CH: 11: New World Summoning!

{Chapter: 11: New World Summoning}

The dream of flight had long been woven into the fabric of ambition, not only for humans but for any being that yearned to conquer the sky. To soar freely above the world, untethered by the constraints of gravity, to rise beyond the limits imposed by nature—this was the ultimate desire. For Dex, however, it wasn't merely about reaching the sky.

He wanted to surpass it.

How high did the sky stretch? He didn't know.

But that didn't stop him from wanting to find out.

With a powerful flap of his wings, he shot upward like a black meteor streaking against the deep purple hues of the abyssal sky. The wind howled around him, pressing against his body with force, but it wasn't enough to slow him down. His strength had grown immensely, his body had evolved beyond its former limits, and now, he wanted to test the very boundaries of what was possible.

Higher and higher he went, the landscape of the Wailing Forest shrinking beneath him. The dense canopies and jagged cliffs, the scattered bones of forgotten creatures—all of it faded into insignificance. The nightmarish wilderness, which had once seemed so vast, now looked like a mere patch of land from this height.

A few seconds passed.

Then, a thin layer of frost began to form over his hands and arms.

Yet, Dex felt no cold.

His body—this demonic vessel infused with dark energy—was not bound by the limitations of ordinary flesh. He could feel the chill creeping along his limbs, see the ice forming in intricate patterns, but it did nothing to hinder him. If anything, it only fueled his determination to go further.

There is no limit, he told himself. No end to how high I can go.

He pushed harder. His wings beat with greater force, tearing through the sky like blades. The sound of rushing wind soon faded, replaced by an eerie silence, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Then, suddenly—

A wall.

It wasn't a physical barrier, nor was it something he could see. But he felt it—an invisible force pressing against him, resisting his ascent, pushing him back down. The higher he climbed, the stronger this force became, as though an unseen hand was gripping him, pulling him toward the earth.

Dex gritted his teeth.

With a burst of magic, his speed surged, reaching supersonic levels. A shockwave rippled outward, tearing through the air, leaving a trail of turbulence in his wake. If any creatures had been nearby, they would have been sliced apart by the sheer force of his passing.

But even that wasn't enough.

The unseen force grew heavier. The pressure around him increased. It was as if the sky itself had deemed his presence unwelcome. His body was being forced to a halt, and despite his strength, despite the overwhelming magic at his disposal, he could go no further.

For ten minutes, he had climbed.

This was his peak.

Dex came to a stop, hovering in the silence of the upper atmosphere.

He took a breath—though there was no air here. It was a strange realization. By all rights, he should have been suffocating. But he wasn't.

The peculiarities of a demon's body...

Rather than question it, he simply accepted it. Some things didn't need explanation.

Slowly, he turned his gaze downward.

From this height, the world stretched out before him in all its raw, untamed beauty. The vast, sprawling expanse of the Wailing Forest lay beneath him, a living tapestry of twisted trees, jagged cliffs, and shifting shadows. Through his enhanced vision, he could see every minute detail, from the movement of distant creatures to the flickering of infernal flames in the depths of the abyss.

And then, something changed.

A deep, primal exhilaration welled up within him—a feeling so intense, so pure, that it sent shivers through his entire being. It was not just joy. It was instinct. A hunger, a craving, a need that came from the very core of his existence.

This was his domain.

The sky belongs to me!

A scarlet glow flickered in his eyes, growing brighter until it bathed his surroundings in a crimson hue. His vision sharpened, his senses expanded, and in that moment, he felt utterly, completely alive.

"This is fucking amazing," Dex exhaled, his voice filled with exhilaration. His lips curled into a slow, wicked grin as he stretched his wings.

Below, the world waited.

Dex dove.

Like a thunderbolt crashing from the heavens, he descended at breathtaking speed, cutting through the layers of sky with effortless precision. His wings adjusted instinctively, controlling his momentum, making minor shifts to his trajectory.

As he fell, he passed by other flying creatures—demons, beasts, and eldritch horrors that roamed the skies of the abyss. Some of them turned their gazes toward him, sensing the powerful force in their midst.

Dex smirked.

He had seen enough. Now, it was time to test what he had learned.

He flicked his fingers, conjuring a barrage of flame arrows that shot outward, striking several airborne creatures mid-flight. The air was filled with shrieks of agony as bodies were torn apart, wings were scorched, and lifeless husks tumbled toward the ground below.

Perfect.

The more he fought, the more he understood. Combat in the air was nothing like on the ground. The fluidity, the speed, the three-dimensional movement—it all required a completely different approach.

For hours, Dex battled. He maneuvered through the sky with deadly grace, testing spells, refining techniques, learning how to fight in air with every moment.

By the time night fell again, he was covered in scars.

Yet, he stood at the summit of a mountain, looking down upon the forest with a gaze of absolute dominance. He was no longer a mere demon struggling to survive.

He was a predator.

He was at the top of the food chain here.

But this was still not enough.

With a deep breath, he activated one of his most mysterious abilities—[Abyss Pact].

Immediately, an unseen force gripped his consciousness, pulling him away from his body and into a strange, luminous void.

Countless lights flickered around him, shining like stars against the darkness. Some glowed with intense brilliance, others barely flickered at all.

Each light represented a summoning ritual.

Some were mere mortals attempting to call forth a demon. Others were high-ranking abyssal demons seeking to bring lesser demons under their command. The colors told the difference—white for standard contracts, red for higher demon summons.

Dex observed the chaotic dance of lights before him. He could feel the power radiating from some of them, the desperation from others.

A wicked grin spread across his face.

A red summoning was never a good sign. It meant the battlefield had reached a point of no return—an all-out war spilling across the planes, where blood and death reigned supreme. No demon willingly shared its prey unless the carnage had escalated to such heights that even the strongest among them sought reinforcements.

Red summoning circles rarely appeared for trivial skirmishes; they were harbingers of something far more sinister. When one flared to life, it signaled a conflict so brutal that even abyssal lords were compelled to intervene. For demons, it was both an opportunity and a curse. To step into a red summoning was to answer the call of a greater power, an upper demon whose influence stretched across entire planes. Participation came at a steep cost—obedience and tribute. A portion of the souls harvested had to be surrendered, a tax for the privilege of serving under the banner of a stronger fiend.

To Dex, this was a terrible deal.

Demons didn't crave structure. They thrived in chaos, carving their own paths through the worlds they invaded. The idea of submitting to another, even for the promise of war and slaughter, was sickening. The thought of handing over spoils he had rightfully claimed? Even worse.

So even if one wants to be a wage earner and get deducted from their salary, there are not many demons who still choose to enter the red light spot.

Also, he wasn't about to sprint to work as a wage slave; he'd already clocked in enough hours in his past life! So he skipped all the red light spots and turned his gaze to the white light area.

No, he had no intention of selling himself into servitude. He had already been a cog in the machine once, trapped in a life where his efforts fueled someone else's ambitions. He wasn't about to do that again, especially not here, in the abyss where strength determined all.

His gaze drifted toward the white summoning circles.

White summoning rituals were more standard contracts. A mortal—a warlock, sorcerer, or desperate noble—offered tribute in exchange for a demon's service. The stronger the sacrifice, the brighter the summoning beacon. Unlike the red light, which demanded submission, white summonings allowed more autonomy. A demon could negotiate terms, dictate conditions, and—most importantly—choose whether to accept the summons at all.

Dex scrutinized the countless flickering points of light before him. Some blazed like miniature suns, their intensity suggesting powerful summoners offering extravagant sacrifices—kings on the brink of losing their thrones, archmages delving into forbidden arts, or high priests seeking vengeance. Others were dim, barely flickering, the feeble prayers of peasants and lesser cultists who had nothing of value to offer.

He sought something in between—not so strong that he would be forced into an undesirable pact, but not so weak that it was a waste of his time.

After several moments of contemplation, he made his choice.

The moment his will latched onto the chosen summoning, the ritual's power surged to life, yanking him forward. The sensation was disorienting, like being pulled through a narrow tunnel at impossible speed. His body remained in the abyss, but his consciousness surged toward the foreign plane, drawn through the rift between worlds.

Then, he stopped.

Rather than allowing the ritual to complete and pull his full form into the new world, Dex halted his descent halfway. His thoughts shifted, activating the unique ability that had awakened when he ascended to a [Lower Demon]—[Cross-Boundary Projection: Simulacrum]. A fragment of his soul splintered off, forming an ethereal construct—a perfect projection of himself—on the other side of the summoning.

[Ten seconds…]

That was the limit.

If he failed to solidify his place in the summoned world before the ten-second mark, the connection would break, and he would be yanked back into the abyss. Worse, he would lose the summoner's coordinates, making it impossible to attempt the contract again.

His vision adjusted, and for the first time, he saw the world of his summoner.

---

In the dark night, in the empty flat ground

A huge bonfire illuminates this desolate building.

This used to be a well-known prison in the kingdom. Later, it was abandoned after the location was changed. The venue, which has not been taken care of for many years, is filled with a deadly atmosphere..

A darkened field stretched, bathed in the eerie glow of torches and a roaring bonfire. The night air was thick with the scent of charred flesh, coppery blood, and old decay.

Beast blood and human blood are mixed with medicines to prepare pigments, which are then portrayed as magic symbols and embedded in the ground.

In the center of the ritual ground lay a massive six-pointed summoning circle, inscribed in intricate lines of glowing red script. The design covered nearly half a football field, its outer edges lined with twisted symbols of abyssal origin.

In the end, Many spells were portrayed as a magic circle with a six-pointed star inside and a circle outside.

At its core, a pile of corpses lay stacked like lumber.

Humans.

Dozens of them.

Their lifeless bodies were fresh, their wounds still seeping. Most had been decapitated, their heads lying in a separate heap, eyes frozen in horror.

Figures in dark robes surrounded the summoning circle, their faces obscured by heavy hoods. Their voices rose in unison, chanting an ancient incantation that called upon the abyss, their words thick with reverence and desperation. Among them, a bald man stood at the forefront, his presence commanding. The leader of this ritual.

Beyond the cultists, a larger group observed from a distance.

Knights.

Nearly two hundred strong, they stood in disciplined ranks, mounted on fine warhorses clad in gleaming barding. Their armor was pristine, their swords forged of superior steel. Their mere presence radiated authority, a stark contrast to the wild, zealous energy of the robed figures before them.

One of them, a middle-aged noble with sharp features and calculating eyes, leaned toward the man beside him.

"Your Highness," the noble murmured, his voice edged with skepticism. "These cultists are playing with forces beyond their understanding. It would be wiser to seek aid from the Principality of Leit for this war rather than resorting to... this."

His words were directed at a young man clad in regal attire. Though his features were still youthful, there was a hardness in his gaze that spoke of battles fought and burdens carried. His name was James Wozniak, crown prince of the kingdom. The weight of leadership pressed upon his shoulders, and though he had the bearing of a king, hesitation flickered in his eyes as he stared at the summoning circle.

The prince's lips pressed into a thin line.

He had expected something dark, something sinister, but this? A mass execution? A contract with a being from the abyss? His father, the king, would have never allowed this. Yet desperate times called for desperate measures. The war was going poorly, and the enemy forces grew stronger by the day. The cultists had promised a solution—a weapon that could turn the tide.

But at what cost?

His hands tightened on the reins of his horse.

But after hesitating for a long moment, James Woz finally shook his head. When Baron Duke saw this, he sighed in disappointment, lowering his gaze.

However, before the knight could dwell on his frustration, the crown prince finally spoke. "Give them another twenty minutes," James declared, his voice carrying a mix of irritation and patience. "If nothing comes of this ritual by then, we will put an end to their nonsense. We will execute them all and report to the Church that we have eradicated a group of heretics—including the sorcerer Salt, whom they have long sought."

At those words, Baron Duke Abbott's resolve hardened. A nobleman and a knight, he had never harbored any sympathy for these so-called cultists. In his eyes, they were nothing more than deluded fanatics, pretending to wield forbidden power while dabbling in profane rituals. Their existence alone was an affront to everything he stood for, and he had already endured more than enough of their blasphemy. If not for the prince's command, he would have already cut them down where they stood.

Now, with the prince's approval, Duke felt no need to hold back his killing intent. He doubted that Salt could summon any creature powerful enough to turn the tide of war. It was all just desperate theatrics. As he shifted slightly in his saddle, adjusting his grip on the reins, his fellow knights followed suit, subtly preparing themselves. The moment the twenty minutes were up, they would charge forward and cut down the cultists where they stood, staining the earth with their heretical blood.

On the other side of the ritual site, Salt could feel the waves of hostility radiating from the knights behind him. His back tensed as an involuntary shiver ran down his spine, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

Damn it! This ritual was supposed to work!

His mind raced. More than a decade ago, Salt had been nothing more than a penniless beggar, scrounging for food in the alleys of a decaying town. But his fate changed the day he stumbled upon a forgotten crypt in an abandoned cave near his hometown. Inside, nestled among the bones of some long-dead scholar, he had discovered an ancient grimoire—one that had survived from the era of the Church's now-extinct Dangan Dynasty.

The book contained knowledge so potent, so forbidden, that the mere act of reading it felt like staring into the abyss itself. It described spells of unspeakable power, profane rituals that twisted the laws of nature, and truths that the Church had buried beneath centuries of dogma.

For Salt, the allure was irresistible. It was as if fate had placed this forbidden knowledge in his hands. He spent sleepless nights and endless days poring over its pages, sacrificing everything—food, companionship, even his sanity—for the pursuit of its secrets. Though he had discovered his magical talent too late in life to receive proper training, his determination made up for what he lacked in formal education. He clawed his way into power through sheer will and an insatiable hunger for knowledge.

But such power came at a price. The Church did not take kindly to those who dabbled in the forbidden arts. Eventually, his activities were noticed, and the Church branded him a heretic. For years, he had evaded their grasp, always staying one step ahead, always adapting. But it had been a relentless hunt. His name was etched onto the Church's list of most-wanted apostates, and he could never rest easy.

Then, not long ago, he had heard whispers of war—fierce, bloody, and unrelenting. The Principality of Marton and the Principality of Yar had been locked in brutal conflict, their battlefields strewn with the corpses of fallen soldiers.

Salt saw opportunity in the carnage. He gathered the cult he had carefully nurtured over the years and traveled to the war-torn lands, intent on harvesting the dead for his experiments.

But fate, ever unpredictable, had other plans.

During his travels, Salt unexpectedly crossed paths with Crown Prince James Woz himself. What should have been a dangerous encounter turned into an intriguing proposition. To his astonishment, the prince was seeking something beyond conventional warfare—some mystical means to tip the scales in Marton's favor.

At first, Salt had been skeptical. Could it be that even royalty had begun to seek the hidden truths that the Church so desperately suppressed?

Then, realization dawned.

Mysterious powers? The means to reverse a losing war?

He nearly laughed aloud. That's me! That's exactly what I do!

He had studied rituals capable of turning the tide of battle, buried within the pages of his forbidden tome. However, those spells required rare and costly materials—resources that, despite years of preparation, had always eluded him.

But now… now he had an opportunity.

Why not let the prince and his forces gather the necessary materials for me? Let them bankroll the ritual. I will perform the spell, grant them victory, and in return, I will carve out a place for myself—a new identity, a noble title, a life free from the Church's persecution!

The idea was intoxicating. Once it took root in his mind, it grew into something unstoppable.

His lips curled into a smirk as he tightened his grip on his staff. This is my moment. I will not let it slip through my fingers.

*****

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