Creating A Succubus Army In A Fantasy World!-Chapter 128: Clean Win!

The explosion from their clash faded into a low rumble, like the aftershock of a distant thunderstorm.

Tiny particles of remnant energy lifted lazily from the floor, swirling between them like smoke rising from the battlefield of ancient titans.

Creed and Jarvis stood several feet apart, both silent, both still, both absorbing the shock from the violent rebound of their previous strike.

It was a momentary lull in the chaos, a rare breath of calm before the next inevitable storm.

Their eyes met; one sharp and cold like a honed blade, the other burning with grudging respect. Neither man spoke. Words weren’t necessary. Not here. Not now.

Then, with a quiet sigh that somehow carried the weight of a real warrior’s pride, Jarvis stood tall and looked Creed in the eye—not like an enemy anymore, but as a fellow combatant worthy of acknowledgment.

"I’ve never met someone like you," he said, voice low but clear. "At your age... at your level... fighting like this? You’re the real thing."

And then, he bowed. Just a slight, stiff dip of his upper body, more of a salute than anything flowery. The arena seemed to blink in surprise at the gesture.

"Allow me to go all out," Jarvis said with finality, as his aura surged like a volcano breaking open.

Suddenly, the air shook.

Behind Jarvis, the giant red bull phantom he’d manifested before now roared, louder and deeper than ever.

Its muscles rippled like molten lava, its horns gleamed like two curved blades dipped in fire, and its massive hooves stamped down with such pressure the illusion alone almost cracked the tiles beneath his feet.

The mirage wasn’t real, but it sure felt real. Its rage practically poured off Jarvis’s skin in waves.

And that wasn’t even the scariest part.

The real danger came from Jarvis himself. With his bloodline fully awakened, he activated his Stage 5 Fist Intent.

Huum!

His fists, already heavy and dangerous before, now began to literally shake the air around them.

Each clench of his knuckles sent tiny shockwaves around him, making the very space around his hands look warped and distorted—like he was gripping reality itself and forcing it to bend.

Then came the next layer of madness.

Jarvis’s body pulsed as he pushed his aura to its peak, wrapping his muscles in an invisible shell of pressure that made him look two times heavier and twice as fast.

His body hunched low, feet scraping across the ground as he launched forward with a movement technique that turned him into a blur—no, a red blast of destruction barreling across the arena!

Bam!

He was fast!

So fast that to a regular person, he would’ve looked like a teleporting cannonball made of iron fists and bad decisions!

His knuckles lit up with red energy, fists humming with barely controlled fury as he launched a barrage of punches, all fueled by his terrifying Shockwave Fist.

It wasn’t just one strike; it was an avalanche. A thunderstorm of pain. A meat-grinder on legs.

And yet, Creed didn’t retreat.

His eyes narrowed as the barrage approached like a speeding train, and with a subtle exhale, he activated his Path of Killing at full force.

His aura darkened instantly. Blood-red light wrapped around his body like a silent, howling storm.

The temperature didn’t rise or fall, but every single person watching instinctively leaned back—like their instincts were screaming at them to hide.

The pressure coming off Creed was like standing at the edge of a cliff with a sword pointed at your back.

The two collided.

Bang! Bang! Boom! Bam!

Each punch was like a hammer on a bell; deafening, fast, and jarring. But Creed didn’t fall back.

He absorbed, dodged, parried, and countered with his spear, his body moving like water around a storm, using precision and calculation to meet brute force head-on.

Each time Jarvis’s punch landed, Creed would meet it with aura-reinforced footwork or a carefully timed spear block, his calm mind weaving a path through chaos.

But even Creed had to admit; this guy was tough!

A nod.

That was all Jarvis got from him; a small, approving nod, like a chess master recognizing a worthy rival across the board.

Then Creed moved.

With a flick of his wrist, he summoned his beautiful girls.

Lilith burst into being, her form crackling with arcs of purple lightning that danced wildly over her voluptuous body like angry snakes.

Her violet eyes narrowed at Jarvis, the sparks in her hair rising with tension as her deadly sickle pulsed with power.

Tierra, on the other hand, appeared in a blink—then vanished just as quickly, melting into the folds of space itself like a shadow slipping behind a curtain.

The moment the girls appeared, everything changed.

The Crimson Thunder team gasped audibly. Boris’s jaw dropped so hard it almost fell off. Even the leader of the crimson thunder looked like he was reconsidering his life choices!

"Wait—what?! TWO talents?! He’s a multi-awakened?!"

Multi-awakened were unique. Rare. The kinds of warriors you only saw on posters or in history books that started with "Once upon a time, a total badass was born..."

And now one stood before them with a spear in hand, thunder in his blood, and space itself on his side?

Jarvis felt it too.

That chilling sensation.

A thin layer of cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He couldn’t see Tierra—but he felt her.

Watching. A hunter hiding in the void, waiting for the tiniest mistake to strike with terrifying precision. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

It wasn’t just a one-versus-one anymore—it was a psychological war!

Then Lilith moved.

With a graceful twirl, she swung her sickle multiple times, sending out thin, sharp arcs of purple lightning—each one faster than the last, aimed directly at Jarvis.

They howled through the air like banshees, crackling with pure energy.

Jarvis snorted, clearly unimpressed. His fists blurred, meeting the arcs head-on with a devastating barrage of punches.

Lightning exploded into sparks as he shattered each attack, his gauntlets gleaming with pride.

But that was exactly what Creed was waiting for.

The moment Jarvis’s focus was entirely on the lightning, Creed appeared.

From the left. Silent. Sudden. Precise.

His spear thrust forward with blinding speed, purple lightning blooming down its length as lightning intent and spear intent surged through the weapon like a storm in metal form.

It aimed straight for Jarvis’s neck, where his defense was thinnest.

Jarvis turned, shocked. He had exactly a quarter of a second to process what was happening and he used that time wisely.

With an alarmed grunt, he raised both hands, his fingers curled tightly into his gauntlet-covered palms.

He shifted his weight, bent his knees, and braced for impact. The spear—buzzing with power and glowing with vibrant arcs of purple electricity—shot toward his throat like a viper.

Bang!

Jarvis managed to twist slightly and parry the spearhead, barely redirecting it away from his neck. But then...

Slice.

A space crack opened.

It was tiny. Barely the size of a coin.

And from that crack, a slender, impossibly sharp stiletto darted out like a ghost.

Tierra had struck!

The blade drove into the back of Jarvis’s right knee with a sickeningly clean shlick. It didn’t cut muscle or bone—it slid between, right into a pressure point.

Enough to buckle his leg and drop him slightly, just enough to completely throw off his balance.

And Creed?

He was already waiting!

He shifted his grip deftly, causing the spear to twist like a snake and snake back towards Jarvis’ neck, then stopped the thrust just centimeters from Jarvis’s chest, the tip of the spear drawing a tiny line of red right over his heart.

A whisper of blood slid down the polished edge of the spear and fell to the ground.

Silence.

Creed stepped back without a word. No arrogance. No gloating. He simply said, with the calm of someone ordering tea, "Good fight."

And just like that, he turned and walked back to his starting position, leaving Jarvis blinking in a daze, still kneeling from the impact, the cold steel of reality sinking into his chest.

"I... I lost..." Jarvis whispered. But it wasn’t shame he felt—it was awe. Pure admiration. He slowly stood, ignoring the slight tremble in his leg, and bowed deeply to Creed.

"You... you’re the real deal. I’ve never fought anyone like you. You’re like the geniuses from the Four Great Families. No—maybe even beyond that. You’ve got a future, man. A bright one."

Then he limped out of the ring with the strangest smile on his face; dazed, relieved, and half in love with Creed’s raw skill.

The girls were stunned.

Ivy, usually cool and unreadable, had the clearest hint of a smile on her lips—a genuine, dazzling curve of pride and admiration.

And Boris? Oh, Boris saw that smile. He saw it clearly. And it burned him alive!

That same Ivy, who had ignored all his efforts for attention for years.

That same Ivy, who had never so much as raised an eyebrow at his so-called achievements, was now staring at another man with emotion on her face.

Unforgivable!

Boris gritted his teeth, eyes flaring with rage, and then with a thunderous laugh, he jumped down from the stands.

His boots slammed into the arena floor with so much force that dust puffed up and the ground trembled. The echo of his landing was like a war drum signaling the final battle.

"Well, well, not bad," Boris said, flexing his broad shoulders, his smirk returning like a bad habit. "But playtime’s over."

Creed didn’t even blink.

But Ivy was already stepping forward, her expression serious now. "Wait. That’s not fair. Creed’s just gone through two intense fights back-to-back. He needs to recover—"

"She’s right!" Mia jumped in. "That’s totally against the rules! He’s not a machine!"

"Even I say let him rest," Jarvis said from the sideline, surprising everyone. "Fighting someone like you without recovery? That’s suicide."

Boris clenched his fists, veins bulging across his arms, but in the end, he snarled and spat to the side. "Fine. Twenty minutes. Then you’re mine."

Creed said nothing. Just nodded and sat down with his legs crossed, closing his eyes like someone about to take a nap before a math test.

His breathing slowed, and his aura retracted slightly. The energy around him stabilized, and his entire body took on a strange stillness—like a drawn sword held in place by nothing but willpower.

Twenty minutes passed in tense silence.

Then, as if awakened by an internal clock, Creed opened his eyes. The calm confidence in them hadn’t faded—it had sharpened.

He stood, brushed some dust off his clothes, and casually rolled his shoulders.

"I’m ready," he said with a small grin. "Let’s go."