The Extra Can't be A Hero

The next day.

Amon and Yue sat together at the dining table, their breakfast laid out neatly before them, though neither seemed particularly focused on the food.

What truly filled the space between them was not just the scent of fresh bread and brewed tea, but the soft, magnetic pull of their deepening bond. Their chairs, once respectfully spaced, now barely had a breath of air between them. The couple sat so closely that their shoulders touched, as though gravity itself had conspired to draw them together since their heartfelt exchange the previous day.

Across the table, Arya and Bawi picked at their plates. Their appetites were waning—not for lack of good food, but perhaps because they had already consumed more than their fill of the syrupy affection Yue had been showering upon Amon.

Yue, her white hair aglow in the morning light, had one slender arm draped affectionately over Amon's broad shoulder. Her other hand toyed with a lock of her hair, expertly twisting strands into the shape of a heart as she stared at him with dreamy, half-lidded eyes. Meanwhile, her fingers occasionally trailed through Amon's thick, jet-black hair with idle intimacy, drawing quiet patterns as though each touch etched a secret onto his scalp.

Arya, watching from across the table, was simultaneously amused and dumbfounded. This wasn't unusual behaviour for Yue—she had long since accepted that her future sister-in-law was hopelessly smitten with her older brother.

But what was unusual, alarmingly so, was Amon's reaction—or rather, his lack of one.

Usually, he would have shrugged Yue off with a grunt or scolded her gently for being too familiar. But not today. Today, Amon simply sat there, calmly sipping his tea, his eyes lost in some far-off thought. He looked content, serene even, as though Yue's affection was no longer something to resist but something to rest in.

Yue, ever the opportunist, noticed his distraction and acted swiftly. With the mischievous precision of a cat preparing to pounce, she scooped a spoonful of cereal and, with a playful grin, held it up to Amon's lips. Arya leaned forward, watching the scene unfold with barely disguised curiosity. Surely he would swat it away.

But to Arya's astonishment, Amon opened his mouth and accepted the spoonful without hesitation. He chewed and swallowed absentmindedly, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Yue froze for a beat, her eyes wide with disbelief. Then, slowly, her face lit up with such pure, bubbling glee that it was impossible to miss. She squirmed in her seat, barely able to contain her excitement, and stared down at the wooden spoon in her hand as if it were a holy relic.

Arya sat in stunned silence, blinking as she looked from her brother to Yue and back again.

What had she just witnessed? Had the stoic Amon truly let someone spoon-feed him like a child? Her brain struggled to compute it. It was such a small act—and yet, to Arya, it felt monumental. Something had shifted between those two, something quiet but seismic.

On the other hand, Bawi stared at the couple with burning desire in her eyes. She wasn't looking only at Amon, but also the lovestruck expression of Yue with bitter confusion, the thoughts in her mind unknown to those that surrounded her. In the end, she inhaled deeply and mustered up the courage to ask:

"Sir Amon… Would you honour me with a duel?"

"..."

Amon's focus fractured as his gaze drifted toward the striking young sword maiden standing before him. Bawi—granddaughter of the legendary Sword Saint—was not just a gifted warrior in her own right, but a strategic linchpin in their efforts to sway the Sword Saint to their side.

Winning her trust could open doors that brute strength or diplomacy alone never could. That was the entire reason Arya had been brought along on this high-stakes mission: her warm, approachable nature made her a natural bridge, someone Bawi could feel comfortable around. Amon and Yue had calculated that if Bawi bonded with someone her age, it might soften her stance—and by extension, the Sword Saint's.

If it were a day ago, Amon wouldn't have hesitated. He would've agreed to Bawi's request without a second thought, eager to nurture any sliver of goodwill. Pleasing the Sword Saint's granddaughter aligned perfectly with their objectives.

But after Yue's fiery outburst over his obliviousness to her feelings, things weren't so clear anymore. Her words had left an impression, one that lingered like the echo of a sword clash in a quiet field. He glanced to his right.

No words were exchanged—none were needed. Amon's eyes met Yue's, and in that brief, silent moment, something unspoken passed between them. A question. A hesitation. A kind of deference.

Yue froze, her breath catching as she processed what had just happened. Then, slowly, her lips curved into a radiant, almost disbelieving smile.

She hadn't expected it.

Not from Amon—the ever-stoic, emotionally dense Amon—who had always marched to the beat of his mind, unmoved by subtle social cues or romantic nuance.

But now, he was checking in with her, silently asking for her blessing before agreeing to spend time with another girl. That single gesture spoke volumes. It wasn't just about the moment—it was about what it meant. Amon was beginning to understand his role not just as a comrade or strategist, but as her fiancé.

The recognition thrilled her in ways she couldn't put into words. Overcome with a rush of affection, Yue grabbed hold of Amon's arm and, without thinking, sank her teeth into it—lightly, playfully, like an animal marking something precious.

The room stilled.

Everyone stared, momentarily stunned—including Yue herself. The act had been so spontaneous, so far removed from her usual elegant demeanour, that even she blinked in disbelief at her behaviour. Her joy had simply overwhelmed her, spilt out in the form of a playful bite she hadn't even realised she was capable of giving.

Amon looked down at her, faintly perplexed, but said nothing.

Yue, cheeks flushed, stared at the arm in her hands as though it had betrayed her. But deep inside, she was beaming.

Releasing her hold on Amon's arm, she stammered:

"G-Go ahead!"

"... Okay."

Just because Amon had accepted the need to work on his desires, it didn't mean that his attitude towards Yue would change overnight. Yes, he was more accepting of Yue's indulgent desires, but he was also relatively slow on the uptake when it came to charming her the same way a boyfriend would a girlfriend.

Ignoring the blushing girl who was red as a boiled octopus, Amon walked out of the hut with the sword maiden in tow. No, Arya and Yue scurried close behind as they passed the Sword Saint, who was busy gardening outside, and into the vast fields of the prairie.

Once they were settled, Bawi raised her sword, which was at a perfect length for her and pointed it at the Knight with a determined expression.

"Sir Amon, your ability with the sword is amazing. The way you defeated the intruder inspired me."

"I see…"

"I would like to see that sword again. Not as a spectator this time, but an opponent."

"Then raise your blade."

Amon locked eyes with Bawi, her sapphire gaze sharp and unblinking as the hum of Nyx reverberated to life in his hands. Her presence radiated intensity, a stillness that belied the storm brewing just beneath her calm exterior.

Yue had once offhandedly remarked that Bawi might harbour feelings for him—romantic ones, perhaps. But as Amon met her gaze, unwavering and precise, he realised Yue had misread her entirely.

There was indeed a hunger in Bawi's eyes—but it had nothing to do with affection, and even less with desire of the flesh. It was the kind of yearning only a true warrior could recognise.

Amon saw it now—her fixation wasn't on him, but on his swordsmanship. A measure by which she could test the edge of her blade. She was obsessed, yes—but not with him. The thrill of combat consumed her, the pursuit of mastery, the irresistible call of a worthy duel.

There was no need for a referee—no count, no signal. The unspoken contract between warriors was enough. The instant Amon shifted into his guard stance, Bawi launched forward like a released arrow.

Her blade blurred, moving with a velocity that defied the eye. But speed alone wasn't her strength—what made Bawi dangerous was how she balanced that speed with unrelenting precision and crushing force. Every strike came with lethal intent, aimed squarely at Amon's vital points: throat, heart, joints.

There were no warning swings, no feints meant to test.

This was combat in its purest form.

Yet Amon met each blow with composed deflections, his body responding with practised ease, his footwork fluid and unshaken. His sword moved not in grand gestures, but in small, surgical motions—enough to redirect, to control, to dominate the rhythm without wasting a shred of energy.

A crack spread across Bawi's flawless, porcelain face—not of frustration, but of pure exhilaration. Her lips curled into a rapturous smile. For the first time in far too long, there was no need to hold back. With each swing, she committed more fully, not in desperation, but in worship. Her attacks grew sharper, tighter, more purposeful—as if she were begging him, demanding him, to respond in kind.

And for a full minute, they danced—blade to blade, steel against steel. Amon used no tricks, no mana, no fancy footwork. Just raw technique and pure physical prowess. It was enough to keep her at bay, but not enough to satisfy her longing.

Bawi's breath caught in her throat. She knew—if she stayed on this path, she would never glimpse the sword she truly yearned to see: that awe-inspiring display.

And so, with a single inhale, she called upon her mana. It roared to life around her—a majestic, metallic aura that wrapped her body in gleaming brilliance, like armour spun from moonlight and resolve. The air around her trembled as eighteen ethereal blades surged into the sky, hovering like divine executioners, each one poised to strike from above.

They descended upon the field not like weapons, but like gods—relentless, merciless, omnipresent.

Amon didn't flinch. He simply watched, absorbing it all.

'Amazing… She's stronger than Leon.'

If Leon could use every trick in his arsenal, the Eight-One Suns Heart Mantra, Water Manipulation, Holy Power and the might of Ascalon, he could come out victorious. But when it came to pure swordsmanship and Aura usage, Bawi would wipe the floor with Leon ten out of ten times.

But it wasn't surprising, given Bawi's true identity… an identity that the Sword Saint hid, and an identity that Amon only knew because he'd read [Bright] and uncovered the mystery behind this divine sword maiden.

'Time to end it, I guess.'

The eighteen swords swirled through the air in a deadly cyclone, their edges weaving a storm of slashes that descended upon Amon like a furious tornado. They weren't mere weapons—they were predators, relentless and precise, seeking any weakness in his defence.

But Amon moved without hesitation. In a flash, he invoked [Dragon Form]—and in an instant, his body surged with overwhelming power, muscle and aura amplified beyond mortal limits. Golden energy erupted from him like a tidal wave, illuminating the battlefield with an awe-inspiring radiance.

With a single, thunderous swing of his blade, Amon shattered the swirling blades mid-flight. The swords, once as fierce as hornets, splintered into fragments under the force of his blow. Before the pieces even hit the ground, he stepped forward and unleashed another strike—this one aimed directly at Bawi.

She barely had time to react.

Bawi braced herself, channelling her Aura into her blade and swinging with all the strength she could muster. Her weapon met Amon's golden dragon aura in a blinding clash of power. The collision exploded in a burst of energy—sparks, wind, and light whipping across the field like a hurricane.

For a heartbeat, it was impossible to tell who would prevail. But it quickly became obvious. Amon's aura surged, overpowering hers like a rising tide swallowing a spark. The force sent Bawi's sword flying from her grip, and her body hurtled backwards, tumbling violently across the ground.

Dirt kicked up in plumes as she rolled to a harsh, jarring stop. For an ordinary warrior—especially one with her delicate frame—it would have meant shattered bones, if not paralysis.

But Bawi was no ordinary swordswoman.

She coughed once, then pushed herself to her feet with surprising ease. Her blonde hair was streaked with dirt and dust, her clothes torn at the edges—but her eyes sparkled with unfiltered joy. She neither flinched at the pain nor cursed her loss.

Instead, she smiled with reverence she looked at Amon, now fully cloaked in the golden majesty of his dragon state.

"Magnificent," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

This was the power she had longed to see, and it was the power that bested her.

"Sir Amon… You've won."

"You didn't make it easy."

Amon undid the [Dragon Form] and reached out to help Bawi to her feet. The young sword maiden gladly took his hand and leapt back to life with a beaming smile.

"Could you teach me how to use that form? It seemed like the perfect state to use the highest form of swordplay."

"Unfortunately, that form can't be taught. But, given your talents, I'm sure you will be able to reach the heights of swordsmanship soon."

"Really? If you say so!"

Watching Bawi explode with joy, Amon broke into a wry smile.

'Well… In the future, whether you like it or not, you will reach the pinnacle of swordplay… Sword Divine.'