Creating A Succubus Army In A Fantasy World!-Chapter 132: The Five Minutes Challenge!

Creed stood perfectly still, his eyes locked onto the old man in front of him, every muscle in his body humming with tension like a coiled spring.

His face was calm—cold, even—but inside, his thoughts were a chaotic mess of confused disbelief and hilarious suspicions.

Knitting? The guy had just shadow-stepped into his personal space, nearly gave him a heart attack, and now he was talking about knitting socks?

Creed’s mind raced with absurd theories.

Is "knitting" some kind of assassin code? Like... knit one, stab two?

Maybe he’s hiding poisoned threads in his yarn and uses his needles like hidden weapons? Or maybe he weaves spirit threads that manipulate fate and destiny?

Wait. Is this some kind of metaphor? "Knitting" could mean spying, stalking, or soul binding.

’Crap, this is just like that one ancient sect that used "flower gardening" as code for necromancy. What if this guy literally knits people’s souls into scarves?!’

While Creed’s mind was performing the mental gymnastics of a conspiracy theorist on six cups of coffee, the old man let out a loud, wheezy laugh and waved a hand.

"You’re thinking too hard, boy. I meant what I said. Just plain ol’ knitting."

Creed blinked. "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously," the man replied, digging into his robes and pulling out a spool of sky-blue yarn and two sleek, polished knitting needles that glinted with faint golden runes.

"Watch. Let me show you."

Creed immediately took a cautious half-step back, his fingers curling into a fist.

"That won’t be necessary. I’m not interested. Really. Just go knit something far, far away from me."

But before the man could respond, something changed.

The air grew heavy.

The smile on the old man’s face faded slightly—not completely, just enough to let something ancient and terrifying slip through.

His shoulders straightened just a little. His presence expanded, rolling outward like a tidal wave, quiet but absolutely crushing.

And for just a heartbeat, a soft, deep hum echoed around them as the aura he’d been keeping perfectly hidden slipped free.

And Creed saw it.

A Mountain.

It wasn’t just a vision—it was a reality that overtook his senses.

In the blink of an eye, he found himself standing before a towering, snow-white mountain, one so enormous it stabbed the clouds and disappeared beyond the sky.

The entire world seemed to tilt in its presence. The weight of it pressed against his chest, his shoulders, his mind, like it wanted to crush him into dust.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. It was like the mountain wasn’t just tall—it was old, as if it had seen countless civilizations rise and fall and still stood unmoving.

Pure. Untouchable. Eternal!

Then... snap!

He blinked, and he was back.

The alley hadn’t changed. Nothing had moved. But Creed’s heart was pounding against his ribs like it wanted to escape his chest.

He staggered slightly, blinking rapidly, his palms sweating. ’What the hell was that?!’

He realized, with a creeping sense of dread, that during the vision—however short it had been—he had no idea what had happened to his real body!

He hadn’t felt anything in the real world. No sound, no smell, no awareness.

If that man had decided to stab him, tear off a limb, or just draw a mustache on his face, he wouldn’t have known until it was too late.

A chill crawled up his back.

"Ah, sorry," the old man said, scratching the side of his head with an apologetic grin.

"My aura spilled out for a second there. I’ve been told it’s a bit... mountain-y. To make up for it, I’ll make sure what I knit is extra good."

Creed stared at him, mind still racing. The man had just casually melted his perception of reality and now he was talking about knitting again like nothing happened.

Was this guy a lunatic or a genius? Or worse—both?

"So?" the old man asked brightly, holding his needles with a twinkle in his eye. "What would you like me to knit?"

At this point, Creed knew there was no point resisting. Some people you could argue with. Others you could run from.

But this guy? No. This was the kind of person you agreed with.

The kind of terrifying, absurdly powerful freak of nature you smiled at politely, gave your lunch money to, and prayed he didn’t decide to turn you into a sweater!

"...Gloves," Creed said with a long, suffering sigh. "A pair of gloves."

The man beamed like Creed had just asked for a priceless masterpiece. "Excellent choice! Fingerless or full?"

"Fingerless," Creed replied instinctively, already regretting everything.

The old man nodded, then—boom.

His hands moved.

No. Blurred.

His fingers flashed so fast they looked like a dozen flickering beams of light, his yarn stretching and twisting between the needles in a web of impossible speed and dexterity.

A bright glow enveloped the materials—gold and blue light flashing like a tiny sun between his hands—and the entire alley was filled with the soft whirring sound of needles moving at speeds that defied physics.

It took three seconds!

Three!

And then the light vanished.

The old man stood there, proudly holding a pair of sleek, dashing, golden-blue fingerless gloves. The craftsmanship was flawless.

Every thread gleamed with subtle magical patterns that made them shimmer with energy, and the design was so elegant, so stylish, that Creed was almost afraid to touch them.

Were these gloves or national treasures?

Creed’s mouth fell open. "What... the..."

"Here you go," the old man said cheerfully, stepping forward and holding them out like a precious offering.

"Made them myself. Added quite a few unique touches to it. Perfect for a young rascal like you."

Creed’s brow twitched as he stared at the old man’s outstretched hands, the shiny, impossibly elegant gloves resting atop his palms like divine artifacts gifted from the heavens themselves.

His instincts, sharpened by near-death encounters and trials of blood, screamed of a trap.

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, every nerve in his body buzzing with unease.

"Just... toss it over," he said cautiously, taking a single step back, not wanting to trigger some bizarre knitted landmine. "I’ll catch it."

But the old man merely chuckled—low and amused, like a fox watching a chicken solve calculus.

"These gloves are not some street fruit to be flung across alleys, my boy," he said with mock offense, cradling them like a newborn child.

"They deserve respect. Proper respect. You must earn them."

Creed blinked. Earn them? What kind of psycho made someone earn gloves they didn’t even ask for?

His lips twitched as his thoughts spiraled. What’s next?

He gonna make me win a knitting tournament against eldritch abominations to claim a scarf of destiny?

Maybe challenge a sock-wearing minotaur to a dance battle?

Still, deep down, he already knew. There was no avoiding this. Whatever game this insane grandpa wanted to play, Creed was locked in.

If he turned away now, who knows what kind of knitting-based punishment would rain down from above?

Did this man have celestial-level sewing needles that could pierce space-time? At this point, he wouldn’t even be surprised!

So with a long, suffering sigh of someone who knew he had no real choice, Creed squared his shoulders and took a step forward. "Fine," he muttered, gritting his teeth. "Let’s get this over with."

He walked toward the man, every step measured and careful, remaining at full alert. Even though the man smiled kindly, Creed could sense that something was off.

Not evil—no, this wasn’t killing intent. It was something far worse: chaotic curiosity.

The kind of energy only old monsters who’d lived far too long and had seen far too much tended to carry. A being that no longer followed logic or common sense; only entertainment.

When Creed was about a meter away, the man raised his hand. "Hold on, hold on. Before we begin, I must explain the rules."

Creed groaned, already regretting this. "Rules? Why are there rules for this? What is this, a glove-snatching tournament?"

"Oh, much better," the old man said, eyes twinkling with glee. "This is my Five-Minute Challenge. You have exactly five minutes to take the gloves from my hand. I will not move from this spot. I will only use one hand. Fair enough?"

Creed eyed him warily. "Too fair. What’s the catch?"

"I’m so glad you asked!" the man said, clapping with his free hand.

"There are three additional rules. One: You cannot step back, not even a little. Each time you do, you get one strike.

"Two: You must not use any abilities. No magic, no summons, no sources or intents. Only your body and reflexes. If you do, you get a strike.

"Three: If you get even a single stain on my clothing—dirt, dust, anything—that’s a strike."

"...A strike?"

"Correct!" the man beamed. "Three strikes, and I get to give you one attack at 1% of my power. If you fail to get the gloves in five minutes, I get to hit you with 5%. You’ll have about... 0.8 percent chance of surviving that. Give or take."

Creed’s eyes widened in horror. He didn’t even notice when a loud "WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL?!" burst out of his mouth, echoing through the alleyway like a dying banshee.

"Are you insane?! You want to punch me with 5% of your power just because I fail to grab gloves?! You lunatic knitting devil!!"

The old man laughed heartily, not offended in the slightest. "Oh ho! Such colorful language! Youths these days really know how to express themselves. Delightful!"

Creed nearly screamed again but forced himself to calm down. Okay. Okay. Breathe. Just breathe.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been dumped into an impossible situation by some ridiculous god-like freak.

This was just another day in the life of Creed. Dangerously eccentric old man? Check. High-stakes challenge? Check.

Overpowered opponent who made arbitrary rules and laughed at common sense? Double check. Yep. This was just Tuesday now.

"You have ten seconds to prepare," the old man said, holding the gloves like a prize-winning bouquet. "Begin."

Creed’s mind raced faster than a quantum processor in overclock. Five minutes. fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓

’No magic. No abilities. No stepping back. No stains. Three strikes and I get turned into a pancake. Fail, and I die anyway. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.’

His brain conjured dozens of strategies at once—side feints, reverse pressure grabs, misdirection slaps.

He could try blitzing forward in a blur of motion, use physics to generate force from his hips and shoulders rather than his feet.

What if he flicked a stone to distract the old man’s grip for a millisecond?

Could he cause a slight wind current from a quick punch and use the vacuum as a grip advantage?

He had to be strategic in his actions! This was a pure finesse test!

Exciting!

The seconds ticked away, and Creed centered his breathing. He bent his knees slightly, finding his center of gravity.

He visualized the path his hands would take—one high, one low, misdirect the eyes, flow through the gap.

’If I let my left knee twist just a little, maybe I can pivot into a sudden upward jab grab... or if I disrupt his line of sight for half a second—’

"Time’s up!" the old man said gleefully, as if announcing the start of a fireworks show. "Begin!"

And just like that, the alley was filled with tension thick enough to slice with a knife.

Creed’s eyes locked on the gloves—gleaming blue and gold in the afternoon light—and his heartbeat steadied into a rhythm like war drums in his ears.

Swoosh!