The Extra Can't be A Hero

Yue subjected the Demon Count to relentless torment, determined to extract every ounce of intelligence the Demon Count possessed. In her original timeline, capturing a demon noble had been an exceedingly rare event, especially one of such high rank, and before the demonic invasion had even begun.

This was no mere prisoner; this was a once-in-a-lifetime catch, and Yue was intent on wringing every secret from him.

The Count's monstrous form was ensnared by an intricate lattice of arcane chains, each forged from condensed mana and etched with runes designed to suppress demonic resilience. From his body jutted dozens of shimmering, hexagonal mana pillars—impaling him, anchoring him, and continuously burning with a magical heat that seared his very essence.

Agony pulsed through his veins like fire, shredding his physical and mental defences alike. Yet, even as his body convulsed and his mind teetered on the brink, Count Varethrak refused to yield. His screams echoed through the chamber, but they carried no surrender—only fury and defiance.

A proud scion of the demon aristocracy, Varethrak could not accept the humiliation of being captured by a mere human. His loyalty to his king ran deeper than blood, forged in infernal rites and bound by unbreakable oaths. No matter how skillfully Yue applied her methods, he would not betray his sovereign.

Not yet.

Still, Yue was nothing if not patient. And persistent.

"You're a tough one, I'll give you that."

"Lesser being… You will regret this day!"

"The pride of nobles separates them from the weaker demons… but, it's also your weakness."

"How dare you speak ill of our nobility?!"

"Aren't you curious? Why can I use the power of law despite not being a divinity?"

"!!!"

Count Varethrak went still, dread creeping into his core. So that was it. The reason he had been captured so swiftly, so effortlessly—it was her Power of Law. A force so rare and absolute, it bent reality itself to the wielder's will, as naturally as moving a limb.

The Power of Law wasn't something mortals possessed; it was the domain of the divine.

In this world, only the Goddess Hyades commanded such might. In the Demon Realm, only the Demon King. And yet… Yue, a mere mortal, had harnessed it.

How?

The question clawed at Varethrak's mind, shaking the foundations of everything he believed. This shouldn't be possible. It couldn't be possible. And yet, the truth was seared into every breath he took—into every agonising moment under her control.

"Well, what you witnessed isn't true Law. I'm only able to deploy the Power of Law over beings that have accepted my mana."

"I never accepted your-!"

Varethrak opened his mouth to retort, but the words caught in his throat as a sharp memory surged to the forefront of his mind. Just moments ago, Yue had summoned Yaru—the Mist Spider—whose arrival blanketed the battlefield in a dense, otherworldly fog.

In his arrogance, Varethrak had inhaled the mist without hesitation, believing it beneath him, a mere trick. But that mist wasn't ordinary.

It was a conduit.

By drawing it into himself, he had unknowingly allowed Yue's magic to infiltrate every corner of his being. In that instant, control had shifted. His body was no longer entirely his own—it was a puppet strung along by Yue's will.

And now, he understood too late: the trap hadn't been the chains or the torture—it had been his pride.

"Soon, my mana will take over every vessel, every conduit of your body until even your consciousness becomes mine. When that happens, you'll just be a puppet. A mere shell that would act at my pleasure. That's the fate that awaits you."

"... You dare?! YOU DARE?!"

It was one thing to lose to a lesser being. But to serve as Yue's slave, forced to do her bidding until the end of time, was something the Demon Count could never accept.

"So I'll cut you a deal… Answer my questions, and I'll grant you a noble death."

"You… BITCH!!!"

Varethrak spat as no essence of his nobility remained. He was now a deranged, sore loser who feared living life as a slave over anything else.

"I'll take that as a yes, then." Yue hummed, delighted at the Demon Count's response. "First things first… Where is the Demon Cult's base in our world? Surely you would know that."

"... under the ocean. Eight thousand kilometres east."

"Hoh?"

Yue's lips curled into a satisfied smile at Varethrak's reaction. His pride as a Demon Count ran so deep, so absolute, that the mere thought of living in chains was more unbearable than betrayal. Rather than suffer the indignity of servitude, he had chosen to offer information about the Demon Cult—a testament to just how unthinkable slavery was to him.

"What is the overall strength of the Demon Cult now?"

"I was just summoned, so I don't have all the details."

"Then, who are the strongest combatants?"

"... The messenger of our King. And his seven Apostles. One of them is outside right now."

"I'm aware of that," Yue was pleased with the cooperation and ecstatic that she could extract more information from such a rare catch.

"How did the Prophet, the one you call the messenger, summon you? The Demon Cult shouldn't have enough resources to summon a noble."

"They have procured an inordinate number of sacrifices. Possibly from lesser beings such as yourself."

"..."

The Demon Count spoke with contempt, but Yue didn't mind it one bit. She was simply curious about how the Demon Cult managed to find so many sacrifices, as their intelligence reports didn't indicate any mass kidnappings or major cataclysmic events.

"Then… why is the Demon King set on invading our world?"

"Urgh… I refuse to betray my King. I'll answer any question on the messenger and his play group, but I refuse to betray my King."

"Fair enough," Yue nodded, understanding that she had pushed too far.

Demon nobles were fiercely loyal to the Demon King, and they would decapitate themselves before speaking any ill of their King. Yue was unsure as to why that dynamic existed, but it was something she knew would never change.

"If that's the case… Can I confirm that the Prophet was brought here… by a collaborator?"

Varethrak paused, his six eyes narrowing as they swept over Yue, scrutinising her with cold, calculated precision. Slowly, the tension drained from his frame. His mouth parted, and a cluster of green tendrils slithered forth, tasting the air with a slow, deliberate motion—like a serpent exhaling through a sigh laced with disdain and resignation.

"... so you were aware."

"This is… annoying."

Yue's face twisted into a grimace of pure disgust, deeper than she had ever shown before. She had long suspected there was a traitor, someone who had bartered away their entire dimension for personal gain.

And worse, she already had a sinking feeling about who that person might be. Now, with the Demon Count's confirmation, even if only implied, the truth settled like poison in her gut.

She spat onto the ground, revulsion etched into every line of her face, then raised her finger toward the bound Count—accusation and fury crackling in her gaze.

"That collaborator… is it…"

Just as Yue was about to launch into her final line of questioning, she froze—every instinct in her screaming. Though she was sealed off from the outside world within the barrier, a sudden surge of mana pierced through the isolation.

Amon.

She felt him.

Their souls, bound by blood and oath on the day of their marriage pact, resonated across any distance. Even if galaxies separated them, Yue would recognise the flicker of his essence in turmoil.

And now, it pulsed with desperation—unstable, fraying at the edges. Panic took hold. Without hesitation, she shattered the barrier, the seal unravelling in a burst of raw magic. The scene that met her eyes twisted her gut: Amon, bloodied and staggering, had just released his trump card.

Opposite him stood Malachi—no longer just an Apostle, but fully ascended, radiating the lethal aura of a Knight of Death. Yue's heart dropped. But it was about to sink even further.

The moment Count Varethrak laid eyes on Malachi's transformed state, a manic, guttural laughter tore from his throat. Madness gleamed in his six eyes as he spiralled deeper into delirium. And in that broken state, he unleashed hell.

With a voice laced in venom and ancient power, the Demon Count began the forbidden ritual—summoning Abomination into the world, using Malachi as the vessel.

The original plan had called for the Sword Saint—an ideal host, one whose strength and legacy would make the possession complete. But that fool had yet to show himself, and worse, it remained uncertain whether his will had truly succumbed to the demons.

Malachi, however, was a different matter entirely. He was already theirs. An Apostle—not just any, but the Apostle of Subservience. His very existence revolved around obedience to the Prophet, and by extension, the Demon Race. His loyalty was absolute. His transformation had pushed him just far enough to meet the minimal threshold needed to contain Abomination.

And so, Count Varethrak chanted, fully aware that these words might be the last ever to leave his lips.

The ritual concluded in mere seconds, but its impact was cataclysmic. On this day, demonic energy prevailed.

A tide of black corruption swept across the land like a plague. The skies roiled into a churning void, darkening with unnatural speed. The earth trembled beneath the weight of the summoned evil, while waves crashed violently against the cliffs, as if the sea itself recoiled.

Within moments, the barrier of the mirror dimension fractured—shattered like fragile glass under impossible pressure. Far in the distance, the town of Espadavale erupted into chaos. Citizens fled in droves, driven by sheer instinct as a wave of malevolent energy swallowed the horizon.

The air grew thick and foul. Then, with a grotesque squelch, a bloated black sphere of bile and grime slammed into the ground. Everything it touched—trees, stone, even the air—began to rot, dissolve, or twist into unnatural shapes.

And then it opened.

From the glistening sludge emerged a nightmare born of cosmic horror. Its body was a writhing mass of slime, covered in thousands of blinking, unblinking, twitching eyes—each one staring in a different direction, all seeing. Black tendrils, like serpents, lashed and coiled from every angle, dripping corruption with each movement.

Only one part of it remained vaguely familiar—its right arm. Twisted but intact, it still gripped Malachi's Bone Sword… no, something more. The weapon had evolved, reshaped by the abomination's essence into a greater, far deadlier form.

Dark clouds swirled above as the creature rose into the air, levitated by its vile energy. A crushing aura radiated from its body, blanketing the battlefield. Lesser beings collapsed to their knees, gasping for breath under the sheer pressure of its existence.

And as Amon and Yue watched the creature rise, their brains synchronised to share a uniform thought.

"The First Calamity—Abomination."