The Extra Can't be A Hero

The moon had barely risen over the jagged dunes of the Crimson Expanse, casting clandestine, silvery light across the cracked desert floor. Wind whipped coarse sand through the air, obscuring distant shapes with a grainy haze. Moonlight reflected off the remarkable dune rocks as a silent movement stirred beneath the heavy desert.

Arrayed before it, atop the nearest dune, stood the members of the Eldorin Order. The sand shifted beneath their boots as they descended silently, led by the calm and collected Knight of the Morning Sun, Horus Solaris. Even without a full investigation, Horus could sense the dastardly magic that slept beneath the sands. It was an unrecognisable stench and something that he'd sworn to eliminate.

Six silhouettes stood idly by, waiting for his orders to begin the assault.

And it didn't take long for him to give the signal.

Leaping high into the night sky, Horus soared like an arrow loosed from the bowstring of the gods. The wind howled past his ears, cold and sharp, but he paid it no mind. At the apex of his ascent, he drew in a long, deliberate breath that pulled the mana of the heavens and the earth into his lungs like liquid light.

His eyes glowed with power, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. With a sweep of his arm, the air beneath him ignited. A throne of flame burst beneath his feet—no mere blaze, but a seat of divine judgment, wrought from golden fire so intense it shimmered with threads of white and crimson.

The air cracked with heat. The throne hovered, pulsing with authority, casting down a blinding brilliance that split the heavens. In a single moment, the cold silver light of the full moon was eclipsed, replaced by a burning sun born of raw will and ancient fury.

Golden flames erupted from Horus's body like wings unfurled. Each of the Six Suns—fiery orbs of incandescent power that orbited him like celestial guardians—began to spin and realign, their movements echoing ancient constellations of war and dominion.

The sky trembled as their radiance intensified, illuminating the world below in golden daylight. Then, his voice rang out—calm, resonant, final—like a divine verdict passed down from the heavens. And he spoke the fateful words:

"Dawn."

The dunes shuddered under the pressure of divine heat before igniting all at once. In a flash, what had long concealed the horrors beneath was reduced to ash and molten glass, exposing the hidden cavern like a gaping wound torn open in the earth.

Simultaneously, a searing wave of golden fire erupted from Horus's throne, crashing against the ancient, rune-sealed doors. The seals cracked, then shattered, and the stone blasted inward with a thunderous roar.

From within, the night erupted in chaos. Shrieks and howls—inhuman, guttural—spilt out into the open air as demons and cultists were caught off guard by the sudden blaze. The flames surged inward like a living tide, unrelenting and absolute. Cloaked figures writhed as fire devoured them, and creatures of shadow were reduced to cinders mid-scream.

Horus gave no quarter; he poured more mana into the blaze, and the golden fire answered, intensifying, spreading like divine judgment unleashed. Left unchecked, the inferno would have cleansed the entire nest, reaching the cavern's heart and scouring all within from existence.

But then, something stirred.

A pressure, foul and ancient, warped the air.

A tide of black magic surged outward from the darkness—thick, viscous, and reeking of old rot and madness. It slithered and rose, coiling in midair. Tendrils, slick with grime, lashed out from the cavern's depths, writhing like the limbs of a slumbering god disturbed.

They struck the flames with a wet hiss, extinguishing them in oily bursts of smoke. The blaze fought back briefly—but the black magic smothered it, swallowing fire like a dying star consumes light.

Horus hovered in silence, his brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing as he peered through the smoke and shadow. Deep within the lair, the shape of the monstrosity revealed itself—half-seen through the curling dark, all eyes, mouths, and twitching limbs, anchored to the rock like a tumour that had grown too large to hide.

Then the nest came alive.

Demons, malformed and shrieking, poured from the tunnels. Cultists surged behind them, cloaked in skin and blood, chanting in tongues that curdled the air. Horus did not flinch. He raised his arm, pointing his tipless blade—gleaming with heat, glowing with ancient light—directly at the blackened maw of the cave.

With a voice like iron, he gave the order:

"Kill."

"Ha!!!"

The six silhouettes sprang into life and charged at the monsters that emerged. The first defiled beings appeared in a relentless wave. Grotesque forms emerged from the gloom—hollowfiends, once human, now warped by demonic influence. Limbs bent backwards, skin riddled with mouths that whispered prayers in reverse.

The first to act was none other than the Saintess herself.

Ellahan fell to her knees and issued a prayer:

"Goddess Hyades, please hear your faithful servant's plea. Grant salvation to those who sinned against you, and bless the world with your holy light!"

In an instant, the highest echelon of divine power descended from the heavens like a breath of the Goddess made manifest. Light, soft and radiant as moonlight yet brimming with unfathomable authority, enveloped Ellahan as she knelt in solemn prayer.

Her voice, calm and unwavering, carried on the wind like a hymn older than the world. The air shimmered, and then the miracle unfurled. From the barren desert floor, a colossal tree of radiant white and emerald green erupted skyward—its trunk inscribed with glowing runes of life, its branches arcing like arms outstretched in benediction.

It was not merely a tree, but a manifestation of divine harmony—nature and sacred magic entwined into one living conduit of the Goddess's will. The desert, once desolate and unyielding, blossomed before her feet. Sand gave way to fertile soil, and wildflowers, tall grasses, and vines thick with dew, as though life had been waiting beneath the surface all along.

The blessing spread like dawn. A golden wind surged outward from Ellahan, washing over the battlefield. Where it touched, the cursed earth was sanctified.

Hollowfiends—once grotesque mockeries of life—screamed as demonic corruption was torn from their bodies in threads of black mist, their twisted forms beginning to unravel under the weight of holy grace.

Horus felt it immediately—a rush of warmth and clarity surging through his limbs. His mana recovered, his breath became easier, and his flames burned brighter.

All around him, the warriors of Eldorin straightened as if reborn, their bodies were lighter and their power doubled, swept away by sacred renewal.

But for the cultists and demons, the divine presence was agony. They shrieked as the light touched them, their bodies blistering, their spells unravelling, their twisted mantras dissolving into ash on their tongues.

The wrath of the Goddess was not merely fire—it was justice incarnate.

Hovering above, Horus released a low whistle, watching the miracle unfold with reverence and awe. His gaze lingered on Ellahan's serene, radiant figure—cloaked in divine light, a living conduit of grace and fury—momentarily, and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps even he should offer a prayer.

But that was just the beginning of Eldorin's assault.

Johann rose into the sky like a comet ascending to its rightful constellation, his cloak billowing behind him as the winds bent to his will. Around him, the air shimmered, and then—one by one—spell circles flared into existence, each inscribed with the ancient sigils of a primordial element.

Fire, water, earth, wind, lightning, arcane, light, and shadow—eight in total—orbited him perfectly, their hues painting the golden dusk in a radiant, shifting tapestry of colour.

The sky seemed to pulse with anticipation, awash in the glow of rainbow-hued magic. For a heartbeat, there was silence—an awe-struck lull as the world held its breath. Then Johann moved. The spell circles surged outward with a single gesture, collapsing and expanding in a furious cascade.

The heavens cracked as a storm of arcane force descended. Gales screamed across the battlefield, firestorms roared from the clouds, spears of lightning stabbed into the earth, and the ground split in quaking fury.

Waves of frost froze charging demons mid-motion, only for them to shatter beneath falling boulders of enchanted stone. Light blinded, shadow consumed. It was not a battle—it was an unmaking. The cultists and their demonic kin reeled in terror.

Their screams were swallowed by the cacophony of destruction as their stronghold crumbled beneath them. Towers collapsed, tunnels imploded, and ritual chambers were buried beneath elemental fury. There was no shelter, no haven.

And Johann, floating amidst the chaos like a conductor before a dying orchestra, showed no signs of stopping.

From the crumbling shadows of the ruined base, two elite cultists burst forth like wraiths unleashed, their movements sharp and purposeful. Clad in dark robes inscribed with blood-bound sigils and wielding jagged blades that pulsed with cursed energy, they made a direct line for Ellahan and Johann.

Seasoned warriors of darkness, they moved with a singular intent—to strike down the lifeline and the arcane storm before either could turn the tide further.

It was a textbook tactic: eliminate the healer, silence the spellcaster.

Johann reacted instantly, weaving spells with flickering hands as elemental blasts surged toward the attackers—arcane bolts, shards of ice, a lash of lightning—but though each strike hit true, the cultists pressed on, slowed but undeterred.

Ellahan, standing resolute with her staff raised high, summoned waves of radiant light to sear their corrupted forms. The holy magic scorched flesh and unravelled enchantments, but it wasn't enough to stop their advance.

Step by step, the cultists closed the distance, their auras flaring with dark resilience, feeding off the remnants of the desecrated land around them. The ground between them shrank with terrifying speed, and it became clear—if no one intervened, they would reach Ellahan and Johann in seconds.

Therefore…

BOOM!

Before the cultists could close the final gap and strike, two colossal figures stepped into their path—one forged of flesh and sheer will, the other of gleaming steel and genius-born precision.

Rufus, the warrior whose body had been tempered through years of blood, sweat, and relentless discipline, stood tall like a bastion of iron resolve. Muscles coiled beneath scarred skin, his presence radiating the weight of battles survived and victories earned. With feet planted like stone pillars and arms raised to intercept any blow, he placed himself squarely in front of Ellahan.

He would not move.

Not for gods. Not for demons.

She was the beloved of his closest friend, and nothing—nothing—would touch her while he still drew breath.

To the other side, a metallic hum split the air as Lutz thundered forward, encased in his masterwork—an advanced mech-suit of his invention.

A marvel of arcane engineering, it gleamed like a knight's armour and pulsed with hidden enchantments, servos hissing with every precise movement. He intercepted the second cultist mid-charge, his metal fist crashing into the enemy with bone-breaking force, sending shockwaves through the earth.

The cultist reeled, dazed, as Lutz chuckled—a rich, booming sound that echoed across the battlefield.

"Perfect timing," he said, voice modulated through the suit's vocoder. "I've meant to test Fatty the Third against a punching bag! You would do just fine!"

The mountain of muscle and armoured genius stood firm side by side, turning the cultists' deadly charge into a futile clash against an immovable wall. But, as sturdy as their defences were, they lacked the power to break the deadlock. And that's when the heavy hitters came in…

Oswin jumped into the fray guns blazing… literally.

Two gleaming magnum pistols danced effortlessly between his fingers, spinning with the grace and swagger of a seasoned gunslinger.

With a cocky grin and a glint in his eye, he vaulted clean over Fatty the Third—who Lutz was still operating—landing in a forward roll before springing into a firing stance.

The cultist lunged at him, fists crackling with dark energy, but he met the charge with a storm of gunfire. Bullets flew, metal clashed with muscle and magic in a blur of chaos. The cultist held his ground for five seconds, dodging, deflecting, and roaring defiance.

Then came the final shot. A clean, precise crack echoed through the battlefield.

The cultist staggered, eyes wide, a neat hole blooming at his neck as life fled his body. He crumpled to the ground in a heap, while the gunslinger gave his pistols one last flourish before holstering them with style.

"You didn't even bring a knife to a gunfight," he muttered, striding off without breaking pace.

"Oy! You stole my kill!"

"Ahhh, my bad. You took so long to act, I thought you froze in fear."

Oswin scratched the back of his head in a show of embarrassment, which only annoyed Lutz even more.

"Just you wait! I'll steal as many of your kills with my improved Fatty the Third ballistics!"

"Heh, I would like to see you try."

While Oswin and Lutz were busy hurling insults at each other in a full-blown shouting match, their voices echoing across the battlefield, the cultist who had lunged at Ellahan suddenly collapsed mid-charge. His body convulsed as arcs of lightning danced violently across his frame, the sharp scent of ozone lingering in the air.

A deep, precise gash split his chest—a brutal, decisive stroke that left no doubt about the skill behind it. Standing just behind him, Lydia exhaled slowly, lowering her Mageweaver—its blade still shimmering faintly with residual Aura Lightning.

Not a speck of blood touched her robes. She looked over at the bickering pair with a mix of irritation and resignation, and called out in a dry, unimpressed tone:

"If you two are quite done squabbling like children, maybe try moving a little faster? We wouldn't want them to call reinforcements."

As he watched the members of Eldorin easily dispatch the cultists, Horus couldn't help but smile.

"They're monsters… all of them."