Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made

The fall lasted only a heartbeat, but Lancet’s body had long sunken into the ocean of panic.

The mountain face rushed past him in a blur of gray stone and white wind, his shoulder scraping the rocky surface, and his breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat.

For one wild instant, all he could hear was the roar of the storm and the pounding of his own pulse. Lancet wasn’t going to die, his awakened body could take the fall but he wouldn’t cape severe injuries.

Unless he would use a Skill.

But that meant he would have to start over.

Lancet was just about to give up and accept that. But that was when he saw her.

Kestrel stood far above him on the peak, arms folded, calm as if she had never expected anything else.

She was not moving to catch him. She wasn’t even leaned over. In fact, she could not give less of a damn even if she tried.

It was then that Lancet understood exactly what she was trying to teach him.

He understood the point of the mountain.

The realization hit him so hard it burned away the fear and replaced it with an emotion that felt like anger. Not anger at her. At himself.

Just like in the duel with Renan, once again, he had lost his grip. He had let go.

When he faced Renan in the underground arena, he had lost hold of his sword and then lost the duel the moment it happened.

The memory landed in him like a second impact, and suddenly the meaning of Kestrel’s lesson became painfully clear. A swordsman who could not hold on to their weapon could not hold on to victory. The moment his sword left his hand, the battle had already been lost.

”No,” he gasped, reaching blindly toward the rock face as he fell.

His fingers found nothing at first. Just a smear of cold stone and empty air. Then his hand slapped against a shallow crack, and for one desperate second he thought it might not be enough. His body kept dropping, gravity dragging at him with merciless force, and then he shoved Grace into his fingertips.

Light sparked through his hand.

”Got you,” he growled through clenched teeth.

His fingers drove into the tiniest crag, one after another, until the pressure raced up his arm and into his shoulder. His entire body jolted at the sudden arrest of motion, and pain shot through him so fast it almost knocked the breath clean out of him.

But he held. He held it with everything he had.

”Ughhhh!” Pain spread through his arm muscles. His legs swung uselessly for a moment before he slammed one boot against the cliff face and used the impact to steady himself long enough to find another hold.

Then another.

And another.

”Arghhhhhh!” Lancet roared with agony and desperation.

He strained upward with the full weight of his body hanging from his hands, the muscles in his forearms burning so fiercely they felt ready to tear.

He breathed in ragged pulls as he forced himself to trust the grip, trust the crags, trust the angle of his own body.

As she struggled, everything was starting to make sense.

Kestrel had not been asking him to climb with brute force. She had been asking him to understand how to seize the world and not let go. To lock himself into the mountain the same way he needed to lock himself into a sword.

His sword.

The memory of Radiant Guillotine flashed through him again.

He had been too loose in the duel with Renan. Too quick to give ground. Too willing to recover from losing the weapon instead of refusing to lose it in the first place.

Kestrel’s lesson snapped into place with ruthless clarity. A sword was offense, yes, but it was also possession. Balance. Will. If he could not hold it, he could not wield it. If he could not remain one with his weapon, then the weapon would abandon him the moment battle turned cruel.

”Grip,” he muttered, his voice rough with effort as he climbed again. ”Hold on. Don’t let it go.”

He pulled himself upward a few inches, then forced another hand into the rock. His fingers found a better purchase this time, and the next movement came easier.

The more he climbed, the more he began to understand the mountain as something he had to dominate with stillness rather than force. He could not wrestle it. He had to become part of it. His balance changed. His breathing changed. His shoulders stopped fighting every motion and began to guide it.

He tucked his body closer to the cliff face, lightening himself through posture and control, letting his bones carry his weight instead of resisting it. The strain was still there, but now it had direction.

Kestrel watched him from above without saying a word.

Her silence was its own answer.

The mountain remained cruel. The wind did not soften. It battered him with cold gusts that tried to peel him from the rock face and sent stinging needles across his exposed skin. His arms shook. His fingertips ached. His calves cramped from the narrow stance and the constant shifts of his weight.

But now every time he moved, he did so with more intent. More structure. More awareness. He learned which holds were worth trusting and which ones would snap him sideways if he leaned too hard. He adjusted. He corrected. He climbed.

The higher he went, the more the struggle became a rhythm.

Pull.

Breathe.

Set the grip.

Shift the weight.

Hold the sword.

Hold the body.

Hold yourself.

The mountain tested him at every inch. A loose stone gave way under his left hand, and he had to swing his right shoulder into the cliff just to keep from slipping. Wind slammed into him broadside, and he had to flatten himself against the rock like an arrow already in flight. His legs trembled so badly at one point that he nearly froze from the effort of forcing them to move again.

But each time he faltered, he remembered Renan. He remembered the Guillotine flying away from his hand. He remembered the instant he lost the duel. And every time that image surfaced, something stubborn and furious answered back inside him.

Never again.

Not if he could help it.

And then, almost without him even noticing the transition, the climb changed for Lancet.

The holds became easier to read. His breathing settled into a steadier rhythm. His fingers no longer slipped at the smallest contact. His body began to cooperate instead of resist. He still felt the cold, still felt the ache, still felt the wind striking him from the side, but the mountain no longer seemed impossible.

It was just hard. Very hard. A problem his body now understood how to solve. The strain remained, but the fear receded, and in its place came a strange, focused confidence that made each pull feel more controlled than the last.

By the time he neared the summit, he was one with the mountain.

”One with the mountain,” Lancet muttered as he hauled himself over the final ledge — at long last — and collapsed onto the stone with a harsh, shuddering breath.

His body rolled half onto his side before he finally let himself lie there fully, chest rising and falling against the cold ground.

Lancet stared at the sky. ”Such a... pretty sky.”

The sky above was full of dull morning clouds, stretched low and heavy across the crown of the mountain, and for a few long seconds he simply stared up at them while the wind swept over his body and tried one last time to make the climb feel impossible.

Kestrel stood a short distance away with her arms folded, looking down at him with that same regal composure she wore so naturally.

Lancet let out one long breath, then turned his head toward her.

He wasn’t sure if she was impressed or if she had always known he would complete the climb.

Kestrel regarded him for a moment longer, then spoke in a voice that carried through the wind with absolute certainty.

”Stand up, Lancet Leogardt,” she said, her eyes sharpening with approval, ”Now, you are ready.”