Path of the Extra

It wasn’t simply that Azriel was trapped in a dream. No—it was far worse. His body grew colder with every passing second, even as his mana core burned hotter. Those two contradictions meant only one thing:

His mana core was slowly being devoured.

In reality, Azriel lay unconscious somewhere, and trapped within this nightmare, he was gradually dying.

‘I need to find a way out before my mana core gets consumed completely.’

The only good news was that whatever force was draining him seemed incredibly slow, almost cautious. The bad news, however, overshadowed that small relief: the longer Azriel remained trapped, the weaker he would become—mentally, physically—and the faster his mana core would burn away, making it easier for the thing to feast on him.

‘Then…was the Dark Basilisk blood fake?’

Could someone really coat a mere advanced-ranked pocket knife with the blood of a terrible creature?

All these strange occurrences inside his body… everything Mio had claimed…

Had they all been lies from the start?

Was it truly all just inside his head?

Azriel clenched his jaw and deliberately let go of his cane. The cane clattered noisily to the wooden floor. He took a cautious step forward, then another—

‘…Just as I thought.’

It had all been in his head. He didn’t need the cane at all; he could walk perfectly fine. The only true injuries were his missing right eye and left thumb. Everything else was a fabrication of this twisted nightmare.

Shaking his head, Azriel strode to the nearby drawers and began rifling through them. His hand froze abruptly when he opened one drawer, discovering a single sheet of paper, inked carefully in elegant handwriting.

He picked it up slowly, narrowing his single eye to read the cryptic message:

“Born from the blood of the first dying star.”

Azriel tilted his head slightly, confusion flickering in his gaze. Nothing else was written—just that beautiful, solitary sentence.

He glanced back into the drawer, and his heart froze.

Beneath the paper lay the pocketknife.

The knife that had been plunged into his eye.

Slowly, he reached in, picking up the blade with a wary gaze.

‘…It’s clean.’

No blood, neither his nor a void creature’s. There was no way of verifying the truth.

Azriel placed his fingers thoughtfully on his chin.

‘This nightmare likely has rules I mustn’t break. Leaving the Forest of Eternity is probably one. Attacking Lady Mio might be another—but that doesn’t make sense. Then why would she invite me to the village outside the forest?’

Unless…

‘Unless she’s—’

His thoughts shattered, cut short by sudden dread.

“…!”

A horrific presence overwhelmed him, thick and suffocating. Azriel staggered back, dropping both the paper and the pocketknife as panic clawed at his chest. His entire body shivered uncontrollably, consumed by a bone-chilling dread.

‘[Soul’s Crucible]… It’s… gone!?’

His affinities, his powers—all vanished. His mana core felt locked, blocked by some unseen force, cutting off all access to his mana.

‘H-hey… you’ve got to be kidding, right?’

“…”

He hadn’t even attempted to escape this time.

Tack! Tack! Tack!

Knocking sounded harshly at the cabin door.

‘Shit—I can’t even summon Void Eater!’

Atropos’ Elegy rested uselessly in his left pocket—without mana, it was just a meaningless object.

Tack! Tack! Tack!

The knocking grew louder, more frantic, a maddening symphony driving Azriel closer and closer to insanity. He stopped breathing, bracing himself, waiting desperately as the relentless knocking thundered through the cabin—

Then suddenly, silence.

Everything stopped.

The world itself seemed to hold its breath.

Then, from nowhere, a rattling sound echoed ominously from the doorway.

“—Huh?”

An explosion of red erupted first.

Warm blood splattered across the floor, bed, table, and walls in a crimson wave.

“…?”

Azriel’s vision blurred, disoriented. He felt a strange warmth around him. Weakly, he turned his head to the side—

—and saw his own body, split cleanly at the waist.

Blood and viscera spilled across the floorboards, steaming softly in the chilly air. A foul stench rapidly filled the cabin, nauseatingly thick.

“—Ah…”

His lower half stood briefly, frozen grotesquely upright, before collapsing with a sickening thud. Muscles slackened as his legs fell, spraying more crimson across the room. Azriel opened his mouth to scream, but only a strangled silence emerged, choked off by sheer horror.

Blood continued to pour forth, entrails slipping sickeningly from the torn edges of his torso, piling in horrific coils around him.

Finally, Azriel’s voice broke through:

“A—a… AHHHHHHHHH!”

Pain exploded, a thousand molten needles searing through his skull, forcing his eyes to roll back violently in their sockets. It was as if hell itself had awakened within his head, nerves boiling, every synapse aflame with agony he couldn’t escape.

He writhed in torment as footsteps echoed around him, accompanied by a terrible rattling—like a child shaking a broken toy—each step carving deeper into his mind. Soft, horrible popping sounds followed, as if joints twisted and snapped with every dreadful movement.

Yet Azriel couldn’t move his head. Paralyzed, staring blankly at the blood-painted ceiling, he listened helplessly to the footsteps approaching, each one louder, crueler, closer.

Then came a distorted static, like an old television desperately searching for a signal, scrambling his thoughts, fracturing his memories.

A large, nightmarish shadow fell upon him.

Slowly, Azriel forced his gaze upward, to the figure towering above.

His lips twitched involuntarily, forming an empty smile.

The being was almost featureless—an impossible entity, rejected by reality itself. A stretched humanoid shape, impossibly thin and far too tall, limbs subtly wrong, arms extending grotesquely below its knees, legs bent backward like a deer’s yet bearing human feet. Its skin was black, glistening like wet muscle beneath a thin, translucent membrane that pulsed unsettlingly, disturbingly alive.

No eyes, no mouth, no face—only a smooth void, as if the universe had refused to grant it identity.

It reached out, long, clawed fingers wrapping around Azriel’s face with casual indifference.

And crushed it effortlessly.

Bone shattered, blood burst forth, brain matter splattered violently across the cabin floor.

Just like that, Azriel Crimson died—

—at the merciless hands of a skinwalker.