The Extra Can't be A Hero

Moments after Yue sealed herself and the Demon Count within the swirling black sphere, Malachi stood before the shimmering barrier, torn between duty and doubt. Should he intervene to save the despised creature trapped inside?

The Demon Count treated him with nothing but contempt, yet he was still a noble, personally summoned by his master, the Prophet, into this realm. To protect the Count was Malachi's sworn responsibility, and failure to do so would mark him as derelict in his duties.

Still, the idea that a mere twenty-two-year-old magician could best a mighty Demon Count seemed almost laughable. Yet, beneath that scepticism, a gnawing sense of unease lingered. His hand hovered near his sword, fingers tightening around the hilt, already halfway to drawing the blade.

Before he could make his move, a shadow streaked through the air—a black blade hurtling straight toward him. Recognising the attacker instantly, the Apostle of Subservience snarled, eyes narrowing with fierce determination as he readied to retaliate.

"Amon Solaris…"

"You won't run away this time, will you?"

"No… I'll never run away again."

Malachi shook his head slowly, the motion almost imperceptible, like a judge delivering a silent verdict. From beneath his dark cloak, he drew his sword—a blade bleached bone-white, smooth and eerily unreflective, as if it devoured light itself.

The moment the weapon cleared its scabbard, a suffocating aura thickened the air around him. Shadows clung unnaturally to the blade's edge, and a cold, creeping pressure pressed in around Amon's shoulders like the hands of the dead.

Death.

Not metaphor, not exaggeration—death itself exuded from the weapon and its wielder. Even without moving a muscle, Malachi's mere presence radiated absolute control. Among the elite swordsmen of the world, he was a titan—easily within the top ten. But with the addition of his demonic heritage and a vast, nearly bottomless mana reservoir, it was a minor miracle Amon hadn't already collapsed under the crushing spiritual weight.

But Amon did not falter. Instead, he gritted his teeth, his grip tightening around Nyx. Golden aura flared to life around him, crackling and surging like divine fire. It wrapped around his limbs, fortified his bones, and flooded his senses with sharp, blinding clarity.

Time seemed to slow.

Every breath, every heartbeat, every twitch in Malachi's muscles was suddenly magnified, laid bare before his awakened instincts. The two stood in utter stillness, eyes locked. Each awaited the subtlest cue—the twitch of a finger, the shift of weight, the glint of an eye. It was a silent battlefield of anticipation, where a single mistake could end it all.

Then Amon moved.

With the grace of snowfall and the ferocity of a hawk in freefall, Amon launched himself forward, Nyx twirling in a silver arc. The sword hummed through the air, tracing a blur of golden light as he closed the distance. His first strike came like a comet—direct, fast, unrelenting.

Malachi met it with preternatural calm. His sword arced up in a flawless parry, deflecting the blow with a screech of metal. Without pause, he countered—a fluid reverse slash aimed to cleave through Amon's midsection.

Amon leapt—vaulting above the blade with coiled precision—and brought his sword down in an overhead cleave. But Malachi pivoted smoothly, raising his blade in a vertical block that intercepted Nyx with a thunderous clang.

Sparks burst from the clash like dying stars. Their swords screamed against each other, each strike reverberating with honed intent. The duel escalated into a blur—an inhuman flurry of slashes, thrusts, and feints.

They moved like forces of nature, their feet barely touching the ground, their blades weaving arcs of gold and shadow. They were evenly matched—almost. Amon had crossed blades with Malachi twice before. He had studied him, learned the rhythm of his breathing, the micro-gestures in his stances, the subtle biases in his footwork.

This time, he came prepared.

He employed unorthodox steps, irregular pivots, feints-within-feints—manoeuvres crafted specifically to disrupt Malachi's flow. And it worked. Malachi's expression hardened.

But the older knight had one advantage Amon could not replicate: instinct. Centuries of battle had sharpened Malachi's reflexes into something beyond human. His body responded not with thought, but with inevitability.

Clash after clash rang out like war drums. Over a thousand strikes were exchanged in less than a minute, each delivered with lethal precision, each met with an answer. Their swords moved faster than most eyes could follow—two dancers at the summit of the sword arts.

And still, neither yielded. Neither breathed a word. They were in a deadlock—a crescendo with no resolution. But neither knight wore disappointment on their face. For them, this was purity—a battle not of hatred, but of mastery.

"How refreshing… It's been a while since I danced with a worthy partner."

"..."

Amon didn't dignify Malachi's words with a response. Instead, he poured more mana into Nyx as he prepared to launch yet another attack.

"But tell me—can you afford this?" Malachi's voice curled like smoke, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Your bride is trapped with a Demon, and yet here you are... dancing with me. I may not hold any affection for him, but I won't deny his power. He's no trivial foe. Are you certain you have the luxury of wasting time on me?"

"Malachi… You're underestimating Yue too much."

"... what?"

"No, it's pointless to say more."

Amon merely shook his head, offering no explanation, choosing silence over truth. All eyes remained fixed on him, the prodigy hailed as a once-in-a-generation phenomenon.

Whispers echoed around him: The one destined to surpass even the Founder of Solaris… the Saint of Solaris… perhaps to become the greatest human to ever live.

But beneath the weight of expectation, Amon carried a bitter, unspoken truth. Yue stood above him. They had never truly crossed swords—never fought with full intent—so no one could say with certainty who would emerge victorious.

But Amon knew.

He had seen glimpses of her power. Yue, the regressor who had conquered the laws of spacetime, who could bend reality and summon impossible forces with a mere thought—she was already a level beyond him.

The world had it wrong. The Demon Cult had it wrong. If there was anyone who deserved the title of "most dangerous," it wasn't Amon.

It was Yue.

Amon said nothing more—his silence spoke volumes. Instead, he let his blade do the talking. His mission was clear: eliminate the Apostle before he could reach the Sword Saint.

Drawing upon the last of his solar mana, Amon summoned the [Embodiment of the Sun], his body simultaneously shifting into its fearsome [Dragon Form]. He became a towering dragonoid, forged entirely from solar fire, untouchable by any blade.

Amon's very presence scorched the earth and vaporized the moisture in the air. Malachi felt his throat go dry as the searing aura pressed down on him. Still, the Apostle smiled.

Since their last encounter, Malachi had reflected deeply. Once a proud Knight who pledged eternal loyalty to the Prophet, he had clung to that path—the only one left for a forsaken warrior with nowhere else to turn.

But loyalty to the Prophet and service to the demonkind had never been enough.

When the Prophet summoned the Demon Count to Hyades, it became painfully clear: no matter how deeply he served, he would never truly be one of them.

Outwardly, he had accepted that fate. He had surrendered his soul willingly, and even now, he felt no regret. Without the Prophet, he would have remained a wandering shell. But deep within, a silent yearning stirred—an ache for identity, for belonging.

If he wasn't human, and he wasn't a demon… then what was he?

The answer came to him in the heat of battle. In the clash of blades and the roar of fire, he found clarity. Only in combat did he feel whole—only then did he feel like a true Knight. And so, in defiance of fate, the Apostle of Subservience made a choice that would change everything.

Malachi crossed the threshold—and became a true Demonic Knight.

"Thank you, Sir Amon…"

For showing him a road, for giving him an identity, Malachi thanked the youngster before him with all his heart.

Then, the atmosphere shifted—suddenly, violently. The very air grew heavy, saturated with the stench of decay and the weight of impending doom. A wave of deathly energy burst forth from Malachi, twisting the battlefield into a realm of shadows.

In that instant, he shattered the final remnants of his humanity, transcending the limits of mortal flesh. Within him, the Gospel of Subservience writhed and shrieked, torn apart as he drained every last drop of demonic mana it contained. His aura erupted—ashen, vast, and infinite—like a galaxy of dying stars.

It danced around him in spectral silence, a maelstrom of power that blurred the line between man and myth. He stood like a figure pulled from ancient epics: a fallen knight reborn in the image of death. Every breath he exhaled reeked of finality, as if the world itself recoiled from his presence.

In that moment, Malachi was no longer merely the Apostle of Subservience.

He had become the Knight of Death.

Malachi's transformation sent shivers down Amon's spine. He'd anticipated a tough fight, but Malachi's current appearance was far beyond anything he'd fathomed. It was as if Amon was facing the incarnation of death itself, and that was more than what he bargained for.

"All my life, I had been sidelined… Overlooked… Surrounded by people with superior bloodlines or otherworldly talents."

Malachi had once stood among legends—the iconic trio that shaped an era. Alrock, the Solaris Lord. Kassadin, the Sword Saint. And Malachi, the Bone Sword. Together, they were the most formidable Knights of their generation, a trinity of unmatched skill and fearsome reputation.

To the world, they were equals—prodigies who towered above all others.

But behind the legend lay a quiet truth: there was an unspoken hierarchy among them.

At the pinnacle stood Kassadin, a genius so extraordinary he made the noble bloodline of the Solaris House seem mundane. His talent was divine, a force of nature that no one could touch.

Alrock, for his part, ascended with effortless grace—power came to him as naturally as breathing.

Only Malachi had to fight for every inch. Every step he took was won through pain, sweat, and unrelenting perseverance. His rise was not a gift or a fate—it was earned. While the others soared, he clawed his way upward, dragging himself through blood-soaked battlefields and brutal trials.

But no matter how high he climbed, a cruel truth remained: a human alone could never truly bridge the chasm between himself and those monsters.

"Ironically, my yearning has been fulfilled. Not by my lord, but by the bloodline I yearned to surpass."

"..."

Amon frowned, visibly annoyed as Malachi launched into yet another dramatic monologue. Without missing a beat, Amon lunged forward mid-sentence, slashing viciously—not out of strategy, but purely to shut him up before he began recounting his tragic backstory.

Nyx, hummed through the air toward Malachi's neck with deadly precision. But just as it was about to end the soliloquy, Malachi casually deflected the strike with all the effort of swatting a fly. Amon froze mid-motion, blinking in disbelief. He leapt back instinctively, a single bead of sweat trickling down his cheek.

Malachi cackled like a villain who just got the final rose in a dating show.

"That's right!" he bellowed, eyes gleaming with way too much excitement. "As Knights, we don't need words!" He raised his blade with a theatrical flourish. "We talk with our swords!"

'... just die already.'

Amon earnestly wished that the bastard would stop talking… forever.