The Extra Can't be A Hero

The clash between Amon and Malachi raged on, each strike louder, faster, and more devastating than the last. Sparks lit the battlefield like fireworks, shockwaves rippling through the earth as their blades met again and again.

At first, Amon held the upper hand. With his [Embodiment of the Sun] fully merged with his [Dragon Form], he radiated raw, elemental power—a solar juggernaut wreathed in flame. In that state, he could rival even the legendary Solaris Lord himself.

His mind was as sharp as his blade. Years of combat had honed Amon into a tactician as much as a warrior, and early in the fight, he read Malachi like an open scroll—analysing his movements, identifying patterns, and deploying counters with surgical precision.

But then the tide began to turn.

As Malachi ascended to his higher form, something shifted—visibly, viscerally. No longer merely a formidable warrior, he now radiated an oppressive aura of death itself. The battlefield dimmed, the air thinned, and the heat from Amon's flames seemed to falter in his presence.

Malachi had become a true Death Knight, and with that title came a terrifying new ability: he could strike beyond the physical, his attacks targeting the soul.

Suddenly, Amon's flame-forged body—once impervious to steel—was no shield at all. Worse still, Malachi's transformation had elevated him to dragonoid levels of strength and speed. He moved like a phantom, each swing faster than the last, his footwork fluid and eerily precise.

What Amon could once anticipate with ease now arrived too fast to parry cleanly. And as the Death Knight grew more comfortable in his empowered form, his control sharpened. Each movement became more deliberate, more devastating.

The gap between them widened by the second. Amon's only remaining edge was his foresight—his ability to study and predict Malachi's combat rhythm. But even that advantage was beginning to fray as Malachi adapted on the fly, his fighting style evolving with every passing moment.

It became clear: if things continued at this pace, Amon wouldn't just lose the upper hand.

He would lose the fight.

'I have no choice…'

Clicking his tongue with quiet irritation, Amon swiftly widened the gap between himself and the Death Knight, who stood enraptured by the rhythm of combat, his armour vibrating with a maddening hunger for more bloodshed.

The clash had reached a fever pitch, but Amon was preparing for a shift—something different, something decisive. Malachi, ever perceptive beneath his grim silence, caught the subtle change. His eyes, sharp and restless, flared with anticipation. He sensed the incoming shift in energy and raised his blade, surrounding it with a concentrated layer of Aura that crackled in the dim light like a living current.

In one fluid motion, Amon dismissed both [Embodiment of the Sun] and [Dragon Form], allowing their radiance to flicker out like dying embers. He knew Malachi was beginning to adapt, slowly but surely, as he parsed the patterns of his solar techniques.

It was time to turn the tide.

With a deep breath, Amon released his hold on solar mana—and in its place, a colder, more ancient energy surged forward. Lunar mana flooded through him, calm and consuming, mysterious in its serenity yet terrifying in its depth.

The air shifted.

From Amon's blade, Nyx emitted a shriek—a haunting cry filled not with pain, but exultation. The weapon trembled with joy, resonating with the very force it had been forged to channel. This was the energy it had known for lifetimes, the power it had served with unwavering loyalty. It welcomed the return of its true essence, and with it, its full potential was awakened.

And then, the world turned black.

Light receded as if swallowed whole. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the earth. Time itself seemed to stand still. In that void, only the moon's cold whisper remained—and Amon stood at its centre, reborn beneath its pale dominion.

'Dusk.'

The incandescent sun that once blazed above was suddenly eclipsed, replaced by a full moon so luminous it bathed the battlefield in an ethereal silver glow. Shadows deepened, stretching across the broken earth like living things. The warmth of daylight vanished, and in its absence, a solemn darkness reigned—one shaped and ruled by Amon.

Under the moon's gaze, his presence transformed. Darkness flowed through his veins like second nature, and the Lunar Mystic Arts became an extension of his will. With seamless, balletic precision, Amon unleashed his assault—an elegant yet deadly performance of crescent strikes that erupted from the surge of his lunar mana.

Arcs of silver energy rained down from above, each blade-shaped crescent carrying the weight of the moon's fury. Malachi met the onslaught head-on, his bone-forged sword infused with the essence of death, twisting and shattering crescent after crescent in bursts of spectral light. His blade moved like a shield of inevitability, parrying and deflecting even as he was driven backwards.

Then came the shift.

Amon raised a hand, and the very air shimmered. From the heavens descended a celestial torrent—a sweeping constellation of energy, spiralling like a river of stars.

[Rhapsody of the Stars] took form: a cosmic barrage that mimicked a meteor storm, each impact crashing down with devastating weight.

The sheer magnitude caught Malachi off-guard; even the stalwart Bone Sword flared in protest, forced to channel a massive surge of Aura just to hold its ground against the celestial assault.

But it was a feint. While Malachi focused on defending against the stars, a shadow slithered silently behind him—no movement, no breath, no sound. From the gloom beneath Amon's feet, a figure emerged: a mirror of the original, clad in pure black and radiating the same killing intent.

[Reflections]—a perfect clone drawn from darkness itself—sprang into action, empowered by the [New Moon Veil], an ability that erased its user from light, cloaking them in untraceable silence. With surgical precision, the clone struck, its blade racing toward Malachi's exposed neck like the final note in a requiem.

The blow landed clean, slicing deep with the force to sever soul from body. But instead of panic, Malachi welcomed the attack. Blood gushed in a violent arc, only for the Death Knight to smirk.

The next moment, his foot lashed out with monstrous force, catching the clone mid-motion. The impact shattered the dark double like glass under a hammer, fragments of shadow splintering through the air and vanishing into nothing.

Malachi's wound closed instantly, sinew and bone reknitting as though death itself had bent to his will. Watching from a distance, Amon clenched his fists, frustration and fury surging in equal measure. That strike should have ended it. But now, the grim truth could no longer be denied.

Malachi had transcended the mortal coil. In his evolved form, he was no longer a man.

He was death incarnate.

"Amon Solaris!!! You have exceeded my every expectation! Show me more! This can't be all that you have?!"

"..."

Amon frowned. Now that he was driven up the wall, there was no point in holding anything back.

'I wanted to use this against the Prophet… But, I have no choice.'

Amon had one final technique—his trump card. A move so devastating it had been reserved for the Prophet himself, a secret weapon designed to obliterate the would-be god in a single, decisive strike. Revealing it now meant risking everything.

If Malachi survived, the Prophet would learn of it, prepare for it, and perhaps render it useless in the future. But that future was becoming increasingly unlikely. Malachi was no longer just a formidable foe. As the Knight of Death, he had transcended his prior limitations, a creature now beyond mortality.

Amon understood: if he held back even a fraction, he would die here.

With grim resolve, he sheathed Nyx, letting the sentient blade retreat into the depths of his soul where it would slumber. Then, reaching deep into his core, Amon summoned forth the forces he had spent a lifetime mastering and restraining.

From the void emerged seven radiant Suns and seven glimmering Moons, each one spinning into existence like a planetary body being born. They orbited him in intricate celestial patterns, encircling his form in a magnificent, cosmic dance.

The air crackled with overwhelming pressure—this was not the power of humans.

This was something far greater.

The seven Suns collapsed into one, condensing into a searing sphere of absolute light that settled into his right hand. Simultaneously, the seven Moons condensed into a single orb of silvery brilliance, settling gently into his left. His body shuddered violently—heat and cold colliding in an impossible balance—as if he were being torn apart by twin deities vying for dominion over his soul.

Yet there was no pain.

Where others would have crumbled under the divine forces writhing within, Amon felt liberated. The floodgates had opened. All that he had repressed, buried, and hidden for the sake of survival and secrecy now surged through him in unrelenting torrents. And then, without hesitation, he brought his hands together.

Light and shadow, day and night, sun and moon… merged.

'Eclipse Mystical Arts: Twilight.'

Behind Amon, the sky split in two—a perfect eclipse formed where sun and moon overlapped, casting a celestial shadow across the world. From this divine alignment, Amon unleashed a torrent of energy unlike anything born of creation or destruction.

It was not light, not darkness, but something beyond both: a radiant stream of black and white light intertwined, moving in perfect harmony and dreadful indifference.

This was not the power of death, nor life. It bore no malice, no mercy—only entropy.

A cosmic atrophy that stripped existence down to nothing, as if erasing the final embers of a dying universe. Whatever the light touched did not burn, did not crumble—it simply ceased, dissolving with a silence so absolute it chilled the soul.

Malachi stood in its path, the self-proclaimed Knight of Death, one who had already transcended mortality. Yet even he felt it—a deep, primal terror for the first time since his ascension, his existence trembled under the weight of something greater than death itself.

With a guttural roar, Malachi summoned every ounce of his heretic might, conjuring the full force of the death realm to shield himself. His aura surged like a storm, thick with the weight of countless souls. But the black-and-white light paid no heed. It belonged to a different reality, a different class of power. He managed only to deflect it slightly, altering its trajectory by inches—but it was not enough.

The beam caught his left arm. There was no explosion. No scream. His arm simply vanished—atomised in an instant, erased from time and space. The regenerative energy that usually wove his form back together found nothing to rebuild. And for the first time in countless battles, Malachi faltered—not because of pain, but because he realised… This was power that could truly end him.

"Yet another monstrous ability… Amon, you're just a gift that keeps on giving!"

Malachi paid no mind to the ruin of his missing arm. If anything, the loss only seemed to deepen his euphoria. Laughter—wild, unhinged—erupted from his throat as the heat of battle coursed through him like a drug. His crimson eyes gleamed with murderous delight.

With his remaining arm, he raised his bone-forged blade and called upon the power of death once more, ready to plunge headfirst into the struggle that could end only one way: with total annihilation.

But before the Death Knight could make his move, a shift rippled across the battlefield. The obsidian sphere that had sealed away the Demon Count collapsed, dissolving like mist in the wind. From within it staggered Varethrak—battered, bloodied, his once-imposing form reduced to a trembling, tattered shell. His skin was scorched, his body cracked, and his breathing came in ragged gasps.

He teetered at the edge of death, still pinned in place by the lingering threads of Yue's mana. Yet his eyes burned with rage as they locked onto the woman who had brought him to such a humiliating state.

But Yue wasn't looking at him. Her gaze had turned sharply to the distant eclipse—and Amon.

The moment she sensed the flare of Eclipse Mystic Arts, her heart sank. That was his trump card, a technique meant to be hidden at all costs. For Amon to use it now meant something had gone deeply, irreversibly wrong.

Concern flickered in her eyes—not just for Amon, but for the future. And so, she made a fateful choice. She released the seal early.

It was a mistake she would come to regret.

Writhing with pain and blind fury, the Demon Count no longer cared for survival. His pride was shattered, his body broken—but his hatred remained intact, festering like a wound. Guttural words spilt from his torn lips, ancient and jagged. He cursed himself—a forbidden spell, a ritual of blasphemy.

Then came the transformation.

With a sickening crack and burst of flesh, vile tendrils erupted from his abdomen. Jet-black tentacles twisted outward, slick with infernal rot, thrashing like serpents hungry for prey. The curse had remade him, corrupted his very essence.

What stood now was no longer Count Varethrak, but a cursed abomination—a vessel of rage, vengeance, and despair.

Yue's eyes widened as the sheer malevolence of the act hit her like a shockwave. She didn't hesitate. In an instant, she vanished in a blink of light, reappearing beside Amon, her instincts screaming of the danger that had just been unleashed.

But it was too late.

The corrupted husk that had once been a demon noble surged forward and latched onto Malachi. Of all beings, Malachi alone had offered himself to the Demon Cult willingly. His flesh was already half-promised. The connection snapped into place with terrifying ease. Tendrils wove through bone and soul, fusing two monstrosities into something even more horrifying.

"Y-You! W-What are you doing?! H-How dare you interrupt a Knight's honourable battle to the death?!"

"You insolent wretch! Fulfill your purpose! Take my hatred—let it consume you—and rise as the instrument of my vengeance! Become the demon that finishes what I began!"

"Y-You! How much longer are you going to ridicule me?!"

"Aistylhj Apoasm Asilema," Count Varethrak felt his consciousness fade as his body melted away into the demonic curse that had been placed upon Malachi, the transformed Death Knight. And with the ritual completed, his mind faded to black as he whispered the words of horror.

"Come forth… Abomination."