Creating A Succubus Army In A Fantasy World!

The Infernal Ice Bastion’s carrier port was a marvel of clean-cut efficiency, the kind of place where every breath of cold air seemed like it had been filtered twice for precision and calm.

The massive airships known as carriers drifted in and out like serene whales in an ocean of land and steel, their polished hulls gleaming under the translucent dome that shielded the port from the biting cold outside.

The entire space was a quiet orchestra of motion.

Mechanical drones guided incoming carriers with robotic grace, workers in snug uniforms bustled along clean lines like programmed pixels in a futuristic painting, and holographic screens floated gently overhead, blinking silent messages about schedules and weather updates.

There was no shouting, no honking, no loudspeaker crackling. Just soft, purposeful movements and the occasional hiss of steam or hydraulic lift.

But that moment of perfect peace subtly changed when a grey carrier, unmarked and unimpressive at first glance, appeared on the horizon.

The air seemed to hum a little differently as it approached. As the grey vessel began its descent, people in tailored suits—men and women who looked like they hadn’t smiled in ten years—suddenly stopped mid-conversation.

Phones were drawn out with military precision. Fingers danced over screens. Calls were made.

"He’s here."

"Yes. Grey carrier. Confirmed Carrier signature."

"Begin approach. Make the offer enticing."

From their hurried whispers and composed urgency, it became clear that whoever was on that carrier wasn’t just a passenger—he was the event.

The instructions were clear: bring him to our side, no matter what. Some of the professionals already had briefcases filled with data pads, promises, and projections.

Others simply held out custom pens as if deals could be inked the moment the hatch opened. But none of them moved just yet. They waited.

Their time would come to strike!

Kacha!

And then the carrier door hissed open.

Creed stepped out of the grey vessel like a man returning from the moon—tired, accomplished, and completely unaware of the media storm that had been waiting for his arrival.

After nearly eight hours in flight, thanks to a terrifying detour to avoid a Greater Beast Lord that decided to nap in their scheduled sky route, he was bone-weary and craving nothing more than a hot meal, a warm bed, and perhaps some questionable snuggling with Lilith and Tierra.

The carrier’s smooth floor clicked under his boots as he casually descended the ramp, his eyes sweeping across the familiar horizon of the Infernal Ice Bastion.

The cool wind kissed his cheeks like a long-lost relative. He was home.

But then he frowned.

He could feel it. Gazes. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Subtle but sharp, like tiny needles poking his soul.

They weren’t malicious, no. But they were... curious. Focused. Like every person in the vicinity had suddenly discovered they had magnifying glasses for eyes and he was the only ant on the pavement.

He tried not to stiffen, but his instincts were yelling at him. Why was everyone staring?

Then it happened.

A short, middle-aged woman wearing the unmistakable uniform of a port worker suddenly gasped, clapped her hands together dramatically, and practically shouted across the dock, "Oh my snow kittens! Isn’t this the young hero?!"

Creed’s head snapped toward her so fast, he nearly gave himself whiplash.

Young hero?

She was grinning with motherly affection, the kind of look that said she was already imagining knitting him a scarf or setting him up with her daughter!

And as if she had flipped a secret switch, others started turning toward him as well.

"That’s him!"

"The one from the Entrance Exam!"

"I heard he one-shotted an Eclipse Guardian!"

Cameras were drawn. Phones lifted into the air. People began crowding forward, their faces filled with awe, admiration... and in Creed’s opinion, a bit too much excitement.

The guy next to him was literally tearing up like he just saw a long-lost brother return from war.

Creed blinked at the wave of attention, unsure if he should smile, wave, or teleport to the nearest shadow.

This was getting out of hand. Was this what celebrity felt like? He hated it already!

Then his eyes, sharper than any normal human’s, caught something on the massive display screen floating inside the terminal building.

The rotating news feed paused for a special bulletin. His instincts flared. He zoomed in automatically with his sight and read the headline.

[BREAKING NEWS: AMBASSADORS ACADEMY REVEALS ENTRANCE RESULTS – MYSTERIOUS YOUTH TAKES FIRST PLACE!]

The screen flickered again and showed a high-definition image of him mid-battle, his spear flashing, crimson lines slicing through space!

The news anchor’s voice echoed in his head as the feed played.

"–now officially named a Hope Candidate by the DMA. Experts say his performance in the Entrance Trial is among the most extraordinary seen in the last fifty years..."

His name appeared on the screen like a title written in fate: CREED WALDEN.

Creed slowly turned his head to the growing crowd now shouting "Young Hero!" like he was a rock star that saved their cats from burning buildings.

He rubbed the back of his neck and gave a dry, exhausted chuckle.

"Great," he muttered under his breath, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Fame. Just what I needed."

Although this was what he had dreamt of when he first came to this world, he had come to discover a part of himself that also just wanted to live quietly with his loved ones.

It was ironic, but it was the truth. Even though it felt nice to be fawned on by so many, it was kinda overwhelming as well.

He barely took three steps away from the terminal when the madness truly began.

He had thought the attention from the carrier was intense but that, apparently, had just been the appetizer.

As he walked through the sleek grounds of the Infernal Ice Carrier Port, the real chaos came like a full-course stampede.

The first signs were subtle—one man in a fine dark-blue coat glanced at him, his eyes widening.

Then came another, a young woman in sleek silver armor who whispered urgently into her wrist communicator. Then came the rush.

"MR. CREED WALDEN!" a voice screamed, not from a fan, but from a desperate man in glasses and a golden tie who looked like he hadn’t slept in three days.

"I represent the Tier 3 organization—Frostvale Knights! We’d like to offer you a premium contract, full benefits, and a free private Carrier!"

"Wait, wait, wait!" shouted another, this one a woman in a black suit with glowing red accents, hurrying over with an attaché case nearly as big as her.

"Tier 2 here! I’m from Crimson Orb Corporation. We’ll pay you triple whatever those Knight-wannabes are offering!"

"Oh please," said a man with a flowing green cloak and a staff made of a single curved crystal.

"Tier 1. The Obsidian Pavilion. We’ll offer you your own squadron, a training ground, ten artifacts, and access to three secret realms! Come meet the Grand Elder—we even have a tea room with snacks!"

Creed blinked.

Then blinked again.

He was now surrounded. Not just surrounded—mobbed. Suits. Robes. Capes.

All kinds of important-looking people, carrying briefcases, holograms, ancient scrolls, and—yes, one guy even had a goatee with a monocle.

Every single one of them was shouting their offer louder than the next person, some even using light holopads to show their company logos in the sky.

Cameras flashed. News drones hovered overhead. Creed turned slowly in a circle and realized the plaza had become a battlefield of persuasion, each faction yelling, waving, and promising more than the last!

One man held out a golden chicken.

"I brought a divine beast egg! Look! It clucks with power!"

Creed could feel his brain start to melt.

He raised a hand and tried to speak. "Uh, look—"

"CREED, MY BOY!" shouted another man with ten rings on one hand. "We’ll name our next tower after you! The Creed Skytop! You can decorate it yourself! Velvet floors!"

Someone else offered a private harem. Another tried to give him a personal chef.

A woman shoved a sparkling cube at him that apparently contained a whole pocket dimension for vacations. Keyword: Apparently.

"Okay. Nope," Creed said finally, his voice dry and tired. "Nope nope nope nope."

And then he vanished.

A flash of multicolored light exploded under his feet as he activated Wings of Freedom, the art of the Path of Freedom he had only recently comprehended.

Swoosh!

Like a blur of silver wind, he launched into the sky, a sonic boom shaking the ground.

His body became a streak of shimmering light, almost too fast to follow, zipping through the air with an elegance that made even seasoned awakened stop and gawk.

His flight wasn’t just fast, it was gorgeous. Like an angel had learned acrobatics from a lightning bolt.

He curved around buildings, looped twice around a decorative spire, and then vanished into the distance, leaving only a glittering tail of magic behind him.

The crowd stood frozen.

Then they erupted in cheers.

"HE’S SO COOL!"

"Did you see that movement technique?!"

"My hubby can’t fly! Cancel my engagement!"

Back in the skies, Creed had already zipped halfway across the bastion, his face now hidden behind a black nose mask and a hooded jacket.

He shot through alleyways, dipped over artificial rivers, and finally slowed down as he reached his neighborhood. Just a normal guy, hoping for some quiet.

But as he landed on the roof of his apartment building and peeked down...

"...No way," he muttered.

A crowd was gathered at his front door. Not just a small crowd. A crowd crowd. Full-on paparazzi, neighbors, fanboys, camera crews, and what looked like someone in a mascot costume shaped like his spear!

They were all camped outside his building, chanting his name, waving banners, and holding up signs like: "Creed, Will You Marry My Daughter?" and "Hope Candidate Number One!"

Apparently, he was the first hope candidate to emerge from Infernal Ice Bastion in its history!

Creed pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a slow, strained sigh.

"Thank the gods for teleportation," he whispered.

With a flicker of power, he teleported again, vanishing from the rooftop and reappearing inside his training room, hidden far within his apartment.

Silence. Blessed, blessed silence.

He let out a breath and finally flopped backward onto the nearest couch, arms spread wide.

"If the paparazzi had even a single brain cell," he muttered, staring at the ceiling, "they’d send a dozen voluptuous beauties with high IQs and low moral restraint. I’d definitely invite them inside for some... serious questioning."

He grinned lazily. "I’d even serve tea. I’m not a monster."

But just as his body started relaxing, a prickling cold shiver ran down his back like someone had dumped a bucket of ghost ice on his spine. Instinct screamed.

Creed rolled sideways off the couch with catlike reflexes, crashing to the ground as a white, bony hand swiped through the space where his shoulder had been a second earlier.

Then came the laughter.

Slow, cheerful, and deeply unsettling.

"Heheh... Hey, kiddo," said a voice, both familiar and nightmarishly out of place. "Wanna play a game?"

Creed’s eyes widened in shock.

"It’s you!"