Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made-Chapter 35: Try Not To Lose Your Legs

Lancet hurled himself sideways with everything he had, every muscle screaming as the bone-axe came whistling down.

CRACK!

The edge of the Orc’s axe buried itself deep into the calcified skull. A stroke of luck that allowed Lancet the time to get away.

He scrambled up, legs shaky but moving—thank fuck for that increased Agility—and bolted across the crater floor like his life depended on it.

Because it did.

"GRRRAAAAARRR!"

The Middle Orc yanked the axe free with a wet screech of bone on bone. Its bloodshot eyes locked onto him, unblinking, hungry.

Then it charged, its massive feet pounding the dirt, closing the gap faster than anything that size had any right to.

Lancet sprinted flat-out. Red dust boiled up around his boots in choking clouds. He zigzagged wildly between the torches, the heat from the fire adding to sweat from his fear.

The orc’s footsteps thundered right on his heels, so close he could feel the hot, rotten breath washing over the back of his neck.

Back in the Dungeon Hall, everyone watched Lancet run for his life.

Phiodor Blaze threw his head back and barked a laugh that sounded like gravel scraping metal.

"Look at him go! The little rat’s running like his ass is on fire!" he shook his head mockingly. "Completely helpless the second a real beast looks his way. Pathetic!"

Maecil kept watching the screen when she responded. "He’s a Summoner, Phiodor. He doesn’t have the physical enhancements to fight like other Classes."

"Which is exactly why Summoners are a joke," Phiodor shot back, crossing his arms with smug finality. "Their summon gets distracted for two seconds and the ’master’ turns into fresh meat. Useless."

Maecil finally turned her head. Slowly. Her eyes narrowed into slits that could cut glass. She held his gaze for a long beat, then deliberately looked toward the far end of the dais where Dean Ordenance stood motionless in his dark robes, watching the screen silently.

"How would you like it if I told the Dean what you just said?" Her voice came out soft, almost sweet. It definitely wasn’t. "I’m sure he’d be fascinated to hear a Class Group instructor declare another Class Group ’meaningless.’"

Phiodor’s grin evaporated. His eyes darted to the Dean, then back to Maecil. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. "Our rivalry stays between us, Gudgarten. Dragging the Dean into this over a casual remark? That’s low. Pure cowardice."

Maecil chuckled fakely. "I’m not above low, Phiodor. But only one of us is willing to do whatever it takes to come out on top."

Phiodor glared at her. She glared back.

A collective gasp rolled through the hall like a wave. "It almost got him!" someone said.

Both instructors snapped their heads back to the screen.

Lancet’s lungs were on fire. Each breath scraped like broken glass. He heard the axe whistling again—low and vicious—and dropped into a desperate slide, dirt grinding against his back as he ducked under the horizontal swing that would’ve taken his head clean off.

He twisted mid-slide, trying to spin around the brute’s legs, but the orc pivoted faster than it had any business doing, its axe already rising high.

Lancet fell backward, scrambling on palms and heels, legs kicking uselessly. The orc swung down.

Thump!!

The blade missed his right thigh by the width of a hair, burying itself in the baked earth. Lancet kept crawling back, heart slamming so hard it hurt his ribs.

The orc ripped the axe free. Swung again.

THWACK.

The bone blade slammed down between Lancet’s spread legs, just a literal millimeter from his limp, frightened co—

"Astensia!" Lancet shouted, feeling his balls trying to crawl up into his stomach in fear. "A little help?!"

Across the crater, Astensia’s head whipped around. Once she saw Lancet, her eyes flared wide with raw horror.

"Green demon!"

She wound up and immediately hurled her golden shield. It spun across the open space like a golden buzzsaw and slammed square into the side of the orc’s face with a meaty CRUNCH.

The beast staggered, stunned, axe slipping from its fingers.

But Astensia was going for the overkill.

She launched herself forward and twisted in the air, executing a full-body spin kick. Her silver greave connected with the orc’s thick neck like a sledgehammer.

The impact popped its head off, spraying black blood everywhere as it went tumbling end over end. The body slumped backward, already dissolving into flickering blue light before it hit the ground.

Astensia dropped to one knee in front of Lancet instantly. Her face was tight, eyes wide with real fear and guilt. She extended her gauntleted hand.

"I am so sorry, Lord Lancet," she said, self-blame in her voice. "I should have been faster. Are you hurt?"

Lancet stared at her hand for a second, chest still heaving, sweat stinging his eyes. "Yeah," he wheezed, grabbing her arm. She pulled him up like he weighed nothing.

He brushed red dust off his uniform with shaking hands. "No big deal."

Inside his head it was a screaming mess. That axe had come so close to turning him into a eunuch—or worse.

The Dungeon’s safety ward only triggered on guaranteed kills. If a blow was going to kill a student, they would be immediately removed, but if it wasn’t? Well...

You just bleed out until the timer runs down.

Lancet could still feel the cold ghost of the blade between his thighs. ’Try not to lose your legs,’ he told himself. ’Or your balls.’

He secretly reached under his legs and counted both eggs then let out a sigh of relief.

Across the crater, a final flash of holy silver light marked the end of the fight. Renan sheathed his longsword with a smooth, elegant motion, exhaled once—perfectly controlled—and turned toward them.

He raised a hand in a casual, heroic wave, silver eyes locked straight on Astensia.

She gave a small, polite wave back and beckoned him over.

Then she glanced down at Lancet. "Is this rival of yours always so... friendly toward you?"

Lancet dusted off his knees, shot Renan a dry, sideways look. "Trust me, Astensia. It’s not me he’s being friendly to."

[ DING! ]

The leaderboard in the sky rippled and updated with a low, resonant chime.

[ 1. Lancet Leogardt : 1800 Pts ]

[ 2. Renan Falconhart : 700 Pts ]

[ 3. Sienna Starbridge : 210 Pts ]

[ 4. Frieda Castleloft : 195 Pts ]

[ 5. Min Tu Akaran : 180 Pts ]

[ 6. Deron Darc : 150 Pts ]

[ 7. Kallan Kallahan : 145 Pts ]

[ 8. Amira Vineheart : 120 Pts ]

[ 9. Luke Travers : 110 Pts ]

[ 10. Baroq Chairhead : 105 Pts ]

Renan jogged over, armor clinking softly. He stopped in front of them and flashed that flawless, charming smile again.

Lancet just stared at him. It seemed Renan had completely, utterly forgotten about the competition.

He didn’t even glance up at the scoreboard that proved he was getting absolutely demolished. He was completely tunnel-visioned on the Heroine.

"Great battle, wasn’t it, Lady Astensia?" he said, voice warm, eyes never once flicking toward Lancet.

Astensia nodded politely. "Indeed. Your technique was excellent, Renan. I commend your focus."

The second the words left her mouth, she turned her whole body away from him—shoulders squared, full attention back on Lancet like Renan had ceased to exist.

Renan blinked. Stood there frozen for half a second, dejected again.

’She’s just being nice to me,’ he rationalized, desperate to make sense of the rejection. ’But she keeps looking at him. Giving him all her attention. She’s just his summon... does she like him or something?’

Lancet wasn’t watching the protagonist’s ego take another hit. He was staring out across the suddenly too-quiet crater, brow furrowed as he tapped his chin.

Why does it feel like I’m missing something? Lancet thought. The Lesser Orcs... the Middle Orcs... There’s a gap here. Something happens here, doesn’t it?

"So, what now, Lord Lancet?" Astensia asked, pulling his attention. "Do we press forward? The greater Orcs should be close."

Lancet opened his mouth to speak but the ground suddenly bucked violently under their feet.

"What’s happening?" Renan’s hand snapped to his sword hilt.

A grinding, bone-deep groan rolled through the ground and four enormous slabs of the earth erupted from around them, shooting straight up like teeth from a trap.

They curved inward and started pressing towards them with terrifying speed, aiming to crush them in.

Lancet’s eyes popped wide as he remembered.

"It’s Orc Shamans!" he shouted as the slabs got closer. "Those fuckers are here!"