Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made

A dome of violet-white fire erupted from Frieda’s body and expanded outward with the force of a collapsing star.

The crystal-blue plates beneath her feet turned orange, then white, then began to bubble at the edges. The protective barrier around the arena flickered violently as the flames crashed against it.

Min Tu crossed her daggers and pulled from every Skeleton Soldier she possessed. Dark fire roared from her left blade. Shadow wind howled around her body. Spectral lightning wove between them, stitching the borrowed elements together into a desperate fusion to shield her from whatever that was.

The violet-white flames struck.

The dark fire evaporated on contact. The shadow wind howled and dispersed. The spectral lightning held for one breath, two breaths, and then it shattered.

Min Tu poured more energy into the barrier, her teeth gritted, her arms shaking, but the fire kept coming.

The barrier eventually broke.

The flames struck Min Tu square in the chest and sent her flying across the arena. She hit the ground and skidded, her daggers clattering away, her body limp. Smoke rose from her uniform and this time, she did not get up.

”Akaran is down! Akaran is down! What an unbelievable display of power from Frieda Castleloft! That was... that was...”

He stopped.

Because something was wrong.

The weaker section of the protective barrier where attendees were stationed for medical emergencies and quick exits had thinned during Frieda’s final attack.

The Flame Berserk had been so powerful, so overwhelmingly hot, that it had found a weak point in the barrier’s weave. A small breach. A tiny gap.

The violet-white fire had slipped through.

In the front rows, some attendees had been caught in the edge of the blast. They screamed. The fire washed over them for less than a second before the barrier stabilized and sealed the breach. But a second was enough.

Scalded skin. Blistered arms. Uniforms smoking. One medic had taken the brunt across her shoulder and was being held up by a colleague, her face contorted in pain. Another was clutching his forearm, the skin red and raw. A third had dropped to her knees, steam rising from her back.

None of them were dead. None of them were in danger of dying. But the burns were real. The damage was real.

The crowd’s cheers died in their throats. Gasps replaced them. Then shouts. Then panic.

”Medics! We need medics!”

”The barrier! The barrier broke!”

”Is everyone okay?!”

The commentator’s voice returned, shaky now. ”Ladies and gentlemen, we... we seem to have had a containment breach. Please remain calm. Medical personnel are already on site. I repeat, medical personnel are already—”

Frieda stood in the center of the arena, her flames extinguished, her chest heaving. Her eyes, no longer like fire, were wide with horror.

She stared at the wounded attendees, at the medics rushing to help them, at the crowd’s panic.

She had done that. Her power. Her lack of control. It was all her fault.

Lancet bolted to his feet.

”Shit!” He craned his neck, trying to see past the chaos, past the medics and the panicked students and the officials scrambling to restore order. The wounded were being attended to and the barrier was being reinforced. But the damage was done.

He sank back into his seat, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the chaos below.

”That’s... not good.”

Murmurs started to spread through the platform like a contagion.

”Did you see that? The barrier actually broke. I’ve watched this tournament for three years and I’ve never seen the barrier break.”

”She could have killed someone. She almost did kill someone. Look at those burns. That’s definitely going to leave marks.”

”Frieda has always been unstable. Everyone knows it. Professor Blaze should have pulled her from the roster months ago.”

”My cousin’s in the medical bay right now because of her. Because she can’t control her own damn flames.”

”I heard they’re saying it was a weak point in the barrier, not her fault. The techs are already looking into it.”

”Does it matter whose fault it was? Look at them. They’re hurt.”

Medical personnel swarmed the wounded attendees, lifting them onto stretchers, applying cooling salves, wrapping burns in gauze soaked with healing solution.

The damage was not life-threatening. It was mostly blistered skin, reddened flesh, one medic with a deeper scald across her shoulder. But the sight of it was enough.

Everyone who had been caught in the blast were ushered through a side exit toward the medical wing, their pained expressions lingering in the crowd’s memory long after they were gone.

The arena fell silent.

Every eye turned to Frieda Castleloft, who still stood at the center of the crystal-blue plates. The flames that had roared around her moments ago were gone. The heat had faded.

What remained was a girl with ash on her cheeks and her arms limp at her sides. She looked up at the crowd, at the hundreds of thousands of faces staring down at her, and she saw what they were thinking.

Judgment.

Even though she had just won in the most impressive fashion the tournament had seen so far, they were looking at her like she was a danger.

Like she was a mistake. Like she had proven every whispered doubt about her control to be true.

Frieda’s face crumpled. Her shoulders shook once, twice, and then the tears poured out of her.

She sobbed uncontrollably. Frieda had spent months trying to prove she was not a liability and had just confirmed to the entire Academy that she was.

She turned and ran.

Her footsteps echoed across the crystal-blue plates as she fled toward the competitor’s exit. The drone cameras did not follow her. The commentator did not call after her. She vanished into the tunnel beneath the stands, her sobs fading into the darkness.

Lancet watched her go. His chest felt tight. He knew what it was like to be judged, so he could relate to her on that account. And that was a pretty sad sight to be honest.

In the Specialist section of the stands, a figure rose from his seat.

Renan Falconhart moved through the row urgently. He reached the aisle and hurried down the same tunnel Frieda had disappeared into.

Lancet found himself nodding approvingly even though Renan wasn’t even looking in his direction.

Despite being a harem-gathering MC, at least Renan cared deeply for his girlfriends.