Path of the Extra

When Azriel’s eyes fluttered open, his vision was blurry. It took a few blinks before clarity returned.

Once it did, he found himself staring up at a sky blanketed in dark gray clouds, a veil so thick it denied him even a glimpse of blue or black.

A cold, hard sensation beneath him made him groan as he pushed himself up, standing on unsteady feet. Looking down, he saw himself clad in his Soul Armor, fully intact. And resting on the massive stone slab beneath him was Void Eater, restored to its original form.

Crouching down, he picked up his weapon, his expression clouded with confusion.

“Where… am I?”

The last thing he remembered was falling unconscious as he destroyed the mana core of the Black-Antlered King.

“Well, I don’t think I’m dead, but… I did fall from a considerable height. I should’ve been buried alive.”

As Azriel surveyed his surroundings, something felt off. First, there was the stone slab he stood on. But directly ahead, more giant slabs stretched endlessly upward, forming an ascending path.

It was then that realization struck him.

“What…”

He wasn’t standing on just a stone slab.

He was standing on a colossal stairway.

Azriel’s breath caught in his throat as he turned to look downward. His heart pounded violently against his chest plate.

Beneath his feet, there was only one final step descending into the abyss. Beyond that, there was nothing—no visible path, no solid ground. Only an expanse of thick, impenetrable fog stretching infinitely, a vast, suffocating ocean of it.

A wave of dizziness hit him. He staggered back, placing a trembling hand over his chest. His body quivered uncontrollably.

“Haa… Haa…”

Azriel squeezed his eyes shut. He felt insignificant. Small. Like an ant before something unfathomable.

He felt terrified.

Taking a deep breath, he forced his eyes open. His body still trembled, but he bit his lip and steeled himself. There was no point in standing still.

Turning swiftly, he leapt to the next step. The stairs were vast, wide enough for a hundred men to walk abreast. Yet, despite their immensity, it took him only a few jumps to reach the summit.

“…I’m not injured anymore.”

It was strange. His body felt light, weightless even, as if he could float. He couldn’t describe the sensation, but something about this place was unnatural.

Glancing back at the endless sea of fog, his heartbeat refused to slow.

“Yeah, there’s no way in hell I’m checking what’s down there!”

The only way was forward.

And so, he moved forward.

It didn’t take long. After just a few more steps, he reached the top. And the moment he did, his breath hitched. His eyes widened.

The wind swept past him, making his hair flutter. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

What lay before him was impossible to describe. Yet, at the same time, it wasn’t.

A palace. A colossus of obsidian, carved from the bones of the earth itself. Its dark walls, smooth yet seemed to be scarred with the passage of forgotten ages, stretched high into the storm-choked sky.

Azriel’s gaze caught faint etchings on the walls—runes. But the moment his eyes landed on them, an unbearable pressure crashed down on his mind. His vision blurred. His thoughts threatened to splinter.

He wrenched his gaze away, gasping as cold sweat dripped down his back.

His mind had nearly shattered.

“W-where the fuck have I gotten myself…?”

His question barely left his lips before a voice, monotone yet brimming with an eerie familiarity, resonated from the entrance of the obsidian temple.

“I had thought it would take yet another life to stir you from your slumber, my old friend.”

Azriel’s head snapped toward the source of the voice. His blood ran cold.

Leaning against one of the two towering pillars at the temple’s entrance sat a man. His posture was relaxed, yet something about him felt… absolute.

His skin was white—paler than snow, like sculpted marble, fragile yet eternally pristine. Midnight-black hair cascaded down his back, reaching his waist. He wore long, loose white robes, unblemished by even a speck of dust.

And when his eyes opened, they revealed a darkness that seemed to stretch beyond the abyss itself.

Azriel barely needed a moment to recognize him. He didn’t need memories, names, or logic. His very being—his soul, his essence—knew exactly who this man was.

His lips parted, his voice hoarse with disbelief.

“Supreme Archon…”

The wind howled once more, brushing their hair as a pale, gentle smile appeared on the Supreme Archon’s face. He slowly rose to his feet, and the grace of his movements struck Azriel as both beautiful and noble. There was an elegance to his posture that made Azriel unconsciously straighten his own, mimicking the subtle motions. Surprisingly, he found it effortless, as though it were second nature, and not simply the result of all the etiquette lessons Amaya had forced upon him.

A chuckle escaped the Supreme Archon’s lips as he crossed his arms and approached Azriel. To Azriel’s surprise, the man was taller than him—at least two meters tall.

“Ah, it brings me joy to see that your soul is beginning to remember me. Do you still know my name, old friend?”

Azriel should not have known the name. He really shouldn’t have. Yet, it slipped from his lips effortlessly.

“Xian Feng…”

The moment the name left him, Xian Feng’s smile widened into something nostalgic.

“You are the first to call me by that name since I opened my eyes again in this life.”

Azriel remained silent. There was no need for a response.

Xian Feng—the Supreme Archon. Despite being one of the greatest villains in the story, he did not exude any villainous aura, not even in the way he carried himself.

Azriel took a few steps forward, his voice steady but void of warmth or coldness—an uncertain neutrality as he spoke.

“Where are we? Did you bring me here? And if so, why?”

Xian Feng paused for a moment, then turned towards the palace, releasing a contemplative sigh.

“I did not bring you. I, too, have been summoned to this realm, much like you, against my will. As for why… I fear I have no clue.”

“Wait… realm?”

“Yes,” Xian Feng confirmed, “It seems we are in a different realm, though my soul can’t quite recall this one.”

Azriel’s mind struggled to process what had just been said.

‘Realm… I… How the hell did I end up in this situation?’

Seriously, how had this happened, just from being left alone for a few moments?

‘I really am cursed…’

He rubbed his face with his gauntlet and refocused his gaze on the Supreme Archon.

There were many things he could say to Xian Feng, the son of time, but now was clearly not the right moment.

Sensing his gaze, Xian Feng turned to look at him.

“We have much to discuss,” he said, “but we should first address this issue. Tell me, did you experience that annoying pain in your head? That pathetic attempt to drown your mind?”

Azriel nodded immediately.

“I did. Almost lost my life in battle because of it earlier.”

Xian Feng raised an eyebrow, intrigued, and regarded him carefully.

“Your perseverance in this life seems to have returned.”

“This life, huh… so you really are like me.”

Xian Feng hummed thoughtfully as Azriel’s face darkened.

“I possess a similar… [unique skill], if you will. But unlike yours, which shifts slightly each time, mine remains unchanged. No matter how many timelines we erase, I fully regress—body and soul—yet I’m aware that I’ve regressed. Still, like you, I retain no memories of past timelines. All I have are the instincts carried over by my soul.”

Azriel furrowed his brows, deep in thought.

“I wonder if it’s because our minds can’t handle the memories of other timelines.”

If even Xian Feng was unsure, perhaps that was the reason.

Suddenly, Azriel felt his brows furrow in confusion.

‘Wait, why am I so calm around him?!’

He was the damn villain!

…but also, somehow, his friend?

“Perhaps,” Xian Feng mused, “but let’s continue our conversation after meeting whoever invited us here in such a conspicuous manner.”

“…Mm, I’m also curious about that.”

*****

Their footsteps echoed through the vast, abandoned palace—a place both grand and small, its very presence distorting Azriel’s perception with each step.

He was terrified.

Every instinct in his body screamed at him, yet he masked it as best he could.

He had no idea where he was, only that he had been summoned to an unknown realm alongside Xian Feng, the Supreme Archon—one of the greatest villains in Path of Heroes.

And yet… he was unsure of how to treat this man.

So, he walked in silence.

Towering pillars of black stone surrounded them, stretching into infinity, each one carved with runes that defied comprehension. The mere act of looking at them for too long sent sharp pulses of pain through Azriel’s skull, as if his mind teetered on the edge of breaking.

There was no light.

Yet he and Xian Feng could see everything.

This place… It was ancient. A domain that existed beyond time itself, untouched by the mortal world.

Eventually, they arrived at an open space—though neither of them had intended to. Their feet had carried them here, drawn by something unseen.

At the center stood a vast, cracked obsidian table, stretching endlessly in all directions, as if it held dominion over the void itself.

Around it, high-backed chairs loomed, solemn and waiting, each carved from a material that was neither wood nor metal, something beyond earthly comprehension.

Azriel and Xian Feng lifted their gazes.

Above them, there was no sky, no ceiling—only a swirling expanse of mist, thick and infinite, stretching far beyond the limits of perception. Within it, faint stars flickered in and out of existence, distant and cold.

And then, at the far end of the table, they saw it.

Not a seat.

A throne.

A broken throne.

And it was not empty.

Azriel’s heart pounded violently, the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears. His veins ran ice-cold. His mind screamed, as if it had just glimpsed something it was never meant to witness.

“Ah…”

‘Why…’

Seated upon the throne was a figure of fractured divinity.

His body was cast in gold and ruin—sunlight, pale and solemn, flickering across the cracks in his gilded skin. Molten veins of light ran through him, like the dying remnants of a shattered star.

His hair was long, golden—not gold as Azriel knew it, but something purer, something ancient.

An overwhelming sorrow pressed upon them, heavy and suffocating, as they gazed upon the being before them.

From his back stretched wings—vast and withered. Their once-majestic plumes had been reduced to spectral remnants of white, hanging in solemn ruin like the tattered shroud of a forgotten martyr.

And yet, even in decay, they moved.

Trembling with the weight of a grace that refused to fade.

His head bore no crown of gold, but of nature’s raw fury—antlers, jagged and gnarled, twisting toward the heavens like the roots of an upturned world. Shadows clung to their edges, stretching unnaturally, as if even light itself hesitated to claim them.

And then… his eyes.

They were open.

Looking directly at them.

Eyes without white—only irises of pure gold, burning with an otherworldly beauty Azriel had never seen before.

He felt his entire being shudder.

And then, from the dry, cracked lips of the seated figure, came a voice.

Low. Heavy.

Divine.

“Ah… the child of death, and the child wrought of mine own flesh. At long last, ye stand before me! An age untold have I lingered, bound in waiting, though the Profaned Seraph of the Black Grave did whisper discord in mine ear, seeking to sway that which was foreordained!”