Creating A Succubus Army In A Fantasy World!-Chapter 127: Equal Footing!

The arena buzzed with tension, and all eyes locked onto the tall figure standing at the center of the stage—Creed.

He looked almost out of place there, too calm, too relaxed, like he’d just wandered onto the battlefield by mistake and was too polite to leave.

From the stands, the Crimson Thunder members leaned forward, smirking with glee, ready to watch their powerhouse crush the "puny Stage 2 kid" into a meat pancake.

But Ivy and the rest of the girls could only watch with a cocktail of fear and curiosity. Creed may have been calm, but this was still a Stage 4 Peak opponent!

And not just any Stage 4, this one looked like he’d been raised in a dungeon and fed raw steel for breakfast.

Then, without a word, Creed casually raised his hand, and in a brief shimmer of light, his black-and-gold spear slid into existence, summoned from his storage ring.

Creed spun it lazily in his fingers, the shaft whistling softly, and for a moment, it looked like things were about to get serious.

But just as quickly, he stopped.

He stared at the spear. Then at the opponent. Then back at the spear again.

"Meh," he muttered, and to everyone’s shock, he slid it back into his ring like a guy putting away a flyswatter because the mosquito didn’t seem worth the effort.

The arena collectively blinked.

From the other side, his opponent didn’t appreciate the gesture.

"YOU’RE GONNA REGRET THAT, YOU COCKY LITTLE RAT!"

With a snarl, the man’s skin shimmered like liquid mercury, hardening into a shiny silver shell.

Then with a horrifying squelch, his arms twisted and morphed into long, jagged blades, like curved butcher knives forged in a nightmare.

But he wasn’t done—stage 4 Blade Intent surged around him, surrounding his twin arm-blades in a thin aura of razor-sharp energy that hummed and crackled with killing intent.

Even the floor beneath his feet hissed as the blades dragged near it, leaving behind shallow grooves in the reinforced tiles.

Then he moved.

Bang!

In a blink, he vanished, his movement technique giving him a sudden burst of explosive speed that cracked the air behind him.

One moment he was on the far side of the arena, and the next, he was inches from Creed, his arms slicing forward in a massive, cross-shaped strike designed to cleave Creed into artistic ribbons!

But Creed had already moved.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t loud. He just... wasn’t there anymore.

The strike tore through the empty space with a shriek, creating a violent gust that sent dust and loose debris flying, and the audience gasped.

Bladey—let’s just call him that—landed where Creed had just been and spun around, shocked. That should’ve hit. It always hit!

But Creed was behind him now, hands still in his pockets.

’This guy’s movement technique is good,’ Creed thought with a calm analytical stare, his eyes following every twitch of the enemy’s muscle fibers.

Boosted his base speed by around 170%. A linear burst technique—good for closing gaps, bad for mid-battle adjustments. Weakness is in directional change.

Bladey growled and lunged again, this time lifting a thick leg and sending it hurtling toward Creed’s waist.

But mid-kick, the leg morphed. With another wet shift, the shin turned into a long blade, adding several feet to the attack’s range in an attempt to catch Creed off guard.

The air whistled as the weaponized limb approached him like a guillotine aimed for his ribs.

But Creed had already seen it coming.

In fact, he’d predicted it a second ago.

With a single, calm step, he shifted out of the kick’s arc. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just... precise. Like he’d danced with death before and found its rhythm boring.

And then came the slap.

It was slow. It was casual. It was—dare one say—elegant.

Creed raised his palm with the same effort one might use to wave away a fly, but this palm glowed red hot with his Stage 2 Aura, now fused with his Path of Killing!

Howl!

A blood-red shimmer coated his hand, and a faint howling sound echoed faintly from the energy; like a choir of vengeful spirits had been trapped in his palm, screaming for release.

SLAP!

The impact echoed through the arena like a thunderclap. A visible shockwave burst from the point of contact, rippling outward like a bomb had gone off in the air itself.

Bladey’s eyes rolled back, his jaw twisted at a completely unnatural angle, and the entire left side of his face folded.

Like, literally crumpled like a poorly parked bicycle!

His body spun mid-air and then flopped to the ground with a heavy THUD, his blades instantly retracting as he lay motionless, looking like a man halfway through a nap he didn’t sign up for.

The arena fell so silent you could hear the sound of Creed adjusting his jacket.

Even the Ai lights around the stage flickered in confusion—as if the training hall itself was like, "Wait, what just happened?"

Mia’s mouth hung open. Rin dropped her water bottle. Ivy just stared, blinking rapidly like she was trying to refresh her internal logic processor.

The Crimson Thunder squad looked like someone had just deleted the laws of physics.

Creed, meanwhile, just cracked his knuckles and let out a small yawn.

"One down," he said, strolling back to his corner like he’d just finished reorganizing his bookshelf.

For a full five seconds, no one said a word.

Bladey, the previously smug and confident peak Stage 4 warrior, lay sprawled on the floor like a broken mannequin in a discount warehouse.

His arm blades had melted back into flesh, his nose was somehow pointed west when the rest of his face faced north, and his unconscious body was twitching slightly as if trying to understand what just happened.

The audience, both teams included, just stared at Creed—whose palm still smoked lightly from that god-tier slap—as if he had casually drop-kicked the laws of reality into a trash can.

Boris, the pink-mohawked leader of the Crimson Thunder team, finally snapped out of the silence with a sharp intake of breath.

His pupils shrank. His gut churned. His soul screamed. He had only seen something like that once before—a tier 1 genius casually turning someone two stages above into floor paste.

’But this guy’s just a Stage 2... right?’ he thought, sweat forming under his collar.

His mind raced back to that red aura that had surrounded Creed’s palm. ’Wait a damn second... was that a PATH?’

That wasn’t something a normal Stage 2 could have.

Paths were advanced dimensional concepts; powerful forces unlocked only by the truly awakened.

Most ordinary Bronze-level warriors barely even understood what intents were, let alone developed a path!

Silver-level elites sometimes glimpsed them, and only Gold-level fighters wielded them regularly in battle.

And here was Creed, calm as a mountain breeze, smacking his opponent like a disobedient child with a Path-imbued palm no less!

The fear curdled in Boris’s gut... then boiled over into anger.

"So you’ve been toying with us, huh?" he growled. "You think this is some kind of game?! Jarvis! Get in there and crush him!"

From behind Boris, a man stood up with the patience of a monk but the aura of a charging train.

Jarvis was a mid-Stage 5, and everyone in the Crimson Thunder squad knew better than to speak when he was moving.

The big man adjusted the black gloves on his thick hands, said nothing more than a curt, gravelly "Jarvis," then casually dragged Bladey’s unconscious body out of the arena like a sack of dirty laundry.

He didn’t even look at Creed until he was back at the starting point.

The air grew heavy.

On the girls’ side, awe had completely overtaken fear. Ivy, Rin, Mia—they couldn’t believe what they’d just witnessed.

Sure, Creed had always been strong, and in their last rift raid together nearly a month ago, he’d shown some incredible moves, but this?

This was insane! It was like he’d gone from a super-talented bronze to a walking myth in just a few weeks.

’How fast is he growing?’ Ivy thought, staring at Creed’s back like she was seeing him for the first time.

Creed slowly reached for his storage ring again and this time brought out his black and gold spear.

He spun it again with a twirl of his wrist and casually stepped back into the stage, exhaling lightly. "Guess I’ve gotta stop playing now," he muttered under his breath.

Jarvis took one look at Creed, then charged.

The entire floor shook. His blood ignited with a crimson blaze, and his skin flushed with glowing red patterns.

His eyes burned with fury, and behind him, the mirage of a massive crimson bull—its horns crackling with blood aura—materialized, snorting steam.

The Raging Bull Bloodline!

A savage bloodline of strength and fury that turned its user into an unstoppable juggernaut!

He didn’t even warm up, he went all in instantly, roaring as he launched himself forward.

Creed’s brows rose. "Oh?" he muttered. "You’re serious, huh."

The moment Jarvis stepped into range, his right arm cocked back, and with a savage bellow, he unleashed his signature technique; Shockwave Fist.

Bam!

The air in front of his fist condensed violently, creating a swirl of visible pressure that glowed red.

It wasn’t just a punch—it was a mini explosion of raw force that bent the space around it.

This was a peak Stage 4 technique that even Stage 5s didn’t casually block without bracing themselves.

It had torn through rift bosses, shattered enchanted stone, and once knocked a steel stage 5 golem off its feet!

Creed’s eyes narrowed.

’Yeah... that’s strong,’ he thought, ’but not enough to scare me.’

He reinforced his body instantly with his Stage 2 aura, layering his skin with protective energy, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough to take the punch head-on.

Physically, Jarvis had the edge. But strength wasn’t everything.

So Creed grinned.

And vanished.

He blinked out of the path of the punch using his Primordial Link teleportation. The shockwave punched nothing but air—then exploded.

Bam!

A crimson blast of force detonated across the arena like a cannon shot, shattering tiles and sending a shockwave out toward Creed’s new position.

But this time, Creed didn’t dodge.

He calmly raised his spear and stabbed forward with a single elegant thrust.

Boom!

His Stage 4 Physique thrummed with power, and the raw force of the red shockwave crumbled against the thrust like waves breaking on a stone pillar.

"Nice punch," Creed said with a smirk. "My turn."

In the next instant, he activated his movement skill Triple Pounce.

His body blurred forward in a short-range burst, closing the gap in a heartbeat.

As he moved, his spear crackled with grey light—his Double Pierce technique, a peak Stage 2 move that normally wouldn’t hold up against a Stage 5.

But this time, he did something different. He infused it with his Path of Killing.

The spear howled with power. It wasn’t just a spear now; it was a harbinger of violence, a symbol of finality.

A wave of dread filled the air as it’s two lights streaked toward Jarvis’s chest with terrifying precision.

But Jarvis wasn’t just muscle. He saw it coming and countered.

With a roar, he launched another Shockwave Fist forward, the two attacks colliding mid-air in a flash of red and red.

BOOM!

The impact sent both fighters flying backward, their feet skidding across the cracked arena tiles.

A blast of air lifted from the force of the clash, and the air trembled with lingering power.

They stopped at opposite ends of the ring, eyes locked. Equal footing. Equal force.

The crowd gasped. No one could believe it. Creed, a Stage 2, had just matched a mid-Stage 5 head-on.

And he was smiling.