Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made

All he ended up doing was failing monumentally.

Training, no matter how brutal, usually kept one busy or distracted. But the rigid T-stance that Astensia had Lancet do was not only painful. It was boring.

The first hour wrecked his shoulder. The second hour shattered his pride. By the third, his breath sounded like the dying engine of an old truck.

Lancet felt like he too was going to die, at some point he thought he was already dead. He didn’t have the exact adjectives to fit the immense pain he was going through.

On the other hand, the sight of Astensia sitting in front of him in the destroyed castle was the soothing part of it. He didn’t mind that at all.

But she was barely showing him any mercy. The sword had fallen multiple times and all she would do was tell him to pick it up and keep going.

What kind of Summon watches her Master suffer?

She laughed whenever he said that.

The sun slid across the castle’s roofline. Time was trickling by, albeit very slowly in Lancet’s opinion. He had been standing like a scarecrow for hours, with only a few minutes given to him for a lunch break.

His arm trembled like a scared goat. The sword dragged at his wrist and sweat poured down his bloated red face, stinging his eyes.

He wanted to cry.

”Try to hold, Master,” Astensia said.

”I am,” he hissed between his teeth.

”Be gentle and firm,” she added, gentler now. ”Do not bargain with the weight, Master Lancet. All it wants to do is wear you down, make you give up. Own it.”

Lancet did his very best to do just that, to ignore the relief that came with giving up, and focus on ’owning’ the weight.

The rules were simple enough. If he maintained this position, the weight of the sword would continuously pull him down, ache both arms especially his wielding arm.

He had to hold it until the weight vanished. Not because the sword grew lighter, but because his body grew stronger.

Because the sword was now part of himself.

As simple as it was, it was almost impossible to execute.

Lancet failed, and failed again. The blade dipped. His elbow buckled. His shoulder burned and ached, and his collarbone had turned sour.

Every time the point of the blade drooped, Astensia would quietly lift it with two fingers and set it back straight.

At some point, Lancet didn’t even care about gazing at her cleavage each time she got close. He just wanted the pain to end.

The sound of metal echoed in the courtyard as the sword fell once more.

”Want to go again?” Astensia asked softly.

”I hate this,” Lancet muttered. Then he looked up at her. ”But yes.”

Lancet knew one thing: He wasn’t good at fighting, but he stopped now, he never would. With everything going on, he had to get better.

Astensia beamed at his determination.

By the fourth hour, it didn’t feel at all like there was any improvement. Perhaps Astensia might have seen it, but Lancet could only feel a buttload of pain.

In time, his arm gave out from the pressure again and the sword clanged against the stone floor.

Astensia watched him sigh with a caring smile. She picked up the sword, offered it to him, and simply asked, ”Again?”

Lancet looked at her for a moment, then claimed the weapon by the hilt. ”Again.”

He took the scarecrow position one more time.

Astensia slowly paced around him, arms folded. ”Breathe from your diaphragm, Master. Shoulders down.”

Whenever he drifted, she anchored him. ”The blade is part of your arm, it’s not a guest. Even if it was, do not invite something you cannot carry.”

When he growled in frustration, she smiled, watching from her slab. ”Don’t worry. I’ll stay here as long as you need. I do not know any entertaining tricks, hopefully my presence is at least half as entertaining.”

Lancet had no choice but to smile. ”It is, Astensia.” He paused to look at her. ”Thank you for doing this.”

”I serve you, Master. No thanks are required.”

By the sixth hour, Lancet felt like he was starting to get a hang of it. The blade dipped at times, but never fell.

Lancet held the position. Like a scarecrow.

Soon, the unbelievable happened. The tremor passed. His shoulder was no longer burning, his wrists weren’t aching. And it had been an hour since the last time the blade dipped.

Astensia must have noticed it too because her eyes turned sharper as she watched him. The seventh hour was nearing, and yet the blade had not dipped.

She stepped from the slab, anticipation in her stride.

”Keep holding it, Master,” she whispered to hide her excitement.

”I am,” Lancet said, and this time it wasn’t a lie.

Astensia walked closer, counting the seconds in her mind as the seventh hour approached. Once it did, her lips parted into a big beautiful smile.

”You did it, Master!” she praised. ”You have mastered the first weight!”

Lancet lowered the sword carefully, feeling a rush of fulfillment flow through him.

Seven hours! Seven hours it took him to master the weight of a freaking sword. But at least it was worth it.

Not only was he stronger, but he got to see the smile on that beautiful face of hers.

”So... you’re impressed?” he asked her.

”I am proud,” she corrected. It landed like a benediction.

”Hmm. Proud is not bad. It’s better than impressed, I suppose,” he said, grinning despite the sweat. ”But hold on. Maybe I didn’t hear you well before but did you say ’first weight?’”

They stared at each other.

”Left hand,” Astensia said at once.

Lancet frowned. ”Seriously?”

”Wielders who die often do so because they never learned to live with weakness. We’ll train your left hand another day.”

Lancet let out a sigh. ”That’s a relief.”

”How about we move on to combat for now,” Astensia suggested. ”I’m not a Swordsmaster, but with my Instant Comprehension there is basically no weapon I can not use. I can teach you fairly well how to fight with a sword.”

Lancet’s blue eyes glistened. ”I can’t wait.”

”Alright!” Astensia unsheathed the Blessed Blade and spun it by her side. ”There are eight main types of sword attacks. High Sun. Low Moon. East Wind. West Wind. Falling Star. Rising River. Serpent’s Cross, and Angel’s Needle.”

Lancet stared at her. ”Astensia, that was way too many words.”

She smiled. ”You’ll catch on quick. Don’t worry.”

She was fairly right. Lancet did catch on quick.

They drilled the cuts together. Vertical down (High Sun), diagonal right (West Wind), diagonal left (East Wind), a short, savage thrust (Angel’s Needle).

With these names, Lancet found swordsmanship very easy to learn. He hadn’t really tested other weapons but he already subconsciously decided that the sword would be the weapon of his choice.

Cliche as that was.

Astensia layered in footwork. She taught him how to advance, gather, retreat, and sidestep. She made him count beats in his head—one for measure, two for claim, three for finish—until he hated numbers.

Then she taught him how to parry.

She made him bind her blade. Made sure he felt the pressure through the crossguard. Because of her near perfection in using the blade, Lancet pushed himself harder, wanting to keep up with her. Even though it was impossible.

As hours passed, sweat drenched his back. When Astensia stopped the training, he almost kissed the floor in thanks.

Lancet rested his back on the pillar, panting the hardest he’d ever panted in his life. As she watched him, Astensia tried not to feel guilty for putting her Master through such gruesome training.

Though it was nothing like what she went through during the Era of Ash, she could see the toll it had taken on his much weaker body. Even though it was for his own benefit.

And he did ask for it.

Astensia walked towards him then stopped, her toned, thick legs blocking his vision. ”We’ve been here for almost ten hours,” she said. ”Should we not return?”

Lancet shook his head. ”Don’t worry. It’s only been five in the real world.”

”Oh.”

Lancet took one deep breath and rose to his feet. ”Alright.” He plastered a determined look on his face. ”What’s next?”

Astensia, unable to hide her admiration, smiled lovingly, tilting her head to the side. ”How about a spar?”

Lancet froze.