Rakshas: Tales of the Summoned Lord

The air inside Allen's office thickened as a deep, pulsing energy radiated outward. The sensation was unlike any battle aura or magic—it was raw, otherworldly.

A faint light shimmered in the center of the room, twisting and bending the space around it. The light pulsed, shifting erratically, before condensing into a swirling vortex of black and silver.

Allen sat motionless behind his desk, watching with an unreadable expression. He had seen this process many times before, but the unpredictability of his summons always made it… interesting.

Then, with a final pulse of energy, the vortex exploded outward in a rush of wind—revealing a man.

He landed in a crouch, his boots scraping against the wooden floor. His head was bowed, shoulders tensed as if preparing for battle.

Allen's eyes flickered over the new summon's appearance.

He was a young man, possibly in his mid-twenties, with sharp, wolfish features and a lean, well-muscled build. His dark, slightly messy hair framed a face that bore the hardened look of a seasoned warrior. His eyes—cold, piercing gray—scanned the room with sharp awareness before settling on Allen.

Strapped across his back were two curved swords, the hilts worn from years of use. His posture, the way his fingers subtly twitched near his weapons, spoke of an experienced fighter—one who had lived by the blade for a long time.

Then, as always, the mark appeared.

A black insignia—the Mark of Styles—etched itself onto his forearm, glowing faintly for a moment before fading into his skin.

The warrior's eyes widened slightly. His body tensed as if instinctively resisting—then he exhaled sharply.

His features softened, shifting from wary to certain.

Allen watched with mild amusement. The moment of acceptance. It was always fascinating.

The warrior knelt on one knee, bowing his head. "Master." His voice was deep, carrying an edge of sharp confidence. "I… serve you now."

Allen leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. "Name?"

The man hesitated. He blinked, as if searching his mind for an answer, then frowned slightly. "...Stroud." He looked up, his gray eyes sharp. "That's what I remember."

Allen's gaze remained steady. That's common. Most of his summons retained knowledge of their skills, their instincts, even fragments of their past lives—but their full memories? Those were always hazy, like a dream half-forgotten.

Allen glanced at the swords on Stroud's back. "What are you?"

Stroud smirked slightly, placing a hand on one of his hilts. "A battle force master," he answered confidently. "Silver rank… Level 1, if I'm judging myself right."

A strong summon, at least by the usual standards. Not as exceptional as Hilter, but a solid fighter. Allen noted his stance, the ease with which he carried his weapons. Expert in dual blades, Allen mused. Fast, agile, precision-based fighter. Good for mid-range skirmishing and assassinations.

Stroud slowly rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders. "Feels strange," he muttered. "Like I was somewhere else a moment ago… and now I'm here." He paused, then smirked. "Not that I mind. I can feel it—I belong here."

Allen chuckled. "Of course you do."

Stroud tilted his head, as if assessing Allen for the first time. His gaze held a flicker of curiosity beneath the unwavering loyalty burned into him by the summon's bond. "So… what now?"

Allen gestured toward a chair. "Now, you sit. We talk. I need to know how best to use you."

Stroud grinned, his hand brushing over his swords. "Use me however you see fit, Master. As long as there's blood to spill, I'll be happy."

Allen smirked.

He had a feeling Stroud was going to be an interesting addition to his growing force.

'Been a while since someone competent has been summoned, a Level 1 Silver Rank isn't bad at all.' Allen leaned forward on his chair, tapping his finger on the wooden table.

Stroud's physique suggested a lifetime of training, but unlike a few rare exceptions among his summons, Allen could already feel it—this was Stroud's limit. He would never break past Silver.

Still, Silver-rank warriors weren't exactly common. Even in a city as powerful as this one, a skilled swordsman had value.

Allen's eyes flicked to the door. "Hilter."

The butler entered silently, his face composed as always, but the moment his eyes landed on Stroud, his expression shifted. A barely perceptible twitch crossed his lips, his sharp gaze scanning the man's unkempt appearance.

Allen smirked. Hilter, ever the perfectionist.

"Master," Hilter said stiffly. "I assume this is the new summon?"

"Indeed." Allen gestured to Stroud. "He's a dual-swords expert, Level 1 Silver rank. No growth potential, but still a skilled fighter."

Hilter didn't respond immediately. Instead, his eyes continued their disapproving assessment. Finally, he exhaled through his nose. "I see. Shall I have him cleaned up first, or would you rather throw him onto the streets as he is?"

Stroud snorted. "I like this one, boss. He's got attitude."

Allen chuckled. "He does. And you'll listen to him, Stroud. Hilter is in charge of integrating you into our operations."

Stroud rolled his shoulders. "Fine by me. What exactly am I working with here?"

Allen's fingers tapped against the polished wood of his desk. "We're not some flashy mercenary band, nor are we thugs swinging swords in alleys. We operate in shadows—information, influence, money. My network is small but growing. We don't make enemies. We learn, observe, and profit."

Stroud arched a brow. "So, you're telling me I won't be swinging these swords much?"

Allen smiled. "You will when necessary. But mostly, you'll be a hidden blade. There are jobs that require a skilled hand—quick eliminations, security, intimidation when subtlety fails. That's where you'll come in."

Stroud leaned against the chair, arms crossed. "Sounds simple enough."

Hilter sniffed disapprovingly. "Hardly. Your appearance alone will need refining before we can assign you anything remotely delicate."

Stroud grinned. "What, you don't like my rugged charm?"

Hilter's eye twitched. "I despise it."

Allen sighed. "Hilter, make the necessary arrangements. Outfit him properly, bring him up to speed on our operations, and find a place for him within our structure."

Hilter straightened. "As you wish, Master." Then, turning to Stroud, he added, "Follow me. You are in dire need of civilization."

Stroud chuckled but did as he was told, following Hilter out of the office.

As the door shut behind them, Allen leaned back in his chair, deep in thought.

Another piece added to his growing network. He wasn't building an army—at least, not yet. For now, he would continue what he did best: working from the shadows, securing influence, and ensuring that when the time came, he wouldn't just be another small-time player in this city.

He would be someone worth fearing.

'I really wish I could understand more about this powers...its unpredictability is quite annoying at times, not that I have any rights to complain. But I can feel it as I grow stronger I might understand this powers better..'

Allen stood up as he look outside the window, "Gold rank.. What kind of summons would I have when I reach that level, I only have two special summons my first summon Loran and Hilter. Hilter appeared when I had a major breakthrough in realm. What surprise awaits me at Gold rank.. Ahh summoning I wish you came with a manual."

Summoning— an unique skill Allen has, its not something he has much understanding about, but it started five years ago after he transmigrated. Evan still remember the first time he summoned someone, a burning sensation arose in his chest. A whisper in his mind. A name that was not his own.

And then—a person appeared before him.

All his past summons were completely unpredictable as if a lottery and each varied wildly. Some were warriors, others scholars. He had summoned men and women, young and old, with powers that ranged from remarkable to completely mundane. Most were fixed at the strength they arrived with, unable to grow. But a rare few, like Hilter, had broken that rule.

But every single one bore the Mark of Styles, an arcane symbol seared onto their skin and soul, binding them to him in absolute loyalty. He came to find that each of these summons had their own past, their own lives, even goals before coming to him.

Allen had theorized that they probably came from other worlds, but he can't be sure because for some reason his summons although retain their past lives can't seem to recall it completely, as if a veil is draped over their past existence before being summoned.

At first, Allen had tried to understand this power, to control it. He quickly realized it was impossible at least for now. The summons were random—age, gender, race, talent. There were some patterns though, all of his summons were weaker than him, and their abilities were often fixed, unable to grow stronger.

And Allen had learned to use them.

The first summon had been a man named Loran, a rogue from a distant land. He had appeared in a burst of light, dazed and confused. The moment Allen looked into his eyes, he saw the Mark of Styles seared onto him—a mysterious sigil binding him in absolute loyalty.

Since then, Allen had summoned many more. Their origins were unknown, their abilities varied but powers usually fixed no room for improvement.

A few, rare ones had broken the pattern. They had grown stronger, evolved beyond their initial limits. And Allen had learned to use them all, weaving them into his growing influence.

Loran, his first summon had a talent for knives, and more importantly information gathering. Then came Mara, a former noble lady with a good sense for business. There was Sven, a disgraced knight, and Elara, a healer with good knowledge of herbs.

None of them should have met. None of them should have served. But under Allen, they formed the foundation of his power.

Now, Redbrook knew him as an instructor and part-time adventurer. None knew the truth—that the people under him were bound by something greater than loyalty.

And fewer still understood what Allen Styles was truly building.

And soon, the world would know his name.

...

Redbrook City, eastern residential street.

Allen sat in his study room, his fingers tapping idly against the polished wooden desk as he read various reports. The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, its rich aroma mingling with the faint scent of parchment and candle wax. Across from him, a tall, dignified man in a black butler's uniform poured the dark liquid into an ornate silver cup.

Hilter.

Allen's strongest summon. One of the few who defied the rules.

Unlike most of his summoned followers, whose power remained stagnant from the moment they arrived in this world, Hilter had continued to grow stronger, his abilities sharpening over time. He was no ordinary butler—his movements were precise, his presence commanding, his combat skills lethal. But what made him truly unique was his absolute, almost fanatical adherence to etiquette and aristocratic decorum.

To Allen, he was a trusted right-hand man. To everyone else, he was a nightmare in formal wear.

"Your coffee, Master," Hilter said, placing the cup before him with mechanical precision. His voice was deep, steady, and filled with the kind of unwavering respect that made lesser men stand straighter in his presence.

Allen took a sip, savoring the taste.

"Blood Inn have started to show interest in underground powers? Quite troubling."

Hilter adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his nose and replied ".. Milord, Loran has looked into this matter, its actually that man's nephew who seem to have an idea to form his gang, nothing we can't deal with."

"His nephew? ...hmmm still withdraw our people it's not worth it to fight against him. The man behind Blood Inn is formidable not wise to cross his path when the results are mere control of an economy street."

"As you command."

"How's business in our guild, have they return?"

"Yes sir, it was successful as expected."

"Good, make sure they keep working hard and rise through ranks although mercenary guilds aren't very profitable I have a feeling that trouble would be coming soon. By then hiring mercenaries especially one's with good reputation would be in high demand amongst nobles or merchants and also our tickets to implant our people and expand the business."

"Yes sir."

"Okay give me the latest report."

Hilter gave a curt nod and pulled out a thick leather-bound ledger, opening it with the care of a scholar handling an ancient manuscript.

"As per your orders, I have conducted a thorough evaluation of all summoned personnel under your command," Hilter began, adjusting his monocle. "There are currently twenty-eight active summons including the ruffian today.."

"Refrain from unnecessary comments during your reports Hilter."

"Yes of course Milord, including today's summon, your loyal servants are distributed across various professions, as per your strategic placement. Their progress remains stable, with the exception of two individuals who have shown minor but notable improvements."

Allen leaned forward slightly. "Who?"

Hilter turned a page. "Elara, the herbolgist, she has been accepted as an apprentice by Master Whittaker, one of the esteemed researchers and guest physician of Greg merchant company."

"That's quite impressive, people of that caliber are in high demand everywhere. She has done good, try to increase our resources spent on her growth."

"As you wish."

Allen nodded. Elara had been a decent summon—intelligent, hardworking, but ultimately locked at a low-tier power level.

"And the second?"

"Grimwald, the blacksmith. Though his personal combat ability remains unimpressive, his craftsmanship has reached a level where even Silver-ranked adventurers seek him out for commissions. His latest creation, a reinforced black iron longsword, has been appraised as 'Masterwork' quality by the Odyssey Guild."

Allen smirked. That was promising. Grimwald had always been an outlier—physically weak, but with an obsession for perfection in his craft. If he was truly improving, then that meant better weapons for his people.

"And the rest?"

Hilter's expression did not change, but there was a faint note of disapproval in his voice. "As expected, the majority remain at their summoning level, with no signs of progression. They perform adequately in their assigned roles, but their potential is limited. While their unwavering loyalty is commendable, their practical utility is beginning to reach its peak."

Allen sighed. This was the frustrating part of his power. Most of his summons, no matter how skilled, would never grow stronger. It made them useful assets, but not true game-changers.

Hilter flipped a page and cleared his throat. "Additionally, I must once again bring attention to the appalling lack of discipline among certain individuals. Loran, the rogue, has been indulging in excessive drinking. Mara, despite her intelligence, continues to demonstrate a disturbingly casual approach to financial matters. And as for young Jasper…"

Allen raised an eyebrow. "What did Jasper do now?"

Hilter exhaled, his expression tight. "He has once again been seen engaging in street brawls with local adventurers. It is most unbecoming."

Allen chuckled. "He's a fighter, Hilter. Let him enjoy himself."

The butler's eye twitched ever so slightly. "Enjoyment is one thing, Master. Conduct befitting one of your summons is another. If they are to represent your interests, they must exhibit discipline and refinement."

Allen smirked, shaking his head. "You'd turn all of them into aristocrats if you had your way."

Hilter adjusted his monocle. "A worthy goal, indeed."

Allen leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the desk. He had built a small but effective network, integrating his summons into some level of Redbrook's economy.

Herbolgist, blacksmiths, merchants, spies—each played a role in his growing influence. But with power came challenges.

His summons were strong, but they weren't enough to change the world. Not yet.