Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made-Chapter 71: I Want Your Best

Elsewhere in the Academy, behind the massive, dark-wood desk of his office sat Dean Ordenance. He rested his chin on the back of his crossed hands, his piercing eyes silent in thought.

Standing stiffly in front of the desk was Phiodor Blaze. Today, the Elementalist-D Instructor had his long dark hair tied back, save for a thick chunk held up by a fire-crystal clip.

He wore rich, vibrant red clothing beneath the Academy teacher’s robe he wore so proudly. On his face sat an arrogant sneer that was only barely kept in check by the fearful respect he held for the man sitting across from him.

It seemed they were waiting for something, but the silence in the room was beginning to gnaw at Phiodor’s nerves.

"It’s been ten minutes, sir," Phiodor finally spoke up, unable to help himself.

Dean Ordenance slowly raised his eyes, his expression unchanging. "I am aware."

Phiodor puffed out his chest slightly, giving a sycophantic shrug. "Personally, I would never keep you waiting that long, Sir Ordenance."

The Dean sighed like it was a curse, his crossed hands falling to the table. "Phiodor. It is not that the others are late. It is that you arrived entirely too early."

Phiodor’s eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth, hastily attempting to form a reply to salvage his pride, but he was instantly interjected by a knock on the door.

"Come in," Ordenance commanded.

The doors swung open. Maecil Gudgarten stepped in first, looking sharp in the blue shirt and black skirt she had worn back in the Awakening Hall.

As she took her place beside Phiodor, the two shared a glare. Phiodor sneered, audibly scoffing before looking away, while Maecil simply rolled her eyes.

Following close behind her was Dexter Marcist, the Instructor for Specialist-D. Dressed impeccably in a formal, tailored three-piece suit, Dexter carried an aura of refined intellect.

Amongst all Class Group-D Instructors, Dexter was the passionate. He genuinely loved to educate and mold young minds.

Finally, Estelle Nightingale entered. The Enchanter-D Instructor was clad today in an intricately woven orange and silver gown. Despite the warmer colors, her expression was as cold and unreadable as ever.

One by one, they offered their respectful greetings to the Dean, taking their places in a horizontal line before his desk.

Dean Ordenance leaned back in his heavy leather chair.

"I am sure you are all wondering why I have summoned the four Instructors of Class Group-D to my office," Ordenance began. "As you may or may not know, I have spent the morning inviting the Instructors from the higher years into this office as well. I have been asking them all for a single critical thing: to offer up their most powerful students for an important cause"

The Instructors exchanged subtle, tense glances.

"For Class Group-S," the Dean continued, "I only asked for one student total. Because they are the exceptionally powerful Awakeners of our world, the number of students in the S-tier is extremely low, and I must allow the rest to remain available as a reserve force in the case of a total emergency."

"For Class Group-A, I asked for one from each Instructor. For Class Group-B, two from each. For Class Group-C, one from each. And finally... we come to your Class Group. Class Group-D."

"Sir," Dexter Marcist spoke up, adjusting his glasses. "If you are drafting the absolute elite of the Academy, this cannot be a standard Dungeon clearing exercise."

"It is not," Ordenance said grimly. Suspense raised. "Massive Demon movement has been spotted congregating in the city of Hebthej. It appears the Second World is attempting to establish another citadel on our soil."

A collective, sharp breath was drawn by the Instructors. Even Estelle’s eyes narrowed slightly at the news.

"We absolutely must avoid a situation like Devilfall from happening again," Ordenance stated strictly. "The Government has formally requested the Academy to send immediate aid. Our objective is to deploy a specialized strike team to destroy the Demons and execute the Demon Head before they grow stronger and take over the entire region."

"Hebthej is densely populated," Maecil noted, her voice tight with worry. "Will the students be handling civilian evacuation, or purely offensive roles?"

"Both," Ordenance answered seamlessly. "The S and A groups will spearhead the assault on the citadel’s core. The lower groups will secure the perimeter, handle the stragglers, and ensure the city does not fall. Which brings me to why you are here."

He leaned forward, his piercing gaze sweeping across the four teachers.

"I need you to do exactly as your peers have done. Submit one name. Give me your best, most powerful student; the one whose raw power and tactical acumen you know will be integral to the survival of this mission."

The Dean’s eyes hardened. "I know you are all well aware that the rewards and political prestige from a Government-sanctioned raid are astronomical. But hear me clearly: do not play favoritism. There are millions of civilian lives at stake. I want your best."

The room fell into a heavy, contemplative silence.

Ordenance gestured to his left. "We shall begin with Professor Dexter."

The Specialist Instructor cleared his throat, his decision seemingly apparent. "Of course, Sir. My choice is incredibly obvious. I submit Renan Falconhart, Knight. He is, by far, my most powerful and dependable student. His blade work is already matching Year-3 standards."

Ordenance nodded, making a swift notation on the parchment on his desk. "A great submission, Professor Dexter. Miss Nightingale?"

Estelle replied briskly and directly. Her voice was smooth and emotionless as always. "I choose Amira Vineheart, Arcanist. She has the best crowd-control hexes I’ve seen since my time teaching here."

"An excellent selection," Ordenance praised lightly, noting the name. "Professor Blaze?"

Phiodor puffed out his chest, an overstated confidence on his face and his selection. "With absolute pride, Sir, I choose Frieda Castleloft, Fire Mage. Her destructive output is unmatched in the D-Group. She will burn the Second World to cinders."

"I expect nothing less. Thank you, Phiodor." The Dean finally turned his eyes to the last Instructor. "Miss Gudgarten?"

Maecil slowly lowered her head, her hands clasping tightly together in front of her skirt. She looked deeply conflicted.

"I had initially given the position of my best student to Min Tu Akaran," Maecil admitted quietly. "She is still the highest ranked and her Undead Summon has proven to be extremely powerful."

Ordenance watched her carefully, sensing the incoming shift. "But?"

Maecil took a deep breath and raised her head, certainty in her eyes. "But after all of the recent events... I would be a fool if I didn’t submit Lancet Leogardt to join the mission."

"Ngh!" A sound violently ripped from Phiodor’s throat. His face contorted in anger as he whipped his head toward Maecil. His mouth opened to unleash a tirade of insults about selecting a ’Bronze Slum Rat’ over proper nobility.

But Phiodor remembered the Dean was here and his jaw immediately snapped shut. He swallowed his rage, his fists trembling at his sides as he forced himself to hold his tongue.

"Thank you, Miss Maecil, for your submission," Ordenance said smoothly, writing Lancet’s name down at the bottom of the list with a heavy stroke of ink. He set his pen down and looked at the four of them.

"You are to keep these selections strictly to yourselves until the official Academy announcement is made tomorrow morning. Failure to do this will lead to severe punishment, up to and including cutting your salaries. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Sir," they echoed in unison.

The Instructors bowed deeply and turned on their heels, exiting the office. The door clicked shut behind them.

Dean Ordenance remained perfectly still in his leather chair, his eyes locked onto the door as numerous thoughts filled his head.

Far above the Dean’s office, in the opulent halls of the upper echelons of the Academy, five students gathered around the corner of a corridor, holding their body parts in pain.

"I told you we shouldn’t have ambushed him all at once! We should have tested what he was capable of first!"

"Oh, shut up, Cecil! You’re the one who got kicked into your own brother!"

"My head is literally splitting open, stop yelling!"

The arguments echoed down the lavish hallway. Baroq Chairhead was leaning against a marble pillar, holding a bloody rag to his forehead. The Temperature Twins were shivering and sweating simultaneously, nursing deep bruises, while Stacey Blue simply stared blankly at the floor, still pale and traumatized from the psychic backlash.

"Shut up! All of you, just shut up!"

Kallan Kallahan aggressively scolded his goons. He held a piece of ice wrapped in cloth against his own face, trying to stem the bleeding from his violently swollen nose.

His pristine Academy uniform was scorched, and there was a black star on his chest from where Lancet had struck him.

The group obediently fell silent.

"Wait for me here," Kallan said. "I’ll go do it."

The rest of them looked at each other, fearful and worried.

After taking a deep, shaky breath, Kallan headed down the corridor and stopped by a tall gilded door.

He turned to face it. The brass plaque on the center read: Student’s Lodge, Class Group-S.

Kallan’s hand trembled slightly as he reached out and knocked three times.

The heavy lock clicked. The door slowly creaked open, revealing the luxurious, darkly lit interior of the S-Class suite.

Kallan swallowed hard, the fear in his eyes causing them to quiver as a tall, shadowed figure stepped out into the doorway. The upperclassman was shrouded in the dim lighting of the suite, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his expensive, tailored trousers.

Kallan instantly dropped his gaze to the floor, his voice breaking as he began to apologize.

"We... we tried to do exactly as you asked," Kallan stammered, turning from the arrogant bully back in the bathroom into a groveling subordinate. "We isolated him. We hit him with everything we had, but... but he beat us all. We don’t know how but it seems he must have been training secretly, or... or hiding a magical artifact! I’m sorry, boss. Please. I swear, I’m so sorry."

The shadowed figure stood in silence for a moment, looking down at Kallan and then turning to the battered, bruised, and broken Year-1 student hiding in the corner with petrified expressions.

Then, the figure chuckled. Low. Dark.

"Don’t worry, little serpent," the figure said, his voice entirely calm, entirely pleased. "You did exactly what we needed you to."

Kallan’s eyes widened.