Creating A Succubus Army In A Fantasy World!-Chapter 131: Who… Are You?!

Creed walked down the hallway with a calm expression and an unhurried pace, but inside, his mind was alert and sharp like a sword on the verge of striking.

His every step was calculated, his breathing steady, his ears subtly straining to catch any irregularity in the ambient sound.

He wasn’t panicking just yet, but his instincts were tingling like crazy. Someone was definitely watching him.

Not in the obvious, "I want to jump you and stab you with a fork" way, but in that creepy, low-key, I’ve-been-taking-notes-on-your-eating-habits-for-the-past-three-days kind of way.

The hairs on the back of his neck didn’t stand up, but they twitched like they were thinking about it. That’s how subtle it was.

Thanks to his Path of Killing, Creed had an almost supernatural sensitivity to danger and hostility.

Even the faintest murderous thought aimed in his direction would feel like a mosquito buzzing in his brain.

But this... this didn’t feel like that. There was no bloodlust, no desire to hurt, no brewing threat. Whoever was watching him wasn’t trying to kill him.

They weren’t trying to harm him at all. Which made it even worse. This was someone patient. Calculating.

Probably sent to study him. An information scout? he wondered. Maybe a stalker planted by one of the big families?

After all, he had just made a massive splash in the rift trial. Multi-awakened talent? A summoner with absolutely strong summons?

A domain user with higher-dimensional authority? Yeah, that was enough to make every big power in the bastion want to either scout him... or dissect him.

Either way, someone wanting to gather intel on him made perfect sense.

He kept walking. Calm. Focused. Then, the moment he exited the apartment building, Creed veered to the left like he was simply taking a casual stroll.

But there was nothing casual about what he did next.

With the fluidity of a magician and the cunning of a professional spy, Creed stepped beside a tall glass pane of a bakery display case—one of those overly fancy places that sold cupcakes for the price of a small car—and tilted his head just enough to catch a glimpse of his reflection.

But he wasn’t looking at himself. No. His eyes flicked to the background in the mirror, and that’s when he saw it.

’Holy crap,’ Creed thought, blinking once to be sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him.

Trailing behind him at a distance, just out of the reach of normal perception, was a man who could only be described as... wrong.

He wore pure white monk robes that were far too clean, like they’d been photoshopped into reality.

His face was covered in absurdly deep dark circles that looked like he hadn’t slept since the invention of breakfast, and he had a single long strand of beard hanging from his chin like a fishing line of wisdom.

And the smile on his face? It was the kind of smile that made even demons uncomfortable. Lecherous. Pleased. Playful. Like he had just found the world’s most interesting new toy.

But the worst part was that the man wasn’t just standing there.

He was staring.

Directly.

Into.

Creed’s eyes. Through the mirror!

Creed flinched. His stomach twisted, his mind recoiled, and a weird, ghostly sensation crawled down his spine like a spider made of cold mist.

It felt like he had just been seen through completely—like his clothes, his skin, his secrets, his soul, his browser history—everything had been stripped bare under that man’s gaze.

It was like being psychically flashbanged.

Then the old man smirked.

His lips moved slowly. Creed focused, trying to lip-read.

"Not bad."

Creed’s face twitched. "What the hell does that mean?" he muttered under his breath, turning away from the mirror with a frown so deep it could crush walnuts.

His mind went into overdrive. Was he from the academy? An elder? An assassin pretending to be harmless?

A perverted hermit sage who lived in someone’s attic? The questions piled up faster than he could process them.

But the one thing he knew was that this wasn’t someone he wanted to mess with. His instincts screamed it.

This man was dangerous, but not deadly. At least not toward him. There was no killing intent. Only curiosity... and something weirder.

Mischief? Amusement?

"Naughty old creep," Creed muttered, picking up his pace.

He darted across the plaza, his boots tapping rapidly against the pavement as he started moving faster.

Not running, but close. Every corner he turned, every reflective surface he passed, he checked. And every time... the old man was still there!

Same pace. Same distance. No aura. No sound. Not even a shift in air pressure!

It was like being followed by a friendly ghost with boundary issues!

"Alright. You wanna play?" Creed growled under his breath.

He raised a hand and flagged a nearby public shuttle.

The side door slid open with a hiss, and Creed leapt inside. "Take me to District Forty-Nine," he told the AI driver. "Top speed. No stops."

"Confirmed," the AI replied in a soft, gender-neutral voice.

The shuttle zipped off like a bullet, weaving through the lanes of the bastion’s roads at breakneck speed.

Creed sat back, arms folded, eyes on the tinted window. He smirked, finally confident that he had lost the weird old monk...

Then he saw him.

Still walking.

Still smiling.

Still moving at a casual stroll.

Somehow, still keeping up!

Creed’s blood ran cold.

He pressed his forehead against the window, squinting to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. But no. There he was.

That weird strand of beard, those horrifyingly deep eye bags, and that eternal smirk... like a creepy uncle who just discovered teleportation.

’How?!’ Creed shouted in his head. ’We’re going over two hundred kilometers per hour! How are you walking and keeping up?! Is he riding on invisible space chickens?!’

The worst part? The man hadn’t even jogged!

Creed swallowed hard and leaned back into the shuttle seat, his heartbeat echoing in his ears.

"Okay," he muttered. "Now I’m scared."

Creed stared out of the shuttle window, his blue eyes narrowed and focused on the bizarre figure still trailing him.

No matter how fast the shuttle moved—no matter how many turns it made, how many streets it zigzagged through, or how sharply it accelerated—the old man with the sleepy eyes, white monk robes, and single stubborn beard strand remained right there behind them.

Calm. Unbothered. And somehow... still walking. That’s what made Creed’s stomach twist the most.

The guy didn’t even jog. He didn’t blink. He just strolled like he was out for a morning walk. A walk that, apparently, could keep up with high-grade sleek shuttles.

Creed pressed a hand against his forehead, feeling a vein throb. "That’s it," he muttered with a sigh.

"He’s definitely at least Gold-level. No way a Silver could pull off this kind of nonsense."

And with that realization came another, far colder one—there was absolutely nothing he could do.

If a Gold-level awakened decided they wanted him dead, no amount of running, dodging, hiding, or crying would save him. At that level, power became something entirely unfair.

They could bend reality, twist space, erase your existence with a flick of the wrist. And Creed, despite all his talents and miracles, was still just a bronze-level awakened.

He sighed deeply and leaned forward. "Shuttle," he said with a calm voice that didn’t match the internal chaos of his thoughts, "pull over and stop."

"Affirmative," the AI replied smoothly, slowing the shuttle until it hovered beside the sidewalk of a quieter, less crowded section of the Bastion.

Creed stepped out, the soles of his boots clicking softly on the pavement.

Around him, the buildings were tall and tidy, all clean walls and shiny windows, but it was a little quieter here.

Fewer people. Less noise. The perfect place for a discreet conversation—or a sneak attack. Either worked.

He adjusted the cuffs of his coat and walked casually into a narrow alleyway to the side. Despite being a little dim, the alley wasn’t filthy or rundown like in old slums.

This was a tier 3 Bastion, after all. Even the sketchy backstreets here looked cleaner than most hospital operating rooms.

No trash. No rats. Just cold metal walls, the faint glow of wall-mounted lights, and the scent of something sterile and minty.

Creed turned and waited. Arms folded. Eyes calm.

Seconds passed.

Nothing happened.

His brow furrowed slightly.

Where was he?

This was the moment when that creepy monk-geezer was supposed to show up, probably perched upside down on the wall like a deranged spider and say something cryptic like "I see your soul."

But no. Nothing. The alley was as still as a frozen lake.

’Did he leave?’ Creed wondered, frowning even deeper. ’Maybe he sensed I was about to confront him and thought, nah, this kid’s no fun and dipped.’

And then—

A shiver.

An intense, sudden ripple up his spine, like a bolt of electricity shooting through his bones.

Without thinking, his body moved.

He stepped sharply to the side, instincts roaring louder than reason, and just in time.

A bony, wrinkled hand grazed past where his shoulder had been a split second ago, the movement so smooth and silent it was like it had come from a ghost.

His eyes widened as he instantly twisted his body, spinning and leaping backward in the same motion, creating distance between himself and whatever had tried to touch him.

He landed lightly on his feet and looked up, and there he was.

The old man.

Smiling.

Still wearing that ridiculous grin.

Creed’s breath caught in his throat. ’What the hell?’

The man was standing there like he’d been there the whole time, like he hadn’t just appeared out of thin air and tried to tap him on the shoulder after sneaking up on him during a hyper-alert state.

His posture was relaxed, his eyes half-lidded, and the glint in them was both infuriating and terrifying.

It was like he knew exactly how strong he was and how not strong Creed was and found the entire situation absolutely hilarious.

"How—" Creed began, his voice caught somewhere between awe and horror. "How did you get behind me? I didn’t sense you at all."

He wasn’t exaggerating either. His senses had been dialed up to max ever since he left the apartment.

Every movement, every shift in air pressure, every stray intent or glance was being scanned. And yet, this guy had waltzed up behind him like he was invisible!

If that bony hand had held a blade instead of a cheeky finger... If it had moved a little faster as well...

Creed gulped. Hard.

He could have died. He would have definitely died!

That cold realization settled in his chest like an ice cube in his heart.

And yet, despite the situation, he didn’t let panic take over. He drew a slow breath, eyes never leaving the old man, and calmly asked, "Who... are you?"

The old man’s grin grew wider, if that was even possible.

He tilted his head like a confused puppy, then said in the most cheerful and casual voice imaginable, "I’m just an old man that loves knitting. Nice to meet you."

Creed blinked.

Then blinked again.

"...Knitting?" he repeated, his voice flat.

The old man nodded, his expression perfectly serious now, like he was actually expecting Creed to believe it.

"Yes. Scarves, socks, shawls, you name it. I’m very passionate about it. Brings me peace.