The Game's Extra: Azhriel Odyssey

Haa… haa…

Cynthia's breath came out in short, ragged gasps. Her chest heaved like she'd just run for hours, and her whole body felt like it was burning—like she'd been thrown into a pit of fire.

But all she could see was red.

Red, everywhere.

Dark, heavy crimson stained the land around her. Pools of blood spread across the ground, soaking into the dirt, dripping from torn leaves.

Even beneath her hands, the earth was wet with it.

"W-What… what is this…?" her voice trembled. Her mind couldn't keep up. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest as she took in the sight in front of her.

Hundreds—no, maybe thousands—of bodies lay around her.

Beasts.

Some looked like animals, giant and majestic. Others were humanoid, still bearing the features of their kind.

But all of them were still. Lifeless. Empty eyes stared into nothingness. Hearts no longer beat.

Her kin.

Her brothers and sisters.

"No… no, this can't be real…" she whispered, but her voice broke.

But something was wrong. She could see, she could feel—but she couldn't move.

Her hands weren't listening. Her legs didn't shift. It was like she was trapped in her own body. Someone else was moving it.

Or maybe… this wasn't her present.

This… this is a vision.

The future… of Noarsis…

The words somehow were whispered in her mind.

Haa… haa…

Her breathing grew more uneven, more desperate. The pressure pressing down on her chest felt like a mountain.

Her mind spun. It was as if she was underwater, trying to breathe but failing every time.

Then—

"Hahaha… would you look at this?" a voice scraped through the air like metal on bone.

It was cruel. Mocking. Full of twisted joy.

Cynthia's head rose—no, her body moved on its own again—and she looked ahead.

Two figures stood at the center of the blood-stained field.

The first was monstrous. Twisted black horns curled from his head, almost touching his shoulders.

His skin was burnt-looking, ash-gray and peeling in places, glowing faintly with a sickly yellow light.

His chest was broad, his claws long and sharp. Even without sensing it, Cynthia knew this one was powerful.

A demon.

Not a normal one.

A Demigod.

Next to the demon stood a man draped in thick black robes.

The back of his robe had a large white skull mark, and his face was pale, sickly, with eyes that held no light—just blackness, pure and endless, like a void.

No whites. No pupils. Just black.

The Bishop… of the Dark Spades.

Also a demigod ranked.

Behind them stood even more.

Rows and rows of demons and humans—cultists dressed in white robes. Some were lightly wounded, others not at all, but one thing was clear:

They had fought.

And they had won.

Cynthia's breath caught again as the demon stepped closer, smirking.

"Well now, isn't this a pretty sight?" he said, voice low and full of cruel amusement. "The great Prophet of Beasts. Drenched in her people's blood."

He looked around, slowly dragging his clawed hand across a fallen beast's back. The body didn't move.

"Where is your foresight now, little girl?" he mocked, his sharp teeth showing in a wicked grin.

"You should have known right?. You should have seen this."

Cynthia's heart clenched. Her eyes trembled, but she couldn't even shed a tear.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to move. To do something.

But all she could do was watch.

And listen.

As her people burned.

As the future crumbled.

And as the demons laughed.

"Is this it? Is this the fate of great Noarsis?"

Cynthia's voice trembled inside her own head, the weight of despair nearly breaking her mind. Her heart was screaming, but her lips didn't move.

Was this truly how it all ended?

The laughter of the demon echoed like a twisted melody, spreading through the blood-soaked plains—

Until it stopped.

Suddenly, the air changed.

Another voice—no, two voices—rang out loud and clear, cutting through the silence like a blade.

"See? You can't even handle a simple task properly," the first voice said, full of sharp irritation. "I told you to train instead of playing around like a spoiled prince."

"Huh?! Who said I was lazing around?!" the second voice snapped back. "Mother's been beating me black and blue ever since someone blabbed about me dying! And by the way, I'm a Prince, alright? At least show some damn respect, you brat!"

Cynthia's eyes widened. She knew that second voice. She recognized it.

It was Prince Neorthus.

But the first one…

She had never heard that voice before. Yet it spoke so casually—no, so boldly—to the Prince himself, like it didn't matter who he was.

And the demons noticed too.

The Bishop of the Dark Spades narrowed his eyes.

Even the Demigod-ranked demon stopped in his tracks. Slowly, all of them turned their attention in the same direction.

Footsteps.

Two figures were walking toward the battlefield through the shimmering tear in space.

One of them was a boy.

His hair was snow-white—purer than the clouds in the sky—and it flowed gently in the wind. But it was his eyes that pulled everyone's gaze.

Azure, glowing like stars. Like they held entire galaxies inside them.

And next to him, Prince Neorthus walked. His red hair ruffled as glowing red scales ran down from his neck to his arms—clear proof of his royal blood, a dragonkin through and through.

"Prince Neorthus…?" Cynthia breathed, unable to believe what she was seeing. He's alive? But how? And the boy beside him…

Who was he?

As the two walked closer, the boy stretched lazily and smirked. "I'm sorry, your majesty," he said with a teasing voice. "Here's your respect."

He raised his hand…

And pointed his middle finger.

Cynthia blinked.

The Bishop's face twitched.

Even the demon paused.

"You little funky. " Neorthus growled. "Tch, bas—"

But he didn't finish.

Because his eyes, like Cynthia's, had fallen on the land.

On the bodies.

The blood.

Their people.

He stopped walking.

His pupils trembled as he took a shaky breath.

All jokes, all anger vanished from his face in an instant.

"No…" he whispered.

He dropped to one knee beside a fallen warrior, a woman with soft gray fur and a broken spear still clutched in her hand.

Her eyes were open, frozen in anger. Her chest didn't rise. Didn't fall.

She was gone.

"Not her," he said. "She was a palace guard… she taught me how to fight."

More bodies.

More familiar faces.

Too many.

He clenched his fists. "What… what is this?! What happened here?!"

His voice broke with anger and confusion.

The boy beside him didn't say anything. His star-filled eyes scanned the entire field, calm and unreadable.

But then…

He took one step forward.

And the air trembled.

Even the demon stiffened, his body tensing. "Who are you?" he demanded.

The boy didn't answer right away.

Instead, he turned his gaze toward Cynthia. For a moment, just a moment, their eyes met.

And in that gaze, Cynthia saw something—power… understanding… and a deep, raging fire buried under calm ice.

Then the boy turned towards the enemies and said simply.

"I'm the one who cleans up idiots like you."

"Huh? You little brat, you're just a mere teenag—"

The demon didn't even finish.

ROARRRR!!

A thunderous roar exploded from the field, shaking the air like a storm.

"You fucking bastards!!"

Prince Neorthus bellowed, his voice deeper and more beast than man. His eyes burned with fury, and the air around him twisted.

His fingernails had turned into sharp black-red claws. Flames—dark and red—poured from his nostrils and the corners of his lips.

His scales lit up as his dragon blood boiled.

He looked ready to tear the world apart.

But before he could leap forward, another voice—calm and sharp—rang out.

"Calm down, Neo."

That voice stopped him in his tracks.

It was Azhriel.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't shout.

But the weight behind his words was enough.

Neorthus froze, his chest heaving. His glowing eyes locked onto Azhriel, frustration pouring out like fire.

"How do you expect me to stay calm," he growled, "when these monsters slaughtered my people?!"

His voice cracked.

Pain.

Rage.

Guilt.

It was all there, buried beneath his fury.

But Azhriel didn't flinch.

"Then you should've been stronger."

Those words hit like a slap.

"What?!" Neorthus barked, eyes wide.

"You think your anger means anything to them?" Azhriel said. "Both of them—those two—are demigods. If you charge in now, you'll die before your claw even touches them."

Neorthus trembled, fire swirling around his feet. His claws dug into his palms until blood dripped from his fingers.

"I already know that…" he whispered, his voice shaking.

Azhriel looked at him silently for a moment. His eyes softened—but only slightly.

"…Good," he said. "Because I'm not going to let even one of them leave this place alive."

Neorthus blinked. "What?"

"I'll handle it," Azhriel said calmly. "You—go to the Prophet. She's still alive. Protect her. She's the last hope of Noarsis."

Neorthus stared at him for a second, torn.

"…You better keep your promise, snow-head," he muttered and turned, sprinting toward Cynthia's fallen form.