Path of the Extra

A screw had jammed itself into Azriel’s plan to stir up chaos.

And what screw was that, exactly?

Well, to understand that, one would first have to know what Azriel’s plan actually was.

Which, of course, was what any sane prince on a ticking clock would do:

Find the village chief before anyone else did and blackmai—negotiate with him.

From the Plague’s words, Azriel knew the chief was strong—someone bound to stand in his way.

And from the map he’d obtained, he also knew the chief was tied to Mirius.

How did Azriel know that?

Simple. The map showed only participants, never figures like a village chief.

Which meant… the chief’s presence wasn’t marked.

That, precisely, was the screw in his plan.

After asking around the village, Azriel learned the chief hadn’t left his house for entire weeks.

So when Azriel finally tracked down the house’s location, he discovered Mirius himself was inside. In the chief’s house.

Now that—well, that did more than put a screw in Azriel’s plan. It derailed the need for chaos entirely.

At least, not chaos in the village. Yet.

So what was the most logical choice for a rational man like Azriel?

Naturally—ignore the lackey and head straight for the big bad himself!

Which was why Azriel now stood at the village’s edge, facing a wooden house.

The only wooden house in the entire village, in fact.

Surprisingly enough, it belonged to the strongest man around. Out of place among the clay and stone dwellings, it was less a house than a cabin.

Azriel strolled up to the door and, like the gentleman he always insisted he was, knocked three times.

Almost immediately, muffled whispers stirred behind the door—two people, bickering.

Azriel merely tapped his foot and waited.

The door swung wide.

There stood a man in a plain tunic: an old man with a white beard, a bulbous nose, bald head, and a hunched frame leaning heavily on a cane.

’Seriously? What is it with this village and old people?’

The elder, who Azriel presumed was the village chief, tilted his head and rasped in a grumpy voice,

“Can I help you?”

Azriel offered a bright, diplomatic smile and nodded cheerfully.

“You can indeed!”

The chief’s brows furrowed.

“Do you, perhaps, have a guest by the name of Mirius Gibbler?”

No warning. No hesitation.

The cane lashed out, whistling through the air toward Azriel’s face faster than a blur.

Azriel’s smile froze. He tilted his head slightly to the right, and the cane missed by inches.

“You know,” Azriel muttered, sighing, “at this point, dodging headshots is just instinct.”

’Honestly… do they ever get tired of aiming for the face?’

The chief’s eyes widened.

“You’re an Expert…”

“Yes, I am,” Azriel said smoothly. “Just like you.”

’Hmm… he doesn’t seem that strong, for even the Plague to be cautious of calling him the worst case… is he really the village chief?’

He stepped forward suddenly and caught the cane in one hand. With casual ease, he crushed the wood to splinters.

“But,” Azriel added, his tone dropping to ice, “there’s a difference between the two of us.”

He leaned in close, his cold breath brushing the chief’s face as he tilted his head.

“You became an Expert by absorbing mana from the air. By talent alone. I, however…”

A chilling smile tugged at his lips.

“Well, let’s just say that if you don’t back off right now, I’ll have an excuse to consume your mana core—just like the others I’ve killed.”

As talented as one might be, there was always a chasm between those who fought their way to strength, and those who simply inherited it through talent and convenience.

…Of course, Azriel had no clue if any of that was actually true for the village chief. For all he knew, the chief had killed dozens, or none at all. But really, how many corpses could a hunched old man in a forgotten village possibly stack up?

Either way—

It seemed Azriel’s gamble had paid off.

The village chief gulped, cold sweat trailing down his cheek as he stumbled back a few steps. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Alright… I understand. I won’t try to attack you anymore…”

A bright smile spread across Azriel’s face as he nodded happily.

“Wonderful!”

He clapped his hands together.

“So… is he here?”

The chief’s expression darkened. His teeth worried his lower lip, and he glanced nervously toward the interior.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“H-huh? W-wait—!”

Azriel didn’t wait. Of course he didn’t. He strolled right into the cabin.

At first glance, the place seemed fairly simple.

Thick wooden beams supported a low ceiling, their surfaces blackened from years of smoke rising off the stone hearth in the center. The rough-hewn log walls were sealed with clay and straw, their uneven texture flickering in the candlelight. Carved shelves jutted straight from the wood, crammed with clay pots, woven baskets, and bundles of dried herbs dangling from the rafters. The earthy aroma of thyme and sage filled the air. Animal hides softened the creak of the wooden planks beneath his boots.

A heavy table, scarred and gouged by countless knives, sat near the hearth.

…Well, scratch the fairly simple part.

Never mind.

Not simple.

Well—maybe simple.

Just not normal.

Because in the corner sat a straw mattress. And on that straw mattress lay three young people.

Their hands were bound behind their backs with chains. Another chain wrapped around their ankles. Duct tape sealed their mouths.

And yet—all three were sleeping.

Azriel stopped, staring.

“…Tch.”

“T-that…!” the chief stammered, panic rising.

Azriel raised a hand to silence him.

“I already know everything here. Don’t worry.”

He stepped closer, studying the cadets.

The first was a boy with short black hair, a pair of glasses askew on his sleeping face.

’His name was… Harco? Sarco? No—Marco, right?’

Azriel shook his head inwardly. Didn’t matter.

Next, his eyes fell on the small girl leaning against the boy’s shoulder, using it as a pillow.

Messy green hair framed her petite form.

And then—his gaze moved to the one lying apart from the other two, as though even in sleep she refused to touch them.

Azriel’s smile soured.

’Veronica.’

Her long purple hair was a tangled mess. She looked uncomfortable, shifting even in sleep.

It filled Azriel with an unholy sort of glee to see her, at the very least, suffer some discomfort.

“Are you here to save them?”

The voice came suddenly from behind—calm, smooth, but heavy enough to still the air.

Azriel blinked and turned.

Standing before him was a man of average height, half a head shorter than Azriel. Muscular build. Broad shoulders. Black hair, cropped clean.

But those details were trivial.

What stood out was the intricate bare-shouldered robe he wore, the black blindfold over his eyes traced with a golden streak in a pattern too precise to be mere decoration. And on his right cheek, a tattoo: a single wing, stretched gracefully from his chin upward.

Azriel offered a friendly smile.

“You must be Mirius.”

Inwardly, though, his heart hammered against his ribs.

This man’s presence was… intense.

Extremely intense.

“And you must be the young Crimson Prince—Azriel.”

The man, Mirius, smiled warmly in return. Then he tilted his head ever so slightly, and though his eyes were hidden behind that ornate blindfold, Azriel felt the weight of an intense gaze pressing down on him.

Azriel raised an eyebrow.

“I’m surprised you recognize me… Then again, it was FreeWings who tampered with the mana collar back when I was just about to begin my academy life.”

A hearty laugh escaped Mirius’s lips.

“Please, don’t take what we did the wrong way, Prince Azriel. We were merely testing how… fragile the academy’s system truly was. Besides, anyone by now would know at least the name, if not the face, of the young hero of CASC. There’s been no shortage of talk—whether your deeds in the Void Dungeon were true, or merely the stuff of rumors.”

“I thought as much.”

Azriel’s gaze flicked back toward the sleeping cadets on the straw mattress.

Mirius’s smile lingered.

“I’ve already heard about you—and your little confrontation with the Plague. So if you came here hoping to take me by surprise while my guard was down, it seems you’ve failed.”

Azriel sighed. Behind him, the three cadets stirred, their eyelids beginning to flutter open. The village chief lingered in the corner, breathing shallowly, his throat tight with fear.

“No,” Azriel said quietly.

“I didn’t come for something so meaningless.”

“Then to negotiate?” Mirius tilted his head further, his smile deepening.

“To free these three? That would make me sad, you know. It’s quite lonely here… and they’ll be useful when this scenario finally ends.”

Azriel’s lips curved upward, a scoff escaping him.

“Negotiate? Yes. I’m here to broker a deal with you. But their lives?” He waved a dismissive hand.

“For all I care, you can keep them—to warm that lonely heart of yours. What I want from you is strictly business. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Oh?” Mirius’s tone brightened with interest.

“And here I thought you’d feel it your duty—as both hero and prince—to save your subjects. Not to mention a fellow princess, of course.”

Azriel laughed—low, sharp, dark—and his gaze slid toward the cadets, who were now blinking awake in confusion.

“Hero? I’ve never once claimed to be a hero. And if a mere princess can’t handle herself out of a hostage situation she stumbled into, then it only proves that while we may both hail from great clans, not all great clans are equal.”

Mirius laughed softly this time.

“Well, things might turn out differently were you and I to fight now.”

Azriel shook his head, ignoring the words as though he’d long grown used to them—as if Mirius were nothing more than an old friend talking nonsense.

Then, as all three cadets stirred awake—funnily enough, at the exact same time—Azriel walked over to Veronica. He crouched before her.

Slowly, her unfocused amethyst eyes gained clarity. They met Azriel’s gaze. Confusion flickered there, only to widen gradually… and then fully, in sharp recognition.

A sadistic smile curved Azriel’s lips.

“Recognize me? It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Veronica? I have to admit—it’s quite funny seeing you bound like this, filthy and helpless.”

Her eyes trembled violently. She tried to speak, but her taped mouth made it impossible.

Azriel chuckled, while Mirius simply watched him with keen curiosity.

“Ah… how long has it been since we last saw one another?”

Veronica’s panic eased into a wary silence. Yet there was no hiding what now filled her eyes.

Fear.

“Ah, right—I remember now!” Azriel clapped his hands lightly.

“Four years. That’s how long it’s been, hasn’t it? Since we last crossed paths… at that party.” Follow current ɴᴏᴠᴇʟs on novel⚑fire.net

He pinched his chin thoughtfully, tilting his head as though trying to summon a distant memory.

“Ah, yes… it’s all coming back now. You were bored, weren’t you? Needed some fresh air. While wandering the Crimson Estate, you stumbled into a garden. And there—you saw me. Peacefully taking a nap in a tree. And your brilliant idea to cure your boredom was… what again?”

Her eyes shook harder, terror creeping into every flicker of her gaze.

Azriel’s smile returned.

“Ah, yes. To dump a bucket of dirt on my face.”

Veronica’s head fell, shaking—not in agreement, but in shame. Denial. Regret. Whatever it was, Azriel didn’t care.

“You know,” he went on casually, “to this day, I still don’t know where you got that bucket of dirt. I was lucky Amaya found me after you ruined my nap. Not that I ever told her the truth, of course… I was far too embarrassed.”

He tilted his head, realization dawning on him.

“…I really do keep a lot from them, don’t I?”

Azriel sighed, running a hand through his hair. Then, without warning, he seized Veronica’s bound hands.

She flinched violently, her entire body trembling.

A small object was then slipped into her bound hands.

“These were the hands you used, weren’t they?”

A chilling dread flooded Veronica’s chest. She screamed into the tape, muffled and frantic, but it did nothing.

“I suppose you were part of the reason the horrible rumors about me spread so far. Not the reason—but part of it. I know I played my own role in all of that… but in the end, I am my father’s son.”

And then he squeezed.

The sensation was like pulverizing stones into dust. Every bone in both of Veronica’s hands shattered under his grip.

“Mnghhf!”

Her scream tore through the tape. She might’ve bitten her tongue—he didn’t check. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as her body convulsed in pain.

Azriel glanced to his side casually, noticing Marco and Ella staring at him in horror.

He smiled warmly, as though greeting old friends, and gave them a small, friendly wave.

Then he released Veronica’s hands. She collapsed face-first onto the straw mattress, sobbing uncontrollably.

Mirius let out a low whistle, clearly impressed.

Azriel turned to him with a cool smile.

“All right. I’m done. Let’s get to business now, shall we?”

’That felt good…’

No, really.

That… that felt awesome!

How many years had he waited to do that?

The damn witch had put him through such an embarrassing, humiliating ordeal! Azriel was still grateful Amaya had kept her mouth shut. But even now, resentment toward Veronica had festered in him like a stubborn thorn!

“How can I be sure,” Mirius said calmly, “that you’re actually here for business? Perhaps this is all a trap to lower my guard and take me down. You heroes are good at deception when it suits you. Maybe breaking her hands was simply… a sacrifice for the greater good, in your eyes?”

Azriel chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped forward. He passed Mirius without a glance, making his way toward the village chief, who stared at him as though he were a madman straight out of a nightmare.

“Sacrifice for the greater good?” Azriel repeated softly.

He stopped in front of the chief, who flinched under his gaze.

Then Azriel smiled.

Something blurred.

A sudden streak of red.

The rush of hot air.

And the raw, guttural scream of a dying man.

In an instant, both Mirius and Azriel were spattered with droplets of blood.

“AAAGGHHHHHH!”

The chief writhed on the floor, shrieking like a broken animal, as Azriel stood calmly holding his severed right arm. The clawed lightning still sparking over Azriel’s hand glowed crimson, its jagged edges curling like talons.

He turned, meeting Mirius’s gaze, and tossed the arm toward him. Mirius caught it effortlessly, as if it were nothing more than a stick of firewood.

“If two hands of a princess aren’t enough,” Azriel said coolly, “I do hope an arm from a village chief will satisfy you. Or perhaps you’d like me to rip off everyone’s arms in this room? And if that isn’t enough…” His smile sharpened.

“…maybe tearing off their heads would suffice?”

From his storage ring, Azriel pulled a pristine white cloth. He wiped the blood from his face, then from his hands. By the time he finished, the cloth was drenched crimson.

He tossed it onto the floor before the three cadets.

Veronica was still moaning and sobbing in agony, but the other two were pale as corpses, trembling violently as they clung to what little courage they had left. The chief, writhing in his own blood, gurgled incoherently on the floor.

Mirius, however, remained utterly composed. He studied Azriel in silence, his blindfolded gaze unreadable, before his lips curved into a warm smile.

“Well then,” he said softly.

“Business it is.”