Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made

Chapter 256: Powerful Nonetheless

"What is she doing?" Thor asked with a gasp.

"She’s changing," Astensia replied.

Espel, extremely intrigued, stepped forward with awe. Kestrel’s eyes narrowed as she watched. "Changing into what?"

Lancet stared as well. "You’ll see," he said.

The magenta and oxblood magic coiled around Spectra slowly like a formless, sparkling snake. It didn’t ordinarily cover her, rather it rewrote her entire body structure, changing her from one race to another.

Spectra’s form drew taller in the air, her posture straightening as if some ancient command inside her had finally decided to rise. Her long white hair was painted over with crimson and strokes of black, they grew taller falling behind her back where her spine was elongating.

The crimson energy sank into her skin and colored her pale skin to dull pink. Her forehead began to stretch, forming horns that swept upward in wide, dark arcs almost like an elegant, evil crown.

They made her look ancient, ritualistic, and impossibly dangerous, like a goddess of ruin carved out of blood and sin. The shape of her face sharpened beneath them, her features taking on a more feral beauty as her eyes deepened into a glowing crimson that seemed to burn from the inside out.

From her tall back, a pair of massive and dark wings burst out into a dreadful spread, membrane and shadow and red-veined power stretching wide behind her.

It caused a ripple of Gloom around her, sending shivers down the spine of Lancet and his heroines.

Her body changed with them, the elegant lines of her form turning stronger, denser, more predatory. Her claws lengthened. Her tail unfurled behind her in a smooth, sinuous arc, the tip flicking once with serpent-like intelligence.

Crimson markings crawled across her skin in glowing channels, pulsing faintly beneath the surface as if her blood had become a second kind of fire.

Her figure remained womanly, but her muscles were clear for the eye to see. Thick as trees, coiled and deepened, as though forged by a blacksmith of Hel.

When the transformation finished, Spectra spread her arms, taking in the fresh Gloom in the air. Now in her Demoness form, the dark energy was even more refreshing for her.

The others stared.

Lancet too. He was caught between admiration and caution, because even knowing what Spectra was capable of, he was not sure if she was ready to go into full Demon mode yet.

His voice came out low. "This could be dangerous, Spectra. You’re not at full power yet. You don’t even have Baphomet."

Spectra kept looking into the waiting battlefield. "I am powerful nevertheless," she said.

Her voice was deeper and darker, like silk wrapped around a blade, although that seductive purr was not completely lost.

She narrowed her eyes.

"If you may, Master Lancet," she said, the demonness still in the tone but the familiar possessive interest lingering beneath it, "the Guillotine. Use the trapped Demon Souls on me. Fill me with them."

Lancet’s eyes sharpened. Without hesitating, he raised the Guillotine high.

The sword came free in his hand, and with it came the memory of the many Demons he had cut down already in Deathrock— more than fifty by now, from Tainted to Descending, each one broken and forced into the blade’s lingering prison of stolen souls.

It was not a major power booster. Nothing crazy, but it was fuel. More power. A reserve of dead Demons that will definitely propel whatever Spectra was about to unleash.

Lancet raised the sword toward her. Then he activated the release.

The trapped souls erupted in a straight wave of red energy, surging from the blade and slamming into Spectra’s back in one forceful stream.

The moment it struck her, her hands spread to her sides, her fingers wide, receiving the flood as if she had been waiting all her life to be filled this way. The red energy poured into every corner of her body at once.

Her wings flared wider. The markings across her skin brightened.

Her muscles tightened and expanded with visible force, the shape of her body becoming denser, stronger, more defined beneath the moving crimson glow. Her channels lit up beneath the skin like veins of living fire.

Gloom pulsed through her limbs and chest in measured waves, each one stronger than the last as the soul energy sank into her core. Her eyes blazed brighter. Her tail flexed behind her. Her claws curled once and then opened again, as if the power running through her had just taught her body a new language.

Spectra’s head tilted back slightly, and for a moment her expression turned euphoric.

Then the transfer ended. She drew in a deep breath, slow and satisfied, then lifted one hand to summon the Hellstaff.

The weapon appeared in her grasp in a burst of red smoke and dark light, tall and elegant and cruel-looking, the shaft long and smooth, the head shaped with the same regal menace as the woman holding it.

Spectra lowered her chin and pointed the Hellstaff toward the approaching horde.

The Purgatory Demons were close now.

Very close.

But as glowing red smoke exploded all around her, Spectra’s own army of Demons arose.

One after another, they emerged from the haze in glowing crimson bodies, their eyes lit red, their forms marked by the smoke that curled from their shoulders and claws.

They had the same wild beauty as before, but now they looked even more dangerous in her presence as they had all been enriched by the blast of energy gotten from the souls of their fallen brethen.

They poured out from either side of her in a charging wave and launched themselves toward the oncoming enemy.

Spectra laughed, and the sound was deeper now, fuller, more monstrous, threaded with all the delight of a queen finally stepping into her war.

Then she spread her wings and rose into the air.

With a lunge, she flew forward and charged towards the Purgatory Demons. Her wingbeats shook the smoke around her. Her tail swept hungrily behind her. The Hellstaff tightened in her grip as she flew faster with savagery and grace.

Once close enough, with a scowl of hunger and conquest, Spectra swung the staff. Her voice cracked across the battlefield, sharp and glorious and full of bloodthirsty command.

"Die, prodigal sons!"