Chapter 31 : The Lie of Summoning

At last, sleep overcame him, quiet and absolute.

Mages were rare—and among them, Spiritcallers were rarer still. Their nature cloaked in mystery, their truths guarded as jealously as a dragon’s hoard. The arcane was their dominion, and their silence a fortress.

It was no surprise, then, that even the most basic questions about them remained unanswered. Take, for instance, the simplest of inquiries: Where do spirits come from? Not a single Spiritcaller had offered a proper reply.

And so, the world did what it always does in the face of mystery—it speculated.

Some believed that all things in the world, from stone to star, harbored sleeping spirits, and that Spiritcallers merely contracted with one.

Others claimed that spirits hailed from an entirely separate realm—a hidden plane of elemental forces—and that Spiritcallers summoned them across the veil.

Curtis  had once found both explanations plausible. But he had also found them incomplete.

If spirits truly abounded in nature, then why were they seen only in the company of a scarce few individuals? Why did no wild elemental ever manifest outside a Spiritcaller’s presence?

Now, he knew the truth.

“There’s a reason the spell is called ‘Spirit Creation’—not summoning, not binding. Creation.”

Rested from his sleep, his thoughts sharpened. The moment he acquired [Spirit Creation], a stream of innate knowledge had flowed into him—etched into his mind like runes upon stone.

Spirits were not ancient, otherworldly beings.

They were artificial, forged through the will of the caster.

Not quite alive, not quite dead. Not even creatures, really.

If anything, they resembled a child’s imaginary friend—harmless fantasies, born from emotion and unspoken longing. But when such visions met true magical talent, the impossible bent before them. Dreams became real. Reality rewrote itself.

That, Curtis  now understood, was why spirits only existed at their summoner’s side.

They had nowhere else to be—because they had been made, not found.

“So then… were Spiritcallers pure? Or just… unwell?”

Redna, for example—who knew what fire had done to her? Perhaps she had once been burned, body or soul. Perhaps her obsession ran so deep she had personified flame itself.

To most, such behavior would be dismissed as madness. In another life, she might have become an arsonist.

But fate had given her talent—and her magic had given form to that madness.

It was just a theory. But it was his theory. And now that he held the spell [Spirit Creation], it felt closer to truth than any scholar’s guess.

“Which means… my spirit must differ from hers.”

Redna was possessed by fire. Others might be consumed by wind, or frost, or lightning. Each Spiritcaller was bound not by choice, but by obsession.

Curtis  had no such madness.

But he had spent over twenty years by the sea—half a life steeped in salt and tide. He had trained for months manipulating water, until his body knew it better than his breath.

His spirit, naturally, would be born of water.

Swrrr…

Moisture in the air obeyed his will. With the strength of a mind refreshed, Curtis  summoned it—a marble of water, just larger than a fist, formed and hovered in his palm.

The condition was met: direct contact with a small body of water.

Magic stirred. Spirit Creation awakened. The water drank deep of his mana, and his control over it fell away.

Yet the shape held.

The spirit was born.

“Hmm.”

He felt something new—a thread spun through his thoughts, like a tether from mind to soul. The touch of the spirit in his palm was strange: liquid, yet his hand remained dry.

“What can I even do with this?”

Even as the question formed, the answer followed. It was not spoken, not taught—it simply was, like instinct.

The spirit—true to its nature—could drink water and expel it.

That was it.

“…”

Curtis  jabbed it gently with a finger.

Pew! Pew!

It spat two small streams like a child’s toy. Curtis  nearly groaned.

“Is this it? Really?”

Then he checked himself.

“No, no. Hydrokinesis was just as weak at level one. I’m only at the beginning.”

Though, truthfully, even back then, he remembered doing more than this. But he chose to forget that detail.

“Spitting water’s one thing… but drinking it? That means it can store it, doesn’t it?”

Beside the bed sat a water jug, brought earlier by the servants.

Gently, he poured it onto the spirit.

Gulp. Gulp.

There was no actual sound—but his mind supplied it all the same. The spirit drank greedily, leaving not a drop to fall.

Then Curtis  frowned.

“Wait a second…”

The jug was nearly empty. The spirit had consumed far more than its size should allow—yet it hadn’t grown at all.

No change in weight. No change in size. It remained a small orb of floating water.

“Is there a black hole in your belly or something?”

Brow raised, Curtis  set the jug aside and inspected it from all angles. But it looked no different than before.

“All right, spit it out again.”

He gave it another poke.

FWOOSH!

This time, the water surged forth like a jet from a high-pressure hose. A glistening arc of liquid painted a rainbow across the air.

“…Oh.”

He blinked.

Maybe this little creature was far more useful than it seemed.

Curtis  collapsed into the wagon, utterly spent—but Narok’s victory was already sealed.

The tide had turned the moment Redna’s flame was smothered.

For days, House Gaud had surged forward on the strength of their Spiritcaller’s inferno, morale high and enemies scorched. But now… the fire had failed.
Everyone had seen it—the moment the wave crashed down, swallowing Redna whole.

No mage, no matter how talented, could withstand such mass—such force—unshielded.
Her body, for all its power, was as mortal as any other.
When the floodwaters receded, they revealed her—broken, breathless, still.
Her flame had gone out forever.

“Retreat! Fall back!”

The cry echoed across the battlefield. Gaud’s warriors, their spirit shattered, began a hasty withdrawal.

Fortunately for them, discipline had not entirely crumbled.
Some soldiers delayed Narok’s advance, others hauled away the wounded. And though many dead were left behind, they made certain to recover Redna’s body.

“…It’s over,” Terty murmured.

Should Gaud attempt to strike now, they would only compound their defeat.
Terty allowed himself to ease his vigilance—his senses still alert, but his nerves no longer drawn like a bowstring.

“Here—help with these.”

“Yes?”

“Clear a few of these out for me.”

“Right away!”

Curtis  gestured toward the now-empty water jars. His guards hastened to remove them from the wagon bed, making space for him to lie down in full.

“Ahh…”

Terty glanced over, concern furrowing his brow.

“Are you certain you’re alright? You looked like you were pushing too hard.”

“Oh, I absolutely was,” Curtis  admitted with a breathless chuckle. “I don’t usually go this far.”

“But you did it anyway.”

“I had the chance. And I didn’t want to waste it. Who knows what the next battle might bring?”

Terty nodded thoughtfully.

“Well… you weren’t wrong. If they return with a countermeasure next time, the advantage may be lost. Seize the moment—that’s wisdom.”

Curtis  had meant his words in reference to Spirit Creation—the spell he had nearly mastered during the battle.
Terty, unaware of that, assumed Curtis  had simply been seizing the chance to strike Redna down.

It didn’t matter. So long as their meanings aligned, there was no need to explain.

Both Curtis  and Narok had gotten what they wanted.

While the two spoke in low tones, Gaud’s forces vanished entirely from the field.

“We’ve won!”

“Glory to Narok!”

“Hail the mage! Hail Curtis !”

It didn’t take keen eyes to see who had turned the tide.
Even modest insight would be enough to realize that, with Curtis  on their side, victory could become routine.

He offered a small wave to the cheering warriors. It was a bit embarrassing—but not unpleasant.

Once the surrounding storehouses were secured and the area cleared, they returned triumphantly to the estate.

Curtis  remained sprawled in the wagon, limp as cloth—but no one dared disturb him.

“Hah! You’ve returned victorious!”

Bruno was waiting at the gate, face alight with joy.

“I can’t believe it! To think the Spiritcaller was slain in her first engagement! Gaud is finished!”

“I… was lucky.”

“Luck? Bah! I’ve heard the reports. Her fire was utterly crushed, wasn’t it? If only I could’ve seen it with my own eyes—gods, what a glorious sight that must’ve been!”

Curtis  forced a tired laugh.

“Come, come,” Bruno continued. “We’ve prepared a small welcome in your honor. A true feast awaits this evening, but at least join us for a drink—”

“Sir Bruno,” Terty interjected with a polite cough. “Forgive the interruption, but would you mind if we joined only for the evening meal?”

“Hmm? Of course, but… why?”

“This one arrived barely conscious. He was carried in the wagon, and even now, he’s on the brink of collapse. I believe rest must come first.”

“…Ah. I see. My apologies—I got ahead of myself. Please, take him to the guest house at once. Let him rest as long as he needs.”

“We’re grateful for your understanding.”