoulder, his wizardly beard brushing against his robes. ”You have done what this Council could not. You have my respect, young man. And my gratitude. Forgive my earlier strictness. You’ll find that I’m a very likeable man.”

He smiled with his eyes closed

Lancet smiled back and bowed his head. ”Thank you, Council Lord.”

Verdrak stood up, seeming about to approach. ”May I be excused?” he asked. Without waiting for a response, he removed himself from the group.

His pale eyes locked with Lancet’s and his glare was disastrous. If only looks could kill. Verdrak strode out of the war room without a word, his robes billowing behind him.

The doors wheezed shut.

Lancet watched him go. Then he turned back to the remaining Council Members.

”Council Members. I would like to say something,” he said quietly. ”If you’re open to listen.”

Obel nodded. ”Of course. Go on.”

Lancet leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur. The Council Members gathered closer, their expressions curious, attentive.

Obel’s eyes widened. ”That’s impossible!”

******

Verdrak stormed into his chambers, a spacious and lavishly appointed room.

A four-poster bed dominated one corner, its curtains of crimson velvet embroidered with gold thread. Bookshelves bedecked the walls, containing ancient tomes and scrolls that smelled of dust and old magic.

A writing desk sat before a tall window that overlooked the spires of Brightspire, their gothic peaks glittering under the afternoon sun. A fireplace crackled softly and the air smelled of sandalwood and old paper, the scent of wealth and wisdom combined.

Verdrak locked the door behind him. He stood still for a moment, listening. The corridor outside was silent. No footsteps. No voices. He was alone.

He crossed the room to the fireplace. The flames were low, their orange light flickering across the stone hearth.

He knelt before it and pressed his palm against a particular brick, the third from the left, second from the bottom. It looked identical to every other brick in the fireplace, but his touch activated something deep within the wall.

A soft hum filled the room. The mortar between the bricks glowed faintly red, and then the entire section of stone swung inward, revealing a hidden magical safe.

It was a cube of black metal with red runes pulsing dully. Verdrak placed both hands on the safe and whispered a word in a language that no human tongue was meant to speak. The runes lit up and the safe opened.

Inside were crystals. Dozens of them. Each one glowed with its own inner red light, and each one emitted a faint wisp of crimson smoke that curled upward and dissolved into nothing.

Verdrak selected one, then he closed the safe, sealed the compartment, and hurried over to the center of his room.

He sank to the ground and sat cross-legged on the floor. Then raising the red crystal to his face, he broke it in his hand like glass.

It shattered completely but the shards did not fall. They hung in the air in front him, suspended by invisible threads of energy.

Verdrak’s fingers began to move, tracing patterns that weren’t conventional. The shards responded, aligning themselves into a complex geometric shape.

Under Verdrak’s control, they created a six-pointed star formed from two interlocking triangles, surrounded by a circle of burning red light. The runes flared to life at each of the six points, their shapes writhing and shifting as if alive.

Verdrak began to chant something, grunting and growling in an eerie manner. Red light seeped from his pupils and spread through his irises until his entire gaze was consumed by demonic fire.

The runes stabilized. The six-pointed star pulsed two times and then the space within its center shimmered and resolved into a screen.

A screen very similar to the one Braavas had in his shrine.

A crystal river portal. But only a smaller, portable version.

A face appeared on the screen and it was not human. Not even close.

It had the head of a housefly, magnified to monstrous proportions. It had two giant compound eyes with a thousand glowing points of malevolent red light, mandibles that clicked and twitched, and a proboscis that curled and uncurled with wet, hungry sounds.

It possessed insect wings behind it, iridescent and crimson. But its body was not like an insect at all. It was made of carapace, yes, but it was muscular and formed like that of a giant humanoid.

The creature was dark and evil, a nightmare given form, a horror that had crawled out of the deepest pits of Hellfyre and risen to the highest ranks of demonic power.

Undeniably, it was a Demon Lord.

”Verrrrrdraaaakkk,” it spoke.

The voice buzzed like a fly trapped in a jar, but with a growling deep intonation that sent shivers down Verdrak’s spine.

He immediately bowed low, his forehead pressing against the carpet, body trembling. ”My Lord Be—”

BLAST!

The door suddenly exploded inward.

Startled, Verdrak spun, using his back to hide the rune behind him. Splinters of dark oak scattered across the carpet. Smoke and dust filled the air.

When it cleared, four figures appeared in front of the ruined doorway.

Obel stood at the front, scanning the room. His hands, usually so steady, were clenched into fists at his sides.

Beside him, Ressis looked at Verdrak with an expression of utter devastation. Her elegant features were pale, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

She had known Verdrak for decades. They had served on the Council together, argued together, shaped policy together. And now she was looking at him as if he were a stranger wearing her friend’s face.

Malakai was with them, his eyes cold and hard. His hand rested on the hilt of his great axe. Azura flanked him, blue energy crackling faintly at her fingertips.

Verdrak looked at all of them as his heart pounded. ”Obel?” he muttered out of his dried mouth. ”What is the meaning of this?”

Obel stepped forward. His voice, when he spoke, was heavy with sorrow. ”What is behind you, Verdrak?”

”Behind me?” Verdrak shrugged, playing innocent. ”Nothing. Nothing at all. I was merely—”

Obel looked at him for a short moment. Then he shook his head. ”What have you done, my friend?”

Verdrak stared at him, panting hard, knowing he had been cornered. His years of lies had finally caught up to him. He was ashamed, but also frustrated.

His lies had been perfect. No one had ever suspected him! No one until...

His gaze drifted past them, to the blonde figure standing in the corridor.

Lancet met his eyes.

Verdrak instantly snapped. ”You!” He lunged, fire erupting from his palm in a torrent. ”You did this! You blonde scum!”

Azura quickly attacked. She created a ball of compressed wind and enveloped Verdrak with it. It caught and carried him to the air then threw him against the far wall.

The fire sputtered and died.

Malakai was on him before he could recover. The Berserker’s bulk pinned Verdrak to the floor, one massive hand pressing his face into the carpet, the other twisting his arm behind his back.

Verdrak thrashed and snarled, but with the grip of the great Berserker, there was certainly no escape for him.

Obel looked down at the man who had been his colleague, his ally, his friend. His expression was unreadable now, the grief had hardened him.

”Take him to the holding cells,” he said quietly.

Guards poured into the room, their faces hard with the grim duty of arresting one of their own.

They hauled Verdrak to his feet and dragged him toward the shattered door. Malakai and Azura followed, their presence a silent guarantee that there would be no escape.

Obel walked forward alone and stopped before the six-pointed star, still shimmering in the air, and the screen within it.

He looked down at it and saw the face staring back at him.

Beelzebub.

The third strongest Demon Lord in all of Gehenna. The Lord of Flies. The Devourer of Souls. Or as he was known, the Advent of Gluttony.

His compound eyes gleamed with cold, patient malice. His mandibles clicked once, twice, a sound like snapping bones.

Obel said nothing. He simply looked at the monster before him, his face full of disdain. And acceptance.

It was undeniable.

War truly was coming.