Creating A Succubus Army In A Fantasy World!-Chapter 173: A Special Wildcard.

The moon was silent.

Not the kind of silence that echoed through the vacuum of space, but the sort of deliberate, calculated hush that came from power—raw, ancient, and organized.

If one were to hover above Earth and peer toward its silvery satellite, they would see nothing out of the ordinary.

No glowing cities. No reflective structures. Just the same craters and dusty plains that had stared blankly at Earth for millennia.

But that was only the surface. Beneath the desolate shell of rock and dust, hidden under layers of cloaking fields more advanced than anything Earth had ever dreamed of, lay a structure known only to a handful of Great Humans; the Moon Bastion, the high-orbit citadel of the Dawn Accord.

Massive domes that defied physics rose in shifting gravity, their foundations anchored in extradimensional cores.

Floating data-spheres hummed with alien codes, bouncing between translucent screens that flickered in languages no Earth-based human had yet seen.

Creatures that looked vaguely human—if humans had evolved in light instead of flesh—walked calmly across transparent floors that hovered in midair.

The walls weren’t walls. They were intelligent material that were able to reshape, absorb sound, even generate illusions to suit whoever walked past.

It was silent here, yes, but not because it was empty. The silence was intentional. Enforced. Like a courtroom right before a verdict was given.

Inside the main chamber, twelve seats circled a massive holographic table that projected Earth in shocking detail.

You could zoom in and see a street fight in a Tier 4 Bastion, or a bird’s migration pattern over an unexplored region.

The technology was mind-boggling, like reality itself had been streamed and stored in real-time.

Around the table sat the Councilors of Dawn, each one cloaked in a style that reflected their System of allegiance but overlaid with sigils that marked them as Accord members.

They were no longer bound by borders, but by purpose.

"We’re behind schedule," said a woman whose voice was gentle but whose eyes could’ve pierced steel.

Her long hair shimmered like woven silver thread, but her robes were dyed in battle-blood crimson—the mark of a War Archivist from the Solar Archives of Europa.

"The preliminary synchronization with Earth’s combatants is too slow. Less than six percent resonance achieved."

A man made entirely of smoke, cloaked in flickers of flame that danced but never burned, leaned forward with a sigh.

"You expected more from a Tier-3 seed world. It’s Earth, Amada. They’re unpredictable by design."

"Unpredictable is acceptable. Unresponsive is not," said a third voice—low, guttural, vibrating with a layered harmonic.

The being who spoke was no longer fully flesh. His body pulsed with compact runes, and each breath he took gave off a faint echo.

"The recruitment program is stalling. The Wildcards are progressing too slowly."

That word again. Wildcards. It meant more than just prodigies.

Wildcards were the true variables. They were humans with the rare potential to become so powerful they couldn’t be predicted by even the Accord’s most powerful clairvoyants.

They were the fail-safe, the contingency plan, the chaos edge in a war that had grown too stagnant.

Earth had produced exactly 79 confirmed Wildcards in the last thirty years.

"But they passed," a fourth voice said, leaning back in his seat, arms folded. "Rank one. Not bad for a planet with no backing or guidance. We should observe a little longer before interfering."

The woman—Amada—frowned. "They’ve already stumbled into partial Path synergy. Do you understand how rare that is before Tier 4? They’re not a normal seed world. And yet they don’t even know what the Accords are."

"The system is working as designed," said another councilor with skin made of reflective chrome. "Our gift was delivered. The dimensional bracelet will slowly guide them."

"Slowly," Amada repeated, as if tasting the word and finding it bitter. "We don’t have time for slow. The Nihilites aren’t waiting."

The table darkened for a moment. At the mention of that name—Nihilites—the atmosphere shifted.

The peace of the council dissolved into a quiet tension that seeped into the air like smoke. The Nihilites were the reason the Accords even existed.

They were entropy given form. Creatures of void and anti-existence who saw destruction not as a means, but as a state of perfection.

The great war of existence was not some future possibility, it was already underway, waged on planets and solar systems Earth wasn’t even aware of.

And Earth, whether it liked it or not, was now part of the battlefield.

"Regardless," the being of flame finally said, "We must prepare for stage two of the Plan. The echoes will arrive soon."

"Too soon," someone whispered.

A silence fell again, but this time, it wasn’t the kind of silence that came from stillness. No. This was the quiet right before something entered.

Far above the Moon Bastion, near the edge of the dark side, the first echo stirred.

It wasn’t a sound exactly. It was a feeling. A ripple of wrongness. A distortion in space that moved like a shadow without a source.

It pulsed once, like a heartbeat heard through a dream, and then split into three perfect rings of light that expanded outward, passing through reality like it was made of smoke.

On Earth, not a single person saw it.

Not yet.

Far above Earth’s orbital defense perimeter, in the folds between spatial layers where reality frayed into fragments, a rupture blinked open like a slow, sideways eyelid.

Three ships—no, more like creatures carved into metallic shapes—slithered through the split space, dragging tendrils of shimmering antimatter behind them.

Their forms pulsed with energy older than some stars, their engines humming not with fuel but with desire. Desire to interfere. To claim. To test.

They arrived in silence. But that silence was like a shout in the void.

The three Echoes floated above their obsidian thrones like sovereign specters. Their faces were obscured by masks—fluid, ever-shifting shapes that made it impossible to determine their true expressions.

One resembled a swirling galaxy, the second a cracked mirror, and the third a golden hourglass bleeding sand into nothingness.

Together, they radiated pressure that was not just the kind that crushed bones, but the kind that made entire nations rethink their ambitions.

"We didn’t come for war," the one with the mirror-mask spoke, its voice echoing backward and forward in time. "We came because a pawn has emerged."

A ripple of silence.

The Dawn Accord ambassador, a grizzled man with short-cropped silver hair and a breathing implant clamped to his neck, stepped forward with heavy authority.

"You cross secured boundaries without announcement or invitation. That alone is a provocation. Declare your intent fully, or leave this space."

The galaxy-masked Echo leaned forward lazily, as though reclining into the cosmos.

"If you were ready to handle what’s coming, we wouldn’t have needed to come at all. But you are not. So we’ve come to observe, and to interfere—if necessary."

A sharp clang rang out as a third voice joined the argument. This time, from the Earth-side.

A woman; tall, draped in a cloak of woven nanothreads that glimmered like a nebula, stepped beside the Dawn Accord rep.

"You said a Pawn has emerged. You mean a Wildcard, don’t you? Which one?"

All three Echoes laughed, the sound distorting the space between dimensions. The laughter wasn’t cruel but just deeply amused.

The hourglass Echo tilted its head. "He’s not one of your official picks. Not yet. But he’s... interesting. Unscripted. A variable born of entropy and instinct. And something else. The kind of chaos we appreciate."

"You mean you’re here to meddle," the silver-haired ambassador snapped. "You’re forbidden from interference under Accord Law."

"We helped write the Accord Law," the mirror-mask said with a shrug. "We know how to bend it."

The argument flared like wildfire from there. For the next twenty minutes, both sides went back and forth. Accusations.

Legal frameworks. Dimensional treaties. References to battles fought on forgotten moons and secret decisions made in Eden’s shadowy halls.

The Dawn side accused the Echoes of destabilizing planetary evolution.

The Echoes accused the Dawn Accord of stagnation, of breeding champions like livestock for a war none of them fully understood.

"We do not need another Wildcard born of reckless ambition!" the woman with the nanothread cloak declared.

"We don’t care what you need," the hourglass replied calmly. "We’re here to make sure what we need survives."

Finally, the decision was made.

The Echoes stood in unison. "We will not touch him. Not directly. But we will watch. And when he moves, we will decide if the board is ready to be flipped. This is our decision. Final. Record it in your archives."

Without waiting for a response, the three beings vanished into cascading folds of space, warping the air so violently that reality shimmered like a broken mirror for several seconds.

The Dawn Accord reps stood in tense silence, unsure of what had just truly begun.

.....

Back on Earth, inside the vast crystal-walled records hall of the Ambassadors Academy—deep below the surface level campus—a solitary man sat in the dark, staring at floating screens.

He didn’t wear a uniform. He didn’t need one. His clearance was above professors, tutors, and even half the Head Committee.

To most of the school, he was just a strange administrator who handled scouting and scholarship reviews.

But those who knew... knew better.

A tiny red dot blinked in the top right of his screen.

"Secure channel. Priority alpha. Patch through," he muttered.

A smooth female voice crackled through the speakers. "Directive Nine. Situation Update. The Echoes have moved. They’ve declared interest in a Hope Candidate not officially enrolled." freewebnσvel.cѳm

The man blinked. Then raised an eyebrow. "Unofficial? They usually wait until we submit lists."

"This one broke our entrance exam record. Three superior paths. All while just at Stage 4."

The man slowly leaned back in his chair. "What’s the name?"

"Creed Walden."

That got him. His fingers danced over the console, pulling up Creed’s profile with practiced ease.

Data flowed. Feedback logs. Simulation AI stress responses. Mental resilience graphs. Spear domain resonance curves.

All far above normal thresholds for a student his stage.

And then the footage played.

Creed, leaping through the Dominion Arena, battling Nicholas fiercely.

Each strike of his spear was backed by the power and comprehensions of not just one Superior Path, but three!

And at the end... the final technique. A single crimson line that sliced through a mountain like it was paper.

"Line of Death..." the man whispered.

He tilted his head as the replay looped again. Then again. Each time, he caught something new.

The way Creed’s feet positioned before strikes. The moment of stillness before the kill. The way his intent shaped not just the attack, but the entire battlefield around him.

There was something primal in his rhythm. Something ancient.

The spy—because that was what he truly was—slowly stood up.

"Creed Walden..." he said again, this time with a smile. "Interesting. Very interesting. We’ll have to take this one seriously."

He waved a hand, and all the screens disappeared except for one. A still frame of Creed, face bloodied, but eyes burning with intent as he stood tall at the end of the exam.

"Let’s begin deeper analysis," the man said. "And prepare a shadow mentor. This one’s going to cause... delightful problems."