Path of the Extra

Inside a certain inn, countless men sat behind tables and counters, drinking, laughing, and enjoying themselves in a drunken haze.

At one particular table of three, there sat a muscular man with a short black beard, a bald, heavyset man with a thick moustache, and a tall, skinny man. Each of their faces was flushed red with drink.

“Bahahaha! So you’re telling me that bastard went to fight in the war out west—and died!? Ha! Talk about getting in over your head. Bastard really was a fool!”

The muscular man roared with laughter, the others joining him without restraint.

“Yeah, it was stupid from the start! The idiot wanted to chase glory as a mundane, going up against Gifted. Well, so much for the glory! Bahahaha! I even heard the army took his corpse before the revolutionaries could, y’know… before it was no longer useful.”

They laughed again at the fate of their dear friend—who had died.

Then, scratching his head, the skinny man suddenly spoke.

“Still… when will the war end? A lot of land’s been getting destroyed because of it, and prices are going up. At this rate, I’ll have to start begging for food—or join that idiot in the afterlife!”

The muscular man shook his head.

“There’s nothing we can do but wait. It’s like the damned world is ending, all because of those Gifted who think they’re gods. I just hope the actual gods keep that filth away from the south. I’d rather stay alive than fight a worthless war.”

“Hey, hey, not all Gifted are bad, you know!? I mean, we’re lucky our town is protected by one. If it weren’t for her, that void rift would’ve wiped us out!”

Hearing the fat man’s explanation, the skinny guy suddenly looked like he’d had a revelation.

“Ah! So that’s why there’s that boy at the counter! He must be the Gifted who saved us! Damn, I thought I was so drunk I was seeing that feather float for no reason except my sanity being gone!”

As the skinny man laughed loudly, the other two gave him a look of pure disbelief.

“…Boy? Feather? No. The Gifted is a beautiful lady.”

His laughter stopped immediately. He burped.

“What?”

Slowly, they all turned toward the counter.

There, they saw someone with short black hair, his body draped in a black robe. He was leaning on the counter, his pale cheek resting against his palm.

In front of his face, a feather floated in the air, twirling slowly.

It was a single, flawless feather, no longer than a hand. Its barbs were a brilliant white, almost luminous. The surface shimmered faintly with a pearlescent sheen, catching the light in soft, fluid ripples.

A delicate silver vein ran down its center. The quill itself was translucent, tinted with the faintest hue of opal.

When he reached out to touch it with a finger, the feather dodged to the right on its own.

At once, the three rubbed their eyes, feeling themselves sober up—or perhaps the liquor had truly gotten to them.

“…That feather…it’s floating, right? You guys see it too, don’t you?”

“…Yeah… Yeah, I see it.”

Hearing their conversation, patrons at another table glanced over, their eyes widening as they saw it as well. Soon, whispers passed from table to table, spreading like wildfire until an uneasy silence consumed the inn.

Everyone’s gaze shifted to the waiters, who nervously continued serving drinks, occasionally casting wary glances toward the robed boy.

Eventually, the innkeeper himself appeared, his smile forced as he rubbed his hands together, approaching the mysterious guest cautiously. The tension eased slightly—everyone present knew that the innkeeper was once a baron, a Grade 1 Awakened at that. Though his talent wasn’t suited for battle, he could certainly handle any ordinary troublemaker. Of course, that didn’t include her, the powerful protector currently residing in their small southern town. Regardless, the innkeeper was confident he could manage this situation, provided his own location wasn’t revealed to any meddlesome nobles.

“It’s a fine day, isn’t it, dear customer?” the innkeeper suddenly exclaimed.

The boy turned his head slowly, revealing a pair of captivating, deep crimson eyes. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

“Doesn’t he look a bit young?”

“I can’t see his face from this angle…”

“Seems pretty harmless to me.”

“Still, he must be a noble or some revolutionary here for a reason.”

“Well, he looks young—probably weak enough for Mister Olive to handle if he does stir up trouble.”

“True, but…he? Looks more like a she to me.”

“…Yeah, I see what you mean.”

The boy’s lips curled into a soft smile as the feather began playfully circling his head, seemingly unnoticed by him.

“It certainly is lively today,” the boy remarked warmly.

Encouraged by the boy’s friendly demeanor, the innkeeper ignored the feather, his smile broadening genuinely.

“Indeed, indeed! Is this your first visit to our humble town? It’s always lively here! Do you perhaps you still need accommodations? I assure you, one of our finest rooms is available. Or, are you hungry? Our food and drinks are to die for!”

The boy gently shook his head.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any coins on me. I’m simply waiting here for an acquaintance who should be arriving soon.”

A noble without coins?

“Ah, I see… But please, at least order something. It’s on the house!”

The boy’s crimson eyes sparkled brilliantly.

“You truly are kind. If it’s no trouble, I am rather famished.”

“Certainly! I highly recommend trying the—”

As the two conversed warmly, the crowd watched with growing confusion.

“Isn’t Mister Olive being a bit too respectful to a mere kid, gifted or not?”

“Yeah… And why is he sweating so much?”

“Is he scared?”

“Nah, it’s Mister Olive we’re talking about. He once gave his own half-dead mother the middle finger before storming out of his house.”

“Then why the hell is he trembling?”

“Bah! It’s just the damn alcohol messing with all of us! Relax and drink up!”

Meanwhile, their conversation continued pleasantly.

“So, dear customer, what part of Ismyr are you from?” the innkeeper asked, his eyes gleaming greedily for information. Any hint from this young, clearly noble would certainly be lucrative.

But the boy’s response shattered his expectations entirely.

“Actually, I’m not from Ismyr.”

A heavy silence blanketed the inn.

Someone whispered nervously, “Wasn’t there talk of…a prince or princess from a distant land, red-eyed, seeking revenge…?”

“…Yeah, there was.”

“And he’s got…red eyes.”

“I’ve never seen anyone with red eyes before.”

“Me neither.”

“The nickname given to that person…wasn’t it ’The Red-Eyed Ghost’?”

A chilling realization swept through the patrons. Their gazes shifted anxiously between the composed boy and the visibly shaken innkeeper.

Suddenly, a drunken man stood and shouted recklessly, “Hey, kid! Are you actually that Red-Eyed Ghost!?”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND!?”

“WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU ASK HIM THAT, YOU DRUNKEN BUFFOON!?”

“HAH!? THE HELL IS A BUFFOON!?”

“YOU!”

The tension was abruptly cut by a gentle laugh from the red-eyed boy—a soft, innocent sound that somehow deepened the patrons’ unease, recalling the dreadful fate of Keft village. Hearts raced with paranoia.

“Rest easy,” the boy reassured calmly. “I am not the Red-Eyed Ghost you fear.”

“T-then, are you part of the Inverse Creed?!” the same drunken man shouted again.

The innkeeper’s glare sharpened into a deadly warning, clearly communicating one thing:

Shut up.

A wooden cup sailed across the room, hitting the drunkard squarely in the head and knocking him unconscious. Cheers erupted instantly.

The boy’s quiet voice swiftly silenced them again.

“No, I’m not part of this…Inverse Creed either.”

Another patron hesitantly asked, “T-then…who exactly are you…?”

Before another cup could fly, the door swung open. A figure known and revered by all stepped in, exuding a presence no one could ignore, answering confidently on behalf of the boy:

“Allow me to introduce him. He is the strongest student in my class.”

Instantly recognizing the newcomer, the entire inn erupted with relieved joy:

“”Master Ranni!””

*****

Seeing the familiar blue-haired instructor, Azriel’s smile grew a touch more genuine.

As she approached, Azriel noticed her neutral expression, starkly contrasting with the looks of pure adoration on everyone else’s faces—including the innkeeper beside him. Observing their infatuated gazes, Azriel’s smile turned slightly wry.

“Perhaps we should continue this reunion somewhere more private,” he suggested softly.

Ranni simply nodded, her expression unchanged. Azriel rose from his seat, but before leaving, he turned to the innkeeper, startling the man from his trance.

“I’d like my meal delivered to her room, please.”

“H-huh…? Ah, yes, of course! W-wait—her room!?”

His words instantly sparked outrage. Strangely, their previous fear vanished, replaced by sudden indignation as the patrons began shouting protests. Ignoring the commotion entirely, Azriel calmly walked alongside Ranni, ascending the stairs toward her room.

They soon stood before a closed door. Ranni opened it quietly and stepped inside, Azriel following close behind. The room was pitch dark, heavy curtains drawn tightly shut. Closing the door behind him, Azriel watched silently as Ranni walked further in. The overhead bulb flickered to life, casting a pale glow across the room.

Ranni paused, then turned around slowly with a deep sigh. Azriel smiled again, opening his mouth to speak—but before a single word escaped, Ranni materialized a breathtakingly beautiful white spear, adorned with intricate golden engravings, and without hesitation, hurled it straight at Azriel.

The spear flew with astonishing speed, barely giving him time to react—just barely. He instinctively tilted his head to the left as the spear missed by mere inches, piercing straight through the door behind him, splintering wood and stone alike until finally, silence returned.

“…Huh?”

Azriel, head still tilted, blinked slowly, confusion washing over his features. Around Ranni, six stunning swords crafted from pure water hovered menacingly, their tips pointed directly at him. Her eyes were frigid, colder than the depths of an abyssal ocean.

She uttered a single word, dripping with icy contempt:

“Die.”

Azriel’s lips twitched once.

’…Dammit.’