Creating A Succubus Army In A Fantasy World!-Chapter 178: Stop Acting Like A Sissy!

Creed was absolutely glued to the scene in front of him. Through the transparent chamber window, he watched as the group of teenagers that were probably no older than him screamed and twitched under a storm of what looked like translucent, lightning-like energy strands.

The glowing strands didn’t look all too harmful at first glance, but the way the youths reacted said otherwise.

They were contorting, crying, their veins bulging with a disturbing blue light as the strands dug into their skin and then vanished through their pores like living snakes.

Every few seconds, a strange gong-like sound would ring out, and the energy strands would pulse, latching even deeper into the kids’ bodies like they were rewiring them from the inside out.

The whole process looked less like training and more like torture from a dystopian sci-fi novel.

And Creed, in all his socially normal glory, leaned in closer with wide eyes, muttering, "This is... kinda scary?"

That was when a hand moved toward his shoulder, and his instincts—honed by countless battles, assassination attempts, and life-or-death missions—kicked in.

Swoosh!

Creed spun around so fast that he nearly tripped over himself, just barely dodging the hand that had come to rest on his shoulder.

A familiar gruff voice clicked its tongue and said, "How do you always manage to sense me, you little brat?"

Creed blinked and stared. Standing behind him was the ever-mysterious old monk in his snowy white robes, looking as unbothered as ever.

The man’s face was still framed by his absurdly dark under-eye circles, like he hadn’t slept since the invention of bread.

His expression was somewhere between a disappointed frown and a reluctant nod of approval, like a parent who just caught their kid breaking into the cookie jar, but doing it with style.

Creed’s brain took a moment to catch up, then relief washed over him. "You! You crusty, panda-eyed monk! Am I glad to see your wrinkly face!" he said with a grin that was both mocking and genuine.

"For a second I thought I was trapped in some cult’s secret underground gym."

"Technically not far off," the monk muttered.

But Creed was already mid-rant. "Okay, okay, forget all that. Let’s start with the real horror. I heard something—no, I was told something—deeply disturbing.

"Tell me. Is it true? Fiancee? Me? Did someone sell me off like a family cow behind my back?"

The old monk sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he already regretted showing up.

"You really aren’t normal, are you? Most people in your situation would be screaming about assassination attempts or underground conspiracies. But you? You’re worried about a girl. A very powerful, terrifying, ice-cold girl at that."

"You’re dodging the question, old man. Don’t think I didn’t notice," Creed said, dramatically pointing a finger at him like a lawyer in a courtroom.

"And I’m allowed to panic. Do you know how dangerous attractive women are? Especially the mysterious, dark-skinned types?

"They have a ninety-eight percent chance of kicking you through a wall after you say something stupid. I’m not trying to get turned into a meat pancake."

The old monk had already started walking down the hallway, robes swishing behind him. "Let’s go, chatterbox. Walk and complain."

Naturally, Creed followed, still flinging questions like confetti. "So she’s not my fiancée, right? I mean, this is probably a misunderstanding. Yeah?"

The monk paused, then flicked Creed’s forehead with such inhuman speed that the boy didn’t even have time to blink.

It felt like getting smacked by a bullet of pure karma.

"OW! What the hell!?" Creed staggered back, clutching his forehead. "You trying to give me a third eye?!"

"Enough. You’ll know what you need to know when you’re ready," the old monk said sternly.

"Some things, if you poke too early, you just invite disaster. What you need to do right now is grow. That’s the only thing that matters."

Creed rubbed his aching forehead, finally dropping the fiancé argument temporarily.

"Fine. But at least tell me what this place is, who sent those assassins, or what those kids are being juiced into back there. Something, anything?"

"The same answer applies," the monk said calmly. "You’re not strong enough yet to survive the answers.

"If I told you more, you’d only waste your efforts worrying about matters you can’t change. And worse... you’d start drawing attention from eyes that are better left blind, for now."

Creed didn’t argue immediately. He walked in silence for a bit, thoughts turning slowly. The man’s tone had shifted slightly.

It wasn’t just secrecy for secrecy’s sake, there was a protective edge to his voice, like he wanted to tell Creed everything but couldn’t. Or maybe... shouldn’t.

Then the monk stopped. They were in front of another sealed door, larger than the training chamber.

Glowing runes danced around its frame like living creatures, shifting shapes every second. The old man turned toward Creed, face now oddly serious.

"Listen carefully, Creed. The road ahead is brutal. I don’t need you to be good. I need you to be unstoppable.

"My request is simple: before you graduate from the Academy, you must become strong enough to one-shot a Hope."

Creed’s mouth dropped open. "One-shot a—WHOA, whoa, whoa! You realize Hopes are like... diamond level, right? That’s not a casual weekend goal, that’s a death wish with glitter on it!"

"I’m not asking you to fight one today," the old monk said, voice grave. "But you must reach that level. That is your baseline. Only then will you be useful in what’s coming."

Creed’s humor evaporated. "What’s coming?"

The monk didn’t answer. He simply smiled that same cryptic smile and turned away.

But this time, there was no flicker of amusement in his expression. It was like he could already see what was coming.

Creed stood in the hallway alone for a moment longer, mind racing. Strong enough to one-shot a Hope? That was beyond ambitious. That was shocking. And yet...

A tiny spark of resolve lit in his chest. Not because of pressure. Not because someone told him to.

But because the moment someone told him he couldn’t, Creed Walden made it his mission to prove them wrong and rewrite the rules while he was at it.

He stared at the corridor the old monk had disappeared into, shook his head, and muttered, "This place is way too weird to be left alone in."

He broke into a light jog to catch up. After all, the old man was his only ticket out of here.

Creed had no idea what the layout of this underground fortress was, and for all he knew, walking into the wrong room might accidentally launch a missile strike or open a portal to another dimension.

He’d already almost been force-fed a life-changing revelation and possibly an arranged marriage, he didn’t need any more surprises today.

He caught up to the old monk, who was surprisingly spry for someone that looked like he had never slept for five-hundred-years, and walked beside him for a while in silence.

Then Creed’s curiosity won out. "Hey, old man," he said, eyes narrowed, "just how strong is she, really? You said she’s my fiancée, so I should probably know if I’m engaged to a goddess or a ticking time bomb."

The old monk didn’t even look back. "Strong enough to one-shot you."

Creed nearly tripped over his own feet. "What?! Come on, don’t joke like that."

But the old monk let out a dry, wheezing laugh that echoed through the stone corridor like someone had stuffed a frog into a flute.

"I’m not joking, brat. At your current level? Silver-level or not, she’d flatten you like a pancake in a bear trap. You’d be fertilizer."

Creed crossed his arms and frowned. "That’s impossible. I’m stage four, closing in on silver. I’m not weak! One-shotting me should be at least Gold-level strength. Maybe even peak Gold if I’m serious!"

The monk shrugged, still grinning. "Guess she’s just special, then."

Creed clicked his tongue and asked the second thing that had been bugging him.

"Okay, fine. So how old is she? You can’t keep calling her my fiancée if she’s like thirty and I’m still a teenager."

This time, the monk didn’t answer immediately. He hesitated, which was a first. Creed caught it and instantly leaned in. "C’mon. If she’s my future wife, I’ve got the right to know."

The old man let out a sigh like he’d just been scammed into babysitting a nosy kitten. "She turns twenty next month."

"WHAT?!"

Creed’s voice echoed off the walls like someone had fired a cannon of confusion. His brain short-circuited. "She’s nineteen? And she’s that strong already?"

The monk turned and gave him a rare, quiet look. "Brat... you really have no idea what Earth’s power system is like behind closed doors, do you?

"What most people see is just the surface. A flashy, pretty little lie. The real monsters... are hidden away.

"Most of the SSS-rank talents that awaken in the low-tier bastions, if they don’t have strong families to protect them, they’re sent here—where things are quiet, secure, and serious."

Creed blinked. "Wait. You mean—?"

"You were supposed to be sent here too," the old man interrupted, waving a hand lazily. "But I pulled some strings. Now you get to enjoy a bit of freedom before the big leagues come knocking. The dimensional beasts aren’t the true enemy."

The way he said it made Creed frown. There was something layered in that statement. A double meaning.

The monk hadn’t just pulled strings to give him freedom. He’d moved Creed into a different kind of game entirely.

And then there was that last line... "The Dimensional Beasts are not the true enemy."

He hadn’t said it like a warning. More like a whisper that was meant to slip through unnoticed.

But Creed noticed. His mind turned the phrase over and over like a puzzle box. If they weren’t the true enemy, then who—or what—was?

Before he could ask, they reached a large chamber with an extremely dense, dark-blue metal door that gleamed faintly under the artificial lights.

The surface was seamless and hard, like it had been grown rather than forged. The old monk placed a hand on a crystal beside it and the door slid open with a hiss.

"Step in," the man said.

Creed raised an eyebrow. "You’re not gonna say what’s inside?"

"Do you want to go home or not?"

Point taken. Creed stepped in cautiously and found himself in a smooth circular chamber filled with blinking holographic screens.

In the center was a circular platform with glowing runes etched into its edge. The ceiling was high, metallic, and domed, like some kind of sci-fi teleportation pad straight out of a movie.

The old monk pointed. "Stand on the transporter. It’ll send you back to Infernal Ice Bastion."

Creed stepped up, feeling the buzz of energy under his boots. He turned to the man and asked, "When will I see you again? And... when do I come back here?"

The monk tilted his head, smiling in that annoying way like he knew ten secrets for every one Creed did. "When you’re ready."

Then he reached into his robes and pulled out a small, white pellet the size of a marble.

"Swallow this. It’s packed with high-grade condensed energy. Enough to guarantee your breakthrough to silver."

Creed’s eyes widened. "That’s too much! I already got those gloves you knitted. I can’t just keep accepting things!"

The monk sighed like a disappointed grandpa. "Why do you have to be so stubborn?"

Creed puffed up. "I have principles!"

Without warning, the old monk vanished and reappeared directly in front of him.

Before Creed could flinch, he got punched squarely in the gut with a strength that stole the breath from his lungs. His mouth opened involuntarily—

Flick! The monk tossed the pellet in, and Creed swallowed it with a cough.

"See? Easy," the monk said cheerfully. "Stop acting like a sissy."

And with a single tap on the transporter’s interface, the platform glowed, then flashed bright blue, and Creed vanished from the room.