Path of the Extra

For a moment, Celestina felt a cold dread seep into her bones as she gazed at the swirling vortex of jagged remains. But almost as quickly, that dread was consumed—replaced by something far more potent. A numbing, eerie coldness. And beneath it, simmering just beneath her skin, was hatred.

There was no need for lanterns anymore. The dome was dim, but not dark, casting just enough visibility to see their surroundings—except for the ceiling above and the shadowed pathways leading deeper into the corridors.

Celestina let her lantern drop, the fragile glass shattering at her feet. A soft, white glow pulsed in her left hand, while her right hand tightened around the hilt of her beautiful silver sword.

“That thing is a Grade 3 Abyssal.”

She turned her head slightly. Sir Henrik stood beside her, his gaze locked onto the void creature, his expression unreadable.

“I can see the mana core buried inside that vortex, but there’s no physical body to strike—just an endless storm of bones. Hold back your instincts, Your Highness. Support me from a distance until I create an opening.”

Celestina exhaled slowly. Her grip on her sword loosened just slightly as she nodded.

“Very well…”

Henrik was right.

What they were looking at—a churning mass of fractured skeletons—was that truly the creature itself? Or was something else hiding within?

And what had happened earlier in the corridors? That attack had been powerful enough to force Henrik into retreat.

The more she thought about it, the calmer she became.

Henrik turned to the others.

“The same goes for the rest of you. Now that it’s confirmed to be a Grade 3 Abyssal instead of a demon, our approach changes. Do not engage unless you’re absolutely certain you can be useful without throwing your life away.”

The three cadets nodded, faces grim.

Then, without warning, a shift in mana pulsed through the air.

Every head turned to Henrik.

Something flickered above him.

And then… they saw it.

His [Soul Echo].

Or rather, more than one.

Instinctively, everyone took a step back—even Celestina.

Though the void creature had no eyes, no ears, no discernible form beyond its chaos, its focus was undeniably drawn to Henrik.

Anyone could feel it.

Because now, circling above Henrik, was a swarm of skeletal, bird-like entities. Their hollow ribcages cradled single, glowing embers—faint, flickering, like dying stars. Their tattered wings moved without sound, and from their beakless skulls came distorted, human-like screams.

A twisted, menacing grin crept onto Henrik’s face.

“I wonder…” he murmured, his voice laced with something almost playful. “Are my little ones’ bones stronger than that thing’s?”

A pause. Then, his grin widened.

“I mean, my [Soul Echo] is that of a Grade 1 demon.”

A beat of silence. Then, realization dawned.

Their eyes widened.

Their chests rose with renewed vigor.

Perhaps…

Perhaps they really could defeat a Grade 3 Abyssal.

So Henrik took a step forward…

But at that exact moment, something unexpected happened.

“”!!””

Something that froze every single being—

Inside the entire facility.

Except for the faint howling of the wind, born from the storm of bones. But even that sound seemed distant—muted, stolen away by an unseen force.

And then… the storm stopped.

All at once.

The swirling mass of jagged remains came to an abrupt halt, revealing the white mana core hovering motionless at its center.

But…

It had stopped for a reason.

Because it had started to feel what they felt.

The air died.

Not stilled—died. It was as if something had reached into the lungs of the world and squeezed.

‘Huh…’

A weight crawled over Celestina’s skin. Over all of them. Pressing down, testing how easily they would break.

‘Stop…’

And then, the hands came.

Invisible. Grasping. Dozens of them.

‘Ah… w-what is this feeling!?’

They clamped onto her arms, her legs, her shoulders—fingers gnarled and rigid, pressing into muscle, dragging at bones.

Gavin let out a strangled gasp, his hands flying to his throat. But there was nothing there. Nothing he could see. Just the feeling of brittle fingers wrapping around his windpipe. Squeezing. Squeezing.

‘I… I can’t breathe…’

Nova staggered back, her breaths coming in short, panicked bursts. Her legs wouldn’t move properly. Something had them. Holding. Pulling.

‘I can’t move…’

Someone tried to scream. Sophia, perhaps. But the sound came out warped, strangled—like the dying cry of an animal.

“I-It’s… killing intent! Gods, what kind of horror is up there!?”

Sir Henrik’s voice—baffled—hit them like lightning rolling through a cavern.

Their eyes snapped to him.

Henrik stood frozen, face drained of all color. His body trembled as he took an unconscious step back.

Celestina followed his gaze.

And her blood turned to ice.

What was happening up there…?

No. No way. A mere demon-ranked creature couldn’t be responsible for this. Couldn’t release such killing intent. Not enough to shake Henrik to his core.

‘Ah… I should have never left him alone up there.’

‘What have I done…?’

Regret twisted inside her, sinking deep. The hands pulled harder, dragging her down with it.

Even Henrik’s swarm was looking up, their inhuman screeches rising toward whatever lurked above them.

The weight grew heavier. The fingers pressed deeper.

…And then, just as suddenly, it was gone.

The hands vanished. The air returned. Their bodies were their own again.

But none of them moved. None of them could.

All they did was look up.

Horror etched into their faces.

And then—

It came.

When they weren’t looking.

A storm of bones.

*****

When the cells opened, it was only natural that the captivated void creatures wouldn’t stay still.

The smaller ones scattered, running wild through the corridors.

The ones too large to escape… they could only remain trapped in their containment chambers, unable to destroy the mana stones keeping them sealed.

So, naturally, as the selfless prince he was, Azriel visited each one of them.

One. By. One.

At some point, the lights on the floor flickered back on—something that shouldn’t have been possible. Which meant a void creature was responsible.

Azriel found it.

But he didn’t kill it.

No.

Holding a lantern in one hand every time he fought was an inconvenience.

So, as the merciful prince he was—

He merely crippled the poor, kind void creature.

Before freezing its body. Just enough to keep it alive for a few hours.

By then, chaos had become the only word to describe Floor -1.

Black, sticky blood painted the walls.

Everywhere.

No matter which corner someone turned, they would be met with the gruesome sight of mangled corpses and splattered black ichor—on the floors, the ceilings, the walls.

And then, at some point—

There were more corpses than living void creatures.

Azriel exhaled sharply, scanning the carnage as he walked. His feet made a sickening splash with every step, the black blood pooling around him.

“I might have gone overboard…”

His sharp, piercing gaze swept over the destruction—eyes so cold and cutting they seemed as if they could carve through mana stones.

A shuddering breath left his lips.

He clenched his fingers.

“I shouldn’t have killed this many in a row…”

This was bad.

He was getting addicted.

The euphoric pull of [Core Reaper]. The rising hunger for more blood.

Something he had controlled ever since he was transmigrated into this world.

Even as Subject 666.

Two years.

Two whole years of bloodlust—locked away, caged, waiting to be set free.

The mind was a fascinating thing.

Before Subject 666, Azriel had no struggle with it.

Now, he did.

Ah… but it wasn’t so bad, really.

How could it be?

Not when he was enjoying every second of this.

The hunt was exhilarating.

And his prey—

He finally turned the corner.

And there it was.

‘A bloated, headless humanoid wrapped in layers of stitched flesh, as if someone had tried to seal it shut. From its split abdomen, a tangle of pale, emaciated arms reached out, clawing at the air. Something moved inside its body, pressing against the skin, like it was trying to escape.’

Azriel recalled the report from the former director.

‘The Womb of Silence.’

It lay at the far end of the corridor.

Dead.

Crushed beneath the feet of something far worse.

The Black-Antlered King.

Its skeletal frame stood tall, towering over the remains. Only scraps of decayed flesh, like rotting leather, clung to its bones.

It sensed Azriel’s gaze.

It turned its head.

And looked at him.

And.

It grinned.

Right at him.

It, too, was hunting for Azriel.

‘I didn’t expect the Womb of Silence to perish like this…’

It would be a lie to say he didn’t feel even an ounce of fear staring at the deer in front of him.

But fear was good.

Fear meant he wanted to live.

Around the Black-Antlered King, corpses of void creatures lay scattered. Among them were the half-formed humanoids, crushed and splattered across the floor.

The stench here was awful.

In its grasp, the Black-Antlered King held a dull, hollow mana core.

It had already consumed the Womb of Silence—its mana core devoured.

Whatever horror of flesh that thing was capable of… Azriel would never witness it with his own eyes.

What he did see, however, was—

The Black-Antlered King.

And its mana core. It… it was cracked.

But.

It was on the brink.

On the brink of becoming a Grade 3 Abyssal.

Just as Azriel stood on the brink of becoming a Grade 3 Advanced.

Their eyes met.

In that instant, they understood each other.

Killing this one… was the last step to their ascension.

The mana core in the Black-Antlered King’s grasp cracked, shattering into shards as it fell to the ground.

The flickering lights above dimmed for a moment.

‘If it becomes an Abyssal… its mana core might be restored.’

Azriel took a slow breath.

Then exhaled.

He imagined a wave of white mana flowing through his body, like the rising tide of a vast ocean.

And then—he let it erupt.

His presence intensified tenfold. The small, red orbs of the deer narrowed.

Azriel gritted his teeth, his mind straining as he forced his mana to thin, to solidify around him—

Coating his soul armor.

Coating Void Eater.

And it worked.

Now—he was more durable.

Sharper.

Stronger.

As his transformation completed, the corpses of void creatures around him stirred.

A tearing sound echoed through the air.

Their bones—ripped from their decayed flesh—rose, twisting unnaturally, forming a jagged perimeter around the Antlered King.

Dark ichor dripped from them, seeping into the ground like ink staining parchment.

Azriel exhaled slowly.

‘Ah… right. If it won’t hold back—why should I?’

Hadn’t he made a promise to himself?

In that hell.

He had sworn—

He wanted to win.

No.

He would win.

So why was he still holding back?

To grow stronger, he had to push himself further.

The closer he stood to death, the more powerful he became.

If he wanted to be a true player in all of this—

What right did he have to restrain himself?

His enemies… might very well be the gods themselves.

All that mattered—was victory.

So.

Another shuddering breath escaped Azriel’s lips.

The glowing red embers in the Antlered King’s skull widened.

And then—

A single, razor-sharp killing intent surged forth—

Aimed solely at the Black-Antlered King.

Its aftershock reverberated.

And the entire facility trembled under its weight.