Creating A Succubus Army In A Fantasy World!
Chapter 198: Energy Knitting.

Chapter 198: Energy Knitting.

The training hall was not what Creed expected.

He’d shown up yawning, shirt half-tucked, still brushing sleep from his eyes and mentally preparing himself for high-speed combat drills, soul pressure endurance training, maybe even sparring against some feral beast the old monk had locked in the basement for "motivation."

Instead...

He was sitting cross-legged in front of a basket of fluffy blue yarn.

"...Are we... making pillows?" Creed asked, blinking.

The old monk loomed over him like a vulture with arthritis. His face was as serious as a death sentence.

"No, boy. You’re learning the most powerful and superior art in existence."

Creed stared at the two wooden knitting needles the monk slapped into his hands.

"...Knitting?" he asked slowly, like the word itself might explode if spoken too loud.

The monk nodded, single strand of beard swaying like it was also disappointed in Creed. "Knitting."

Creed glanced at the yarn. Then back at the needles. Then back at the yarn.

"Are we under attack from evil sweaters?" he asked seriously. "Did the fashion police declare war on Tier 2 bastions? Is this for camouflage in case we need to hide inside a giant cotton ball?"

The old monk didn’t even blink. "You know nothing, young fool. You seek strength, but you lack patience. You seek mastery, but you lack foundation.

"Through knitting, through the ancient art of needle discipline, you will achieve true enlightenment."

Creed just sat there, face blank.

"...You’re trolling me."

"I’m teaching you."

"You’re teaching me how to become your grandma!"

The monk smacked the back of his head with a rolled-up training scroll.

"My grandma once punched a hydra into a lake using only her left slipper. Do not disrespect her."

Creed groaned and wiggled the wooden needles. "Alright, fine. What am I even supposed to do with these? Summon a scarf demon?"

"First," the monk said with exaggerated calmness, "you hold the yarn like this, no! Not like that, you’re strangling it! Gently. Like cradling a duckling made of lightning. And then... you loop. Over. And under."

He demonstrated with precise movements, his fingers dancing like a retired pianist who’d been possessed by a grandma with a vengeance.

Within seconds, a small patch of expertly stitched fabric began to form between his fingers.

Creed squinted. "Wait. You’re actually... kind of a monster at this."

"I should be," the old man grunted. "I’ve knitted through snowstorms, siege warfare, and one awkward marriage counseling retreat."

The monk smiled solemnly. "The Needle Sage. That was my old title."

Creed tried not to laugh. Failed. "Pfffft, The Needle Sage?! What, were you the final boss of the Embroidery Sect?!"

The monk didn’t flinch. "Mock all you want. But when I stitched my Battle Cape of Cozy Doom, even the frost giants trembled."

"I can’t tell if you’re joking or just incredibly committed to the bit."

The monk suddenly grabbed Creed’s fingers. "Focus! Stop talking! Look, you start like this, thumb here, yes, index there, NO! You dropped a loop, you reckless barbarian!"

Creed fumbled with the yarn like it had turned into a wild snake. "It’s too slippery! Why does it feel like it’s laughing at me?!"

"Because it is," the monk snapped. "The yarn knows weakness when it sees it. Now again! Loop, turn, twist! Respect the thread, Creed! RESPECT THE THREAD!"

After twenty painful minutes, Creed had created a tangled mess that looked more like a cursed rat’s nest than any form of fabric.

It even had a loop sticking out like a rebellious eyebrow. He held it up miserably.

"Behold. The ugliest sock in existence."

"That’s not a sock," the monk muttered darkly. "That’s a war crime."

Creed slumped forward. "I don’t get it. Why are we doing this? How does this make me stronger? Is this your idea of revenge for sleeping in?"

The monk gave him a side-eye. "No. I did that earlier when I poured salt into your toothpaste. This is different."

"Wait, what?! No wonder it felt weird!"

The monk ignored him and sat beside him, folding his arms. "Knitting teaches discipline. Timing. Awareness. Every thread is like a strand of fate.

"When you learn to weave them properly, you begin to understand how to guide things beyond yourself. This is about patience, Creed. Control. Precision."

Creed raised an eyebrow. "...So you’re saying if I become a master knitter, I’ll get superpowers?"

The old man gave him a cryptic look. "Let’s just say... the last person who completed this training made a sweater that stitched itself into the laws of reality and erased rifts from their bastion."

Creed paused. Then slowly picked up his needles again.

"...Alright. I’ll give it another shot."

"Good." The monk nodded with a sage smile. "Now do ten rows. And if you mess up even one stitch, we start over."

Ten minutes later, Creed was swearing under his breath as another loop betrayed him and formed a knot that somehow tangled with his sleeve. Again.

"Why is this harder than fighting dimensional beasts?!"

The monk only sipped his tea. "Because, my dear boy, dimensional beasts don’t have rules."

Creed gave the yarn a death glare. "Okay. Fine. I’ll do it. But only because I want to unlock the mythical Sweater of Infinite Warmth."

The monk nodded, his dark circles gleaming like battle scars.

"That’s the spirit."

By the third hour, Creed had lost all track of time. His fingers were cramped, his shoulders were sore, and his face was stuck in a permanent frown of confusion and frustration.

In front of him sat a pitiful excuse for a napkin, if you could even call it that.

The shape was lopsided like it had been folded by a blind squirrel, with loops that stuck out like stray hairs on a wild beast.

One corner was way longer than the other, and the texture was more chaos than cloth. Still, it was technically knitted.

Creed stared at it for a full ten seconds in silence before muttering, "Behold. The Holy Napkin of Doom. Woven from the fibers of despair."

The old monk waddled over with a teacup in one hand and raised a grizzled eyebrow. "Hmm. Slightly better than a moldy pancake."

"Is that a compliment?" Creed asked.

"From me? Yes," the monk said solemnly, sipping his tea. "Now do it again."

"What?!"

"You heard me," the monk grunted. "Until your soul can knit in its sleep, we don’t stop."

And stop they did not.

For the next three days, Creed found himself waking up, eating, and then knitting. That was it. No high-speed training, no brutal drills, no lightning strikes, and no soul-searing aura tests.

Just yarn, needles, and an ever-growing pile of awkward scarves, deformed socks, and mittens that looked like eldritch monsters with thumbs.

Lilith and Tierra walked past him more than once during those days with smug, amused grins, occasionally whispering sweet nothings like:

"Are you trying to summon a demon with that mess?"

"Creed, sweetheart... that hat looks like it’s dying."

Even Meredith tried to be polite about it. "Umm... Creed, your sweater has a really... brave personality."

But slowly, something strange began to happen.

After dozens of failed attempts and hundreds of frustrating loops, Creed’s hands stopped cramping so much.

The needles started moving more smoothly. His stitches stopped rebelling like angry worms.

He even managed to knit a normal-looking sock that didn’t look like it was cursed by an ancient mummy.

It wasn’t perfect. But it wasn’t cursed either.

Then, on the fourth day, just as Creed was starting to enjoy the rhythm of it all, especially when he realized he could use the excuse "I’m training" while wrapped in a blanket, everything changed.

The monk entered the hall with a mysterious smile, holding a roll of dark thread that shimmered like liquid energy.

"Congratulations," the old man said, tossing it to Creed. "You’re finally ready for... energy knitting."

Creed caught the roll with both hands and blinked. "Energy... what?"

The monk placed a fresh pair of silver needles in front of him. They pulsed faintly, like they were breathing. "Infusing your path into the threads you knit. That is energy knitting."

Creed tilted his head. "That sounds like a scam."

"It’s not."

"Are you sure?"

"Boy, this is one of the most sacred forms of path cultivation! Infuse your intent while you weave, thread by thread, and you begin to unlock deeper secrets of your path.

"You refine your understanding through motion, rhythm, and repetition. You literally knit your way to enlightenment."

Creed slowly looked down at the glowing needles, then at the shimmering thread.

"...So if I knit long enough, I become like, a path sage?"

"If you survive."

"...Comforting."

The monk sat beside him and picked up a glowing thread of his own. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and infused a wave of tranquil, mountain-like power into the string.

His Path of the Mountain bloomed around him like a silent mountain breeze.

Oooom!

As he moved the needle, each stitch was perfectly smooth, glowing gently, almost like calligraphy painted with spiritual energy.

Creed’s jaw dropped. "Okay... that’s actually pretty cool."

"Try it. But don’t be reckless. Start with something gentle. Maybe your Path of the Mountain—"

"Path of Killing!" Creed said proudly, already holding the needles like twin daggers.

The monk spat out his tea.

"No, wait, that’s the most violent path you have—"

But it was too late.

Creed took a deep breath and pushed his killing intent through the thread.

The moment the deadly aura hit the soft shimmering yarn, a strange humming filled the air, followed by a flicker of light—

BOOM!

The needles exploded like firecrackers!

Shards of enchanted wood flew everywhere as the thread burst into sparks and smoke. The table flipped. The chair cracked in half.

Creed was thrown backward and hit the wall with a loud THUD, dazed and smoking like burnt toast.

The napkin he’d been working on slowly floated down from the air, gently landing on his chest like it was saying goodbye.

The old monk pinched the bridge of his nose.

"...Idiot. I told you not to use the most murdery path on your first try!"

Creed coughed, eyes still spinning. "Was that... supposed to happen?"

"No!"

"...I think the napkin absorbed my pain."

The monk dragged a hand down his face and muttered, "I should’ve trained a potato. At least those don’t explode when you feed them string."

Creed groaned and sat up, his hair now sticking up like he’d been electrocuted. "Okay... so... energy knitting is cool... but dangerous."

"Very." The monk sighed. "But once you master it, it becomes one of the most stable and powerful ways to comprehend your path. Each thread becomes part of your soul."

Creed cracked his neck and stood up, dusting off the black ash on his sleeves. "Right. Got it. Next time, I’ll use the Mountain path first."

"And if you explode again?"

"I’m blaming the thread."

The monk rolled his eyes and tossed him another ball of yarn. "Get ready. Lesson two starts in five minutes."

Creed sighed. "...Can I at least wear armor this time?"

"No."

"Figures."

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