Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made

Moments later, Lancet and Kestrel stood at opposite ends of the mountain top. Kestrel folded her arms.

”Show me your sword,” she said.

Lancet reached into his inventory and retrieved the Radiant Guillotine. He held it out to her carefully, hilt first.

Kestrel accepted it with simplicity, making it obvious that she had handled better weapons than most people ever saw in their lives.

She turned the sword over in her hand, watching the balance, the edge, the length, the way the hilt sat against the palm, and even the slight shimmer of Grace still lingering in the metal from previous use.

After a few moments she handed it back to him with a flat expression.

”This is a sword built to unleash force,” she said. ”Not one built to refine a swordsman. It is the sort of weapon a cataclysmic knight would carry if he wanted to cause as much damage as possible.”

Lancet glanced down at the blade, then back up at her. He could not exactly argue with that.

The Radiant Guillotine was powerful in the way a storm was powerful, heavy with destructive intent, a weapon that rewarded direct impact more than elegant control.

Comparing it to Renan’s sword, Black Gale, it was nowhere as balanced. Black Gale was a perfect compromise between murder and artistry. In the Guillotine’s case, subtlety was optional.

Still, Lancet had grown attached to it.

He rested the sword against his shoulder and shrugged a little. ”That’s fair. I know it’s not exactly elegant. But it’s mine for now. I’ll find a better one later, maybe. Right now, this is the weapon I’ve got.”

Kestrel gave him a small nod, as though she found that answer acceptable on principle. ”Then this is the weapon you will learn with.”

There was a small silence.

”So what now?” Lancet asked, waiting.

After a moment, Kestrel stepped closer and took the sword from him again, this time holding it more like a teacher.

She angled it so the flat caught the wind, then shifted her grip slightly, letting the hilt rest not just in her palm but along the line of her wrist and forearm.

”First,” she said, ”you must understand that for a great Swordsmaster, Grace is not something you pour into the sword like water into a vessel. Many Swordsmasters fight this way; they push from the hand, force from the palm, and think they are controlling the blade. But they are not.”

Lancet listened closely. That already made sense.

Naturally, humans could only manipulate Grace through the body. What Kestrel was pointing out was a common problem. Most Awakeners treated whatever weapon they held as separate from themselves.

A swordsmaster could not afford that.

Kestrel tapped the flat of the Radiant Guillotine with one finger. ”You already know that the sword must become a part of you. But it is especially necessary here because you’re not supposed to force Grace into the sword with your wielding hand.”

Lancet listened.

”Once your sword is part of your body. Grace flows naturally into it. In fact, if you master this, your sword can even absorb magical energy like the rest of your body.”

Lancet’s eyes lit up with intrigue at the thought of that.

Kestrel stepped back one pace, then demonstrated.

She took a simple stance, feet planted just wide enough for balance, shoulders relaxed, sword held low at her side. Then she inhaled, and Lancet could see the change before she even moved.

Her posture refused to tense. It became more exact. Her spine straightened. Her right hand settled along the grip in a way that looked almost casual until you noticed how perfect the angle was.

Grace began to gather around her in a quiet shimmer, pulled into the line of her body like a current finding a riverbed.

Then she raised the blade so smoothly it barely looked like an action.

The Grace inside her ran down her arm, through her wrist, along the spine of the sword, and into the edge. Like the natural flow of the energy.

For a brief instant the steel gave off a pale, silvery gleam, as if the blade itself had become awake. Kestrel turned her wrist a fraction and the light tightened into a razor-thin arc that cut cleanly through a falling gust of wind, splitting the air into two visible halves that drifted apart around her.

”Your body and your sword is one,” she said as the light faded. ”Once you master the grip, once your hand and hilt is as connected as the bones in your body, it’s only natural for the sword to not only accept Grace with ease but also absorb the energy from the air, just like the rest of your body would.”

She shifted her feet and made a second motion, this one more subtle. The sword rotated in her hand, then snapped into forward cut so clean that Lancet could not even track the beginning of the stroke, only the end result—a thin line in the air that shimmered like heat and then vanished.

”That,” she said, lowering the sword, ”is the foundation.”

Lancet stared at her with growing awe.

The whole thing made perfect sense.

The sword as part of the body would accept Grace as simply as the leg, hands and head did. There would be no need to consciously pump Grace into the sword as it would already be there.

Lancet could see how hard it would be to learn this properly, and he also could already tell it was the only way he was going to close the gap between himself and Renan.

He took a breath and smiled. ”That was incredible.”

Kestrel’s eyes flicked to him. ”It was basic.”

”Basic?” Lancet echoed.

”Basic,” she repeated. ”If you cannot do that, then everything else is vanity.”

He laughed under his breath, though not because he found it funny exactly. More because he had the feeling this was going to be brutal, exhausting, and exactly what he needed.

Lancet had no idea when he became a training junkie.

”Can I try now?”

Kestrel immediately shook her head. ”No.”

His expression fell. ”No?”

”Not yet.”

Instead, she folded her arms and regarded him with the same cool patience she had shown all morning. ”For the next hour,” she said, ”you will read the great swordsman techniques.”

Lancet’s eyes widened with a fresh burst of excitement despite the disappointment he had just felt. ”I can do that,” he said, then hesitated and scratched the side of his neck. ”But I do not actually have them with me. I do not even know where the scrolls for that are.”

Kestrel looked at him as though the problem had already been solved in her head. ”Do not worry.”

She extended her hand.

A golden scroll appeared above Lancet with a soft shimmer of light, settling into the air as if it had simply been waiting for her to call it.

Lancet stared up at it, eyes widening in disbelief. The scroll looked old and precious, its surface glowing faintly in the mountain light, and he realized almost at once that this was no ordinary copy or replacement. It was one of Ugbard’s own teaching scrolls.

He looked from the scroll to Kestrel, then back again, genuinely stunned. He had not even known she had brought them with her, let alone kept them with her all her life.

Kestrel’s voice stayed level. ”Begin reading. We will continue after an hour.”

Lancet sat down where he was, crossed his legs, and carefully unfurled the scroll across his knees. The parchment opened with the dry whisper of old paper, and a series of beautifully written techniques and blade principles were revealed in neat lines of ink.

Lancet’s eyes moved across the first section at once, ready to learn every single one of them.