Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made

Chapter 252: All You’ve Got [Bonus Chapter]

Thor and Kestrel had also ran into a Demon Scout.

Like the others, it had tried to catch them off guard but this one has a massive bow and arrow. When the duo dismantled the creature of its weapons, it had fled.

Now, the two of them were hunting it through the broken district like rival predators after a lone prey.

Thor strode through the stone lanes with her hammer balanced on one shoulder, eyes sharp and bright. With the grin on her face, it was obvious she was enjoying herself.

Kestrel moved in silence beside and slightly ahead of her, green eyes fixed on the path, her Dragonswords still sheathed behind her back but ready to strike at any time.

"Come out," Thor called, her voice carrying through the ruined alleyway ahead. "You dropped your little toy. Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got."

No answer.

Only the scrape of movement somewhere ahead, then nothing.

Thor snorted. "Pathetic."

Kestrel’s gaze shifted to a narrow lane between two stone buildings. "It knows how to hide."

"Well, it is a Demon Scout."

"I suppose so."

Kestrel narrowed her eyes in thought, then spoke out again to Thor. "You know what that means, right?"

Thor’s grin vanished, her eyes sharpening cold. "I do."

After a moment, she sighed. "Nevertheless. The Demon is my kill so you can as well give up now."

Kestrel scoffed. "We’ll see."

The Scout, utterly terrified, had scrambled into the ruins, trying to use the broken architecture of Deathrock like a shield.

It had slipped through a collapsed stairwell, then over a low wall, then into the shell of an old stone market structure with a cracked dome and a row of shattered archways.

Every time it moved, the sound of its retreat gave it away. Every time Thor or Kestrel reached the next corner, it had already vanished again, leaving behind only the vibration of fear and the smell of old Gloom.

But they rounded another corner.

A narrow alley opened ahead, bordered by a slope of broken rock and the wall of a half-collapsed building.

The Scout had wedged itself there, crouched low in the ruined recess with its shoulders hunched and its breathing loud enough to hear. Its great bow was gone. Its confidence with it. It looked smaller now, or maybe just more honest about its fear.

Hearing some footsteps, the Demon decided it was time to switch positions. It turned.

But Thor was already there.

She stood at the mouth of the alley with her hammer resting at her side, her expression bright and almost delighted as she stared down at the creature cowering in the dark. The light from the cracked sky behind her caught in her armor and made her look almost carved out of stormlight itself.

"There you are," she said.

The Scout had the most horrified face.

SLASH!

Thor’s brows raised. ’Mhm?’

Suddenly, a bright emerald line tore across the Demon’s body from shoulder to hip in a single clean stroke. Blood and black smoke spilled out in a spray across the stone. The Demon was slashed into half.

The upper half lurched, then slid free. The lower half collapsed a second later.

Thor saw Kestrel standing there, slashing blood away from her sword edge before she slid it back into its sheath.

Thor stared at her. She folded her arms and frowned. "I had it."

Kestrel smirked at her. "You were too slow."

Thor’s brow rose immediately. "Too slow?"

Kestrel turned as if the matter was settled. "Maybe I’m the one who should be the lightning mage."

Thor stared at her for a beat, then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "You?"

Kestrel did not answer.

She only kept walking.

Thor watched her go, expression caught somewhere between annoyance and amusement, then shook her head and gave the broken Demon Scout one last look.

"Absolutely insulting," she muttered, though the grin returning to her face made it clear she had taken it as a challenge rather than an offense.

Then she followed after Kestrel down the ruined street.

*****

High above the lower streets, in the old citadel tower that crowned Deathrock’s central ridge, another figure received the news.

A Winged Demon came as a messenger, flying towards the old citadel. The building had once been a place of command and civic pride. Now it was a rotting spine of stone, full of slime-choked corridors and walls filmed over with Gloom.

Red roots, thick and pulsing like swollen veins, climbed the masonry in twisted knots and spread across the floors, feeding the corruption outward into the town below.

On the ground, the Demon Commander waited.

Like most Demon Commanders, it was an ugly thing. One shoulder was raised higher than the other, and plated in thick scarlet growths that looked almost like coral but flexed with living muscle.

It had a stretched ugly skull for a face with a snout-like jaw, rows of yellow teeth, and one eye sunk too deep into the flesh while the other bulged too far outward. Its limbs were long and heavy and ended in claws blackened by old blood. A jagged spike of bone or metal or something in between jutted from its spine like a torn banner.

It looked almost nonsensical, but it was certainly dangerous.

The Winged Demon stopped in front of the Commander and cawed out the message in a shrill, urgent series of sounds. After, it bowed low despite its evident fear.

The Demon Commander listened, then groaned with a deep, disgusted rumble that shook the slime on the walls.

It didn’t look very pleased with the news.

Sending the Winged Demon away, the Commander turned from the tower entrance and climbed higher into the citadel, shoulders rolling with heavy irritation as it made its way up the inner stairs.

The red roots along the walls throbbed under its passing. The Gloom thickened overhead, drawn toward the throne chamber at the center of the tower.

There, it found the Demon Head.

The monster stood near the top of the central hall, half turned toward a wall of living red sludge that had been forced into a vertical shape around a strange circular surface embedded in the stone.

The Demon Head had a monstrous skull, stretching into four horns — two at both sides. It was broad and towering, built like a savage war beast forced upright and then given an alien warlord’s body.

Its skin was a deep red hide shot through with darker, vein-like markings. Thick muscles rolled under the surface of its frame, and a heavy, brutal blade-staff rested near the wall beside it like a throne weapon waiting for a massacre.

Its face was bestial and yet unmistakably intelligent, with a brutal jawline, ridged brow, and a stare that seemed to crush the air rather than simply occupy it.

The Demon Commander entered the chamber and let out a low grunt.

The Head did not turn at first.

It was busy.

Gloom spread before in waves, sinking into roots that carried the demonic energy from the tower into the atmosphere.

The Commander called it again.

The Demon Head finally looked up when the Commander’s footsteps stopped.

"What?"

Its voice was deep and harsh, like a beast speaking a tongue it detested.

The Commander gave its report in a series of low growls and gestures, indicating the southern streets, the outer routes, the intruders, the speed of the losses, the signs of organized resistance.

The Head’s ancient eyes widened.

For one sharp moment, the Gloom in the room stopped moving.

Then the Head roared. "What?!"

The sound shook the tower.

It slammed one fist into the red root wall, making the corruption convulse around the embedded surface, then turned on the Commander with a furious, cutting stare.

The order was immediate and unmistakable.

Leave. Now.

The Commander bowed once and backed out of the chamber at speed, its claws scraping the stairs as it disappeared down the tower.

The Demon Head remained alone for a moment, breathing hard.

Then it stomped across the floor to the far wall. There was an eerie manifestation on that wall; thick, reddish roots clinging to the surface and moving like they were sentient.

At the center of that mass was a circular surface that looked, at first glance, like a television screen buried inside living corruption. It was not glass. Not metal. More like a magical window pressed into the wall itself, smooth as polished black water and framed by the roots.

The Demon Head placed one clawed finger on that screen. Its reaction was a rippling effect, like the surface of a river.

Red light shivered beneath the touch and after a moment, the screen revealed a face so vile and magnificent at the same that was unmistakenly that of a powerful Demon.

A cow’s head, vast and horned, with giant sweeping horns that curved outward like a crown of war. Deep red eyes stared from beneath the heavy brow, eyes that peered beyond the flesh and saw souls, shadows, and secrets. Then dark wings made of stone but twice the size of a dragon’s.

It was a Demon Lord.

Baal.