GOD-LEVEL SUMMONER: My Wives Are Mythical Beast

Scene 1 – The Wraith's Awakening

The world went silent.

Even the forest's dying crackles held their breath.

Jemil's boots sank into the powdery ash, each step muffled, as if the world didn't want sound to escape. A shadow swelled beneath the fissured ground, and then the earth split — not with an explosion, but with a slow, deliberate tearing, like a predator unzipping its own cage.

The First Wraith emerged.

It didn't roar. It didn't screech.

It looked at them.

Golden embers swirled in the hollow void where a face should be, each spark burning with a different scene — a memory, a death, a promise broken. The ash clung to it like armor, cracked and leaking molten light at every seam. Every movement it made was unnervingly precise, like an apex hunter that didn't waste motion.

Alvara's blade was already in her hand, its edge whispering against the scabbard. "This… isn't just a beast," she said, her voice barely above the hush.

The Wraith tilted its head.

The ash around them shifted as if pulled by invisible currents, spiraling toward its body.

Then it spoke — a voice like stone grinding against bone.

"Summoner."

The word wasn't a greeting. It was a claim.

Jemil's grip tightened on his staff. "Yeah," he muttered under his breath, "I was afraid of that."

The ground under them began to crack, the gold glow intensifying. The Wraith was no longer rising — it was drawing the floor in with it.

Scene 2 – The Ashstorm's Embrace

The first gust hit like a slap of fire and ice.

Ash scraped against skin and armor, clinging in heavy layers that seemed to sap strength with every heartbeat.

Jemil raised an arm to shield his eyes, but it was useless — the storm wasn't just outside, it was inside. The ash carried whispers, each one in a voice he recognized: wives calling his name, enemies mocking his failures, friends accusing him of betrayal.

"Don't listen!" Alvara's voice cut through, sharp and urgent, but even her tone felt distant under the Wraith's mental weight.

The creature moved through the swirling gray like it was the storm. One moment it was across the clearing, the next it was behind them, its molten seams flaring as its claw-like fingers extended toward Jemil's chest.

Reflex. Instinct. Training.

His staff slammed into the ash between them, runes lighting up in a blinding flash. A shield of violet light snapped into existence, barely stopping the claw before it could pierce him.

The impact rattled his bones.

"That won't hold," he thought — but aloud he said, "On my mark!"

Alvara didn't question. Her sword ignited with a pale-blue edge, a glow that somehow held its own against the gold fire of the Wraith.

The ground buckled again. Roots snapped. The ash thickened into tendrils that tried to grab their legs, pull them under. Jemil stomped one foot down, summoning a ripple of force that shattered the nearest grip — but each break only made the storm angrier.

Somewhere in that suffocating cloud, the Wraith's voice came again:

"Your bond… will not survive me."

Jemil's pulse spiked. He didn't know if it was taunting or prophesying — and he wasn't sure which scared him more.

Scene 3 – The Beast Within the Storm

The ashstorm roared louder, as if the Wraith had found some deeper well of power. Every breath burned Jemil's lungs, every blink stung with grit.

He knew they couldn't win trading blows. Not like this. Not in its domain.

"Time to cheat," he growled under his breath.

His free hand traced a rapid pattern in the air, leaving behind streaks of silver light that twisted and coiled like serpents. The glyph flared to life — a summoning circle, but smaller, tighter. Not a full manifestation, but enough.

"Eryndra," he called, voice low but resonant, "lend me your fang."

The circle pulsed, and a fragment of his draconic wife's essence tore through reality — a spectral head of shimmering obsidian scales and molten-gold eyes. It didn't step into the world; instead, it coiled around Jemil's arm, fusing with his weapon. The staff warped, lengthened, and gleamed with razor ridges.

The Wraith paused. Just a fraction of a second. But Jemil felt it — the creature recognized the power.

"Alvara!"

She was already moving. Her blade's blue edge cut through a wall of ash, scattering it like sparks in wind. Jemil lunged in behind her, driving the dragonfang-empowered staff toward the Wraith's molten core.

The storm fought back. Ash tendrils whipped out, slashing his cheek, tearing a strip from his sleeve. But this time, the weapon drank the contact — the dragon's presence eating away at the storm like acid on frost.

The Wraith hissed, molten cracks widening.

It wasn't dying, but it was angry.

"You think… you can take from me?" Its voice rose, becoming a chorus, the air vibrating with its fury.

Jemil bared his teeth in a grin that felt half-feral.

"That's the plan."

Scene 4 – The Storm Splits

The Wraith's molten cracks didn't seal this time. Instead, they flared — bright enough to paint the ashstorm in veins of gold.

Then it moved.

Not forward, not back — but around. Its body stretched like liquid shadow, melting into the storm. In seconds, Jemil's world was nothing but swirling black and blinding gold.

"Alvara—!"

Her voice cut through once, sharp and urgent. "Jemil, stay—"

And then… silence.

No shape. No movement. No heartbeat he could sense through their bond. The Wraith had swallowed her presence completely.

A low chuckle rolled through the ash. "The storm is mine. You walk in my veins, little summoner."

Jemil kept moving, staff angled low, boots shifting through grit. He'd fought enough predators to know — stop moving, you die. But the air was different here. Thick. Pressing.

Every step forward felt like walking deeper into a furnace.

"I know your trick," Jemil muttered, letting his voice carry just enough for it to hear. "You cut the prey off. Make them doubt. Make them weak."

The storm around him… tightened. Ash eddies swirled in unnatural spirals, funneling closer. In them, he swore he saw faces. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. All twisted in silent screams.

"You're not the first thing that's tried to separate me from her," he said.

The dragonfang hummed in his grip.

"And you won't be the last."

He jabbed the weapon into the ground, unleashing a pulse of silver light. It wasn't an attack — it was a flare. A beacon, slicing through the storm's blindfold.

Far away — or maybe closer than he thought — Alvara's voice roared back, filled with fury.

"Found you!"

Scene 5 – When the Dragon Bites Back

The flare Jemil unleashed didn't just cut the storm — it split it.

Ash peeled away like retreating waves, forming a jagged corridor of shifting black and gold. And at the far end of it, she came.

Alvara wasn't just moving — she was burning.

Her scaled armor blazed in molten orange, her eyes narrow slits of predator's fire. Her sword's edge dripped heat, each drop hitting the ground with a hiss like branding iron.

The Wraith reacted instantly, its body condensing into a solid form again. Its molten cracks swirled shut, skin reforming into obsidian plates. "You should have stayed lost, dragon," it hissed, voice rumbling from every direction at once.

She didn't answer. She didn't need to.

With a single beat of her wings, the ashstorm behind her collapsed, funneled into the channel the flare had made. She slammed forward like a meteor, the ground breaking under her launch.

Jemil moved with her.

They didn't plan it. They didn't have to.

When their enemies tried to divide them, their answer was always the same — strike together.

The Wraith's claw lashed for Alvara, but Jemil was already there, intercepting with a spin of the dragonfang staff. Sparks of gold and silver burst as obsidian met enchanted steel.

Alvara slid under the blocked strike, blade dragging molten lines through the ground, and came up with a vicious upward slash. The cut bit deep into the Wraith's chest, and for the first time, its roar sounded pained.

Jemil's magic flared from the dragonfang — not in a single spell, but a flood. Chains of silver light burst from the ground, locking around the Wraith's limbs.

Alvara didn't hesitate. She launched herself skyward, sword raised in both hands, wings catching the storm's dying winds. For a heartbeat, she was a silhouette against the last flicker of gold above the storm.

Then she came down.

Hard.

Her blade plunged into the wound she'd already carved, and with a scream like shattering mountains, the Wraith's molten core erupted — fragments of obsidian flying like shrapnel.

The storm went dead quiet.

Jemil stood there, breathing hard, staff still humming in his grip. Alvara pulled her sword free, ash clinging to her armor like the ghost of the storm.

"We're not done," she said, voice low. "Something's still moving in there."

Scene 6 – The Heart Still Beats

The Wraith's shattered body lay in pieces, its obsidian shell cooling into blackened rubble. For a few seconds, neither Jemil nor Alvara spoke. The silence felt wrong — not like the peace after a battle, but like the air before a storm changes direction.

Then Jemil heard it.

Thump…

Faint. Slow. Wet.

Not from the rubble.

From inside it.

"Alvara," Jemil said, tightening his grip on the staff.

She was already moving, sword up, wings shifting slightly to shield him.

One of the larger fragments of the Wraith's chest gave a faint twitch, as though something inside it was pushing against the shell. Ash sifted down in slow streams.

The thump grew louder.

Thump-thump… thump-thump…

With a sudden crack, the fragment split — and something slid out.

It wasn't a piece of the Wraith.

It was a sphere.

No — a heart.

About the size of Jemil's fist, pulsing with a glow that wasn't gold or silver, but an oily crimson that seemed to move when you weren't looking at it. Veins of black light snaked over its surface, each pulse sending a ripple of heat into the air.

Alvara's voice was low, edged with something between recognition and disgust.

"That… doesn't belong to any Wraith."

Jemil crouched, extending his senses — but the magic was wrong. It didn't feel like the Tower's usual guardians, or even the corrupted beasts he'd fought before. This was older. Hungrier.

The heart's glow intensified.

Its beat quickened.

And then… it spoke.

Not with words, but with a feeling — a weight pressing into Jemil's skull. You are not the hunter here.

A shadow passed over the ground. Alvara's eyes snapped upward — and her face, usually so unshakable, tightened.

The storm above wasn't gone after all.

It was watching.

Next Chapter Preview – Chapter 47: The Eye in the Storm

The heart is no mere remnant — it's a beacon.

As Jemil and Alvara decide whether to destroy it or claim its power, the clouds above churn into a spiraling void. Something vast, unseen, and impossibly intelligent peers down from the storm's center. Its gaze strips away courage and stirs old memories Jemil can't afford to remember.

The air will split. The hunt will reverse.

And for the first time since entering the Tower, Jemil may not be the predator.

Call to Action

🔥 The Tower isn't done with Jemil yet — and neither is the storm. Who is the unseen master watching from above, and what will happen if the heart keeps beating?

Comment your theories, share your favorite moment from the chapter, and get ready — the hunt continues in Chapter 47!