Path of the Extra

It felt like the entire world stopped.

The ground. The entire facility. Everything ceased moving.

Time stopped.

Everything outside the underground colosseum froze.

And everyone held their breath.

Azriel—the original Azriel—opened his eyes.

But in place of those eyes, where his eyes should have been, there was only darkness. No eyeballs—just pitch-black voids.

He… no, it.

It stood up.

Miraculously, the entire gown it wore returned to its original state, spotless, without a single speck of dust.

Its hair floated in the air, unaffected by gravity, revealing its face to everyone—the face of Azriel Crimson.

But it was no longer Azriel Crimson in that body.

No.

That madman… the moment he had stopped caring about survival, when he only cared about winning, he had stopped caring about his own life, knowing it was futile.

He gladly gave it all away.

The fourth condition was finally met.

After more than one hundred thousand deaths…

The fourth condition was met, and a god answered.

It was the God of Death.

And everyone shuddered.

They shuddered at its presence—something they could not comprehend.

It had a presence so powerful it defied description, yet, at the same time, it was not.

It was as if the God of Death was there… but not.

It was as if it existed… but it did not.

It was as if it was alive… yet it was not.

Everyone fell to their knees.

Be it Azriel, the other Azriel, Arthur, or War…

They all fell.

They all kneeled.

They all bent.

Azriel looked at it.

Was this how it felt to be in the presence of a god?

His heart bled.

Despair coiled around his heart like a chain, squeezing every shred of hope until it crumbled into nothingness. It was the weight of countless lifetimes, each ending in ways he could not comprehend.

Yet…

Hope wrapped around his heart like a warm embrace, nurturing every part of him until it bloomed with possibility. It was the light of countless futures, each filled with promise.

Sorrow cascaded through him like a flood, drowning every fleeting thought of resistance. It wasn’t just his sorrow—it was the sorrow of millions, an ocean of grief in which he was only a single, drowning drop.

Yet…

Happiness flowed through him like a clear stream, washing away every doubt. It wasn’t just his happiness—it was the happiness of many, an ocean of joy in which he was a single, rising wave.

Agony burned through his veins, sharp and searing, as if his very essence was being torn apart. It wasn’t pain of the body, but something far deeper—pain rooted in existence itself.

Yet…

Contentment spread through his veins, smooth and calming, as if his very essence was being healed. It wasn’t a feeling of physical relief but something deeper, a peace rooted in the soul itself.

And then there was pain—simple, primal, all-encompassing. Pain without a source. Pain without an end.

Yet…

There was ease—pure, gentle, all-encompassing. It was ease without effort, ease without end.

And then it spoke.

It spoke in a voice that was Azriel’s… but not. It was more. It was absolute, definitive, and irrevocable.

“Why… why is this child’s soul from the Ynoth Era? How can such a thing… oh, how pitiful.”

“….”

“Very well. For the price you paid for forming a mana contract with me, I d̶̖͈̲͚̔̐̆e̷̥̲͖̎͛̈́̾͒̈̎̾̿͗̐͹̷ẗ̶̤̬̩̬̘́̅̏̈̅͒̓̆̆͜h̷͓̙̘͗͂̌̓̽̕͘ͅ.̸̸̛̖̒͛͗̓̎̾͛̓e̵̯̾͋̿̈́̅͝͝͝ͅh̶̡̡̛̬̝̤͓̘̮̠̻̋̿̏̿̍d̶͗͒̒̾̓̕ͅe̴̴̢͉̮͍̍͊̈́t̷͖̻͈̾͒̆̅̋̔̋̚ͅh̵̢̘͂̈̄̅͠”–”

“!!”

Everyone clutched their heads at the words, feeling like their brains were about to explode. Screams of pain escaped them involuntarily.

“–Will remove the one you call the doctor.”

Those eyes then met Arthur’s.

And Arthur’s entire body was soaked with sweat, dripping down onto the floor.

His teeth chattered.

His body trembled.

Tears streamed down his face.

His mouth opened and closed, yet no words or sound escaped.

And then…

Arthur slumped to the ground.

And died.

Just like that…

A grandmaster died.

War collapsed, unconscious.

“I d̶̖͈̲͚̔̐̆e̷̥̲͖̎͛̈́̾͒̈̎̾̿͗̐͹̷ẗ̶̤̬̩̬̘́̅̏̈̅͒̓̆̆͜h̷͓̙̘͗͂̌̓̽̕͘ͅ.̸̸̛̖̒͛͗̓̎̾͛̓e̵̯̾͋̿̈́̅͝͝͝ͅh̶̡̡̛̬̝̤͓̘̮̠̻̋̿̏̿̍d̶͗͒̒̾̓̕ͅe̴̴̢͉̮͍̍͊̈́t̷͖̻͈̾͒̆̅̋̔̋̚ͅh̵̢̘͂̈̄̅͠ will deem this entire facility destroyed.”

“I d̶̖͈̲͚̔̐̆e̷̥̲͖̎͛̈́̾͒̈̎̾̿͗̐͹̷ẗ̶̤̬̩̬̘́̅̏̈̅͒̓̆̆͜h̷͓̙̘͗͂̌̓̽̕͘ͅ.̸̸̛̖̒͛͗̓̎̾͛̓e̵̯̾͋̿̈́̅͝͝͝ͅh̶̡̡̛̬̝̤͓̘̮̠̻̋̿̏̿̍d̶͗͒̒̾̓̕ͅe̴̴̢͉̮͍̍͊̈́t̷͖̻͈̾͒̆̅̋̔̋̚ͅh̵̢̘͂̈̄̅͠ will eliminate everyone inside this facility responsible for the project known as New Eden.”

“I d̶̖͈̲͚̔̐̆e̷̥̲͖̎͛̈́̾͒̈̎̾̿͗̐͹̷ẗ̶̤̬̩̬̘́̅̏̈̅͒̓̆̆͜h̷͓̙̘͗͂̌̓̽̕͘ͅ.̸̸̛̖̒͛͗̓̎̾͛̓e̵̯̾͋̿̈́̅͝͝͝ͅh̶̡̡̛̬̝̤͓̘̮̠̻̋̿̏̿̍d̶͗͒̒̾̓̕ͅe̴̴̢͉̮͍̍͊̈́t̷͖̻͈̾͒̆̅̋̔̋̚ͅh̵̢̘͂̈̄̅͠ will strip from every being who knew the name Heptarch Iryndra their memories of this child—unless they are already Level 7 or above. For them, this vow will be null.”

“These vows will be fulfilled within the next 24 hours. Should I fail to uphold them… I will cease to exist.”

“…”

Silence followed.

It was a silence so profound that it seemed to consume all sound, all thought, and even the passage of time itself. Everyone remained motionless, their eyes fixed on the entity before them.

Then… it closed its eyes.

Azriel’s original body crumpled to the ground, lifeless yet whole.

But nothing had ended.

Something else appeared, drawing their attention skyward. Azriel and his counterpart felt their hearts stop.

Suspended in the air, a silhouette emerged.

A figure—graceful, undefined, and overwhelmingly immense. It was feminine yet formless, as though her essence rejected definition. Azriel could not tell where her body began or ended. Perhaps she had no body at all. She seemed to be constructed of pure darkness—a nebulous void given form.

Her features danced on the edge of recognition, almost human but not. Her shape flickered between the familiar and the alien, both comforting and horrifying. She was everything at once: beautiful and grotesque, divine and profane.

She was the most beautiful thing Azriel had ever seen.

She was the most terrifying thing he had ever seen.

She was…

Divine.

Holy.

Unknown.

End.

She was… Death.

Azriel’s mind splintered. He forgot why he was here, forgot what he wanted to do or say. His thoughts dissolved into nothingness, consumed by the enormity of her presence.

And then she was there—directly before him.

The goddess of death looked down at Azriel, her gaze penetrating not just his body but the very fabric of his being.

Her voice was a whisper, yet it resounded like the final note of a dying world. It was the sound of a clock’s last tick, of the stillness after a war’s end.

“Why… are you my child?”