Path of the Extra

Perhaps after finally seeing himself in such a deranged state, the laughter ceased.

But Azriel’s throat felt as though it were on fire, as if flames were licking along the walls of his trachea.

While the two before him remained kneeling on the ground in fear, Azriel slowly lifted both hands and stared at them. They were covered in so much blood it looked as though they had been painted red. Small fragments of what looked like guts, bone, and skin still clung to his fingers.

His emotions were difficult even for him to describe.

His face looked more as though he were still processing everything, tinged with fear and confusion, but the two trembling humans before him seemed to mistake that expression for calmness. Perhaps it was calmness.

Azriel brought his hands together with a sharp clap, making both of them flinch. Then he began clapping again and again, trying to shake off the disgusting remains stuck to his skin.

That, too, was misinterpreted by the last two survivors.

At last, Azriel shifted from the throne of ice and rose to his feet. Looking down, he carefully stepped over the dead duchess who was also a ruined knight beneath him, then began walking slowly toward them.

His footsteps echoed throughout the death-filled colosseum.

The sound alone made the two of them tremble even harder.

When Azriel finally stopped in front of them and looked down without even a trace of mercy, his gaze caught on the torn pocket of Prince Dorian’s clothing. Something cylindrical was sticking out from it.

A device.

Azriel recognized it immediately.

More specifically, it looked like a communication device.

’We have a mole.’

The answer came to him at once.

’Caleus. He was only surprised when I told him Jasmine had been kidnapped, but he did not care at all about Celestina. He colluded with the enemy to kill her. That must also be how Dorian expected me to end up here… and why he believed I could pass through that old gate…’

Azriel barely lingered on the thought. His mind felt half-asleep, as though it were moving through fog.

He pursed his lips, gritted his teeth, then slowly crouched down to meet their eyes.

“What did you see?” he asked.

“Hey.”

Suddenly, Azriel reached toward them with his bloodied right hand, and both of them flinched at once. Hearing the prince let out a whimper, Azriel clicked his tongue.

“Pathetic.”

He spat the word, then shot his hand forward and seized the prince by the chin.

Forcing Dorian’s face upward, Azriel spoke in a low, dangerous voice.

“Look at me.”

But the prince refused.

Azriel tapped his cheek lightly.

Each touch made Dorian flinch harder than the last. Tears streamed down the prince’s face, his eye squeezed shut, while the knight—Sir Évrard—bit down on his lip beneath his helmet and cast a hopeless, helpless look toward his master.

“Hey. Hey, hey.” Azriel’s voice remained unnervingly soft. “I asked you to look at me, Dorian. Look at me. Look into my eyes.”

At last, the prince obeyed.

He opened his eye and looked at Azriel as though he were staring at the devil himself.

“Where is the dinner table?” Azriel asked, trying to make his voice sound as gentle as possible.

It changed nothing.

“D-dinner… table?”

Confusion appeared in Dorian’s eyes now, tangled together with terror. He clearly did not understand what Azriel meant.

Azriel noticed.

His lips pressed together.

Then he asked again.

“What did you see?”

“I… I am sorry…”

The prince apologized instead, as if he were too frightened to answer the question.

Annoyed, Azriel turned his gaze toward the knight, intending to ask him instead.

But in the very next instant, before Azriel even realized what was happening, Sir Évrard lunged at him.

With his one remaining hand, the knight drove a punch straight into the side of Azriel’s face.

The blow connected.

Azriel was hurled away at terrifying speed, sent flying back toward the magnificent throne of ice. And in the brief moment before he crashed into it, he caught a glimpse of it in full.

It was beautiful.

Majestic.

So beautiful, in fact, that he could not have described it even if he tried. Never, not even in his dreams, could he have imagined sculpting something like that.

Then he smashed through it.

The ice shattered around him as Azriel bounced and rolled across the ground, over blood, guts, and broken bodies.

“My prince! Run! Quickly! I will hold him off with my life!”

Azriel heard the knight’s voice as he finally came to a stop.

His vision flickered black several times, and he could not find the balance to stand.

“Hehehe…”

A small, involuntary chuckle escaped his lips.

The instant it did, Azriel’s eyes widened, and he clamped his mouth shut.

A shudder ran through him.

’What… is happening to me..?’

Forcing himself upright, Azriel pushed himself to his feet, only to accidentally crush some organ beneath his boot. He winced and stepped back.

’I don’t feel right… I feel so detached from reality… as if all of this is a dream…’

Perhaps that was why he had not yet vomited. Or perhaps it was because that constant rush of pleasure still coursing through his body like electricity kept suppressing everything else, even here, in a colosseum overflowing with slaughter.

Azriel lifted his eyes.

Ahead of him stood only the battered knight, swaying where he remained, gripping a half-broken sword chipped beyond repair. Yet despite the state of his body, his eyes looked as determined as ever as he faced Azriel.

“You…” he said in a hoarse voice from behind his helmet, tightening his grip on the sword with his remaining arm.

“You incarnation of evil… you stand as the living embodiment of malevolence itself.”

“…”

“You… you are simply—”

“I think the term you’re looking for is monster.”

Azriel cut him off and began walking toward him, his gaze like that of a predator locked onto defenseless prey.

The sword in the knight’s hand faltered. He tried to tighten his grip, tried to hide how terrified he was.

As Azriel drew closer and closer, the knight tensed the muscles in his last remaining arm, preparing to launch one final attack.

“I’m a monster, right?” Azriel asked. “That’s what your prince called me just now… why? Why did he call me a monster?”

Despite the threat before him, Azriel kept walking calmly toward the knight.

For a moment, the knight felt as though he were looking at nothing at all.

Then the memories came flooding back—visions of what had happened only minutes ago. His fingers loosened by accident, and the sword slipped from his hand, striking the ground with a sharp clang.

The knight took an involuntary step back as Azriel approached.

Then another.

Then another.

Then another.

“A-ah… aaaah… no… ah, no…”

It was hardly more than a broken attempt at pleading.

He blinked.

Azriel was already standing right in front of him.

His upper robes had loosened and finally slipped down, and when Azriel looked down at himself, he noticed the long cracks running across his chest, as though his body were some sort of broken stone.

’What have I done..?’

Azriel lifted his eyes to the knight, confusion plain on his face.

“What have I done?”

More blood dripped down Azriel’s face. He felt lightheaded, probably from the wound the knight had inflicted on him.

“Please…” the knight whispered suddenly.

Azriel frowned and leaned his head closer.

“What?”

The knight’s voice cracked as he repeated himself, trembling.

“Please… don’t kill me…”

Taken aback by the plea, Azriel stared at him. Then he reached out a hand.

The knight saw it and immediately recoiled, stumbling before collapsing onto the ground.

’Why is he so afraid of my hands?’

Thinking that, Azriel looked down at the knight, who was quietly sobbing at his feet, and asked,

“Why don’t you pray to your gods for mercy?”

“I…”

“Who am I?” Azriel asked suddenly.

“I… I don’t know…”

“You don’t?” Azriel asked.

The knight gave a faint shake of his head, then finally squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear looking at Azriel any longer.

“Me too,” Azriel said.

He looked around once more, troubled and confused, as though searching for something.

Then he asked the knight,

“Have you seen a woman here?”

The knight did not answer.

The sensation of her touch… that embrace… those lips against his ear…

Azriel closed his eyes, trying to recall the feeling.

But it was not enough.

He wanted to feel her again.

“…How strange…”

At last, Azriel looked back at the knight.

A familiar Desert Eagle appeared in his bloodied hand. He raised it and pointed it at the knight’s head.

Then, in a perplexed tone, he said,

“I seem to be a king… or at least, I once was.”

The knight opened his eyes again at those words, and when he saw the strange gun pointed at him, he did not question what was about to happen.

Instead, he seemed to accept it.

“I don’t know why, but I can simply tell this…” Azriel murmured. “I was once, long ago, also your prince.”

The knight did not bother trying to understand what Azriel was saying.

He only looked resigned.

“Oh well… I suppose I’ll have to kill myself again.”

Then Azriel pulled the trigger.

A white bullet shot from the barrel of the Desert Eagle and tore through Sir Évrard’s helmet, shattering it into countless pieces and revealing his tanned, blood-covered skin and his already closed eyes. The bullet pierced his forehead, burst out through the back of his head, and slammed into the stone floor of the colosseum.

A spray of blood struck Azriel’s face.

The knight remained sitting there for a few seconds more before finally going limp and collapsing to the ground. The familiar surge of exhilaration barely registered as it entered his body, already drowned out by the overwhelming intensity of what he was feeling.

Once again, Azriel looked around him.

Searching for…

Her.

“Wake up…” he murmured.

“Wake up…”

He shook his head, then let out a quiet laugh.

After that, he stepped over Sir Évrard’s body and walked in the direction the prince had fled.

*****

Running through the labyrinth of the colosseum, Dorian limped through hallways lit by silver torches that flickered on and off ominously. At least they were lit now…

Unlike back in the arena.

Where…

Where—

“Arghhhhh!”

A scream tore from Dorian’s throat as the memory of what had happened came crashing back with brutal clarity.

“I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong… Why did I try to contact him!? Why did I do this!?”

Crying, Dorian staggered forward, then slammed into the wall of the corridor as he tried to steady himself.

“I need to escape… I need to escape… and… and I… what do I do…? We can’t win… we can’t win… no one can win… he… it… it is… it is not something I ever should have sought out…!”

Trembling so violently his teeth rattled, Dorian slumped to the ground and wrapped his arms around his knees, burying his face against them, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could somehow force himself to forget.

“Doriaaaaan!? You cannot hide from me, Doriaaaaan!”

“..!”

Dorian’s head shot up the moment he heard that voice.

“No… no…”

Forcing himself back to his feet as pain flared through his empty eye socket, Dorian sobbed in agony and despair as he dragged himself onward.

“Dorian! You’re leaving a trail of blood for me to follow! You’re injured, aren’t you!? No point in running, Dorian. Just… let us have a talk, all right? I need to ask you some questions. Like… have you seen a woman back in the arena?”

That loud, morbid voice drilled into Dorian’s skull, turning what little blood remained in his body to ice.

He sped up.

Limping, stumbling, dragging himself forward, Dorian desperately tried to widen the distance between them.

Then he heard that laugh again from somewhere far behind him.

The silver fire flickered.

Dorian tripped over his own feet and crashed to the ground.

His nails dug painfully into the floor as he forced himself back up.

“No… I need to… run…! Run…! Run…!”

If he didn’t, then he would catch him.

He would catch him.

He would catch him just like he had caught all those other thirty masters back in the arena.

He would catch him the same way he had caught them—

With his hands.

“I can’t… I can’t let him grab me… his hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands…”

The word spiraled inside his mind until it stopped sounding like a word at all.

“Hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands… hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands. hands.hands.hands.handshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshandshands”

Suddenly, Dorian stopped.

He looked down at his own two trembling hands and let out a broken moan of desperation.

He felt his blood dripping into his palms.

His vision had grown hazy, blurred.

His mind felt as though it were being torn apart.

He felt—

Pain.

The blood staining his hands darkened.

Then darkened further.

Soon the red blood already smeared across his skin began to mix with something black that dripped from him instead.

Dark veins started to spread slowly across his flesh.

“I… I need to get rid… of the hands…” he muttered in a crazed, hysterical voice, sounding utterly inebriated by terror.

Then the sound of Dorian tearing his own hands from his body with his teeth echoed through the labyrinth of that vast colosseum.

And even that, of course…

It heard.