Creating A Succubus Army In A Fantasy World!
Chapter 199: Cursed Knitter.

Chapter 199: Cursed Knitter.

Creed’s face was scrunched up so tightly, he looked like he was trying to crush a walnut with his brain.

His fingers trembled over the silver needles, sweat beading down his temple like he was defusing a bomb instead of knitting a scarf.

The shimmering energy-thread quivered between his fingers, pulsing faintly with his Path of the Mountain.

"Come on... rock... stillness... strength... boulder vibes..." he muttered under his breath like a madman.

He imagined mountains. Big ones. The kind that didn’t move even when dragons belly-flopped on them.

He inhaled deeply and tried to channel that feeling into his hands; unmoving, grounded, eternal.

He threaded once.

Twice.

Three times.

The old monk, sitting across from him on a floating chair while drinking a cup of something suspiciously green and slimy, stared like a bored hawk.

His eye bags were so dark they looked like he had just lost a fight with a shadow monster.

"Looks like you’re trying to massage a snake, not knit," the monk muttered.

"I am concentrating," Creed growled, his eyes twitching from effort.

"More like constipating."

Creed ignored him. He took a slow, deep breath, trying to mimic the rhythm of a mountain breeze. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just calm. Steady. Grounded.

His needle looped again, and for the first time ever, the thread didn’t sizzle or spark or combust into chaos.

A small smile crept across Creed’s face. "Hey... I think it’s working—"

BOOM!

The needles exploded with a loud pop, launching Creed backwards into the wall with a loud THUD. His chair toppled over. A smoking sock flew past his head like a fabric torpedo.

Creed groaned from the ground. "...I hate this hobby."

The monk sighed and took another sip of his goop. "You knit like a chicken learning calligraphy."

"Why does everything explode?! I’m literally using the calmest path I have!"

"Then maybe your idea of calm is broken," the monk said, lifting a single wrinkly finger.

"A mountain is not calm because it tries to be. It is calm because it simply is. It doesn’t force itself to stand still. It exists in stillness."

Creed blinked from the floor. "That... sounds cool. But also incredibly unhelpful."

The monk chuckled. "Good. That means it’s the truth."

Creed sat up, his hair now resembling a porcupine after a lightning bath.

He stared at the twitching needles in his lap and growled under his breath. "Okay, fine. Let’s try something else. Let’s go airborne."

The monk raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You mean—"

"Yes. Path of Freedom."

The old man sucked his teeth. "Boy, you can’t even knit with the Path of Mountain, and now you wanna bring that wild featherbrain of a Path into it? You might as well throw the needles into a hurricane and hope they form a scarf by accident."

But Creed was already focused. He closed his eyes, feeling the wind in his bones. Freedom meant no limits. No walls. It was motion, lightness, spontaneity.

Creed imagined flying. Not falling, but soaring. He visualized the way his "Wings of Freedom" spell let him lift into the air, like gravity was just a suggestion and he could ignore it.

He infused that feeling into the thread.

The yarn immediately began floating, hovering like a feather caught in an updraft.

It shimmered with a bluish glow, bobbing and swaying as if carried by invisible breezes.

Creed grinned. "Now we’re talking—!"

The needles jerked violently.

"Wait, wait, WAIT—!"

BOOM!

This time he hit the ceiling.

Smoke spiraled from his shirt. The yarn had unraveled into spaghetti. His foot twitched on instinct.

The monk didn’t even look up from his tea. "You knit freedom like a terrified frog."

Creed dropped from the ceiling with a groan. "I’m going to invent a new Path at this rate. Path of Suffering."

"Already exists," the monk said casually. "It’s called Path of Parenthood."

Creed wheezed and picked himself up again. "You could at least give me real instructions!"

"I am."

"No, you’re not! You’re giving me mysterious riddles about snakes, mountains, frogs, and now parenthood! Just tell me what to do!"

The monk stood, walked over, and gently tapped Creed’s forehead with one wrinkled finger.

"The Path is not in the thread. It’s in you. Energy knitting means you knit the way your path would. Don’t just force your energy through the needles. Become the path."

Creed blinked.

"Okay... but that still sounds like a riddle."

"Exactly," the monk said with a grin. "Now try again."

With a frustrated groan, Creed sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and took a moment to reflect.

He thought about each of his Paths. Path of Killing was obviously off-limits unless he wanted the whole villa to explode.

Path of Freedom was chaotic, maybe too chaotic for fine control. Path of Mountain was supposed to be easy, but maybe he was doing it wrong.

What did it mean to knit like a mountain?

He took a deep breath and thought of himself, an unshakable warrior who stood his ground. Of his desire to protect his girls, to give them a home that no enemy could touch.

He imagined knitting not just cloth, but armor. Not just warmth, but shelter.

Slowly, he brought the thread and needles up again.

One loop.

Two loops.

The yarn didn’t twitch. It didn’t spark. It pulsed gently like a heartbeat.

Even the monk leaned forward slightly. "Huh..."

Creed’s hands moved with practiced calm. Not stiff. Not forced. Like a glacier rolling downhill over centuries.

A tiny square began to form.

It shimmered faintly with a dusty blue aura—the same aura his Path of Mountain always carried.

Creed beamed. "I’m doing it! I’m doing it! Hey, old man, look! I’m—"

BOOOOOOM!

The table vaporized.

Creed was launched through the weapons racks, disappearing into the pile of spears with a crash and a cough of smoke.

There was a long pause.

Then his voice, faint but full of despair:

"...I was so close!"

The monk sipped his tea and chuckled to himself. "One day, boy. One day..."

He sighed, already hearing Creed groan in pain from below. "But not today."

The next two weeks passed in a strange whirlwind of sweat, threads, explosions, and nighttime chaos that would’ve made any pure-hearted monk faint with a nosebleed.

Creed’s life had become an exhausting, hilarious cycle of destruction during the day and... extremely educational snuggling at night with his trio of drop-dead gorgeous summons.

It was a confusing rhythm that somehow made sense only in the crazy fantasy world he now lived in.

Every morning began with the old monk bursting into his room at a time no sane human should be conscious, usually yelling something along the lines of, "UP! The yarn won’t knit itself, you lazy speck of destiny!" while smacking him with a rolled-up blanket.

Then, groggy and muttering curses under his breath, Creed would crawl to the training room with his hair a mess and the ghosts of the previous night’s giggles still floating in his ears.

Lilith, Tierra, and Meredith often peeked through the door with sleepy smirks, sipping tea while wrapped in silky robes like they were queens watching their court jester struggle.

And oh, did Creed struggle.

Every day, he tried—failing at everything from basic scarves to enchanted sock-knitting.

He tried all his Paths; Path of the Mountain, Path of Freedom, even the notorious Path of Killing (which nearly turned the needles into deadly missiles aimed at the old monk’s chair).

No matter what he did, the threads either exploded, tied themselves into mocking knots, or in one particularly humiliating moment, knitted themselves into the shape of a donkey mid-bray.

Pascal dropped by sometimes, dragging Creed out on short trips around the Tier 2 Bastion, introducing him to local food vendors, scenic towers, and an overly enthusiastic talking llama who ran a soap shop.

The outings were nice, a good break from the insanity, but every time Creed returned, the monk would be standing there, arms crossed and eyes glowing with smug disappointment.

"Good. You’re relaxed now. That means I can make you suffer again."

But what really rubbed salt into Creed’s already-thread-burned pride was what happened on the eighth day.

Lilith, in all her sultry, confident glory, had wandered into the room and tilted her head with that dangerously beautiful smile of hers.

"Creed," she purred, her purple hair glowing faintly with charged sparks. "Would you like me to try?"

Creed had laughed at first. "Please. Be my guest. It’s not as easy as it looks."

Lilith sat down, took the needles, summoned a soft golden thread of energy that crackled with faint thunder, and knit.

Not just a single loop. Not just a sad, half-formed square. She knit an entire lightning-patterned scarf in under five minutes!

Everyone stared.

Creed’s jaw hit the floor. "YOU WHAT?! How did you do that?! You don’t even have a lightning path! Just the Sigil!"

Lilith gave him a wink. "The Sigil is enough."

Tierra was next. She shrugged, summoned a shimmering thread that looked like silver stardust swirling through space, and knit an elegant pair of gloves that somehow folded space within their threads.

Creed could stick his hand into one glove and feel it coming out of the other... from ten feet away.

Meredith, ever the quiet little cinnamon bun of mischief, raised her hand shyly. "C-Can I try too?"

Creed blinked. "You don’t even have a Sigil yet..."

But to his utter horror, Meredith gently summoned a soft greenish-white thread pulsing with life energy.

Her first few loops were wobbly, but within minutes, she had knitted a little heart-shaped pouch that glowed.

When Creed touched it, it healed the papercut he’d gotten earlier.

He slumped forward dramatically. "Even my adorable support unit can out-knit me..."

The monk nearly choked from laughter. "Truly, you are the Chosen One. Chosen to be outclassed by your entire harem."

And so the days rolled on: Creed training until his fingers cramped, needles exploded, his face got permanently covered in thread burns, and his ego was reduced to a bean.

The girls kept improving. Creed began to suspect he was cursed.

Then came the final day.

Tomorrow, he’d be resuming at the Ambassador’s Academy. The long-awaited academy arc.

And yet... here he was. Sitting in the familiar room, surrounded by a graveyard of broken needles and half-knitted disasters, staring at his hands like they were traitors.

The monk leaned against the wall, chewing on a dried plum. "Last chance, brat."

Creed inhaled slowly.

He wasn’t going to force anything this time.

He wasn’t going to think about beating anyone or impressing anyone.

He closed his eyes.

He thought of every battle he had fought so far. Every moment of struggle. Every time he had pushed forward when the world tried to drown him.

The feeling of holding a spear. Not as a weapon. But as an extension of his will. Of killing not for pleasure, but for protection.

For purpose. He didn’t want to dominate the thread. He wanted to understand it.

He exhaled.

Then, slowly... he began to knit.

The thread shimmered with the reddish tinge of his Spear intent: a very low-level comprehension, but his all the same.

The needle moved once. No explosion. Again. Still fine. Again. A pattern began to form. A tiny piece of fabric, shaped like a spearhead, but soft, like silk woven from steel.

Seconds passed.

The monk sat up.

Lilith and Tierra leaned in.

Meredith clapped her hands together, eyes sparkling.

Creed knit another loop.

And another.

Five whole seconds passed.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Still working!

Creed blinked. He didn’t even want to smile yet. "I think... it’s actually working."

He knit another loop, slower this time. The thread pulsed with a steady rhythm. Like a heartbeat.

He glanced at the monk.

The monk gave a single nod.

"Okay... okay, I got this. Finally! Finally! I’m not trash! I’m—"

BOOOOOM!!!

Creed was flung into the ceiling again, spinning like a ragdoll before landing face-first in his old chair, which immediately collapsed under him.

Lilith covered her mouth, giggling uncontrollably. Tierra tried to look supportive, but a tiny snort escaped her lips.

Meredith let out a soft, "Pffff—" and turned away, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Even the monk, after a beat of silence, dropped his plum and doubled over. "YOU WERE SO CLOSE! BAHAHA!"

Creed lay on the floor, groaning. "I... hate... knitting."

The monk wiped a tear from his eye. "Boy, you just gave a new meaning to threaded despair. But hey! You lasted longer than you ever did. That counts."

Creed didn’t answer. He just raised a hand from the wreckage and gave the monk a single middle finger.

It was slightly on fire.