Rakshas: Tales of the Summoned Lord

Eastern Residential Street.

The amber glow of candlelight flickered over polished mahogany as Allen sat at his desk, the faint aroma of parchment and ink filling his office.

Allen tapped his fingers against his desk, his gray eyes thoughtful. "And what about our combat power and deployment?"

Hilter, ever precise, turned another page in his ledger. "Your current combat-capable summons are as follows:

Myself, Hilter—High Silver Rank, Level 4. The strongest among your summons, second only to you.

Stroud—Low Silver Rank, Level 1. Expert in dual blades, precision-based fighter. Good for mid-range skirmishing, currently deployed in our mercenary guild.

Loran—Low Silver Rank, Level 2. A rogue, capable of assassination and infiltration but unreliable in direct combat.

Jasper—Mid Iron Rank, Level 3. A reckless brawler with decent instincts but limited skill.

Mara—Mid Bronze Rank, Level 2. A strategist, valuable for tactics but lacking raw strength.

Dain—Low Bronze Rank, Level 2. A spearman, competent but unremarkable.

Serena—Mid Iron Rank, Level 4. A ranged specialist, good for support but ineffective in prolonged fights."

Allen nodded. He was a Peak Silver Battle Force master, standing at Level 5 or 5-Star. No summon had ever surpassed him, and only Hilter came close. The others, while useful, were ultimately weaker and unable to break past their limits—save for rare exceptions like Hilter and Loran.

The sound of rustling parchment filled the quiet office as Hilter stood before Allen.

After Allen reviewed all the necessary paper and about to retire to his room, he noticed that Hilter normally poised demeanor noticeably hesitant. His gloved hands clutched a sealed envelope, Allen guessed that it was probably from one of their information channels.

Allen, leaning back in his chair again, raised a brow. "Hilter, you look like you've swallowed something bitter."

The butler's face twitched. "Master, I have received… troubling news." He took a measured breath, then extended the letter. "A representative from House Styles is en route to this city. They probably wish to meet with you."

For the first time in a while, Allen felt genuine surprise. His gaze dropped to the seal, the letter was from one of their partners who probably received the news from somewhere and informed them.

A slow, humorless chuckle escaped him. "Now this is unexpected. Five years without a word, and suddenly, they send someone? But then again it's probably because of something else entirely."

Hilter hesitated. "Master… you misunderstand. It has only been five years since you arrived here, but they haven't contacted you in ten."

Allen's fingers stilled over the letter.

Ah. That's right. The moment Allen was banished, they ceased considering him family.

" ...And Master, I doubt it's for something else, they have no need to make such a long journey here."

"I guess so... If I am not wrong the journey from North to here is at least 4 months."

".. Yes Master, but with the current state of affairs there is lots of check points and journey would take much longer. For now, the people from your families have reached Freya town where Dimitri merchant group operates, they were the ones who informed us."

"Freya.. that's still a bit far. Why now after all these years?"

Five years ago, when he first transmigrated into this world, he had inherited the memories of his new body—memories of a father who had replaced his mother with another woman, of a half-brother who had become the thorn in his path, of a family that had found him too troublesome to keep. He remembered his uncle, the only one who had still seen worth in him, convincing his father to at least send him off with enough resources to make something of himself.

And now, after a decade of silence, they reached out?

Allen tapped the letter against his palm. "Did they say who they were sending?"

"No details." Hilter frowned, arms folded behind his back. "But I find it… strange. The Styles family discarded you without a second thought. For them to seek you out now—after so long—it means something has changed."

Allen studied his butler's face. There was something else there. A conflict.

"…You want me to return, don't you?"

Hilter stiffened, then sighed, as if conceding to an unspoken argument. "Master, I have served you loyally since the day you summoned me. I have never questioned your decisions, nor your ambitions." His blue eyes flickered with rare emotion. "But I know what you are capable of. And I know what you should be."

Allen remained silent.

Hilter's jaw tightened. "You were born a noble. You should not be lurking in the shadows, gathering whispers and coin like some common rogue. You should rule. Not as a discarded son of a house that abandoned you, but as its rightful master."

Allen let out a slow breath, tossing the unopened letter onto his desk. "I don't care about ruling, Hilter. The nobility is just a game of masks and daggers. A cage of etiquette and empty traditions." His lips curled into a smirk. "I quite like my shadows."

Hilter did not react immediately. Then, with a quiet sigh, he gave a small nod. "I expected that answer."

Allen studied him for a moment. "You really think I should go back?"

"I think—" Hilter hesitated. "—I think the past will never truly leave you alone. And neither will your bloodline."

Allen exhaled through his nose. He supposed Hilter wasn't wrong.

He reached for the letter again but didn't open it. Instead, he placed it aside. "When they arrive in the city, if their intention is to meet me, bring them here. I want to see what they want."

Hilter nodded, relief flashing briefly across his face before he masked it again. "Understood, Master."

As Hilter turned to leave, Allen leaned back in his chair, sighing with tiredness.

For ten years, they had not once acknowledged Allen.

What changed?

"Ammm..wait a minute. Hilter about tomorrow banquet, is the guest list ready? Who have accepted."

Hilter who was about to leave immediately turned and bowed slightly. "Everything is proceeding as planned, Master. The invitations were sent out to carefully selected individuals—potential clients, useful acquaintances, and, as per your request, a few instructors from the academy."

Allen nodded. "Good. Our network is stable, but we need more influential connections. Information and money can only get us so far. Power—recognized power—will take us further."

Hilter didn't need to be told that twice. While their operations remained in the shadows, Allen's ultimate goal was to elevate his standing without attracting unnecessary enemies. The banquet was an opportunity to do just that.

Still, there was one person he was particularly keen on bringing into his circle.

"Instructor Claude," Allen said, his tone thoughtful. "Did he accept?"

Hilter's expression remained neutral, but there was the slightest hesitation before he responded. "He did not reject the invitation outright."

Allen narrowed his eyes. "That means he hasn't confirmed either."

"Indeed," Hilter admitted. "Instructor Claude is notoriously selective about his engagements. He does not care for meaningless social gatherings, nor does he waste time on those he deems unworthy of his attention." He paused. "However… he also does not ignore those with potential."

Allen smirked. "And he likely knows I'm close to Gold rank."

"He certainly suspects," Hilter agreed. "You've made a name for yourself as an instructor, and though you are only Silver Rank, your talent is not something easily ignored."

Allen exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. Gold Rank… I can feel it, just beyond my grasp. But there was a wall—one he couldn't break through on his own. If he could earn Instructor Claude's guidance, it could make all the difference.

He rested his chin on his hand. "What about the others? Who accepted? Who declined?"

Hilter produced a neatly folded list, unfolding it with crisp efficiency. "Of the thirty invitations sent, Nineteen have accepted, nine have declined, and two remain undecided, including Instructor Claude."

Allen raised an eyebrow. "Nine declines? That's more than expected. Who?"

Hilter's lips thinned. "Lord Durain, Master of the Seven Season Guild, declined on account of 'prior obligations.'"

Allen clicked his tongue. A man too greedy to ignore an opportunity, but too cautious to take a risk.

"The Viscount of Luthain also declined," Hilter continued, "though his secretary assured us it was merely due to scheduling conflicts, not a personal slight."

Allen doubted that. Nobles rarely gave direct refusals unless they wanted to send a message.

"Others are lesser merchants," Hilter finished. "Their rejections are irrelevant."

Allen rubbed his temple. "So, the banquet will still be well-attended."

"Yes. Many influential figures will be present—scholars, merchants, some people from underworld and a handful of instructors." Hilter straightened his cuffs. "It will be an excellent opportunity to strengthen your social standing."

Allen chuckled. "You mean our standing, Hilter."

Hilter gave him a look but said nothing.

Allen waved him off. "It's fine. We continue as planned. Keep an eye out for Sir Claude. If he doesn't confirm by tomorrow, send another invitation—subtly." He smiled. "If he refuses again, then I'll have to think of a way to pique his interest."

Hilter inclined his head. "Understood, Master."

As Hilter turned to leave, Allen also stood up making his way towards his room.

A banquet to build influence. A connection to push him toward Gold Rank.

One step at a time.

'Always so busy, instructor by the day and a puppeteer by the night.'

Allen schedule is always very stacked with very minimum leisure but such is the price one pay if they wish to stand in Redbrook.

This city is the beating heart of the continent.

It was more than just a city; it was an empire in its own right. The center of commerce, the cornerstone of art, the haven of academics, and a stronghold of powerhouses. Every major merchant house, battle guild, noble family, and underground syndicate had carved their presence into its stone streets, creating a paradox of harmony and conflict. Here, even peace was merely a carefully negotiated truce, one that could shatter at the slightest provocation.

For those at the pinnacle, Redbrook was an endless banquet of opportunities. But for those struggling at the bottom of the ladder, like Allen Styles, it was a battlefield of shadows where a single misstep could be fatal.

Allen understood his place in this grand city.

A mere silver rank battlemaster, leading a small network of twenty-eight summoned individuals, most of whom weren't even combatants. In a city where Gold Rank fighters walked the streets freely and Battlemasters of the highest caliber gathered, Allen's faction was little more than a whisper in a storm.

And yet, he had survived.

The power balance in Redbrook was like a delicate web—strong guilds, influential merchant houses, prestigious academies, and hidden criminal organizations all coexisting, competing, yet never crossing the unspoken lines of war.

The Golden Fang Merchant Guild controlled nearly one-third the commerce in the city. The Bloodriver Syndicate ruled the underground world with an iron grip. The Iron Tower Battle Guild produced some of the fiercest warriors in the realm.

And then there was the Divine Academy, where Allen worked as an instructor.

To an outsider, his status as in instructor might seem insignificant, but in reality, it was one of the only things that kept him safe.

The Headmaster of the Academy, a legendary old Battlemaster, was one of the most respected figures in Redbrook. His mere presence was a shield that spared Allen from unnecessary trouble.

No one wanted to make an enemy of someone the headmaster is interested in, even if Allen's personal strength was lacking in comparison to the city's titans.

Still, the power struggle was constant.

Allen walked a razor-thin line, balancing between being useful yet not threatening enough.

His network of loyal summons, each marked by the Styles insignia, operated in the shadows. They gathered intelligence, built economic ties, and integrated into key social circles, ensuring Allen had eyes and ears in places even nobles struggled to reach.

Money and knowledge—those were his weapons. Not brute force.

Yet, even that was dangerous.

Redbrook wasn't just politically dangerous. It was a city where warriors and magicians of terrifying skill gathered in unprecedented numbers.

Hundreds of silver rank operated in the city.

Dozens of Good ranks served as instructors, bodyguards, or mercenaries for the highest bidders.

Battlemasters, the strongest individuals below Saints , stood at the top of the food chain, wielding power enough to wipe out entire armies.

Allen was but a small shadow in the presence of these giants.

The only reason he survived in this environment was because he never overstepped his boundaries.

His summons, while powerful in their own ways, were nowhere near enough to challenge the great figures of the city.

But Allen also knew he had potential. He could feel it—a near breakthrough to Gold Rank, a threshold he had yet to cross. And for that, he needed guidance.

One of the greatest instructors in the city, Instructor Claude, could be his answer. A Gold Rank warrior at the pinnacle of his craft. Someone who had shaped the strongest fighters of this generation.

Allen had orchestrated a banquet to attract powerful clients and new friends, but his true goal was to secure a meeting with Claude.

If he wanted to rise in this city of titans, he needed to sharpen his sword.

And for that, he had to learn from the best.