Creating A Succubus Army In A Fantasy World!-Chapter 133: Old Monster!

Creed moved.

No, he vanished. The air cracked behind him like a whip as he exploded forward, covering the one-meter gap between himself and the old man in less than a second.

His boots didn’t so much touch the ground as skim over it, and the very space around him seemed to twist with his sheer momentum.

Creed’s body was a streak of motion, his eyes locked on the gleaming blue-and-gold gloves like a predator eyeing prey.

Every muscle in his body was drawn tight like a coiled spring.

The old man’s eyebrows lifted, clearly impressed, as he followed Creed’s trajectory with eyes that were, frustratingly, still calm.

Calm! The kind of calm that whispered, "Oh? So you’ve chosen to entertain me today?"

But Creed had expected that. The moment he saw those pupils lazily track his motion, he smirked mid-dash. That’s when he unleashed the real strike.

Boom!

His body blurred again—almost twice as fast this time, as he pushed his Stage 4 physique to its absolute peak.

Every drop of power surged into his limbs as he twisted mid-air, feinting to the left only to pivot sharply to the right, his dominant hand snapping out like a snake.

The man’s calm eyes finally widened as the glove entered Creed’s grasp range.

’Too late, old man!’ Creed’s fingers clamped down.

Got it!

Or so he thought.

In the same breath that he felt the smooth fabric in his hand, it vanished—literally turned to mist.

Like smoke slipping through his fingers, the gloves dissipated with a cruel hiss of non-reality. Creed’s pupils shrank. "Wha—?!"

It was an afterimage. A fake. The real gloves were now safely in the monk’s hand again.

The man, still standing in the exact same spot, smiled like a cat who just watched a bird crash into a glass window.

"Oh dear," he murmured with mock concern, "that was actually quite close."

Creed stared in disbelief. His mind instantly ran hundreds of calculations, comparing muscle movement, acceleration rates, probable field of vision, and timing.

That last strike... that was his best chance. His fastest, most perfectly-timed grab. The man should’ve had no time to react. None. And yet...

He still dodged.

"I’ve just been bamboozled by a living Q-tip..." Creed muttered, rubbing his temples.

’I’m not even sure I blinked during that dash. That was peak velocity, I even did a mid-motion redirect—how do you counter that without even moving your feet?!’

But he wasn’t done yet.

In the very next second, Creed leaned heavily on his left leg, forcing his center of mass to shift, and then;

Bam!

He fired off in the opposite direction, using the raw strength of his legs to thrust his body sideways at a speed no regular stage 2 should be capable of.

The monk’s one hand rule was a huge constraint. That meant his movement range was limited to a semi-circle defined by his shoulder’s flexibility.

Creed grinned to himself.

’If I angle myself to his outside shoulder, I’ll be in his blind spot. He’ll have to overextend or twist to block. If I bait his counter with a high feint and then dive low, I can force his palm upward, creating a narrow window for my other hand. If I layer the timing...’

Creed burst into range.

But just before his hand touched the gloves again, the old man did something so absurd that Creed’s brain paused for a full second.

He smacked the gloves to the ground.

Hard.

Instead of falling flat like any logical object, the gloves bounced off the alley’s concrete floor like they were made of rubber, arcing high into the air.

Creed’s jaw dropped. WHAT?!

The bounce was perfect—like the gloves were secretly enchanted bouncy balls. They sailed over Creed’s hand like a basketball on a trampoline and plop! landed right back into the monk’s open palm.

Creed blinked rapidly. "You’ve gotta be kidding me."

Physics. Friction. Impact dynamics. Gravity. Momentum. All those words and numbers that made the world behave normally?

Apparently this guy had a full cheat code override. The ground was hard. The gloves were soft. They weren’t even round! How the hell did they bounce like that?!

’Are you using anti-gravity thread or something?! I mean—what did you knit them with? Rubberized fiber? Rebounding silk?! Bouncetine?! Is that a thing?!’

The old man just chuckled. "Wouldn’t you like to know how I did that?"

Creed exhaled sharply, calming his rising frustration, then narrowed his eyes and made a decision.

Screw it. Risky play time.

Swoosh!

He charged in again—this time not for the gloves, but for the arm. As he dashed in, he reached forward and hooked the man’s wrist, locking it down using his elbow and bicep in a smooth, grappling-style maneuver.

And for a split second, it worked.

The monk’s arm was locked!

Creed’s eyes lit up. "Gotcha—"

Nope.

The old man leaned backward. Not stepped. Leaned. So far back that his spine formed a full arch, and his back hovered an inch above the ground like he was the final boss of a limbo contest.

His feet didn’t move, and yet his upper body bent in ways that made Creed question the man’s bone structure.

Was this guy made of rubber bands and shame?!

Creed reacted fast, lunging for the gloves again with his free hand—

Only to have the old man twist his waist with the fluidity of a dancer and slam his shoulder into Creed’s arm.

Not hard. Not violent. But perfectly timed to redirect Creed’s momentum.

Creed felt a flare of danger scream in his instincts at that moment.

He’s gonna counterattack!

He didn’t hesitate. He leapt back like a spring, putting five meters between them in less than half a second.

Creed had barely landed from his leap when a blinding white flash cut through the air behind him like the finger of an angry god.

The moment it passed his previous position, the space there literally shattered!

There was no sound at first—just the horrible, dead silence of reality itself getting punched in the face.

A heartbeat later, the space twisted like warped glass, and a deep BOOM thundered through the alleyway as the ground split open into a smoldering crater.

The very edges of the impact site sizzled with shimmering light, and the air trembled as if screaming from the trauma of what just happened.

Creed froze mid-breath. His eyes widened as the scene registered in his brain, and he felt an icy chill slither down his spine, the kind that makes your toes curl and your lungs forget how to breathe.

That was an attack, he thought numbly. A real, lethal attack!

If he had been a millisecond slower—no, a fraction slower—he’d be toast. Vaporized. Dustified.

Reduced to atoms and added to the alley’s local atmosphere!

’Why?!’ his brain screamed. ’What did I do wrong?!’

There were rules. The old man had made them very clear. Five minutes. One hand. No powers. No stepping back. No dirtying his clothes. Creed had followed them, right?

...Right?

That’s when it hit him. Like lightning across his thoughts, his mind replayed the last few seconds of chaos—and his eyes went wide with horror.

’He made me step back three times!’ Creed realized, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Not by force. Not with an attack. But through sheer trickery.

The old man’s dodges had been so fluid, so smooth, that Creed’s brain had been completely occupied chasing the gloves.

Every time the old man leaned or twisted, Creed adjusted his stance, kept charging in, kept moving—but just slightly, just subtly—backward. Three steps.

Three clean, full-body shuffles backward that he didn’t even notice!

And that was the terrifying part.

Creed wasn’t some rookie off the street. His instincts were honed. His body was trained. He never let himself move without knowing it.

But this old geezer—this yarn-wielding, snow-haired lunatic—had created such a complete mental misdirection that Creed hadn’t even realized his own legs were stepping away from the danger zone.

It was like being tricked by your own feet.

That level of psychological warfare... this guy’s a monster!

But there was no time to process further because, in that same instant, Creed noticed something far worse.

The monk’s previously immaculate white robe—so clean it practically glowed—now had tiny, almost invisible specks of dust clinging to it.

One near the elbow.

One on the right arm.

Two specks!

Then, Creed’s gaze dropped to his own boots... and he remembered the jump just now. He’d leapt backward. The rules were clear.

Three strikes!

His head snapped up.

OH NO—

He didn’t even get to finish the thought before his danger senses screamed.

His body, trained by instinct and a big helping of survival trauma, moved immediately.

Boom!

His Path of Killing flared out with wild intensity—raw, sharp, and lethal. In the same motion, Creed flung his palm out, fingers stiffened and shaped like a spear.

His Spear Domain erupted alongside it, a spiraling field of spear intent and focused violence that turned his surroundings into a lethal battlefield.

That was when he saw it; a white flash of light, just as fast as the last, coming at him from the left like a banshee of divine punishment!

No time for weapons. He didn’t even bother reaching for the real spear strapped in his storage ring. There wasn’t time. He had far less than a breath!

So his body became the weapon.

Creed’s path of killing surged to the maximum, and with a roar in his heart, he launched his palm-spear toward the incoming streak.

His fingers glowed with energy, his body hardened by his will, and his strike carried not just strength—but desperation.

The two forces collided.

BOOOOOOM!!!