Path of the Extra

“I always knew this world’s providence was a coward.”

Pollux’s voice rumbled low, a note of irritation clear beneath his cold, disdainful tone. Azriel’s heart quickened, an unsteady rhythm hammering in his chest as the Starblood’s chilling words filled the tense silence.

“Still, who could have guessed that today of all days I’d finally be exposed? You failed your duty spectacularly, World’s Providence. Consider our arrangement nullified. I’ll grant you this small mercy—flee, vanish, and pray we never cross paths again. If we do, I’ll end your pathetic existence myself.”

[’World’s Providence’ shudders violently as it retreats into hiding.]

At the very same moment, new words materialized in the air, panels appearing ominously, flooding Azriel’s vision:

[’Monarch of the Burning Sun’ has sent forth his avatar.]

[’The Mourning Moon’ has sent forth her avatar.]

[’The Saint Without a Face’ has sent forth its avatar.]

Pollux sneered dismissively.

“I remember you three clearly. Unfortunately for you, your pitiful avatars cannot pierce this spell, not while I stand guard—”

But before he could finish, reality itself fractured.

A jagged crack ripped open between Azriel, Pollux, and the Skinwalker. It was as if existence itself had split at the seams, revealing a chasm that endlessly shifted between absolute darkness and blinding white. Azriel blinked frantically, his vision flickering between two impossibilities, until, with one final blink, reality mended itself—smooth, untouched, as if nothing had occurred.

Yet something had changed.

[’Monarch of the Burning Sun’s’ avatar has descended.]

[’The Mourning Moon’s’ avatar has descended.]

[’The Saint Without a Face’s’ avatar has descended.]

Three presences emerged, encircling Azriel, Pollux, and the Skinwalker in a triangle of overwhelming power.

The first stood silently behind Pollux—a ghostly figure shrouded entirely in veils of translucent moonlight, luminous and delicate as breath, yet dense enough to conceal an unfathomable presence beneath. Its faceless visage shimmered faintly, marked only by twin silver eyes glowing serenely, devoid of emotion, colder than winter moonlight.

Behind the Skinwalker towered the second—an armored titan clad in molten suns, each piece of armor cracked by rivers of living flame. Its head bore a crown of blazing sun-discs spinning slowly, violently, radiating judgment as merciless as the sun’s scorching gaze. Its eyes—blazing cores of celestial wrath—held neither hate nor compassion, only absolute certainty of annihilation.

A sudden, dreadful intuition gripped Azriel’s heart, compelling him to turn around—

“…!”

Standing directly behind him, silent and ominous, loomed the third avatar—a gaunt, towering silhouette draped in decaying, priestly robes. Bandages, ink-stained and blood-soaked, coiled tightly over its entire form, endlessly shifting and tightening as if breathing.

Azriel opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again—words frozen on his trembling lips.

Pollux, seemingly unbothered, tilted his head arrogantly.

“Interesting. You three have grown stronger, indeed… but what hideous forms you’ve taken. Is this really the best you could manage? Ugly, pathetic avatars. Even worse, it seems the little girl finally betrayed me, revealing my hiding place. How disappointing—but it explains World Providence’s sudden incompetence.”

Azriel’s mind raced frantically, panic overtaking rational thought.

’What… what the hell is happening?’

It felt as though he had fallen into a twisted nightmare within nightmares—a distorted dream nested inside another, each layer darker and crueler than the last.

Pollux regarded the fiery titan behind the Skinwalker, amused.

“Grade 2 Angel already? Impressive! Meanwhile, these other two remain merely Grade 3 Angels. I never expected such rapid growth from you lot. Yet, impressive as it may be, it is not enough—not nearly enough. At least one of you should’ve ascended to Archangel rank if you truly intended to challenge me, even in this weakened state.”

His voice turned icy and lethal.

“Did you really think you could defeat me like this?”

Azriel swallowed painfully.

’Angel ranks…?’

His bloodied lips trembled.

’Immortals. An emperor of an extinct divine spirit race. A Skinwalker. A frightened World Providence. An eternal forest, angels… What kind of twisted circus have I fallen into? Damn! Damn! Damn you all! Damn it all to hell! Dammit!’

More messages flooded his vision:

[’The Mourning Moon’ looks confused and intrigued.]

[’The Saint Without a Face’ questions its own reality.]

[’Monarch of the Burning Sun’ is shocked to realize this is all merely a scenario.]

[’The Mourning Moon’ mourns her own non-existence.]

A wave of exhaustion unlike anything he’d ever experienced washed over Azriel, crushing him to his knees. Their very presence drained the mana from the world, making even breathing a monumental effort. His limbs trembled uncontrollably, strength fading fast.

Another panel materialized ominously:

[’The Saint Without a Face’ wonders if ’The Twelve Scenario Tyrants of the Divine Court’ are present.]

Azriel’s heart stopped momentarily, a suffocating dread seizing him completely.

’Oh no—!’

[’The Fourth Authority’ has overheard.]

[’The Fourth Authority’ gazes upon you all.]

[’The Mourning Moon’ bows respectfully.]

[’The Saint Without a Face’ bows respectfully.]

[’Monarch of the Burning Sun’ bows respectfully.]

Pollux scoffed darkly, clearly irritated.

“Typical. Always one of the Twelve Scenario Tyrants meddling without regard for consequence.”

More panels appeared, shattering Azriel’s remaining composure:

[’The Fourth Authority’ looks troubled.]

[’The Fourth Authority’ apologizes, stating it never intended your involvement.]

[’The Fourth Authority’ claims putting this world in a scenario was a request from ’The Second Authority’.]

[’The Mourning Moon’ feels profound pity.]

[’The Saint Without a Face’ feels profound pity.]

[’Monarch of the Burning Sun’ feels profound pity.]

[’The Fourth Authority’ hesitates, afraid to meet the gaze of the esteemed ’Great Divine Star Spirit Emperor’.]

[’The Fourth Authority’ shifts its gaze upon the ’Son of Death’.]

Azriel gasped, ice flooding his veins under the weight of an impossibly alien stare.

’I-it’s stronger—far stronger than these three…!’

[’The Fourth Authority’ never anticipated the ’Son of Death’ would reside within Planet -2106 or this realm.]

[’The Fourth Authority’ gazes upon you with awe and respect.]

[’The Fourth Authority’ apologizes, burdened by unavoidable orders during your World’s Providence’s weakened state.]

[’The Fourth Authority’ expresses distress at how events escalated.]

[’The Fourth Authority’ confesses it never expected the ’Great Divine Star Spirit Emperor’ on this planet.]

[’The Fourth Authority’ only desires fairness within ’scenarios’.]

[’The Fourth Authority’ will now r̷̢̩̝̪̯̯̬͙̺̾̎̓͆̈́̒̐̑̇̋͘͝i̵̡̻̲̹̤͈̩̺̎̅̏͑̐̈́͋͗͒̿͆͘̚͠ͅt̸̢̛̛̲̪̹̥̪̮̩͖͋̐̈́̈́̾̇́̽̏̐́̽͂͛͛̕̕͘͜y̴͐̈́͌͋̓̓—]

Azriel’s heart seized again.

[’The Mourning Moon’ is confused.]

[’The Saint Without a Face’ is confused.]

[’Monarch of the Burning Sun’ is confused.]

Pollux laughed coldly.

[’The Fourth Authority’ realizes there are two of itself.]

[’The Fourth Authority’ recognizes its existence as part of the scenario.]

[’The Fourth Authority’ acknowledges the scenario remains fair—thus, the true Fourth Authority hasn’t intervened.]

[’The Fourth Authority’ shall now terminate itself.]

[’The Mourning Moon’ stares blankly.]

[’The Saint Without a Face’ stares blankly.]

[’Monarch of the Burning Sun’ stares blankly.]

Silence descended heavily.

[Goodbye.]

Pollux’s laughter echoed, sharp and unrestrained.

“I see, I see! So, because you three exist in this world during this time, the scenario has not only replicated us fakes and this world but also the realms themselves! Meaning, ’The Fourth Authority’ you all summoned was a mere fake, and the real one is simply watching! Hahaha! How does it feel to be mere fakes—not even real—and simply used for entertainment? Seriously, talk about stabbing your own kind!”

[’The Mourning Moon’ is angry.]

[’The Saint Without a Face’ is seething.]

[’Monarch of the Burning Sun’ is furious.]

Pollux’s eyes gleamed with intrigue.

“Oh? Very well, then—bring it on. None of you are marked, and you fools had the nerve to enter with your true avatars. If I kill you here, your fragile souls might actually die with them. Is this how you want your little game to end? Snuffed out from a world that was never even real to begin with?”

Azriel’s body was drenched in cold sweat. The rain remained suspended mid-air, and the silver flaming spears hovered ominously. Couldn’t Pollux simply unleash them and end everything? But would it be enough to kill two Grade 3 angels and one Grade 2 angel—beings with mana cores at level 9, of the same race as the Ten Gods? Then again, they were mere avatars, of the real entities.

’If only Dad had given me more displacement cubes…’

They were rare, and Joaquin hadn’t been serious back then—or perhaps he had, but something had come up. Still, what else could Azriel do now? The situation was spiraling into chaos. If these beings clashed, and if the spell broke by Pollux’s mistake, Azriel would be as good as dead. If not, he’d just keep dying over and over again.

But this once, just this damned once in this entire scenario… fate was finally on Azriel’s side.

The next second, the Skinwalker lunged toward Pollux. Simultaneously, the three avatars moved, and before Azriel could react, they were in front of Pollux.

“Hah!? Attacking me instead of the Skinwalker?”

Pollux laughed darkly.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen once they realize they are mere fakes.”

And then—

Azriel didn’t know what happened.

A flash of blinding white. A wave of devouring darkness. They crashed together, no transition, no warning.

The world erupted.

Azriel was thrown back like a ragdoll, bouncing across the mud and broken stones until he finally came to a wheezing stop. There were no more trees left in the Forest of Eternity. They still hung suspended in the sky, each one now a silver flaming spear.

Only the cave remained. The cave… and the dirt.

The rain returned. Hard. Cold. Cleansing. But no void worm dared rise from the ground.

Azriel groaned and forced his ruined body upright. Then he saw it.

The cave stood unguarded.

His pulse spiked.

Where were they?

Where was Pollux? The Skinwalker? The angels?

Had they… killed each other?

No—there was no way he survived that attack. Not something of that scale. Not that kind of divine judgment. He should be dead.

But he wasn’t.

And Azriel didn’t care to ask why.

He dragged his limbs forward. One step. Another. Toward the cave. Toward the end of this madness.

Then cracks began to form—splintering reality like fragile glass. Thin lines of fracture raced across the air around him, growing larger, deeper, sharper.

Azriel’s face tightened.

One of the cracks broke. Something shattered.

The Skinwalker fell from the fracture.

Its grotesque left arm was gone, leaking rivers of dark ichor. It didn’t cry. Didn’t wail. It simply stood back up.

It turned toward the rift it fell from… then paused.

Slowly, its faceless head turned to Azriel.

For one moment, everything stopped.

The cave loomed behind Azriel. The Skinwalker looked at it. Then at him.

Then—

The voidworms came.

They burst from the ground like a tide of filth, unfazed by rain, by death. All of them hungry.

Azriel ran.

Broken, bloodied, beaten—he ran. His body was ice, his mana core a wildfire. He poured what remained of his energy into his tendons. Lightning coiled around his ankles. He forced his aura to augment only his legs.

The ground shattered behind him.

And still, the Skinwalker followed.

From above, a voice echoed—cold, furious, divine.

“Spineless cowards. All of you. Die.”

The silver flaming spears descended.

Azriel never looked back. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He ran.

The cave was close. The Skinwalker was closer. Its hand grazed his back—

And then judgment fell.

The world exploded in silver-white flame.

Azriel flew forward, body flung like paper in a hurricane. He crashed into the cave mouth, rolling over the mud and fire, until he hit the wall with a wet, sickening thud.

He screamed.

Inside, the flames had followed—licking the walls, scorching the stone.

He felt it.

His arm—gone.

Blood gushed from the stump. Azriel bit down a cry, forcing himself to freeze the wound with what little remained of his ice affinity.

Wheezing, he stood.

“…!”

And saw it.

Lit by firelight… the Skinwalker.

It stood upright. Silent. Faceless.

And unlike Azriel—it was missing both arms.

The two faced each other again.

But only one of them looked tired.

’Dammit…!’

Damn everything!

The Skinwalker stood before Azriel, motionless. The silver flames licked its grotesque form, illuminating it with an holy light that made the already nightmarish creature seem like something carved from divine punishment itself.

Azriel could barely move. His vision blurred, blood clung to his teeth, and his limbs felt like lead dragged through fire.

He couldn’t fight anymore.

Not in this loop.

It was impossible.

Facing the Skinwalker had never been feasible—whether he was at his peak or utterly broken, like now. The creature was something else. Something beyond the understanding of mortals, and perhaps even gods.

And so, for one final time, Azriel braced himself.

…It was over.

This loop, at last, had reached its end.

The forest would likely reset again. The cycle would continue. A different hunt would begin, one where the angel-ranked avatars now entangled in the game would take center stage.

But…

The death Azriel had resigned himself to never came.

Instead, in that stillness—the kind that only arrives when even fate holds its breath—the Skinwalker did nothing.

It merely stood there, watching him.

Unmoving.

Unblinking.

Unfeeling.

Like a monument of dread, its head tilted ever so slightly, as if studying Azriel. It made no move to strike. No move to finish what the divine flames had failed to consume.

Azriel’s one eye, swollen and bloodshot, blinked once in confusion.

Then—

Footsteps.

Faint echoes drifted from deep within the cave, each one soft but impossibly clear in that thick silence. Azriel, with what strength remained in his trembling neck, turned his head slowly toward the source.

Out of the shadowed heart of the cave, a familiar silhouette emerged.

Shrouded in black robes that clung like smoke to her frame, she moved with the grace of still water. In one hand, she held a weathered wooden cane—its tip tapping gently against the stone floor she stood on.

Azriel’s lips parted.

His breath caught, then shuddered out.

His one crimson eye, dulled by blood loss and haze, widened just enough to tremble with recognition.

The flames still danced.

The Skinwalker still watched.

But the figure stood untouched by either.

“…Lady Mio…?”

His voice was soft. Tired. Barely more than a breath carried on wind.

And then—

The exhaustion, the pain, the weight of endless death—all of it became too much.

Azriel fell.

The world blurred, silver and shadow mixing into formless white.

Darkness claimed him before he hit the ground.