Creating A Succubus Army In A Fantasy World!

Creed didn’t rush.

In fact, he walked forward with the kind of calm, unbothered swagger that made it feel like he was the one who owned the corridor and not the thugs who were currently stomping Trent into a red smear.

His hands were in his pockets, and there was no tension in his body at all—just a casual, loose stride, like he was out for a pleasant stroll in the park and just so happened to come across a live-action beatdown.

His boots echoed quietly on the stone floor, each step louder than the next, and yet none of the five attackers noticed him until he stepped into their line of vision.

And that’s when all five of them turned around with alarm.

Their heads snapped toward him like prey sensing a predator, their expressions changing immediately from mockery to caution.

One of them; a tall guy with ash-gray hair and sharp cheeks squinted, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "Where the hell did you come from?" he muttered. "I didn’t even feel him approach."

"He’s masking his presence," another said, a leaner boy with silver-rimmed goggles pulled down over his eyes. "Either he’s way stronger than us... or he’s damn good at staying hidden."

The momentary fear made them shuffle into a loose battle stance, spreading out slightly to cover more ground.

Their boots scraped along the ground as their laughter died down, and suddenly the air grew heavier.

Trent, now sitting on the ground and panting like a beat-up dog, blinked through a bloodied eye as he turned his head toward the new arrival.

His expression shifted from groggy confusion to outright panic the moment he recognized the silhouette.

"No! Creed?! You—what are you doing?!" he croaked, trying to stand but failing. "Don’t get involved! These bastards are—are seriously strong! You’ll just—just get hurt—!"

Creed stopped just a few feet away from the group. He looked at them, then at Trent, then back at them again.

His face was calm—far too calm. It was the kind of expression that didn’t fit the situation, and that made it all the more chilling.

His blue eyes shimmered faintly beneath the flickering torchlight.

"I don’t like repeating myself," Creed said quietly. "So give me some face and let him go."

He was going full throttle on the cliches once again. He loved for these moments!

The leader which appeared to be the ash-gray-haired one, blinked in disbelief. Then he snorted. "What?"

"I said..." Creed tilted his head slightly, voice still maddeningly gentle, "...give me face, and let him go."

"Give you face?" one of the other guys echoed, confused.

"Yeah," Creed replied smoothly, brushing a speck of dust off his shoulder like this was all just minor business. "I’m asking politely. That’s me being nice."

The group glanced at each other with raised brows, whispering in hushed tones.

"Is he one of the Hope candidates?"

"Never seen him before."

"Not a Tier-1 genius either. Maybe he’s bluffing?"

"Probably some no-name who thinks he’s hot stuff..."

Their wariness started to fade with every word, replaced by that ugly arrogance that came naturally to people who always fought in groups and ganged up on the weak.

The one with goggles stepped forward, pointing a metal-gloved finger at Creed. "Listen up, ’nobody.’ You’ve got exactly five seconds to disappear, or we’ll break your legs and feed you to the beasts roaming this floor."

Creed looked at him.

Then at Trent, who was still trying to warn him off.

Then he exhaled a soft breath and said, "You guys have five seconds."

The group blinked.

"What?"

"Five seconds," Creed said again, finally taking his hands out of his pockets. "After that, I’ll assume you’ve made your choice."

Their confusion morphed into disbelief.

And then... rage.

"You son of a—!"

The one closest to Creed; a broad-shouldered guy with black armor moved first.

He raised his right arm, and with a faint clicking noise, five glowing shurikens slid out from hidden compartments in his vambrace.

Each one hummed with low-level energy, their edges coated in faint metallic intent that was most definitely sharp enough to cut stone, fast enough to pierce through armor, and precise enough to kill before someone even noticed they’d been hit.

With a fierce growl, the attacker fired the shurikens.

ZING!

They shot out like bullets, whistling through the air in deadly, flashing arcs.

To a normal person, it would’ve looked like a speedy bullet.

To Creed?

It was just a slow toss.

The corners of his mouth curled up into a relaxed smirk.

His right hand lifted lazily as if this was some routine exercise, and in the next breath, clink! his fingers closed casually around the closest shuriken.

There was no trembling, no strain. Just a smooth catch like someone grabbing a tennis ball out of the air.

Then, as the other four came screaming toward him, Creed’s wrist flicked—whoosh!—and the captured shuriken slammed into the next one mid-air, knocking it off course.

Another came from the side but he turned slightly and swatted it away like an annoying fly using the same shuriken he’d caught.

Ping! Crack! Tink!

One by one, all five deadly weapons clattered harmlessly to the ground around him.

Silence.

The five attackers stood frozen. Mouths open. Eyes wide. The attacker who had launched the shurikens looked like he’d just seen a ghost pour coffee and take a nap while dodging bullets.

Creed stood there, utterly unbothered, a lazy smirk still on his lips.

"Three seconds left," he said lightly. "Want to try again?"

The entire group... took a step back.

Trent, still on the ground, just stared at Creed with his mouth slightly open, face completely blank, like his brain had short-circuited trying to process what just happened.

Creed tilted his head once more, looking at the trembling punks in front of him.

Then he smiled.

"..."

The moment Creed casually deflected the last shuriken like he was swatting a fly at a picnic, the five attackers stopped thinking and started panicking.

You could actually see it happen — the exact moment their fight response turned into flight response.

Their eyes widened in perfect synchrony, their mouths hung open like fish gasping for water, and their battle stances melted into something more appropriate for a track and field sprint.

Then, without a single word of warning or attempt at dignity, they bolted.

One guy shouted "SCATTER!" like he was in a bad heist movie, and all five of them exploded in different directions like startled rats.

One even dropped his fancy dagger in his hurry and tripped over it, face-planting with a cartoonish thud before scrambling up and running faster than before, his pride clearly left behind on the stone floor.

Another guy actually yelled "MOMMY!" as he vanished into the corridor, and Creed nearly lost it right then and there.

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

And finally, he burst out laughing.

"Seriously?!" he said between chuckles, placing a hand on his hip as he watched the fleeing figures disappear around corners.

"They really said ’nope’ and vanished like ghosts in a Scooby-Doo episode."

Behind him, Trent groaned, still sitting on the ground and looking like someone who’d just seen a divine miracle.

His red hair was tousled, his face bruised and swollen in places, but there was a spark of disbelief and gratitude in his eyes as he looked up at Creed like he was some kind of legendary hero.

Creed turned, still grinning, and casually walked over to him.

Then, without a word, he stretched a hand toward Trent.

"We’re even now," Creed said softly.

Trent blinked, surprised. His gaze dropped to the outstretched hand and then back up to Creed’s eyes. "Even? But... why—?"

Creed shrugged lightly, not bothering to explain it with some dramatic speech.

But after a pause, he spoke, his voice just loud enough to cut through the air like a whispering blade.

"You were the only one who said something back at the unexplored rift," Creed said.

"When they all wanted to offer me up as a sacrifice to that crimson magma, you were the only one who said it was a bad idea." He raised a brow. "I remember."

Trent’s mouth fell open. His throat bobbed as if trying to find words that didn’t sound pathetic, but all he could manage was a rough, "Thanks, man."

Creed gave a nonchalant nod as he helped Trent to his feet.

Then—

’I SEE IT!!’ Lilith’s excited voice suddenly rang out in the corridor like a lightning bolt, nearly making Trent jump out of his boots.

Creed’s head whipped toward her direction, his eyes instantly sharpening like a hawk spotting prey. ’See what?’

’The Flame of Merit!’ Lilith’s voice echoed again, brimming with joy. ’I can see it!’

Creed lit up like someone who had just found out his lottery ticket actually did win.

His body tensed with energy, his muscles coiled like springs, and in the blink of an eye, he turned to Trent and said, "Be right back!"

Then zoom!—he was gone.

Trent blinked. "Wait, what just—?"

But Creed didn’t hear it. He was already speeding through the corridors, dashing with a grace and speed that would make even trained speedsters sob in jealousy.

His boots barely touched the ground, his body leaned forward just enough to remain aerodynamic, and his shirt flared behind him like the cape of a dark crusader on a mission.

His thoughts raced along with him.

Finally! A flame of merit! I’ve been grinding this floor like a cursed farming game with zero drop rates!

As he rounded the last corner, he saw it: the Flame of Merit, floating just above a shimmering stone platform.

It pulsed and flickered like a living ember, its glow an entrancing mix of golden light and crimson heat, practically humming with importance.

But there was one tiny, annoying little detail blocking the way.

Or rather... a big, armored one.

Standing directly in front of the flame was a Stage 4 knight, tall and imposing, dressed in red and black armor that gleamed like molten obsidian.

His helmet had no eyes visible, just two angry slits of blood-red glow, and his blade was as thick as a steel beam.

He was casually tossing the Flame of Merit in his gauntleted hand... like a kid playing with a bouncy ball.

Creed came to a smooth stop just a few meters away, his eyes narrowing as a playful grin curled on his lips.

He heard Lilith’s voice from behind, sounding a bit smug now, "Told you I had the best eyes."

"Oh, you do," Creed said, tilting his head and cracking his knuckles. "But I think you just found me a new training dummy."

The knight stopped tossing the flame.

His gaze—or whatever that ominous red glow was—locked on Creed.

And Creed’s smile widened.

"Alright, big guy," he said, reaching back and summoning his spear in one smooth motion, the weapon materializing in a ripple of light and crackling energy. "Let’s see if that tin can of yours is just for show."