Path of the Extra

Seeing Vergil standing there, Azriel’s lips parted, then pressed together. He kept whatever he wanted to say to himself. It was the first time in months he’d seen the mischievous Apostle. Still, it lightened his heart to see Vergil in good condition.

“Cadet Vergil, did you expect our arrival?” Ranni asked. She blinked once—slowly—like she was already used to surprises.

Vergil nodded.

“Well… more or less.”

“And you still claim you’re no seer?”

Vergil shrugged, but before he could answer, Veronica cut in.

“Is anyone going to tell me who this homeless-looking, sleep-deprived kid is, or are we going to keep standing here? I’d like some food and a comfortable bed by now. Gods, what is this hospitality? Is this how you treat guests when the count isn’t present?”

“M-my lady—”

One of the guards tried to speak before another rested a gauntleted hand on his helm to quiet him.

Vergil’s lips twitched.

“You must be Princess Veronica Nebula.”

“And you clearly haven’t learned proper etiquette.”

“It takes one to know one,” Vergil countered.

Veronica gritted her teeth, but this time Ranni cut in.

“I may have said this before, but Cadet Nol and Cadet Vergil have both been incredibly helpful these past few months. I’d appreciate it if you could cut him a little slack, Your Highness. We’re all tired.”

“Well, he wasn’t the one trying to sleep on a straw mattress next to two people who snored for months, by the way.”

At once, Marco and Ella averted their gazes.

Meanwhile, Vergil glanced past them. His eyes found Azriel and he froze. Slowly, his eyes widened and trembled.

“Y-you…”

Azriel raised an eyebrow.

“What? First time seeing the scars of self-mutilation?”

Vergil blinked a few times, then composed himself.

“No… I just didn’t expect you to be here. Wait—what do you mean, self-mutilation?”

Azriel shrugged.

“Never mind.”

Ranni narrowed her eyes at that slip.

“Wait. You didn’t know he would be here, but you knew about us?”

Vergil met her stare without betraying a thought.

“I told you, I’m not a seer. I can’t know everything, can I?”

Suspicious, she gave a slow nod.

“…I suppose you can’t.”

Veronica rolled her head.

“Can we go now?”

“She and that Anastasia could be best friends…” Nol muttered.

“If they don’t try to pull each other’s hair out,” Azriel said quietly back.

Nol didn’t look at him or reply. Azriel’s smile strained; he sighed inwardly.

‘Still sulking, huh…’

He gave Nol a gentle look, then turned back to Vergil.

“Where are the others?”

“Asleep. Well, I doubt the ones who have any value here are, but they’re all in their rooms. It’s still early in the day.”

Azriel nodded.

“Well, maybe we should wak—”

“No.” Azriel cut Marco off and looked to Ranni.

“Let’s do what’s most important right now.”

“Eat and sleep?” Veronica asked from the side.

Azriel shook his head.

“No sleeping—well, not anymore for Yelena. She’s had enough rest.”

Their eyes widened at once. Ranni turned to him, startled.

“You mean…”

Azriel smiled.

“It’s time to wake the sleeping beauty.”

*****

After a brief exchange with Vergil, he led them out of the Entrance Hall, through the private quarters, and straight to Yelena’s room. They didn’t rouse anyone along the way. Only two guards peeled off at Ranni’s instruction, sent to fetch a pair of light-affinity users currently residing here.

When they entered the chamber, Azriel saw at once they were not alone. A massive bed dominated the room. On one side, a young man in a butler’s uniform knelt at the edge, his head pillowed on the mattress, asleep in an awkward, punishing posture. On the other side, a middle-aged married couple slept on a couch, leaning into each other as if sleep were the last thread holding them together.

The room felt like a world apart from the rest of the estate. Heavy velvet curtains—deep red with gold trim—hung ready to be drawn for warmth or privacy. Crisp linen sheets were layered with thick quilts, the kind that kept out stone-cold nights. Rugs softened the floor. A fire worked quietly in the grate, its mantle crowded with silver candlesticks and a small clock that ticked with a soft, relentless patience. Above it, a rack of antlers was mounted on a polished plaque. Dark-oak wardrobes stood along the walls, their brass handles winking in the firelight. Near the window, a writing desk lay cluttered with sealed letters, wax stamps, and half-burned candles thrust into iron holders.

Azriel’s gaze settled on the sleeping butler.

“I’ll wake him,” Marco muttered, stepping forward—until Azriel’s hand lifted across Marco’s path.

“You might not want to do that,” Vergil said lightly, a smile tugging at his mouth. Ranni only sighed, as if she already knew.

Marco frowned, confused. Azriel said nothing. Vergil’s smile widened.

“You know what—never mind. Go ahead.”

Marco shot them a suspicious look, but when Ranni didn’t interfere and Azriel lowered his hand, curiosity won. He walked toward the blond butler.

…Lumine.

It was Lumine.

As Marco reached out, something blurred. His mind barked a warning too late. His glasses slipped from his face; the next blink cleared to a rush of pain. He was on the floor, arms wrenched tight behind him, a knee dug into his lower back. Every small movement sent sharp waves through his ribs.

“W-what…” Marco’s voice was dazed.

Lumine—on top of him, breathing hard—looked equally stunned as awareness returned by inches.

“Huh?”

He scowled in reflex, then a plain, familiar whistle cut the air behind him.

“I understand reacting cautiously to voidworms like back in class… but it’s a bit excessive against our four-eyed senior, don’t you think?”

Lumine flinched at the sound he hadn’t heard in months. He turned.

“…!”

His eyes went wide and shook. His mouth fell open.

“A-Azriel…?”

Azriel stood with a small, gentle smile that didn’t reach the tired places in his face.

“It’s been a while, Lumine. I’m glad to see you in one piece.”

Lumine stared, color draining, words failing. Azriel’s gaze slid to Marco.

“Maybe let him up? He was only trying to wake you.”

Lumine looked down, finally registering Marco’s grimace. He paled and released him at once, scrambling back.

“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t think—I was—”

“It’s alright,” Marco said, exhaling as he pushed himself upright and rubbed at his arms.

“What kind of monsters are they breeding in first year these days…”

Lumine stared at him, then at the others—faces he recognized and ones he didn’t—before his attention snapped back to Azriel. Up close, the wounds were impossible to ignore.

“Y-you… how… how are you—”

“It’s a long story,” Azriel said simply.

Lumine swallowed, a hundred questions crowding his tongue. He crushed them into one.

“…You were in this scenario all this time?”

Azriel nodded and moved to the bed where Yelena slept, her breathing was gentle and even.

Lumine followed his gaze. He looked at Yelena, watched the rise and fall of her chest, and his face darkened as he bit his lip.

“She… she’s in a coma because—”

“I know.”

Azriel said it simply. Lumine and the others turned toward him, attention narrowing as Azriel’s wounded fingers traced the edge of the mattress. He rounded the bed and came face-to-face with the Count and Countess, now fully awake but still seated, staring up at him.

“Who are you?” the Count asked. His tone was cautious, low, and unkind. He glanced at Ranni.

“Who are these people, Master Ranni? Why did you bring them here—where my daughter is?”

Ranni met the Count’s stare, then the Countess’s. The Countess clutched her husband’s arm, struggling to keep her expression neutral while exhaustion and fear drowned her eyes.

“…We believe we might be able to cure your daughter, Count Horvix.”

“—!”

Lumine, and the Count and Countess, all stared, eyes wide.

Ranni looked to Azriel.

“He knows what to do.”

Their gazes snapped to Azriel. He had taken his place on the far side of the bed, looking down at Yelena with an unreadable calm. The Count’s eyes narrowed with suspicion; the Countess’s filled with a fragile, desperate hope.

“Are you a doctor, then?” the Count asked.

Azriel shook his head without turning. His voice was even.

“No. I’m a sixteen-year-old kid with no medical training—unless you count what you get from shows and books. Not medical books, either.”

The Count and Countess went dark at that.

Lumine had gone pale, hope and disbelief wrestling in his eyes.

“How… how do you know you can cure her?”

Azriel lifted a shoulder.

“Because the Plague himself, told me what I had to do.”

The room jolted. Before Lumine could speak—before his shock could crest—the Count lurched to his feet, seized Azriel by both shoulders, and shouted.

“You spoke with the Plague!? Where was he? Is he here? I swear I’ll kill that son of a whore if you haven’t already!”

Azriel’s face chilled. He looked at the Count, and his eyes turned hard.

“I let him go. He isn’t here, and I didn’t bother to fight him.”

“What!?” The Count’s grip tightened on Azriel’s shoulders.

Azriel’s gaze dropped to one of the hands clutching him.

“Hey.” His eyes narrowed; his voice went very, very cold.

“Let go of me.”

But the Count, imprisoned by his own fury, didn’t seem to hear.

“Why would you let him go!? Master Ranni, what is the meaning of this? My daughter’s life is at risk! How could you let him—by the Sun, if this is some sick jok—”

His words immediately died. So did his breath.

A fine, glinting thread had appeared against his throat, already biting skin. Blood beaded and slid.

The knife-pain of it froze him where he stood.

“My lord!?” the Countess cried, terror snapping her voice. The others looked—at Nol.

“This is the first and last time I’ll say this,” Nol said, right index finger raised; the filament ran from it like a drawn wire. His expression was dark, furious.

“Let go of my master.”

The Count did not dare to move. It felt as if a breath more and his head would be forfeit.

Around the room, shock widened every eye. Azriel alone schooled his face, hiding his own surprise.

Then, slowly, his expression softened—and he looked at Nol with warmth.

“I…” The Count tried to speak, then drew a steadying breath without daring to move his neck.

“I apologize. My emotions got the better of me.”

Slowly, he released his grip on Azriel’s shoulders, and Nol’s thread vanished. The Count stepped back. The Countess rushed to him and clutched his arm, stricken.

“My lord, are you alright!?”

“Yes. I’m fine—don’t worry. It’s just a scratch.”

Azriel ignored them and glanced at his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

‘It hurts.’

Even now.

‘My skin is so sensitive…’

The poison’s side effects were still in him—clinging like cold. Poison that could kill a Grandmaster; the only miracle was that he wasn’t dead. Recovery would naturally take time.

He exhaled, feeling every gaze on him.

“I let him go because I didn’t need him anymore to cure her. Instead, I put a tracker on the Plague. I know where he is. Where the main Revolutionary base is. And… where the Supreme Leader is.”

This time his words didn’t only shock the Count, the Countess, and Lumine. The whole room went pale—even little Lia.

Ranni faltered.

“B-but… that’s not what you tol—”

“I didn’t tell you then because I needed you focused on Master Corven, Instructor,” Azriel said.

“You were already splitting your attention a dozen ways. Fracturing it further wouldn’t have helped.”

Ranni stared at him in disbelief.

Veronica blew on her nails, unimpressed.

“And how, exactly, did you make a tracker work? Our phones don’t even work here. Do you know how infuriating it is not being able to use the internet?”

Azriel gave her a smile without warmth.

“You’ll know soon enough.”

He raked a hand lightly through his hair and looked back at Yelena.

‘Asleep inside a world we’re all sharing—one long, stitched dream…’

It was still dizzying. Even now, he didn’t fully understand how Pollux had created this World of Eternity. He was too exhausted to try.

“…Most born into a clan carries something forged from high-grade mana stones… If we can’t drink a health potion—if the mouth is injured, locked, or worse—we use a mana-stone needle to inject it directly into a wound with the health potion.”

It was essentially a mana weapon, or perhaps a mana tool.

Veronica snorted; Ranni nodded.

“Yes. I have something similar… but is that enough?”

Azriel kept his eyes on Yelena.

“The Plague told me she was given a special poison. It can be cured only by an extraordinary healer—or by an alchemist skilled enough to craft the exact antidote. What pleased him most was that, by putting Yelena in a coma, he drew information about all of you.”

He glanced at Lumine, then at Ranni.

“He didn’t care whether we had alchemists; he was certain we’d never find the right antidote. And he was relieved to learn we don’t have healers strong enough to purge the poison outright.”

Lumine frowned; Ranni had already understood.

“I don’t see what that has to do with how we can cure her…”

“I have multiple health potions,” Azriel said, turning to Lumine.

The Count and Countess stared, stunned. Lumine did too—but for a different reason. In his experience, potions from their world didn’t work at all in this one.

“How did you obtain them?” the Count demanded, shaken.

“Getting any health potion—creating one—is strictly forbidden. Even those produced by the royal family can’t be bought, not even with my fortune.”

Azriel didn’t answer him. He looked at Lumine.

“Simple,” he said, and a small, tired smile touched his mouth.

“We flood her with every health potion we have and use our best healers at the same time. We overwhelm the poison—crush it until there’s nothing left.”

They stared at him, mouths half open.

That’s it? So simple it should have sounded absurd. And yet—when he said it, it felt like hope.

The Count and Countess looked at Azriel with something that hurt to name. So did Lumine.

In a small, careful voice, the Countess asked,

“When can we begin treating her?”

Before Azriel could answer, the door swung open.

He smiled.

“Now.”