The Extra Can't be A Hero

In the heart of the Demon Cult's accursed dominion, where sunlight was but a forgotten myth and the land itself trembled with dread, a towering obsidian citadel pierced the sky like a jagged tooth. At its core, deep beneath layers of cursed stone and ritual wards, lay the sanctum—a vast chamber sculpted from agony and shadow.

Here, the air was thick with the iron stench of blood and the weight of ancient, unforgiving magic. The silence was not peaceful; it was the silence of breath held in terror, of death waiting just beyond a heartbeat.

A man stood alone in the centre of it all—the Prophet.

Tall, graceful, unnervingly calm, he exuded both intelligence and menace. His robes shimmered like oil on water, pure white with embroidered symbols stitched in gold thread that seemed to pulse with a will of their own. His skin was pale, almost translucent in the sickly red glow of the summoning circle beneath his feet. His eyes—milky and depthless—held no spark of emotion.

Seven grotesque pillars loomed around him, each formed from the fused remains of countless humans—flesh, bone, and sinew twisted into obscene towers of suffering. Faces remained in the mass, their mouths open in frozen screams. Blood dripped continuously from their surfaces, pooling at the edges of the summoning circle etched into the stone floor.

Malachi, known among the faithful as the Bone Sword and Apostle of Subservience, knelt at the circle's edge. His face was calm, unreadable, eyes downcast, though he watched everything. Like his master, he betrayed nothing of his thoughts.

Beyond the sanctum's altar, the final stage of the ritual began.

A thousand captives, stripped of dignity and hope, were herded like cattle toward a massive furnace embedded in the far wall. They screamed, begged, and cursed the gods—none listened.

One by one, they were fed to the flames, their bodies reduced to ash, their souls ripped free by force and funnelled into the vortex spinning above the summoning circle. The air trembled with their agony, a cacophony of despair that rose higher and higher until it became music to the Prophet's ears.

The summoning circle ignited with infernal light, and the vortex of souls twisted violently, condensing into a single point above the altar. It pulsed like a wound in the air. From that wound, something emerged. A sphere—black as void, thick as tar—swelled into existence.

It hovered above the circle, quivering with malevolent intent. As it grew, a suffocating pressure filled the chamber. Breathing became a struggle. The very walls moaned. Then, the surface of the sphere split. A hand tore free, long-fingered and clawed, slick with shadow. It twitched, searching, grasping, followed by an arm, a shoulder, a malformed torso.

The creature that emerged was not born—it was expelled, disgorged from the womb of pure suffering. With a final heave, it slid from the sphere and landed on the stone floor in a wet, trembling heap.

It breathed. The chamber fell into a tense stillness. The sphere above it dissipated with a sickening hiss, leaving only the newborn monster twitching beneath the Prophet's gaze.

"Thank you for answering my summons, Lord Count."

"..."

The creature rose slowly, uncoiling like a shadow stretching into form. Its movements were smooth, deliberate—eerily graceful for something so grotesque.

As it stood tall before the Apostle and the Prophet, it did not cower or tremble. Instead, it presented itself with unsettling confidence, as though it knew it belonged in this unholy place.

It towered at three meters, its entire body cloaked in a sickly, mottled grey. The skin clung to its bones like damp parchment, revealing every contour of its cadaverous frame. Its elongated skull tapered into a narrow chin, and from its face protruded six gleaming insect-like eyes, arranged in a triangular formation—black, glassy, and unblinking.

From where a mouth should have been, writhing green tendrils spilt out like roots from a decayed tree, swaying gently with each breath it took. They pulsed with a faint inner light, exuding a quiet, corrosive energy that stank of rot and sorcery.

Despite its monstrous form, there was a strange familiarity to its silhouette. It stood with the upright posture of a performer, arms relaxed yet poised, as if it had once worn robes instead of ruin—like some cursed magician resurrected from the ashes of forgotten realms.

It was a thing of a nightmare, unquestionably. And yet, beneath its horror, there was an undeniable majesty.

"Messenger of our king… Have you issued the payment?"

"Naturally, Lord Varethrak."

"Good…"

The Demon Count smiled—a grotesque, twitching grin that split his rotting mouth wide, revealing jagged remnants of teeth and darkened gums. The green tendrils spilling from his maw writhed with anticipation, tasting the air like serpents drunk on power.

A low, guttural hum of satisfaction pulsed from his throat. Though Varethrak bore the title of Count—a noble among demonkind, feared and revered across the Demon Realm—he made no show of superiority before the Prophet. There was no arrogance in his stance, no hollow display of dominance.

The Prophet stood not as a subordinate, but as an equal—perhaps even as something greater. The Count, ancient as he was, recognised that the power behind those pale, unreadable eyes was not one to be tested. And so, he inclined his head slightly, not in submission, but in respect.

"What do you desire from me?"

"We require your assistance in subduing a human to join our cause. If we manage to pull him over, we will use his vessel to bring Abomination into this world."

"Abomination? You're going to bring that vile creature here?"

"It is the will of our King."

"Kekeke… Does he intend to rule this world or destroy it?"

Count Varethrak asked rhetorically with a distorted laugh.

"I will abide by your rules. For the next forty-eight hours, you have command over me."

"Good," the Prophet nodded and pointed at Malachi. "This here is my subordinate. He's the leader of this mission. You will follow his guidance."

"... you want me to take orders from this lesser creature?"

Though the Demon Count afforded the Prophet a measure of deference, that courtesy ended sharply at the feet of any human beneath him. As a Demon noble, humans were little more than vermin—an invasive species spreading across realms they were never meant to touch.

They were tools to be used, broken, and discarded. Respect was not just unnecessary—it was offensive even to consider.

"Not orders, guidance."

"You speak sophistry."

"I apologise, but I'm preoccupied with other matters to join this mission."

The Prophet did not flinch. His pale, hollow eyes locked onto the Demon Count's with unyielding focus, silent and immovable. There was no anger in his gaze—only the quiet, suffocating weight of absolute authority. The pressure in the chamber shifted subtly, yet unmistakably.

It pressed inward like a tightening noose, a silent reminder of who held dominion here. Though the Count stood tall, steeped in ancient power and noble blood, he felt it—the unmistakable sensation of command slipping from his grasp.

A moment passed. Then, with a twitch of the jaw and a flicker in his many eyes, the Demon Count lowered his gaze.

"I will heed your orders."

"Good."

With the matter resolved, the Prophet stood over Malachi and tapped on his shoulders.

"Malachi, bring back the Sword Saint, and… eliminate Amon Solaris."

"As you command!"

❖❖❖

The Sword Saint spoke with calm certainty, saying only that he needed time to 'rest and bolster his mental defences.' He was retreating into deep meditation, not for clarity, but for survival.

Years of endless war, bitter losses, and creeping despair had eroded the fortress of his mind. What once stood as an unshakable will had been quietly worn down, leaving fractures too fine for others to see but too deep for him to ignore.

Now, with the Demon Cult's insidious influence thick in the air, he knew he could no longer trust the strength of his thoughts. Even Yue, whose unwavering light had offered him the first sliver of hope in years, could not mend what time and torment had broken.

His spirit was threadbare—functional, but dangerously fragile.

A single misstep, a single whispered temptation, and the Cult might yet turn him from within.

So he withdrew. He did not say how long the meditation would last, only that it shouldn't take more than a week. But even that was a risk. The Demon Cult would return soon, and they would not come quietly. This time, they would bring a storm. And the Sword Saint might still be lost in silence when it broke.

"Yue, why not teleport Lord Kassadin back to Solfea? That way, we can prevent the Demon Cult from finding us."

"We could do that, but it would take time to create a mirror dimension that can ward off the Demon Cult's influence as robust as this one. I would rather we strengthen this dimension and fight off the Demon Cult outside."

"That's a shame…"

"Don't worry," Yue winked at Amon. "I've placed him inside a protective, isolated barrier, too. That way, no matter how much noise we make, Lord Kassadin's peace will remain untouched."

"Thanks…"

Amon gave a slight nod of acknowledgement as Yue stepped closer, closing the space between them without hesitation.

She gently rested her chin on his shoulder, her silken white hair cascading down his back like moonlight over shadow. Her arms slipped around his chest with quiet confidence, holding him as if anchoring herself to something she didn't want to lose.

He tensed—just slightly. The sudden intimacy unsettled him, though he didn't pull away. He wasn't used to such closeness, not after everything. But he said nothing. He had accepted, in his quiet, brooding way, that Yue was to be his partner—perhaps not just in battle, but in life.

And with that understanding came a silent surrender. He let her hold him. Let her feel safe. He didn't push her away, even if part of him still didn't know how to hold her back.

For Yue, that was more than enough, and her heart soared.

"We've got this," Yue reassured Amon. "There's nothing the Demon Cult can throw at us now that would derail our plans."

"..."

Amon gazed out at the horizon as the skies darkened with stormy clouds, perhaps a foreshadowing of what was to come. Even though the battle had yet to begin, he was filled with a silent tension.

"Let's hope that's the case."