GOD-LEVEL SUMMONER: My Wives Are Mythical Beast

Scene 1 – The Corridor of Steel

The mist floor dissolved behind them, vanishing into nothingness like it had never existed. Jemil's boots struck solid stone once more, the sudden weight of reality pressing against his chest. His lungs still burned from the whispers that had clawed at him. Every breath carried the ghost of voices—accusing, longing, condemning.

The swordmaster walked a half-step ahead, her back straight, but he could feel the tension in the set of her shoulders. She hadn't said a word since the illusions faded. Perhaps she feared her voice would crack, or perhaps she simply didn't trust herself not to say something she couldn't take back.

The new floor stretched before them: a long, narrow corridor lined with polished obsidian walls. At first glance it seemed lifeless, empty—but Jemil's instincts screamed danger. The air carried a metallic tang, sharp and cold, and every faint movement of his cloak echoed far louder than it should have.

Then the walls stirred.

Lines of silver light rippled across the black stone, forming patterns too sharp, too precise to be natural. The corridors shivered as if waking from slumber, and with a shriek like grinding steel, blades slid out from the walls. Long, gleaming edges, hundreds of them, angled and shifting, filling the air with a murderous hum.

It was not a corridor.

It was a throat lined with teeth.

The swordmaster exhaled slowly, hand resting on her blade. "The tower is clever," she muttered, her voice tight. "It gives no time to heal wounds before opening new ones."

Jemil narrowed his eyes, scanning the shifting blades. Each was moving in rhythm, like a dance of steel, weaving patterns that made the path ahead look impossible. "It's not just clever. It's hungry. And it's testing us."

He stepped closer to the swordmaster, lowering his voice. "We'll get through this. But don't let it trick you into hesitating. If it's blades it wants, we'll give it blades."

For a moment, her eyes flickered toward him—sharp, conflicted, but softened by something she couldn't quite hide. "Just don't get in my way," she said, though the edge in her tone lacked its usual bite.

The first blades swung forward, shrieking through the air with impossible speed. The corridor had awakened, and already it demanded blood.

Scene 2 – Dance of Blades

The first swing nearly took Jemil's head.

He ducked, the edge searing the air where his skull had been a heartbeat ago. Sparks showered against the obsidian wall as the blade recoiled, sliding back into its track only for two more to spring out in its place.

"Fast," he hissed, already drawing his weapon.

The swordmaster was quicker. She moved like lightning, her blade flashing in a silver arc that deflected the next strike. Metal shrieked against metal, the sound vibrating in Jemil's bones. She didn't falter, flowing from one parry to the next, her body weaving between blades that would have gutted anyone else in seconds.

Jemil stepped in to cover her flank, slashing through one of the thinner conjured blades with raw elemental force. The steel shattered, dissolving into sparks, but three more slid out of the walls in its place. The tower wasn't just attacking—it was adjusting, adapting to them.

The corridor became a storm of steel.

Blades hissed from every angle—low sweeps at their legs, high arcs meant to take their heads, sudden thrusts from hidden gaps. Each step forward required impossible timing, their weapons clashing against the relentless rhythm of the trap.

"Left!" the swordmaster barked.

Jemil didn't question. He pivoted, swinging wide, his strike knocking aside a descending blade just as she darted through the opening he'd created. Their movements meshed without thought, as though some unspoken link guided them.

For a few fleeting breaths, it felt almost effortless. Two blades moving as one.

But the corridor wasn't done testing them.

From the walls came a new sound: whispers, faint at first, then rising with the clashing of the steel. Voices threaded through the air, curling into their ears, echoing words they weren't supposed to hear.

Jemil's chest tightened as one of the voices slid close to his ear: "She'll cut you down when you least expect it. Just like she did before."

His step faltered, only for the swordmaster's blade to intercept a strike aimed for his ribs. She shoved him forward with a scowl. "Focus!"

Yet he saw it in her eyes too—the momentary flicker, as if she'd heard something as well.

The blades didn't just want their blood.

They wanted their trust.

Scene 3 – Whispers of Betrayal

The whispers grew louder with every step forward. They weren't random—they were targeted. Each word was sharpened like a blade itself, slipping between Jemil and the swordmaster with surgical precision.

"She only saved you so she can kill you herself."

"He'll abandon you again, like he always does."

"One of you will not leave this corridor alive."

The blades didn't need to cut flesh. The voices were cutting something far more fragile.

Jemil gritted his teeth, forcing his focus back to the flashing steel in front of him. But the words burrowed deep, dragging shadows from his past. He remembered the night she had struck at him—her betrayal, her blade at his throat, the look in her eyes. Cold. Ruthless. Convincing.

Was it the tower speaking? Or his own memory?

Beside him, the swordmaster's strikes grew sharper, harsher. She wasn't just fighting the blades—she was fighting herself. Her breath came heavier, each deflection landing with more force than necessary, as though trying to drown out the voices with sheer violence.

Then her blade missed.

It was only a fraction of a second—her focus split by the whispers—but it was enough. A serrated edge grazed her shoulder, slicing through armor and drawing blood. She hissed, staggering back.

Jemil caught her, shoving another blade aside with raw elemental force. The moment their eyes met, he saw it—the storm in her gaze. Guilt. Anger. Fear.

"Don't," she spat, wrenching free of his grip. "Don't look at me like that. Like you pity me."

"I don't pity you," Jemil shot back, deflecting a strike meant for her neck. His voice was harsher than he intended, carrying the weight of the whispers clawing at him. "But if you keep doubting yourself, you'll die here. And I won't let that happen."

The words cut deeper than any blade. For a moment, she froze—just long enough for another whisper to curl into her ear.

"He doesn't trust you. He never did. Why would he?"

Her blade wavered. Jemil saw it—the hesitation, the possibility that in the next instant, she might turn her sword on him instead of the corridor.

The tower wasn't just testing their strength.

It was forcing them to relive the fracture of their bond.

Scene 4 – The Near-Fatal Moment

The corridor screamed with steel. Dozens of blades struck at once, the walls vomiting knives and swords in a merciless storm.

Jemil and the swordmaster moved instinctively—back-to-back, cutting, deflecting, surviving. But the hesitation lingered, the whispers digging claws into their trust.

Then came the slip.

Her foot snagged on a hidden groove in the floor. She stumbled, her guard breaking for only a heartbeat—yet in this place, a heartbeat was everything.

The wall spat out a jagged blade, aimed straight for her exposed throat.

"—!"

Jemil didn't think. His body moved before the thought even formed. He hurled himself in front of her, his sword flaring with elemental force. The steel shrieked as it clashed against him, tearing through his armor and raking fire across his ribs.

Pain lit up his body, white-hot, but he held the blade back with sheer will, teeth grinding as sparks showered.

Behind him, the swordmaster's eyes widened. For a moment, the whispers shriveled into silence.

"Idiot!" she snapped—but her voice cracked, breaking the usual steel. She lunged forward, her blade flashing in a clean arc, severing the weapon that threatened him. The broken steel clattered uselessly to the floor.

He staggered, breath ragged. Blood trickled down his side, soaking his belt.

The swordmaster caught him before he fell. Their faces were inches apart, her gaze locked on his, torn between fury and something softer—something raw.

"Why—" her voice faltered, rough as gravel. "Why would you risk yourself for me? After everything I've—"

"Because I don't care what you've done," Jemil hissed through the pain, forcing his blade up to parry another strike. His voice was ragged but steady, cutting through the whispers. "I trust you. Even if you can't trust yourself."

Her breath hitched. For a heartbeat, the storm around them seemed to fade, the blades striking slower, the whispers less certain.

The tower had wanted them to break. Instead, Jemil had thrown himself into the blade meant for her.

And in that moment, she realized—he wasn't lying.

Scene 5 – Shaken, but Unbroken

The blades slowed. Whether the tower had exhausted its fury or simply acknowledged their defiance, the storm of steel finally thinned. Knives clattered to the floor, their edges dull, their menace fading into the mist.

Silence swept the corridor, broken only by Jemil's ragged breathing. Blood still seeped from his side, but his grip on his sword was steady, unyielding.

The swordmaster stood at his shoulder, her blade lowered but her stance sharp, guarding him as though daring the walls to try again.

For the first time since entering, the whispers faltered. They didn't vanish—they slithered, circling like vultures—but their words carried less bite.

"He'll regret it… You'll betray him again… It's only a matter of time…"

Her jaw tightened. She knew the tower would keep pressing that wound, trying to turn her own guilt into poison. But now, with Jemil's blood staining her gloves, she found her voice—low, fierce, unshaken.

"You're wrong," she said, not to Jemil but to the corridor itself. "I may falter. I may… stumble again. But I will not betray him."

The walls creaked, as though displeased. The mist recoiled, parting to reveal the end of the corridor—a single iron door etched with runes. Beyond it lay the next trial.

Jemil pressed a hand against his wound, wincing. "Looks like we made it."

She turned to him sharply, catching his arm before he could take another step. "Don't pretend you're fine."

He smirked faintly through the pain. "And don't pretend you don't care."

For a moment, the steel in her eyes cracked, replaced by something unspoken—something she couldn't admit, not yet. She tightened her grip on his arm, steadying him as they walked toward the door.

The tower hadn't broken them. It had scarred them, yes. Shaken them. But it had also forced something raw and undeniable to the surface.

And as the iron door groaned open, Jemil realized one truth with bone-deep certainty.

If the tower wanted to tear them apart, it would have to try harder.

Preview – Chapter 67: The Iron Oath

The iron door yawns open, revealing a chamber unlike any before—an arena of blades suspended in midair, locked in eternal combat. Every strike echoes with a memory, every clash pulling the swordmaster deeper into the guilt she thought buried.

But this time, the tower doesn't test them with steel alone. A spectral figure takes form—a mirror of the swordmaster herself, forged from her own regrets. Cold, merciless, and utterly flawless, this doppelgänger wields her very style, her very spirit, turned against her.

Jemil must fight not just beside her, but for her, as the battle threatens to consume her completely.

And at the end, when blood and truth have both spilled across the floor, a vow will be demanded—an oath that may bind her to Jemil forever… or shatter their fragile trust beyond repair.

Call to Action

The next floor sharpens the blade of truth—can Jemil and the swordmaster face her living shadow without losing themselves to it? ⚔️🔥

Don't miss Chapter 67: The Iron Oath—where steel isn't the sharpest weapon, but trust.