I'm an Extra, so What?

They made it back to the city in silence.

Arthur remained unconscious the entire trip, strapped to Gregor's back like a broken statue. His skin had cooled, but strange, hairline fractures of red still webbed across his arms and neck—remnants of the corrupted mana he'd tried to absorb.

The Guild's medical ward cleared space immediately. Not because he was special.

But because they'd seen this kind of rot before.

From those who didn't survive it.

Mira stood at the doors as Luka and Serene emerged, both streaked with ash and monster blood. Her expression was unreadable.

"Report."

Luka gave it plainly. No embellishment. No emotion.

Serene filled in the rest.

When they were done, Mira pinched the bridge of her nose. "We'll quarantine the site. Send a leyline specialist to confirm the nest's destruction. You two—rest."

Her eyes flicked to Luka. "And thank you for not killing him."

Luka shrugged. "Didn't have the energy."

Later that night, Luka sat alone atop the guildhall roof, legs dangling over the side, Snow curled around his shoulders like a soft scarf. The baby dragon was quiet—watchful. Not sleeping.

His tiny claws gripped Luka's collar tighter than usual.

"I know," Luka muttered. "Something's coming."

Snow rumbled softly in agreement.

Below, the city flickered with life. People returned to their homes. Merchants reopened shops. Normalcy resumed—but it was brittle. Too calm.

And then—

The door behind him creaked open.

He didn't look back.

He knew the footsteps.

Serene sat beside him, wordlessly handing over a steaming mug.

"Cinnamon?" he asked.

"Spite," she replied. "But yeah. Cinnamon too."

They sipped in silence for a while. Then she said, "He's stable. Barely."

Luka didn't answer.

"He kept muttering things in his sleep. Names. Places. Nuvian."

Still nothing.

Finally, Serene sighed. "You think the corruption was targeting him?"

"No," Luka said quietly. "I think he wanted to be corrupted. To prove he was strong enough to resist it. To prove he mattered."

"…And did he?"

Luka glanced at Snow, who nuzzled closer.

"No."

The next morning came with a summons.

Not from the guild.

From the palace.

A silver-haired envoy waited in the courtyard, flanked by two armored knights bearing the royal crest of the capital.

"We've been watching the leyline activity," the envoy said coldly. "And we traced the original mana rot to an old altar—one marked with your team's last registered coordinates."

Luka narrowed his eyes. "We already filed the report."

The envoy didn't blink. "And yet the Princess requires clarification. Personally."

Serene stepped forward. "Let me go instead. Luka needs rest."

"No," Luka said, standing straight. "I'll go."

Snow chirped, fluttering down from the awning to land on his shoulder with a decisive little thump.

Luka gave Serene a faint smile.

"You keep an eye on Arthur. Make sure the idiot doesn't try to walk again."

She didn't smile back—but she gave a nod. "Come back with answers."

As the envoy's carriage rolled out of the city, Luka sat inside with arms crossed, watching the trees blur past.

Snow stood in his lap, tail flicking anxiously.

"I know," Luka murmured. "We didn't stop it. Not really."

The rot hadn't ended.

They had just delayed whatever was coming.

And now… the capital wanted answers.

Or scapegoats.

Either way—

The game had changed.

And Luka was already ten moves ahead.

.

.

.

The capital's walls rose like jagged white teeth against the horizon, spires spearing the sky, the banners of House Valebright snapping sharply in the wind.

Snow perched at the carriage window, nose pressed to the glass. His eyes, wide and alert, darted between the towers and battlements. Luka didn't speak.

He was counting.

Every guard tower they passed.

Every checkpoint manned with more soldiers than usual.

Something had changed.

When the carriage finally rolled to a stop in the palace courtyard, a steward was already waiting—flanked not by knights, but mages. All robed in silver.

No greeting. No bow.

Just a cold, "The Princess is waiting."

Snow growled faintly. Luka didn't bother responding.

They were led through arched halls gleaming with opulence—so unlike the rot-black forest they had left behind. Yet somehow, Luka felt more uneasy here.

He was led into a long chamber, sunlit and silent.

At the end sat Princess Nuvian.

Clad in a pale mantle threaded with living ivy, she was every bit the elven icon the capital whispered about. Serene. Poised. Dangerous. And above all—displeased.

"Ranger Luka," she said softly, "I expected Arthur."

Luka bowed, but just barely. "He's unconscious. That tends to happen when someone stabs a corruption beacon."

A flicker passed through her expression.

"You allowed him to?"

"I told him not to."

Snow chirped at that, as if seconding the motion.

One of the silver-robed mages behind her leaned in and whispered something. Nuvian didn't look away from Luka.

"We confirmed your report. The beacon's detonation caused a minor rift in the leyline. Not permanent, but the rot scar remains. And it's spreading south."

She stood, hands clasped.

"Explain this, Ranger. Not as a soldier. But as someone who was there."

Luka's voice was steady. "The beacon wasn't random. It was built. Fed. And something—someone—was nurturing it."

"Did you see them?"

"No. But they saw us."

A long pause.

Then Nuvian said, "There have been rumors of shadow cults stirring beyond the reaches of both our lands. Whispers of a group that calls themselves the Veiled Root."

"Catchy," Luka muttered.

Her eyes narrowed. "They deal in corruption. Runes. Forbidden arts. They may be behind this."

"And you think they targeted Arthur?"

"No." She stepped down from the dais. "I think they used him."

Luka's brow furrowed.

"Arthur has… ambition. And enough pride to choke himself with. He may have been tempted."

"He was arrogant, not possessed," Luka replied. "He thought he could out-power a mana curse."

"Which is worse."

They both stood in silence for a moment.

Then Nuvian said, more softly, "He's in love with me, you know."

Luka blinked. "Unfortunately."

A faint smile tugged at her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes. "That makes him dangerous. To himself. And to others."

She turned to the silver mage. "Double the watchers on him. Discreetly."

"You think he's a liability," Luka said.

"I think he's a crack in the dam. And the flood's coming."

.

.

.

Back at the Guild

Arthur woke.

Eyes bleary. Body weak. His limbs felt heavy, like someone had poured molten metal through his veins.

He groaned.

Then scowled.

No one was in the room. Not Serene. Not Gregor. Not even Luka.

He sat up slowly, wincing. His fingers twitched with leftover static from the corruption.

He remembered the explosion.

He remembered the rot calling to him.

He remembered failing.

And then—

He remembered Luka stepping in.

Saving him.

Again.

Arthur's face twisted in frustration.

He pushed himself out of bed, dragging a long coat from the hook by the door. He wasn't done.

Not by a long shot.

Meanwhile…

Far from both city and palace, in a glade no map had marked in centuries…

…something shifted beneath the earth.

The shattered obelisk's fragments pulsed once.

Then twice.

Then a new rune flared to life.

Soft.

Sickly red.

And beneath it, buried in roots and bones, a pair of eyes opened.

Watching.

Waiting.

.

.

.

The halls of the Adventurer's Guild were quieter than usual.

Not because the city was calm—far from it. Since the forest incident, lower-tiered quests had all but halted. Too many monsters wandering too close to the city's edge. Too many low-ranked adventurers going missing.

The bulletin board had half its usual flyers.

The tavern had double its usual complaints.

And Arthur?

Arthur was pretending he wasn't limping.

He stormed past the front desk, ignoring the receptionist's wary glance.

"Tell the others I've gone out," he said curtly.

"Sir, Luka left you strict instructions—"

"I don't take orders from that sidekick," Arthur snapped, eyes burning. "And if Serene asks, tell her I'm doing what a real hero would do."

He slammed the doors behind him.

Snow, perched on the banister above, tilted his little white head.

He sneezed a spark of confusion.

Down the hall, Gregor muttered, "This'll go great."

.

.

.

East of the City – The Outskirts

Arthur didn't have a plan.

He had a sword.

He had frustration.

And he had pride—boiling hot, clinging to his skin like sweat.

The last battle played on a loop in his mind: Luka barking commands, Serene taking point, Snow flying overhead.

And him?

Sidelined. Knocked unconscious. Carried out like a rookie.

He reached the forest's edge by dusk.

The trees groaned.

The air felt… wrong.

But Arthur didn't stop.

The last place the corruption was seen—according to the maps he stole from the Guild's records—was about a mile beyond the burn-scarred clearing.

As he passed under the skeletal branches, Arthur muttered, "I'll find the source. I'll deal with it myself. Then they'll stop looking at Luka like he's some saint."

He walked deeper.

And the forest welcomed him.

.

.

.

Back in the Capital – Guild War Room

Luka stared at the map, fingers drumming.

Serene paced behind him.

"The leyline pulse is steady now. Still tainted, but not flaring. That gives us time—barely."

Gregor leaned in. "Then we shouldn't waste it. We need to plan a perimeter sweep with coordinated mages, maybe drag in that Elf High Circle you don't like."

"We don't have time," Luka said quietly. "Arthur's gone."

That froze the room.

Serene turned slowly. "He what?"

"Slipped out just after noon. Stole some Guild maps. Avoided every patrol."

Gregor's expression twisted. "He went back, didn't he?"

"Like an idiot," Luka confirmed. "To prove something."

Snow chirped from his shoulder, then growled—a low, warning noise.

Luka stood.

"Get the horses. We go now."

.

.

.

Deeper in the Forest

Arthur knelt beside a rotted tree, eyes scanning the soil.

Black veins pulsed faintly beneath the bark. Like the forest was bleeding from beneath.

A whisper brushed past his ear.

He turned—nothing.

Then he heard it again.

Not words.

Not breath.

But something like invitation.

And there, half-buried in moss and bone, lay another shard.

A fragment of the shattered obelisk.

It thrummed. Faint. Hungry.

Arthur reached for it.

It didn't resist.

No trap.

Just... acceptance.

The moment his fingers closed around it, pain lanced through his arm—shooting up to his temple, behind his eyes.

He screamed.

Collapsed.

And when he looked up again—

He saw.

Not with his eyes, but with something deeper.

Something else.

Visions.

Of rotted roots and thrones carved from corpsewood.

Of a woman cloaked in fungus and shadow, her face half-covered in gold leaf, half bone.

A whisper bloomed behind his eyes:

"You want power? I give it freely."

"You want recognition?"

"Then burn the boy who stands in your way."

Arthur staggered back.

He dropped the shard.

Breathing ragged.

Sweat soaked his collar.

And for a moment—just a moment—he looked terrified.

Then his face hardened.

"…Fine," he muttered. "If I need rot to prove myself…"

His hand moved back toward the shard.

"…Then so be it."