Path of the Extra

Azriel opened his eyes.

The strange part was—one eye saw the jagged ceiling of a cave. The other saw nothing. Only darkness.

’Ah… right.’

He was blind in one.

But then—his brow furrowed.

If he was blind… why did it feel like that eye was moving?

He lifted his right arm. Then his left.

Both moved.

Both arms were back.

Azriel blinked, stunned.

He reached for the cloth wrapped around his face, tore it off—and saw.

Through both eyes.

“…It’s healed,” he whispered.

No.

Everything was healed.

Before he could process the shock, a familiar—but strangely refined—panel flashed across his vision.

[Status Update!]

[Your Mana Core has evolved: Level 4]

“…Expert?” Azriel muttered, baffled.

“I became an Expert..?”

But the panel didn’t stop.

[Soul Echoes slot unlocked]

[You have acquired a new skill: Heartcraft]

[You have acquired a new skill: Distiller’s Touch]

[You have acquired a new skill: Ghostfinger]

[You have acquired a new skill: Core Synchronization]

[You have acquired a new skill: Crazy Flask]

Azriel’s mouth parted, speechless.

Still, the panels continued:

[Soul Weapon Acquired: Annoying Feather]

[Sword Arts: Dance of Death → 25% Mastery → 5/?]

→[Fourth Form acquired – Blooming Veins]

→[Fifth Form acquired – Wilted Grace]

…Only then did it end.

Azriel stared at the panels in silence, his expression unreadable.

Then slowly, he pursed his lips.

“…Grade 2 Expert,” he muttered.

“…I didn’t die from it…”

He had always known the risk. If he had still been just an Intermediate, his body would have been torn apart. His core would’ve shattered.

That was why—Back in the Void Dungeon—He hadn’t taken Zoran’s core.

The core of a Saint was too powerful.

It would have killed him.

No… Azriel had been scared—scared that his body might’ve been torn apart back when he was just an Intermediate.

But he realized something.

He wasn’t just normal.

He was an Apostle.

But now?

As an Advanced… an Apostle… he could absorb even that of a Sovereign.

And this time…

He hadn’t just absorbed one.

He had consumed everything—

Every void creature, every fragment of broken will, every being—human or not—that had merged with the Forest of Eternity at the moment he stabbed Mio.

Azriel’s lips trembled as he pressed his forearm over his eyes.

A long, quiet breath escaped his lungs.

He sat on the edge of a dark lake, whose surface no longer shimmered with light.

The ethereal tree was gone.

There was no reflection. No life.

Only silence.

And emptiness.

It was over.

…No.

Not yet.

Azriel exhaled again and rose slowly to his feet.

There was no joy in these rewards.

No pride.

No hunger.

Just… an echoing hollowness in his chest.

There was still one thing left.

The final, inevitable thing.

Azriel’s eyes sharpened.

“…It’s time,” he whispered, voice quiet and dry.

To face the wrath of the Great Divine Star Spirit Emperor.

*****

When Azriel stepped out of the cave, there was no Skinwalker waiting for him.

No ambush.

No battle.

No voidworms crawling toward him with hungry screeches.

Instead, what greeted him was a sea of silver flame—roaring across the ground in waves, consuming everything in its path…

And yet, not a single tree burned.

Strangely, the fire curved around the greenery, leaving it untouched—as if the forest itself were sacred.

As Azriel walked, the flames parted from his footsteps like frightened ghosts, dissolving into harmless mist beneath his soles.

But he didn’t glance at the trees.

He didn’t look at the voidworms being reduced to ash.

Not once did his gaze linger on the divine silver fire.

He didn’t bother searching for the dreadful Skinwalker either.

Because the only thing Azriel saw—was the man standing ahead of him.

His back turned.

White robes flowing gently in the wind.

Arms crossed behind his back.

Motionless. Waiting.

The light of the morning sun poured through the trees like strands of gold, illuminating the clearing—as if the forest itself had chosen him.

Azriel walked forward slowly, silently.

Not in awe.

Not in fear.

Just… empty.

He stopped a few feet away and stared at the figure with a blank, unreadable expression.

Pollux—in his humanoid form—did not turn to look at him.

He stood as though peering far off into the horizon. Or perhaps nowhere at all.

Then, his voice came.

Even.

Emotionless.

Heavy behind the wolf mask.

“Look at you.”

He sighed long and deep, almost tired.

“You really are pathetic.”

Azriel didn’t respond.

“You… who gave everything for someone else’s happiness. Again. What were you thinking? How could you be that stupid?”

Pollux turned now.

Those dark eyes, ringed in silver, locked onto him.

The flames danced violently behind the spirit emperor, though they made no sound—only echoing the emotion he refused to reveal.

“After everything you did… what do you have left?” he asked.

“Just pain. Again.”

“You gave your time. Your heart. Everything.”

“You swallowed your own voice. Your own dreams. Just so someone else could smile. Again.”

Azriel remained still. Unblinking.

“And what now, Son of Death?” Pollux whispered.

“She’s gone. Nowhere to be found. And you’re the only one still standing. Again. Barely even breathing.”

He took a step closer.

The flames curled back between them.

“So tell me… was it worth it?”

Pollux leaned forward. His words brushed against Azriel’s ear like a cold wind.

“In the end… all you were left with… was pain.”

It was the same voice as always, filled with pride—but there was something else too.

Melancholy.

Azriel saw it in his eyes.

He wasn’t sure Pollux even knew it was there.

“You’ll never change, will you?” he said.

“You’re just like a coin.”

“One side: Leo Karumi.

The other: Azriel Crimson.”

“And in the middle…”

Pollux’s voice lowered.

“There’s you.”

“Someone who says one thing, but does another. Who dreams of freedom, but never takes a step. Even with two sets of memories—Leo’s and Azriel’s—you make the same mistakes. You wear masks. So many, even you don’t remember who you are underneath.”

Drip… drip…

Blood began to stain the dirt beneath them.

Azriel’s hands were clenched so tightly, his fingernails had pierced his palms.

“Hiding every emotion behind a smile,” Pollux went on.

“Telling yourself it’s for the greater good.”

“That’s what you said about Celestina Frost, didn’t you?”

He grinned beneath the mask.

“Character development. That’s what you wanted for everyone, right? How noble. How heroic. Killing the Apostle of Ruin. Sacrificing Instructor Kevin. All for the greater good.”

“But the truth is—You could’ve chosen another way.”

“And yet you justify it. Like a coward who tells himself it was the only option.”

“You are acting. Inconsistent. Irrelevant. Desperately clinging to meaning in a world that doesn’t care what you believe.”

Pollux stepped closer. They were inches apart now.

Blood trickled from Azriel’s chin.

“All the things you know,” he said softly, “you read in a book. A book where the story is meant to be a tragedy.”

“But your existence fights that genre.”

Pollux laughed again.

“…Have you ever wondered what your fate is?”

Azriel hesitated, then finally parted his lips and answered with a quiet, dead tone.

“…No.”

Pollux tilted his head.

He was smiling. Azriel could feel it.

“You don’t have one.”

“…What?”

Pollux leaned in again.

“While everyone else is bound by billions of threads, tangled and tied to others… You have only one.”

“You were supposed to have none. But fate couldn’t allow that.”

“You’re not supposed to exist. You shouldn’t make sense.”

“But you do.”

“And fate can’t have that.”

“That’s why it marked you.”

Goosebumps prickled down Azriel’s spine.

Pollux lifted a hand slowly—white fingers glowing faintly—and grazed the side of Azriel’s neck.

“The Mark of Fate,” he whispered.

“That single thread on you can’t be connected to anyone.”

“…It’s not a thread.”

“It’s a collar.”

He stepped back and pointed.

His voice turned cold. Condemning.

“It’s almost as if you are…”

Azriel already knew the word.

He could feel it coming.

And Pollux said it.

“…A slave of fate.”

Azriel’s teeth clenched. His body began to burn from within.

It was that same feeling again.

The fire crackled in silence. The trees swayed with invisible breath.

Pollux watched him quietly.

Then, in a voice like the closing of a verdict, he said:

“You know, Son of Death… the thing with masks is…”

“…Eventually, they slip.”

“…And in the end, you will show the world who you really are.”

He turned away slightly, eyes narrow.

“And what they’ll see…”

He scoffed.

“…Is a coward.”