Path of the Extra

Azriel’s one remaining eye twitched, while the other felt as heavy as lead. Slowly, the single eye fluttered open. Blinking a few times to clear the blurriness clouding his vision, Azriel found himself staring at a wooden ceiling.

“Ugh…”

Everything felt unbearably heavy, his mind wrapped in a thick, numbing fog. Turning his head with effort, Azriel blinked a few more times, taking in his surroundings. He was inside a small, old cabin—simple, but clean. A fire crackled gently in the hearth, the scent of burning wood filling the air.

Through the window, he could still see the familiar green of the endless forest.

With a grunt, Azriel pushed himself upright until he was sitting on the hard, narrow bed. His gaze dropped to his own body. His upper torso was bare, wrapped tightly in bandages. His left arm, where his mark should be, was also covered in new bandages. His chest, where his mana core resided, still radiated that faint, annoying heat.

“Huh…”

But then, Azriel noticed something worse.

His legs.

He couldn’t feel them.

“..!”

Panicked, he threw the blanket off and let out a sharp breath of relief when he saw that his legs were still there, still intact. Yet when he tried to move them… they barely responded. It was like trying to control limbs that no longer belonged to him.

It wasn’t just his legs. Azriel glanced down at his left hand. It, too, was heavily bandaged—only now, where his thumb should have been, there was nothing but a stump wrapped in cloth.

A tight, sick feeling knotted in his stomach. Carefully, he touched the right side of his face. No sensation. Just a cloth wrapped diagonally across his head, covering the place where his right eye once was.

It wasn’t only his legs, or his face. Certain parts of his body—on his chest, on his right arm—felt numb, as if pieces of him had simply faded away. Azriel frowned deeply. Then, as he shifted, something else caught his attention.

He froze.

‘…When did my hair get so long?’

His black hair hung loosely around him, easily reaching down to his waist, tangled and unkempt.

Azriel’s lone eye began trembling.

‘H-How long have I been unconscious…?’

Panic flared inside him. He was about to roll out of bed when—

Click.

The door creaked open, and Azriel’s instincts screamed. He readied himself to summon Void Eater and Atropos’ Elegy in an instant—

But when the door swung wide….. he froze.

Standing in the doorway was the same figure he had seen before—cloaked in dark robes, humming a soft, almost pleasant tune. Only now, Azriel could see clearly.

It wasn’t an assassin.

It wasn’t a monster.

It was an old woman.

Her face was a tapestry of deep wrinkles, patches of gray hair streaking through her black locks. She leaned on a cane fashioned from a twisted tree branch, her back only slightly hunched. In her other hand, she carried a small bag filled with freshly baked bread.

Azriel stared at her, stunned, his whole body frozen stiff.

Then the old lady turned to Azriel, and both of them froze.

The lady dropped the bag of bread onto the ground.

“Huh?”

“Huh?”

“Huh?”

“Huh?”

She pointed a trembling finger at Azriel.

“Y-you are awake, my lord!?”

Azriel blinked his one open eye in surprise.

“…And you’re just a normal old lady…”

Then Azriel’s brows furrowed.

“And… my lord?”

“Ah! Please wait just a moment! I apologize for my rudeness!”

Hurriedly, she scrambled to pick up the pieces of bread scattered across the floor, shoving them back into the bag.

Azriel’s face darkened slightly. He forced himself to stand, but the moment he did, he remembered the numbness in his legs—and stumbled to the ground.

“A-argh!”

“M-my lord!”

The old lady rushed over and supported him, helping him back to his feet. Azriel bit his lip, feeling the shame burn in his chest as he draped his right arm over her shoulder.

“…Sorry.”

“It is alright. Please, sit back down, my lord.”

Seeing nothing but genuine concern in her eyes, Azriel gave a slight nod. With her help, he sat back down on the bed. She hurriedly placed the bag of bread on a nearby table before returning to him. Grabbing a chair that sat next to the bed, she lowered herself into it.

“How do you feel, my lord?”

Azriel looked at her for a long moment before sighing quietly.

“…Heavy.”

She nodded, as if she had expected that.

Azriel, still studying her carefully, asked,

“Have you been taking care of me?”

She nodded again.

“I was truly surprised when you suddenly appeared in front of my home and collapsed unconscious… that was two months ago, my lord.”

Azriel’s body suddenly stiffened. A chill ran through his veins.

“…W-what did you just say?”

“My lord?”

Azriel’s eye darkened in panic.

“Are you saying I’ve been unconscious for two months…?”

She pursed her lips, then slowly nodded once more.

Azriel’s one eye widened in shock.

“My lord, your injuries were extremely severe. Your right eye… it is gone. Your face bears a terrible scar. Your left thumb was missing, and you had lost so much blood…” Her voice softened, filled with regret.

“But the worst part was not those injuries… it was, and still is, the internal damage.”

Azriel tried to keep his breathing steady, confusion flashing across his face.

“My internal injuries?”

She nodded solemnly.

“…From the wound where your right eye once was, and the scar… it seems the blood of a dark basilisk had seeped into your body and mingled with your own blood.”

“…!”

‘A dark basilisk!? One of the most poisonous void creatures alive! Their blood can melt the bodies of anyone below the Advanced rank to nothing!’

And even among Masters, their poison was lethal enough to warrant the utmost caution.

Azriel swallowed hard.

‘…T-then the only reason I’m not dead must be because I’m the Son of Death… My body is blessed, different to the point it can consume even the blood of gods…’

At least, that’s what Azriel told himself.

In truth, even he wasn’t certain.

Drinking divine blood was one thing…

But surviving the blood of a highly venomous void creature was another entirely.

“And also, my lord,” the woman continued, “your blessed veins were strained to the point of resembling dried branches on the verge of snapping. Your mana core… it is extremely fragile. Any further heavy strain could damage it.”

“Huh? How is that even possible?”

‘Blessed veins? Does she mean my soul veins…?’

She shook her head slowly.

“My lord… you should not even be alive. A dark basilisk’s blood should have annihilated your insides. Yet somehow, your body resisted, your blood fought back… and slowly destroyed the poison. Your external wounds… your internal injuries… your blessed veins… they have all been healing at an extraordinary pace. I could only do so much. Even now, your body continues to heal itself. Only your scar, the place where your right eye once was, and your missing thumb… those are not healing as quickly, for they were too heavily tainted by the basilisk’s blood… or perhaps by the weapon that wounded you.”

Hearing her words, Azriel pressed his lips together and fell into silence, staring down at his trembling hands.

‘…[Soul’s Crucible] and [Eidolon Flesh]… they must have pushed themselves into overdrive, consuming far more mana than necessary to neutralize the dark basilisk blood… Healing me, keeping me alive…’

It was clear now.

[Soul’s Crucible] and [Eidolon Flesh] had likely forced him into a coma to maximize healing… but at a cost.

‘…But how did my soul veins get damaged…?’

His mana core…

It was frighteningly fragile now.

Whether it was due to the basilisk blood… or—

“I assume,” the old woman said carefully, “that you used a spell far beyond what your body could handle, my lord. One that should have claimed your life.”

Azriel looked up at her, surprised.

‘A spell…? I don’t—’

Then he remembered.

‘Ah… right…’

He had used a spell.

Without understanding it.

Without knowing how.

It had been pure instinct.

The first time—when he escaped from the deep crater to evade Pierre’s attack.

The second—when he fled and stumbled into the forest.

He had no idea how he had cast it.

No idea how he knew it.

Only that he could.

…But was that movement spell the reason his soul veins had been torn apart?

His mana core’s fragile state could have been caused by all the accumulated damage… but still…

Azriel clenched his fists around the blanket draped over his legs.

Bitter regret burned in his heart.

‘I messed up.’

‘…I need to find Jasmine…’

Perhaps sensing that Azriel was about to rise again, the old woman spoke hurriedly.

“Please, my lord. You must still rest. If you go out in this state, it will surely be the end of you—whether by the Revolutionary Army or the nobility of Ismyr.”

Azriel turned his head, his single eye sharp with suspicion.

“What do you mean?”

Her gaze faltered, dropping slightly to the ground.

“…It did not take me long to piece together parts of your story, my lord. There have been many rumors… about the massacre of Keft. The most important thing I can tell you is this: after that battle, both the nobility and the revolutionaries suffered grievous wounds. And instead of blaming one another… they placed the blame on a certain fallen royal prince—or princess—who happened to be there.”

She paused, taking a slow breath before continuing.

“They claim that this figure was responsible for killing Margrave Alaric Breval, for the deaths of the innocents in the village, for defeating both the Vice-Captain of the Royal Knights and one of the Nine High Commanders of the Revolutionary Army. They blame you for making the village of Keft uninhabitable… and for destroying all trading routes that passed through it.”

Another breath, heavier this time.

“…The entire world has placed a kill-on-sight bounty on anyone with a single red eye, my lord.”

Azriel’s mouth fell open at her words. His body trembled, a cold shiver crawling up his spine.

‘…K-kill on sight? Seriously…’

Then, narrowing his eye, he stared at her with renewed wariness.

“So then… you are—”

Before he could finish, she shook her head firmly, cutting him off.

“I am not your enemy, my lord. Whatever strife brews between the Revolutionaries and the Nobility of Ismyr has nothing to do with me. I keep myself far from their games.”

And then—unexpectedly—she smiled.

A soft, gentle smile that carried no malice.

“…Even if I were to believe that a sixteen-year-old child was responsible for the massacre of Keft,” she said quietly, her gaze drifting to Azriel’s bandaged left arm, “I would still believe… that the child of one of the gods must have had a reason.”