The Extra Who Shouldn’t Exist

As Morag's axe came down toward Reynard, time seemed to slow.

The air thickened.

Then, without warning, black fire erupted across the battlefield.

It swallowed the world in an instant.

Flames of midnight roared outward, devouring frost, swallowing the giants' cold, turning glaciers into steam. The ground trembled as the frozen landscape melted in jagged chunks, water hissing beneath the unnatural heat.

Morag's eyes narrowed.

He jerked his axe back, instinct forcing him to retreat a step as the inferno washed over where Reynard knelt.

A single word echoed through the battlefield.

"Veytharion."

The sky tore open.

A portal split reality itself—a vertical wound of writhing darkness rimmed in pale violet light. From within it, something vast slithered forward.

A six‑eyed serpent–dragon hybrid emerged, scales as black as the void, each eye burning with eerie, ancient light. Its long body coiled through the air, teeth bared as it rose above the Frost Giants, hissing down at them like a nightmare given form.

The giants braced, frost forming instinctively over their limbs.

From within the black flames, a figure walked toward Reynard.

Alden von Crestvale.

He stepped through the dying embers, coat singed at the edges, eyes hard. He came to a stop beside his father and let out a slow breath.

"Looks like I made it in time before my old man croaked," he said.

Reynard blinked, stunned.

Then he actually smiled. "Did Alex come with you…?"

Alden's mood soured. "And why would he be here?"

The smile vanished from Reynard's face.

He smacked Alden on the back of the head.

"You idiot of a son," Reynard snapped. "What are you doing here? You can't defeat him. If that silver‑haired boy were here, it'd be a different story. But you? You'll die like an ant. Even I can't defeat him. Can't you see he's far stronger?"

Alden yelled back, "That's the problem with you—you never trust me!"

Morag watched them with faint amusement.

"Let them talk," he rumbled to his kin. "He is his son. Let them have their last words."

Reynard exhaled, then looked Alden straight in the eyes. "Tell me honestly. Can you defeat him?"

Alden glanced at Morag.

'I'll die for sure,' he thought.

Reynard's shoulders drooped. "I knew it. You came here without a plan."

He tightened his grip on his sword again, stepping forward. "I'll occupy him. You escape. Your mother won't be able to bear it if both of us die here today."

Alden suddenly smiled.

"That's what I mean when I say you underestimate me," he said. "I do have a plan."

Reynard's eyes narrowed. "…Go on."

The sky ignited.

A massive phoenix materialized above them, wings spanning hundreds of meters, feathers blazing with holy fire. Upon its back stood Ethan Williams, aura flaring as he raised his hand.

In the air around him, spears of light formed—dozens, then hundreds.

They shot down toward the Frost Giants like a storm of radiant meteors. The attacks stabbed into giant torsos and arms, sizzling against ancient frost. The damage was shallow—but it was damage.

Morag smiled faintly. "Is that all, boy? Looks like you really are an idiot—just as your father said."

Alden's mouth twitched. "Who said that was all?"

The ground split.

A massive army of the dead began to claw its way out of the earth—skeletal hands, rotted flesh, armored bones dragging rusted weapons behind them. Undead dragons unfurled tattered wings and lifted into the sky.

Lycans with exposed bones snarled. Goblins, ogres, human knights, beasts of every kind—all stripped of life, bound by will—rose in endless ranks.

Azrael stepped onto the battlefield.

His presence alone sent a chill through the Frost Giants that had nothing to do with cold. For the first time, their expressions changed—concern, perhaps even fear, flickering in their eyes.

Azrael's gaze met Morag's.

Morag's lips curled. "Found you, demon."

Veytharion roared, black flames surging alongside the undead tide as the army of the dead and the Frost Giants clashed.

The collision was apocalyptic.

The first of the Frost Giants swung their colossal arms, smashing through ranks of undead, sending bones and rotting flesh flying. But the dead did not scream. They simply reformed, pulled back together by necrotic magic, or were replaced by more corpses rising from the shattered ground.

Undead dragons slammed into Frost Giants mid‑stride, jaws clamping onto icy shoulders. Giants responded by ripping them apart with their bare hands—but even as undead bodies were shattered, more rose beneath their feet.

Lycans leapt onto giant limbs, clawing at joints. Goblin and orcish undead swarmed ankles and knees, hacking relentlessly. Human knights in broken armor drove rusted lances into the same weak points again and again.

The Frost Giants were strong—every step could annihilate squads of living soldiers.

But the dead refused to stay dead.

For the first time, the Frost Giant line was pushed back.

Chunks of icy armor shattered. Joints cracked. Some giants went down under sheer weight of numbers, their bodies dragged and torn apart by swarming undead.

The battlefield became a hellscape of frost and corpse‑fire.

On the other front, Azrael, Alden, and Ethan now stood facing Morag himself.

Morag had not moved from his original spot. Any undead that approached him were obliterated by a casual swing of his axe or frozen mid‑air, locked in time and ice.

He looked directly at Azrael.

"So you're the demon necromancer," Morag said. "The one whose interference ruined our invasions again and again."

Azrael's cold gaze did not waver. "So what if I am?"

Morag smirked. "You're my ticket to feeding my people—and to taking back my planet from that accursed Dragon King Zarvok. So you will have to die."

Azrael tilted his head. "Then come. No need to waste your breath."

Alden leaned over, eyes still on Morag. "What are our chances of winning?" he asked quietly.

Azrael answered without changing expression. "From his aura, he's at pseudo‑divine rank, mid‑stage. I'm at monarch‑low. You two are still grandmasters."

He glanced at Alden and Ethan.

"So we will die a horrible death," he said calmly. "That, I can assure you."

Ethan and Alden's mouths twitched. "Then why are you provoking him?" Ethan demanded.

Azrael shrugged. "Old habit."

"Fuck you," they both said in unison.

Morag moved.

Ethan's body flared with light. He took his Luminarch form—phoenix wings burst from his back, and black dragon scales crawled over his skin. Fire and draconic might intertwined, cloaking him in a hybrid aura.

Black fire erupted around Alden, his own connection to Veytharion deepening. His eyes burned with predatory light as his domain of searing darkness spread.

Around Azrael, an aura of pure domination surged, necrotic power spiraling into a tangible mantle of authority over death.

They charged.

Morag met them head‑on.

Every clash was catastrophic.

When Morag swung his axe, mountains in the distance cracked. The shockwaves threw undead and Frost Giants alike off their feet. Azrael's bone spears shattered upon the axe edge, but each broken piece turned mid‑air into cursed shrapnel that exploded against Morag's frost‑armor.

Ethan dove from above, wings blazing, unleashing torrents of phoenix flame mixed with draconic breath. Morag raised an arm; half the flames dispersed against his frozen aura, but the rest seared into his skin, leaving blackened scars.

Alden flashed in from the side, blade wrapped in black fire, carving along Morag's ribs. Scales of frost and ice cracked and fell away, exposing the deep‑blue crystal flesh beneath.

Morag grunted.

Then he struck back.

A single sweep of his axe forced all three to scatter. The ground where they had stood was erased—turned into a jagged canyon of frozen nothing. An aftershock alone sent dozens of undead flying, their bodies smashed into fragments.

Azrael was the only one able to meet Morag's strikes directly, his aura of domaination clashing with aura of frost protecting ethan and Alden from getting crushed—yet even he was barely keeping up, parrying at the last possible moment, his arms numb from the impact.

Reynard watched from a distance, breath ragged.

He could tell.

The three were struggling.

They landed powerful blows—Ethan's fire, Alden's black flames, Azrael's strikes—all left injuries on Morag's body. Cracks formed along his ice‑flesh. Runes flickered. Frost bled like liquid light from his wounds.

But Morag's counterattacks were monstrous.

Each swing was a calamity. Each stomp twisted the field, shattering lines of undead and hurling giants off balance. Only Azrael's interference kept Ethan and Alden from being crushed.

Then the sky darkened again.

A massive tree‑like silhouette unfolded across the firmament, branches of light and shadow twisting overhead.

Morag's eyes flicked upward, registering the astral tree—but his attention was snagged by something else.

Far in the distance, beyond the battlefield, he saw a colossal draconic figure flying toward the royal palace of the Avaloria Empire.

Zarvok.

The Dragon King.

Morag's lips curved.

"You've already lost," he said.

Ethan, Alden, and Azrael tensed.

"Zarvok is here," Morag continued. "Now there is no hope of you winning."

Azrael, panting, wiped blood from his mouth.

"Wanna bet?" he asked.

He straightened slightly. "If we lose, I'll cut my own head off."

Morag chuckled, amused. "Deflecting others' attacks with bravado. How amusing. What gives you this confidence, demon?"

Azrael's eyes glinted. "He was your strongest. Our strongest has yet to appear. So what do you say?"

Morag shook his head. "Your foolishness astonishes me. But very well. If Zarvok loses, I will offer you my head—and my people will leave your world peacefully."

"Then it's on," Azrael said. "Your Dragon against our Devil. Let's see who comes out on top."

Alden, gasping for breath, managed a grin. "That was a cool line. I wanted to say it…"

"Seriously—focus or you'll die, you crazy bastard!" Ethan yelled.

---

[ In the elven empire ]

Inside the elven royal palace.

In a quiet corridor, Elaria and Jacob stood outside a sealed door.

Elaria frowned at them. "Remind me again—why are we here?"

Jacob answered, "Alex asked His Majesty for a room. He said he was 'trying something' and needed to be alone. He told us to guard this door so no one disturbs him."

"So we're acting as guards," Elaria muttered. "For that lunatic."

They waited.

At first, nothing happened.

Then the air changed.

Shockwaves began to ripple from behind the door. The floor vibrated beneath their feet as if an earthquake had struck. Dust fell from the ceiling. Outside, the sky shifted—the light dimming, colors warping.

Elaria clicked her tongue. 'What the hell kind of training is this…?'

The door cracked.

The walls around it began to crumble, stone splitting like dry bark under invisible pressure. A silhouette appeared amidst the dust and darkness.

As their eyes landed on him, both Elaria and Jacob felt it.

An overwhelming urge to submit.

Their knees went weak, hearts hammering, instincts screaming that something beyond human—beyond anything they knew—was standing in that doorway.

Alex had finished.