GOD-LEVEL SUMMONER: My Wives Are Mythical Beast

Scene 1 – The Gaze of the Storm

The heart throbbed in Jemil's palm like it wanted out — like it wanted to beat for something greater than itself. Each pulse crawled up his arm, searing a rhythm into his chest until his own heartbeat stumbled to match its cadence.

Alvara's sword gleamed inches away from it, her stance steady, but her eyes betrayed her. They were too wide, too sharp, too fixed on the storm tearing itself open above them.

The sky wasn't dark anymore. It was hollowed.

Clouds spun outward in vast rings, as though reality itself had been scooped from the center. From that void, an aperture blinked open. It was not flesh, nor spirit, nor even energy Jemil could name. It was awareness given form — a pupil the size of a kingdom, dilated and focused directly on him.

The wives shuddered as one. Even the most primal — Lyra, whose feral grin rarely faltered — staggered back, her claws digging into the stone for balance. Saphira clutched her staff tighter, her magic wavering like a flame caught in a gale.

Alvara's voice cut through the storm.

"Jemil—drop it. NOW."

But Jemil couldn't. His fingers refused to open, as though the heart had claimed them. A chain unseen bound him to its rhythm.

The Eye blinked.

And when it did, Jemil felt his mind fracture.

A thousand impressions pressed against his skull: faces in the dark, a scream muffled by blood, a vow whispered in a language he could almost remember. The Eye wasn't just looking at him — it was peeling him apart, memory by memory, hunting for something he didn't know he had.

"Stop—" he gasped, though he wasn't sure to whom.

The wind howled. The wives gathered closer, protective, defiant, but trembling under the weight of that gaze.

For the first time, Jemil understood: the heart was not theirs to claim. It was a beacon. And the Eye had come to answer.

Scene 2 – The Storm's Test

The sky did not roar with thunder.

It whispered.

A thousand voices slid down from the storm like rain, each carrying a word Jemil almost recognized, each syllable brushing the back of his mind like a forgotten hand. The winds curled inward, pulling him closer to the Eye, as though the world itself wanted to feed him to it.

Shapes bled from the darkness above. They weren't lightning, not quite. They were figures, fragile outlines carved from stormlight. Some walked. Some crawled. Some wept with faces Jemil knew too well — and wished he didn't.

Alvara swung her blade at the first to land. Her cut was perfect, a crescent of steel guided by years of discipline. But the thing didn't bleed. It shattered into sparks, each ember hissing her name.

"Jemil!" Lyra snarled, her tail whipping. "They smell like you!"

She was right. Every phantom carried his scent, his voice, his mistakes. They weren't enemies. They were echoes.

The largest one took form directly in front of him: a silhouette of himself, taller, broader, and carrying no trace of hesitation. Its eyes were pits of stormlight, and in its hand was a weapon Jemil had never forged, yet felt certain he once wielded.

"You're not supposed to remember me," the figure said. Its voice was steady, deep, certain — the opposite of the raw edge in Jemil's. "But the Eye does. And it won't let you move forward until you face what you buried."

The wives reacted at once, blades and spells drawn, but Jemil raised a hand. His body screamed to fight, yet something deeper warned him: if he struck too quickly, he would lose something greater than the battle.

The Eye blinked again.

And the storm-born version of himself raised its weapon.

The air between them snapped, alive with both recognition and rejection. Jemil knew what this was. Not just a trial. Not just an enemy.

It was the storm demanding a truth: Was Jemil stronger than the man he used to be?

Scene 3 – Duel of the Forgotten Self

The storm double didn't hesitate.

It moved like water, smooth and merciless, a mirror image of Jemil stripped of restraint. The blade in its hand cleaved downward, so heavy the ground cracked beneath its arc. Jemil rolled aside, dirt and sparks flying, his wives closing in to shield him.

But the echoes swarmed. Dozens of them — fragments of his past, twisted into stormlight. One had the face of his old mentor. Another, the grin of a rival he'd buried. They clawed and clung, keeping Alvara, Lyra, and the others from interfering. This was his fight. The storm had made sure of it.

"Coward," the double spat as its weapon clashed against Jemil's summoned blade. Sparks hissed in the rain. "Always hiding behind them. Always afraid to see what you'd be without them."

"I'm not afraid," Jemil growled, straining as the weight of the storm pressed against his arms. The blade vibrated with the power of his own denial.

"You are," the storm-self said. "Because you know I'm the version of you that never forgot. The one that carried everything. The one that deserves to climb this Tower."

The words hit harder than the strikes. Every swing of the double's weapon dragged up a memory Jemil had buried: a battlefield lit in fire, the desperate screams of companions, the moment he chose to turn away instead of fight.

Each echo was a blade sharper than steel.

The storm-self pressed harder, forcing Jemil back. Mud splashed around his boots. His grip faltered. For one terrifying instant, Jemil felt like he was about to lose — not just the duel, but himself.

Then Alvara's voice cut through the storm. Sharp. Commanding.

"Jemil! You're fighting a shadow, not yourself. Stop letting it dictate who you are!"

Her words struck deeper than the enemy's blade. Jemil's chest surged with breath, and the weapon in his hand blazed with a light that wasn't storm-forged, but his own will.

He parried the next strike — not with fear, but defiance.

The storm double staggered, eyes widening as Jemil surged forward, teeth bared. "I'm not you anymore. I'm not the man who ran. I'm not the man who forgot. I'm the one who chooses my path, storm or not!"

The echoes hissed, wavering. The storm itself trembled, as though uncertain.

And the battle reached its true peak: Jemil against the ghost of who he might have been, every strike deciding whether he belonged in this Tower… or whether the storm would strip him bare and claim him as its own.

Scene 4 – The Breaking Point

The clash of steel and storm shook the valley. Jemil's blade, burning with raw will, carved arcs of light that split the rain into ribbons. The double countered with perfect precision, every motion a reflection sharpened into cruelty.

But Jemil wasn't fighting for perfection. He was fighting for himself.

The echoes surged, trying to drown him in memories. Faces screamed. Voices cursed. His hands trembled as visions of his failures clawed at his mind — the battles he abandoned, the wives he left behind, the promises he shattered.

For a heartbeat, the weight nearly broke him.

Then he roared. Not words — just sound, raw and primal, the defiance of a man refusing to be shackled by his past. His aura flared, brighter than lightning, and his blade cut through the illusions like paper.

The double recoiled, eyes narrowing. Its form flickered, stormlight unraveling. "You think rage will save you?" it hissed. "That fire burns fast. I am patience. I am every wound you ignored, every mistake you buried. I am the truth."

"No," Jemil said, stepping forward, his voice steady even as blood trickled down his arm. "You're not truth. You're weight. And I don't carry dead weight anymore."

With that, he lowered his stance, energy coiling in his muscles like a drawn bow. His wives shouted warnings — Lyra screamed his name, Alvara cursed — but Jemil didn't hesitate. He poured everything, every drop of essence, every scar and vow, into a single reckless strike.

The double lunged to meet him.

The blades collided — and the storm itself howled.

Wind exploded outward, tearing trees from their roots. The sky split with jagged veins of lightning. The ground cratered beneath their feet. For a moment, the world itself seemed undecided, caught between Jemil's blazing defiance and the storm's consuming void.

Then the double's form shattered. The storm-self let out a broken snarl as its body fractured into shards of rain and light, scattering into the sky.

But the victory wasn't clean. Jemil staggered, his blade cracking down its length, his chest heaving. The storm above… didn't die. It twisted tighter, the void-eye in its heart growing sharper, hungrier.

Jemil had broken his double.

But in doing so, he had drawn the real storm's attention.

Scene 5 – The Storm's True Gaze

The rain stopped.

Not in a gentle tapering, not in the calm after thunder — it stopped. Every droplet froze mid-air, suspended like crystal shards around Jemil and his wives. The battlefield was suddenly silent, unnervingly still, as though time itself had forgotten how to move.

Jemil's chest rose and fell raggedly, steam curling off his skin from the clash. His blade, cracked and glowing faintly, hummed in his hand. Alvara drew closer, sword raised, her golden aura flickering against the frozen rain. Lyra's ears twitched nervously, tail bristling, while Auri clung to Jemil's shoulder with her flame dimmed to a nervous ember.

"Something's wrong," Alvara whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound.

Then the clouds above tore open.

A vast spiral yawned wider in the heavens, and at its center — an eye. Not flesh and blood, but a whirling vortex of light and void, infinitely deep and impossibly sharp. Its gaze pressed down on them like the weight of a mountain, crushing breath, will, and courage all at once.

Jemil staggered under it. His knees bent despite himself, and the frozen droplets around him shattered into mist. Every scar on his body seemed to burn as if the eye was peeling him apart, piece by piece.

"What is that?" Lyra choked, clutching her chest. "It's not just watching—it's inside me."

Alvara's face went pale, her knuckles whitening on her sword. "That's no storm. That's a will. Something old. Something that's been waiting."

The eye shifted, and Jemil's breath hitched. For in that moment, he felt it — a thread tugging at his memories. Faces he had forgotten. Names blurred by the Tower's curse. A voice, soft and broken, whispering from the depths of his soul.

"…you left me."

Jemil's grip faltered. He almost dropped his blade. The weight of the words hit like a blade to the gut. He didn't recognize the voice, yet it rang with terrifying intimacy, as though it belonged to someone who once mattered more than anything.

"No," Jemil growled through clenched teeth, forcing himself upright. His aura flared, golden threads sparking around him as he fought the pull. "You don't get to use my past against me. Not again."

The eye narrowed. The void in its core twisted, and thunder cracked across the valley. The storm didn't just want to crush him. It wanted to claim him.

The wives tightened their formation around Jemil, but the pressure was already unbearable. The earth beneath their feet cracked, rivers of lightning coursing through the ground.

And then — from deep within the storm — a shape began to descend.

Not rain. Not thunder.

A figure.

Tall, cloaked in stormlight, its features veiled. But Jemil recognized the aura instantly. It was his double — reforged, reborn, not shattered but strengthened by the eye's power.

And this time, it wasn't just a reflection.

It was a herald.

The battle wasn't over.

It was only just beginning.

The figure of storm and shadow hung suspended in the broken sky, its very presence warping the battlefield into silence. The frozen rain dissolved into vapor, the ground trembled beneath its weightless steps, and the vast eye above narrowed its unending gaze.

Jemil steadied himself, his blade raised, but even as golden light sparked along his edges, his chest tightened with something he hadn't felt in a long time — hesitation.

Who was the voice that had whispered to him?

Why did it cut deeper than any enemy's strike?

The herald descended further, lightning coursing through its form, and Jemil's reflection — his opposite — smiled with a coldness that made his blood boil.

Alvara stepped forward, her blade trembling but her stance unbroken. "Whatever this thing is, Jemil… it's not just an enemy. It's a message. A warning."

Jemil exhaled hard, steadying his racing heart. His wives gathered at his side, their bonds shimmering faintly against the suffocating gaze of the storm. He raised his blade higher, planting his feet firmly in the fractured earth.

"If this Tower wants me to break…" his voice thundered as his aura surged, "then it better send more than a shadow."

The herald tilted its head, stormlight flaring — and the world shook.

The battle to come would not be a clash of strength alone.

It would be a battle against memory, against truth, against the very past Jemil had been forced to forget.

And the Tower was done waiting.

✅ End of Chapter 47

Next Chapter Preview – Chapter 48: The Herald's Challenge

The storm-born reflection steps onto the battlefield — and it doesn't simply attack. It speaks, knowing secrets about Jemil's forgotten past that no enemy should. Each word threatens to unravel him, even as his wives stand firm at his side.

The Herald's power mirrors Jemil's own but twists it with the weight of the Tower's will. Lightning becomes blade, shadow becomes shield, and the storm itself bends to its command.

For Jemil, this battle isn't just survival. It's a trial of identity.

And if he falters, the Herald will not only take his life — it will claim the bond to his wives, one by one.

The storm has chosen its champion.

Now Jemil must prove he is more than just prey.

⚡ CTA: The Tower is testing Jemil in ways he's never faced before — not just with enemies, but with his very soul. Will he rise above the storm, or drown in the weight of forgotten sins? Keep reading to witness the clash between Jemil and the Herald — and uncover the secrets hidden in the lightning!