Path of the Extra

Under the guise of going to the bathroom, Azriel left the VIP room with Oliver, leaving Nol and Jasmine behind. Absurdly enough, the bidding was still ongoing—now reaching a hundred billion Velts, with only a handful of players still in the game.

Azriel walked a step behind Oliver, who marched ahead with a straight back and a stern expression. Even so, Azriel couldn’t help the slight curve of his lips.

How convenient.

A leak in the guest list. A rumor that the Nebula King himself desired the fake Divine Wings. The amount of money this auction would rake in tonight… would be insane. So insane, in fact, that Oscar would retire, and Oliver would soon become the new master of the Cake Auction House.

How very convenient.

Then, without warning, Azriel came to a halt.

Oliver stopped as well, turning around with a puzzled look.

“Your Highness, is something wrong?”

Azriel shook his head.

“I’ve had a change of heart. I’d like to visit a certain friend of mine. Could you guide me to the VIP room currently occupied by guest number 001?”

At his words, Oliver’s face stiffened ever so slightly before he bowed his head, avoiding Azriel’s gaze.

“Your Highness, I’m afraid it’s against policy to—”

“Your policies lost all worth to me the moment you used a fake story to sell fake wings.”

Azriel’s voice cut like a blade, and his expression hardened—his gaze turning as icy and unrelenting as Jasmine’s often did.

Oliver’s eyes widened, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. But it only took him a moment to gather himself. He raised his head, his eyes sharpening.

“Please take that back, Your Highness. Even for someone of your stature, showing such disrespect—”

“I don’t care for a single word of your yapping, Sir Oliver.” Azriel’s voice dropped lower.

“Now, be smart and take me to my friend. He’s expecting me.”

Before Oliver could protest again, Azriel stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. He leaned in, his breath cold against Oliver’s ear.

“You wouldn’t want to disappoint the man who gave you those fake wings… would you?”

“…!”

Azriel stepped back with a soft smile, his demeanor calm—as if nothing had happened. Oliver, however, looked at him like he’d just seen a ghost.

He knows!

That was the silent scream in his eyes.

“H-how…?”

Azriel said nothing.

Oliver swallowed hard, then slowly bowed his head again—much deeper this time.

“I apologize for my rudeness, Your Highness. Please… follow me. I’ll lead you straight to his room.”

His tone had changed completely—more respectful, more cautious. Without another word, Oliver turned and walked ahead. Azriel followed in silence as they made their way down the hall, toward the room where guest number 001 was waiting.

They arrived swiftly at the door.

Without a word, Oliver opened it. Azriel stepped inside without hesitation, his pace steady and calm. Oliver followed quietly behind as Azriel walked toward the couch—where a certain someone sat, sipping from a glass of… apple juice.

The man wasn’t bidding anymore, simply watching the auction unfold with disinterest.

Then, without turning around, the man spoke—his voice even and detached. Neither warm nor cold. Not rising, not falling. A perfect monotone, as though it were untouched by emotion.

“It hasn’t been that long… yet I was anticipating our next meeting, my old friend.”

A soft sigh escaped Azriel’s lips before they curled upward in a faint smile.

“I could say the same… Xian Feng.”

Xian Feng rose from the couch. He wore the same flowing robes, and looked exactly as Azriel remembered him—in the Perished Forgotten Realm, where they had met the God of Time.

Then Xian Feng turned. His gaze, heavy and unmoving like a monolith, fell on Oliver, who stood frozen with his head lowered, his body trembling.

“I merely revealed myself… offered them a glimpse of the divine. And this—” he gestured vaguely toward the auction, “—is the result of my generosity. Disappointing, don’t you think, Azriel?”

Oliver’s knees buckled at the sound of Xian Feng addressing Azriel so casually. He dropped to one knee in an instant, voice cracking.

“I—I apologize, Supreme Archon! His Highness knew of the story and the wings… he wanted to meet you—”

“It’s a little late to start explaining now, isn’t it?” Xian Feng cut him off with a glance.

Oliver’s mouth clamped shut immediately. A second later, he rose to his feet and turned to leave—only for Azriel to speak, his tone calm but commanding.

“Sir Oliver, you may tell my sister that I went for a stroll. I’ll meet her at the afterparty… promptly.”

Oliver turned back and bowed deeply.

“Y-yes, Your Highness. I’ll do as you say.”

And then he left without another word—like a mouse scurrying away from the shadow of a waiting cat.

Xian Feng turned to Azriel, his lips arching ever so slightly—almost imperceptibly.

“How did you know I was here?”

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Azriel walked toward the mini bar.

“Take a guess. The number 666 that was in my tablet? The fake divine wings? Or maybe what’s going to happen today?” He paused, then smirked faintly. “Maybe all three.”

Grabbing a bottle of apple juice, Azriel poured himself a glass and sank behind the counter, taking a slow sip before releasing a contented sigh. A moment later, Xian Feng strolled over leisurely, seated himself beside him, and poured a glass for himself. He chuckled, raising it in a mock toast before taking a sip.

“Thanks to you, Mother’s going to be furious. I spent a ridiculous amount on a soul weapon. Was it really necessary to bid against me, oh Number 001?”

The lips of the Supreme Archon curled a little more, almost amused.

“We both know the worth of [Atropos’ Elegy]. I merely thought it fitting that if you were going to obtain it… the appropriate price should be paid.”

Azriel frowned, slightly irritated by the response, and took another sip. As he turned his eyes to Xian Feng’s profile, something tugged at his attention—something that had been gnawing at him ever since he entered the room.

Everyone unconsciously released mana. Unless they were a master—or someone like Azriel, who had already learned to completely control his aura—their presence always leaked into the surroundings. That was why he hadn’t sensed the Supreme Archon earlier.

And yet… this was different.

Solomon also hid his presence most of the time, but with him, it simply felt like a regular human with no mana core. Unless he deliberately erased his trace, you could still sense something. But Xian Feng?

It felt like he wasn’t even there.

Even when Xian Feng glanced at him, it was like being brushed by a breeze—unfelt, intangible. When he spoke, it wasn’t a voice… it was wind passing through leaves. Nothing more.

‘I don’t know if he really is a Sovereign yet. Maybe that’s what makes it different compared to Solomon, who’s a Saint. But…’

It gnawed at him. It stayed. And Azriel didn’t like that.

So, he did something unexpected.

He silently formed a pocketknife out of ice using his affinity—small, sharp. Then, without warning, he hurled it straight toward Xian Feng’s face.

Xian Feng’s expression didn’t change. He simply watched the knife.

And, to Azriel’s surprise—or perhaps, lack thereof—the blade passed clean through the man like he wasn’t even there. No resistance. No impact. The ice shattered against the glass wall behind him in a harmless spray.

Azriel narrowed his eyes.

“As I thought… you’re not really here, are you?”

“You could’ve just asked, you know?”

Xian Feng gave a small shrug.

“But yes, I’m not really here. Well—I am, and I’m not. Courtesy of a certain [Skill] of mine. In exchange, I can cause no harm… and no harm can be done to me.”

“I see. But you’re still able to touch… taste. That’s a useful [Skill].”

He tilted his head slightly.

“If you’re not here… where are you exactly?”

For a moment, Xian Feng didn’t answer. Then, in that same calm, unwavering tone, he spoke.

“I’m in hell.”

Azriel blinked, momentarily stunned. His lips twitched faintly.

“You’ll need to be a little more specific. Hell as in somewhere on Earth? Or the Void Realm?”

Xian Feng shook his head and let out a soft, tired sigh.

“As in a different realm entirely.”

“…!”

“I call it Limbo—a place I entered in search of a way to restore my shattered mana core. It was broken during a battle against one of those so-called ‘gods.’ A mere child, yet despite being a sovereign, I barely survived. I thought Limbo would offer answers. Instead, it gave me hell.

Now I’m trapped.

The worst part? I can’t even use my [unique skill] to regress. In this life, I’ve reached a point where I’m stuck—caught in a loop where time resets only within that cursed place. Not the timeline. Just me… and that place.

Every time I die, it starts over.

And without a mana core, death is only a matter of time.”