Creating A Succubus Army In A Fantasy World!-Chapter 134: Checkmate!

Creed’s body flew backward like a ragdoll kicked by a god.

The sheer force of the white energy had launched him out of the blast zone like a cannonball.

He crashed against the alley wall with a heavy THUD that echoed like a drumbeat of pain, then slumped to the floor, his boots dragging through the dirt as he hit the ground in a heap.

A hot wave of pain erupted in his arm, and before he even had time to check, a mouthful of hot, metallic blood burst out of his mouth and splashed onto the ground like red ink from a broken pen.

His right arm felt wrong. Like something had unscrewed the bones and replaced them with shattered glass.

When he finally looked down, he nearly gagged—his arm was mangled like a twisty breadstick that had lost a fight with a meat grinder.

Purple bruises and warped skin, muscles torn in ways that made his stomach churn. It looked quite serious.

But Creed wasn’t panicking. No, his face tightened with pain, but his brain stayed sharp. Because he’d prepared for emergencies exactly like this.

And now, with a single thought, he directed one free stat point into Constitution, increasing his body’s natural durability and regeneration.

The effect was instant.

A warm, hot energy spread through his arm, and the twisted mess began to shift, bones realigning with squishy popping noises, muscle fibers weaving back together like reknitting a torn sweater.

In less than five seconds, the mangled limb went from a horror show to merely a serious injury—still aching like crazy, but usable.

The pain dulled just enough for him to move without screaming.

"Hooo!" The old man whistled from across the alley, still holding the gloves like they were a trophy.

His one hand casually tossed them in the air and caught them without looking, while his face lit up in a grin.

"You’re full of surprises, young man! Your ability to regenerate from wounds is quite monstrous. I’d say that deserves applause!"

Creed stayed kneeling for a second, still breathing heavily. His eyes, however, were fixed squarely on the old man—not with hatred, but with a mix of stunned respect and deeply rooted fear.

He had felt it; what true power looked like. That single attack, that 1% strike, had carried the weight of a thousand thunderstorms!

The space had shattered. Reality bent. And he had barely survived by pouring every ounce of strength, instinct, and path into the block.

Had he hesitated even slightly, had he doubted his instincts for even a second and not used his full power, he wouldn’t be kneeling right now.

He’d probably be ash floating in the air. It was terrifying how thin the line between life and death had been in that moment!

’...Thank the stars I didn’t second guess myself,’ Creed thought, still shaken. ’That strike was real. That was death, inches from my neck.’

"I like that look in your eyes," the old man called cheerfully, still smiling.

"The look of a man who knows the game just got serious. But don’t worry—I’m a fair host. You still have four minutes left. You can take your time."

"Four minutes," Creed echoed softly, slowly pushing himself back to his full height. His knees cracked slightly as he stood tall, chest rising and falling, eyes sharp and focused again.

He rolled his shoulder once, then winced. The arm wasn’t fully healed; far from it. But it worked, and that was good enough.

That’s when the full reality hit him.

If that was just 1% of this crazy grandpa’s strength...

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to. His body still remembered the pressure of that strike, the way his nerves had screamed in terror.

There was no question. If he ever got hit by even a fraction more than that, he was going to die. Instantly. No second chances.

Which meant he had to change his strategy now.

"Alright," Creed muttered to himself, eyes narrowing as he ran a dozen calculations in his head.

’Forget the rules. If I keep playing nice, I’m a dead man. I’ve already proven I can survive a 1% strike. If I have to take another one or two just to win this glove-snatching game, so be it. But I absolutely can’t take the 5% strike!’

He clenched his fists, then checked his arm again. The flesh was still a bit raw, like sunburn that went a little too far, but it was solid.

What bothered him now was something else—his blood. It had splattered on the ground when he hit the wall, and some of it still dripped from the reopened wound.

"Damn it," he grunted, realizing the new danger. ’If I’m not careful... I might stain his stupid robes again. And those count as strikes.’

It was maddening. It wasn’t just the physical danger anymore. It was a chess game, a mental war zone.

His every move was under scrutiny—not just where he stepped, but what particles he disturbed.

That meant if he wanted to win, he’d have to play smarter, faster, and more creatively than ever before.

And more riskier!

He inhaled slowly, clearing his mind.

There was no more playing by the rules. He’d follow his instincts now. He’d improvise. Adapt. Survive.

And if that meant getting a little blood on the white robes?

Then so be it.

Creed grinned.

"All right, old man," he said, cracking his knuckles and shifting into a ready stance.

His injured arm hung just slightly lower, but his body was coiled like a spring. "Let’s make this interesting."

The old man laughed brightly, as if Creed had just told a fantastic joke. "Oh-ho-ho! Now that’s the spirit!"

Creed smiled back. He took a single step forward, and the entire world blurred.

Swoosh!

With a sharp breath and a surge of explosive force, his body vanished in a burst of speed so fast it left a shimmering afterimage behind.

He activated Triple Pounce, his movement technique, weaving it seamlessly with full aura enhancement, and like a cannonball of death cloaked in raw kinetic energy, he launched himself toward the old man.

A thunderous boom echoed in the alley as the stone beneath his feet cracked from the force, dust swirling up in a dramatic spiral around the path of his leap.

In less than the blink of an eye, he appeared before the old man, his expression razor-sharp, eyes blazing with adrenaline.

He pretended to go for the gloves again—his hand shot forward toward them with dazzling speed—but just as the old man’s one visible eyebrow began to lift, Creed smirked and dove low, flipping his body sideways and throwing all his weight into a powerful, reckless tackle aimed squarely at the old man’s legs.

His logic was simple—and maybe slightly unhinged.

If he couldn’t snatch the gloves from the old man’s ridiculous, mountain-anchored hand in five minutes, then maybe he could force the old geezer to break his own rules!

That’s right—if the old man moved his feet even an inch to keep his balance, then technically, Creed would win, right?

After all, not moving an inch was his condition, not Creed’s!

"Gotcha!" Creed roared as he slammed into the old man’s legs with the strength of a boulder launched from a catapult.

BAM!

Only... he didn’t move!

It was like trying to tackle a statue carved out of a meteorite. No—worse. The old man didn’t even flinch.

Creed’s full-body force was absorbed with no reaction at all. It felt like he had just body-slammed the planet Earth itself.

The collision rattled him, not the old man. The old man simply tilted his head, looked down at him with mild amusement, and chuckled.

"You silly boy," he said, voice calm like he was reading a bedtime story. "That makes three strikes."

Before Creed could even process what that meant, he felt something collide against his back.

A slap.

A casual, dismissive, barely-there slap.

To any bystander, it would’ve looked like an old man patting his grandson on the back for a job well done.

To Creed?

It felt like a mountain had collapsed on his spine.

Bam!

A deafening crack echoed as his body trembled from the sheer impact.

His vision blurred, his knees buckled, and hot blood erupted from his mouth, splashing directly onto the man’s pristine white robes like some kind of cinematic horror scene.

"Three strikes again," the old man said, utterly unfazed by the red mess staining his sleeves. His tone was cheerful. "Oops."

Crack!

Another lazy slap to the back.

Creed’s shoulders screamed in pain as something popped loudly inside. It felt like his skeleton had filed a formal complaint.

His whole upper body screamed in protest, but still—he didn’t let go. No matter what happened, Creed refused to fall back.

His arms stayed locked around the old man’s legs like industrial chains, his face twisted in a mix of agony and sheer willpower.

"You’re a persistent little roach," the old man mused, still chuckling. "Well, let’s see if you can hold on after this."

With that, he finally used force to push Creed away—his hand clamped around Creed’s back like a vice, his muscles subtly flexing as he prepared to hurl him like a piece of trash being tossed into a dumpster.

But Creed was faster.

Just as the old man’s hand began to move, Creed twisted like an acrobat mid-flight, rolling and wrapping his body around the old man’s frame like a monkey in a jungle gym.

In an instant, he had slithered up the man’s torso and latched onto the arm holding the gloves like a leech with a death wish.

"You’re not tossing me that easy, old man!" Creed shouted, legs hooked over the man’s shoulder, one arm locked around the elbow, the other clawing at the fingers wrapped around the glove.

"If I can’t grab them from your hand, I’ll just peel your fingers open like a stubborn pistachio!"

"Stubborn pistachio?" the old man repeated, looking genuinely confused. "What a weird analogy."

Still, the man grunted for the first time. His grip around the gloves tightened even more, but Creed felt it—resistance.

The man’s grip wasn’t unbreakable. He could feel the knuckles shifting under his fingers, the way the tendons tensed and flexed. He was close.

Or was he?

The man tried to shake his arm, but Creed held firm.

The man tried to slap at him with the same arm, but Creed dodged it by pivoting around the shoulder like a gymnast on parallel bars.

To let go now would be suicide. The moment he touched the ground, he knew he’d eat another mountain-slap and probably wake up six weeks later in a hospital bed with amnesia.

So he clung tighter, legs squeezing around the man’s arm, arms wrapped like vines.

Either the man broke his own rule and moved his feet to shake him off...

Or he risked letting go of the gloves.

Checkmate.

The old man’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time, a small sigh escaped his lips.

It wasn’t frustration or anger—just the sound of someone admitting that a little brat had been cleverer than expected.

Then, without warning, the man began to raise his gloved arm behind his back, clearly preparing to throw Creed off like a sack of potatoes.

Creed’s eyes flared with realization.

Now!

And in that instant, just as the arm reached its peak and the old man’s body was bent and off balance, Creed’s body vanished.