The Extra Who Shouldn’t Exist

[ The New Continent ]

Across the sprawling new continent, a massive army marched.

They were dragonkin—towering humanoids with scales instead of skin, some with horns curling from their temples, others with ridged spines and long, powerful tails. Slitted eyes glowed like molten gold or burning ember-red. Each step they took made the ground tremble faintly, and the aura coming off even the weakest of them was suffocating.

Every soldier in that legion looked like they could crush a low Master-rank opponent without much effort.

All around them, construction was underway. Crude houses made from dark stone and reinforced bone were being raised. Black-iron camps and fortifications spread like a metallic forest. Banners bearing the sigil of an ancient dragon flapped in the harsh wind.

In the midst of it all stood a colossal palace.

It was shaped like a dragon frozen mid-roar—its stone-carved jaws open, fangs bared, as if breathing fire upon the land below. Its wings spread outward, forming sweeping balconies and towering battlements. Lava-like light pulsed within its eyes, giving the eerie impression that the dragon-building itself was alive and watching.

Inside the palace, a long corridor led toward a central throne hall.

A man walked alone down that corridor.

On each side, ranks of dragonkin stood at rigid attention, their auras so intense that the air seemed to crackle around them. Their power was unfathomable—many of them radiated pressure on par with high-tier transcendents.

Yet as the man passed, every one of them bowed their head.

With every step he took, the air itself seemed to fracture—hairline distortions flickering around his boots like invisible cracks through space.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with obsidian-black scales covering parts of his arms and neck. His hair was dark silver, swept back like a mane, and two long, jagged horns curved from his brow, swept slightly backward. His eyes burned a deep crimson, slit like a dragon's, and every breath he took carried the heat of a furnace.

He wore a regal black-and-gold armor etched with draconic sigils. A crimson cloak, trimmed with scales, flowed behind him like a living flame.

This was Zarvok Drakarion.

King of the dragonkin.

The man reached the throne—a massive stone seat carved into the chest of the dragon statue itself. As he sat, the entire hall seemed to tense. No one dared to speak.

Silence reigned.

Sweat slicked the brows of even the strongest warriors present as they knelt or stood with lowered heads, unable to meet Zarvok's gaze.

Finally, he spoke.

"Three months," Zarvok said slowly, his voice echoing through the hall like distant thunder. "It has been three months."

His crimson eyes narrowed.

"And yet, you still have not conquered even half of this world."

He leaned his head onto one fist. "Does anyone care to explain why? Or should I burn you all alive this instant… and offer your ashes to the Dragon God?"

A collective swallow moved through the hall.

One of the dragonkin armored in dark plate stepped forward, dropping to one knee. "Y-Your Majesty, you don't have to worry. We have already conquered at least thirty percent of this world."

Zarvok's gaze remained cold.

The general continued quickly. "The main problems are the vampires. They are proving the most troublesome. As for the elves—the dark elves have already invaded their forests and conquered their eastern lands. It won't be long until their entire territory falls."

He paused, then went on. "The mermaids—those cowards are hiding in the depths, refusing to show themselves. But we are confident we will locate them soon. It was difficult, but we've also found the land of the fairies. Our dragons are already attacking their forests. Our armies will reach them fully soon."

"The dwarves are on the brink of destruction," he added. "The Holy Empire—we have conquered almost sixty-five percent of it. So you need not worry. The conquest will soon be complete."

Zarvok's tail tapped the dais lightly. "How many races are working under us this time?"

The general swallowed. "Four, Your Majesty."

"The Lycans.

The Dark Elves.

The Frost Giants.

The Insectoids."

"All of them are fighting under our banner."

Zarvok's eyes glowed brighter. "You left out one thing, General."

The general's breath hitched. "W-What is it, Your Majesty?"

Zarvok's gaze sharpened. "What about Avaloria? The land of humans… and home to our god's chosen."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

The general sucked in a cold breath. "About that, Your Majesty… A problem has occurred."

Zarvok's aura crashed down on him like a meteor. The force slammed the general to the ground, his knees shattering the stone. His scales cracked under the pressure, blood dripping from between them as he pressed his forehead to the floor.

"You couldn't even conquer the kingdom of the weakest race," Zarvok said, voice dripping with contempt. "Humans."

The general felt death looming over him and knew if he didn't speak, he would die there and then.

"A demon…!" he forced out. "A demon, Your Majesty!"

The pressure eased—just slightly.

"Speak," Zarvok ordered.

The general drew ragged breaths. "Recently, a demon was sighted on the borders of the human empire. We have tried everything, but he is… too powerful. His power is on an entirely different level."

Zarvok's eyes narrowed like blades. "What powers does he have?"

"At first, we thought he was just a filthy necromancer," the general said. "But that's not the case. The undead in his army are… extremely strong. And that man does not run out of mana, no matter how long we fight him."

He shuddered at the memory. "Worse… every battle only makes him stronger. Every soldier that falls… he turns into an undead. They rise again and kill their own comrades. Our lines break from within."

Murmurs of unease rippled through the hall.

The name was not spoken yet.

But somewhere, far from that throne of stone and fire, a certain blue-haired demon with newly healed skin was still marching through Avaloria's southern borders—followed by an army of the dead.

Zarvok's gaze hardened. "What is his name?"

The general swallowed. "From our sources… his name is Azrael, sir."

"Azrael…" Zarvok repeated under his breath. 'I've heard that name somewhere before…' He frowned. 'But where…? I don't remember.'

He shook the thought away. "I'll think about it later. Anything else?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," the general said. "A new king has been crowned in the human empire."

Zarvok's eyes narrowed. "His name?"

"We haven't uncovered that yet," the general admitted. "But rest assured, Your Majesty, we will soon. We've already infiltrated the human empire."

Zarvok clicked his tongue. "We can't wait any longer. Send the remaining dragons to attack them."

Every expression in the hall stiffened.

The general stepped forward hastily. "Your Majesty, please give us a little more time. We can handle those weaklings without deploying dragons."

"I said," Zarvok replied coldly, "I can't wait any longer. Do as I say."

Silence descended.

The general bowed his head in defeat. "As you command."

Zarvok leaned back on the throne. "Good. Now get to work. And next time… bring me results. Otherwise, I'll give you deaths worthy of a horror tale."

A collective gulp echoed through the room.

"Yes, Your Majesty!" the dragonkin said in unison, before turning and hurrying out of the throne hall, each of them moving as if death itself was snapping at their heels.

---

Left alone in the throne room, Zarvok rose from his seat.

He turned away from the throne and began to walk, his heavy footsteps echoing through the corridors. He walked for at least ten minutes, down halls lined with dragon statues, through archways carved with ancient draconic runes.

Eventually, he reached a massive set of doors.

They were made of some dark, unknown metal, carved with writhing dragon shapes that seemed almost alive. As Zarvok placed his hand against the surface, the doors responded, rumbling open with a deep, grinding creak.

Inside was a vast chamber.

At its center, suspended in mid-air, hovered a massive sphere of fire—pure, blazing, golden-red flame swirling like a miniature sun. Its heat was suffocating, yet somehow contained, radiating overwhelming presence rather than destruction.

Zarvok approached the orb and immediately dropped to both knees.

"My Lord," he said in a loud, reverent voice, "everything is proceeding as you have planned."

A full minute passed in absolute silence.

Then a voice emerged from the fiery sphere—ancient, resonant, filling the room from every direction.

"Zarvok," it said, "you have not forgotten what I told you… have you?"

Zarvok bowed lower, pressing his forehead to the floor. "Do not worry, my Lord. I am searching for the silver-haired boy everywhere within the human empire. Soon, I will present you with his head."

"Good," the voice replied. "Once you succeed, you may take this world as your reward."

Zarvok's lips curled into a savage smile. "As you wish, my Lord. I am honored to be of use to you."

The Dragon God, Tiamat, spoke again from within the blazing core. "Remember—my avatar is also in that world. No harm must come to him."

"I will keep that in mind," Zarvok said. "You need not worry."

---

Meanwhile, outside the dragon palace…

A female dragonkin walked briskly along a secluded path, heading toward a restricted area of the fortress.

Two dragonkin guards stepped in front of her, crossing their spears. "Halt," one of them said. "This is the Dragons' Sanctum. No entry without direct permission."

In a blur, the woman moved.

A quick strike to the neck, another to the jaw—both guards collapsed to the ground, unconscious, their spears clattering beside them.

She exhaled softly. "Well… that was easier than expected."

Her body shimmered.

Scales melted away like shadows, her form shifting. Her features rearranged, horns disappearing. Blue hair, streaked with silver, spilled down her back in silky waves. Her figure settled into a lithe, well-shaped human form—slim waist, long legs, and a calm yet dangerous poise.

It was Zara.

She stepped past the fallen guards and entered the Sanctum of Dragons.

What she saw inside made her expression turn deadly serious.

'This is bad,' she thought. 'If I don't tell Alex about this soon… a catastrophe will follow.'

The Sanctum stretched out like an underground nest. Dozens of colossal dragon forms lay chained and bound by thick, glowing restraints—eyes burning with a feral hunger. Their scales were dark, some black as void, others a sickly, corrupted hue. Their rib bones jutted out slightly, as if they hadn't been fed properly in days.

Their breathing was ragged, each exhale a plume of toxic smoke that made the air feel heavy.

Every one of them radiated death.

And there weren't just a few.

There were hundreds.

Rows upon rows of dragons that looked like doom incarnate, waiting for the moment they would be unleashed upon the world.

-----

A/N:

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