I'm an Extra, so What?

Inside the Adventurer's Guild, the mood was tense.

Serene leaned on the briefing table with arms crossed, while Luka recited the incident in precise detail.

The Guild officer—a seasoned elf named Mira—jotted notes rapidly. Her expression grew darker with every word.

"A corruption beacon?" she echoed. "That deep in the leyline basin?"

"Confirmed," Luka said. "Twisted obelisk. Red runes. Not natural. We detonated it. Explosion likely slowed whatever was forming, but it wasn't a true purge."

Mira cursed softly under her breath.

"We'll send a purification team," she said. "But if it's leyline-deep, this isn't just some rogue necromancer. This is calculated. Planted." She glanced up. "Did you catch sight of whoever set it up?"

"No," Serene said. "Too much ambient mana interference. But it was protected. The monsters weren't random. They were warped. Guarding it."

Mira tapped the end of her pen against the table. "We'll need to escalate this."

"Already did," Luka said, pulling a sealed scroll from his belt. "Sent Snow ahead last night to the city mage circle. They'll notify the Tower."

Mira blinked. "…You anticipated this?"

Luka didn't answer. He simply adjusted his cloak and turned toward the exit.

Serene gave a faint smile. "He always expects the worst."

"Good," Mira muttered. "Because it sounds like it's coming."

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.

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Elsewhere, in the Guild's private sparring yard…

Arthur stood opposite a row of dummies, jaw clenched.

The wind picked up slightly, tugging at his cloak.

"Activate training mode: advanced."

The mana constructs lit up red.

Arthur didn't wait.

He lunged forward with a wild, overhead slash—pouring far too much power into it. His sword cleaved through the first dummy and buried itself halfway into the ground.

The impact cracked the stone beneath his feet.

He grinned.

The second dummy zipped toward him—Arthur raised a hand and blasted it with raw mana, bypassing technique entirely. The dummy disintegrated.

His pulse surged. Muscles thrummed. Everything felt better. Faster. Sharper.

But as the third dummy came in low with a sweep—

He tripped.

Hard.

The sword slipped in his grip, unbalancing him. He crashed shoulder-first into the ground with a thud, pain lancing through his collarbone.

He coughed—and something tasted wrong. Like iron. And something else. Bitter. Foul.

He wiped his lip and stared at the dark smear on his glove.

Blood.

From his gums.

"…No," he muttered. "No, I measured it. The dose was controlled."

But the vial in his pouch was glowing.

Pulsing faintly.

He looked around, suddenly cold. The training yard was empty.

Except—it wasn't.

A woman stood in the far shadows, face hidden beneath a gray hood.

Watching.

Arthur stood, heart hammering. "Who—"

But when he blinked—

She was gone.

.

.

.

Later, that night…

Luka stood on the rooftop of the Guild tower, watching the distant forest. Snow lay curled around his neck, fast asleep, his breathing shallow but calm.

Below, the city buzzed faintly.

But Luka wasn't listening to it.

He was listening to the leyline.

That slow, rhythmic pulse—still corrupted. Still there.

"Whoever did this," he murmured, "they're not done."

Behind him, Serene climbed up, carrying two cups of something hot. She handed him one and sat beside him on the edge, legs dangling.

"Guild's sending word to the capital," she said. "They might even call in a Circle Saint."

"They won't come in time," Luka replied. "This was just a test. A signal flare. The real plan's still forming."

They sipped in silence.

Down below, a pair of shadows slunk through the alleyways. Not human. Not elven. Cloaked in gray and stitched with bone.

Watching.

Waiting.

And in Arthur's room, the pulsing vial began to sing—a low, steady hum no one else could hear.

Morning came with fog.

A pale, cold mist curled around the lower city streets, muffling footsteps and making lanterns glow like distant stars. The Adventurer's Guild tower loomed out of the haze, its banners limp in the still air.

Inside, Luka moved like a shadow through the upper halls.

His boots made no sound on the polished stone, his eyes scanning every notice, every passing whisper from the morning staff.

Something was off.

Reports had trickled in overnight—monsters behaving erratically even near protected zones. Mana beasts usually bound to the deeper woodlands now wandered dangerously close to farmlands. Crops in the western glades wilted overnight, roots blackened from below.

All signs pointed to one thing:

The corruption hadn't been slowed. It had merely... shifted.

And it wasn't just targeting wildlands anymore.

It was reaching for the city.

Downstairs, in the main training yard, Arthur was bleeding again.

His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with dark bruising. Mana flickered erratically around his arms—no longer glowing clean and blue, but shimmering an unstable crimson-white.

He paced.

"No one respects the main fighter," he muttered under his breath. "They forget who carries the front line. Who kills the most. Who the Guild needs."

He slammed his fist into the dummy again—wood cracked, mana flared.

He grinned.

But his hand didn't stop bleeding this time.

A healer nearby, a junior acolyte, rushed over. "Sir—please, your aura's flaring. You need—"

"Back off," Arthur snapped, eyes wild. "I know my limits."

"But—"

"I said back off!"

He turned, blade half-drawn—and the healer recoiled in fear, falling backward.

For a moment, the yard was silent.

Then a dry voice echoed from the walkway above. "Very heroic. Terrifying unarmed healers now, are we?"

Arthur's head jerked up.

Luka stood casually on the railing, arms folded. Snow was perched beside him, watching with curious eyes.

Arthur sneered. "Jealous I'm training?"

"No," Luka said. "Just wondering when the Guild will realize they've got a liability pretending to be a leader."

Arthur's grip tightened on his sword hilt.

"You want to say that again?"

Luka tilted his head. "Sure. But maybe after you get patched up. You're shaking."

Arthur bared his teeth, stepping forward—

—and collapsed to one knee.

His sword clattered to the ground. Mana sparked wildly around him, uncontrolled, lashing the air like whips. His breathing was shallow, eyes unfocused.

The junior healer ran in again, casting a quick stabilization spell.

Luka didn't move.

Snow sniffed the air.

"…You used something," Luka said quietly. "Didn't you?"

Arthur looked up, rage and shame flickering behind his eyes. "Don't pretend you're better than me."

"I'm not pretending anything," Luka replied. "But at least I haven't poisoned myself chasing power."

A tense silence.

Then Serene stepped into the yard, arms crossed, eyes locked on Arthur.

"We need to talk. Now."

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.

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Later, in a private Guild chamber...

Arthur sat slumped on a bench, half-listening as Luka and Serene reported the new leyline readings to Mira and the high-ranked officers.

He barely heard the words: disruption, mutation, city defenses.

His thoughts were racing elsewhere.

That woman. The one in gray. He hadn't imagined her. She had spoken to him—hadn't she?

Her words echoed in his head:

"You're the hero, Arthur. So why do they treat you like a spare?"

And the vial she'd left.

He still had two more.

One pulsed faintly in his pocket.

Arthur gripped it tight.

They'd all see. Luka, Serene, even the damn Guild.

They'd have to see eventually.

Because when the next wave came—and it would come—he'd be ready.

He'd show them all who the real main character was.

Even if it killed him.

The briefing ended in silence.

Even the Guild Master, Mira, looked grim as she dismissed them. No theatrics. No praise. Just orders to prepare for a "worst-case containment scenario."

As Luka turned to leave, Mira caught his arm.

"Don't let Arthur out of your sight," she said quietly. "If he snaps mid-mission... we lose more than him."

Luka didn't respond. He just nodded once—and left.

Back in the lower city, the bells rang twice. Midmorning.

The team regrouped at the south gate—Serene checking her shield straps, Gregor the tank muttering prayers into his gauntlets, the healer biting her lip nervously. Arthur, to his credit, showed up clean and in armor.

But his eyes were wrong.

Too bright.

Too confident.

"You look better," Gregor offered.

Arthur grinned. "Took a nap. Clarity does wonders."

Luka stared at him.

Snow let out a tiny hiss.

Serene leaned in. "You trust him like this?"

"No," Luka replied flatly. "But he's not the mission. The leyline is."

They followed the path east again—only this time, it wasn't quiet.

Civilians had been evacuated. The forest felt hollowed out. No animals. No monsters. Not even rot. It was the eye of the storm.

And at the center of it—

They found a crater.

Where the corrupted grove had once been was now a scorched pit, obsidian char streaking through the dirt. But something had clawed its way up from beneath it.

Something large.

There were drag marks. Bone fragments. And a trail leading deeper underground—into a newly opened tunnel.

"Luka," Serene said.

He nodded. "We go down."

The tunnel sloped into the earth like a serpent's throat.

The walls were smooth—too smooth. Glassy from heat, but marked with symbols. Twisted runes that shimmered when touched. Even Snow refused to fly here, wings drawn tight to his body.

After thirty minutes of descent, the light changed.

Blue.

Pulsing.

Alive.

Then the tunnel opened into a vast underground chamber—and what waited below turned Serene's stomach cold.

A corruption nest.

Veins of mana ran like roots through the stone, glowing red-black. At the center pulsed a massive heart-like crystal, suspended in the air by twisting tendrils of shadow. Creatures milled beneath it—half-formed horrors, still growing.

"Back away," Serene whispered.

But Arthur stepped forward.

He was smiling.

"I knew it," he said.

Everyone froze.

Arthur's hand went to his belt—and pulled out the glowing vial.

Serene shouted. "Arthur—don't you dare—"

"I can take it," he snapped. "I can beat this thing. You'll see. I'll tear it out myself."

He drank it.

The vial shattered on his tongue.

For a second—nothing.

Then his body spasmed.

Mana screamed out from him in a wave of blinding red. His skin cracked with glowing lines. His voice twisted into a feral laugh as he charged the crystal heart, blades drawn.

Luka moved.

Snow shot forward with a burst of wind magic, trying to knock him off course—but Arthur was fast. Faster than he'd ever been.

Too fast.

He reached the heart—and stabbed.

Mana shrieked.

And the nest woke up.

Dozens of eyes opened in the walls.

The half-grown monsters snapped free of their pods, screeching. The heart pulsed—then cracked—and a tendril impaled Arthur through the chest, lifting him into the air like a ragdoll.

His scream echoed for miles.

"RETREAT!" Serene yelled, grabbing the healer.

Gregor roared as he held the tunnel open, blocking the monsters with his shield as Luka pulled Snow back and threw a flashbomb.

The heart shattered behind them.

The entire cavern began to collapse.

They barely made it to the surface—Gregor dragging a barely-breathing Arthur behind him, his armor sizzling with dark energy.

They collapsed in the grass above as the crater imploded.

Silence fell.

Luka sat up slowly, covered in blood and dust.

Snow crawled onto his shoulder.

Arthur coughed, weakly. His eyes were burned-out white.

"Still think you're the main character?" Luka muttered.

Arthur didn't answer.

He'd fainted.

Or… something worse.