The Extra's Rise

The Obsidian Behemoth rose from the shadows, massive and uncompromisingly real. A hybrid of bear and elephant, its obsidian-black hide shimmered in the dim light, veins of earth mana pulsing beneath its skin like molten cracks in cooled lava.

It watched me, its golden eyes calculating. It was used to prey running. But I wasn't prey.

I was going to kill it.

My sword was already in my hand, my mana crackling at my fingertips. The air smelled of damp earth, burnt wood, and the faint tang of ozone from the residual lightning lingering on my blade.

The behemoth moved first. It always did. The ground shook as it lunged, wind whipping around its massive frame as it amplified its speed, its reinforced tusks aiming straight for my ribcage.

I sidestepped, lightning flickering beneath my feet as I propelled myself just out of range. The beast's charge tore through the jungle, uprooting trees, splintering bark, turning the ground into a battlefield of cratered earth and broken vegetation.

I retaliated instantly, raising my hand and conjuring a four-circle fire lance, heat radiating from the concentrated mana at its core. It wasn't enough to kill, but it would hurt.

The lance shot forward, its trajectory precise. The behemoth sensed the danger and tried to brace, but it was too slow.

The impact exploded against its hide, flames licking up its thick fur. It bellowed, furious, but not panicked—a testament to its raw durability.

I had known from the start that I couldn't win this fight with magic alone.

It had far too much defense, far too much sheer brute force for spells to do anything more than chip away at its stamina. But that was fine. I didn't need it to die from magic.

I needed it to tire.

I pushed forward, sword wreathed in flames, using pure speed to maneuver around its massive frame. The first slash left a searing gash along its flank, but it was hardly enough to slow it down.

The second nearly took my head off.

I barely ducked, rolling beneath a gust of wind hurled from its tusks, the force of it carving a trench into the ground where I had been standing a second ago.

"Not just brute force, then," I muttered.

It was learning, adapting, using its long-range capabilities.

Fine. I could adapt too.

I conjured a wind blade, sending it toward its exposed side, forcing it to shift position. It barely reacted, the wind slicing against its mana-reinforced hide with minimal effect—but that wasn't the point.

The point was to keep it moving.

The battle became a relentless exchange of blows, fire meeting wind, steel clashing against reinforced flesh. Every time I thought I had an opening, the behemoth retaliated, its brute strength forcing me back, forcing me to fight harder.

This was not an easy fight.

And yet, with every attack, with every dodge, I felt myself getting sharper.

My instincts, my movements, my use of mana—all of it was becoming more natural, as if I was remembering something rather than learning it anew.

I was getting faster.

I was getting better.

But it wasn't enough.

The behemoth's patience finally snapped.

It roared, its golden eyes flaring as it went fully on the offensive, no longer fighting to wear me down, but to end this.

The moment stretched into deadly clarity.

I saw the attack coming.

I saw the angle, the way the mana around its tusks condensed, the way the wind bent to its will, amplifying its charge to a speed that I could barely react to.

For the first time in this fight, I wasn't going to dodge in time.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut.

I could run, escape, rely on the protective artifact given by the Academy to save me from a fatal blow.

Or I could move forward.

Into the attack.

Not away. Into it.

A cold rush of something like fear, but not quite, flooded my veins.

And I made my choice.

I stepped forward.

Lightning surged around me, wrapping my sword in raw mana, but this time—it wasn't aura.

It was pure spellcasting, condensed, refined.

I had practiced God Flash for days. Perfecting it. Refining it. Making it something deadlier than before.

But I had never used it like this.

Not while charging directly into the jaws of death.

The behemoth's attack descended, and so did I.

My sword flashed.

Not with hesitation.

Not with fear.

But with the certainty of someone who had already decided the outcome.

The blade carved through the air.

And then—

It carved through the behemoth.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then the beast staggered, its golden eyes wide, unfocused, its body locking up mid-motion.

A second later, it split apart, bisected from shoulder to ribcage, a deep, clean wound that sent a shockwave of mana rippling through the ground.

The creature collapsed with a dull thud, the light in its eyes flickering out as the last remnants of mana bled from its form.

Silence.

I stood there, sword still humming with residual lightning, the weight of the fight settling into my bones.

Then I moved, stepping over the corpse, reaching down and placing my hand against its chest.

With a sharp pulse of mana, I extracted the mana core from its body.

It was large, dense with energy, a 5-star core that pulsed faintly in my palm, filled with the residual strength of the beast I had just killed.

We were allowed to take the cores from the creatures we hunted, and this one—this one was mine.

I exhaled, slipping it into my spatial ring.

Then I turned away, not sparing the beast another glance.

I wasn't done yet.

Not even close.

I had 13,730 points.

I glanced down at my bracelet, watching the number glow faintly against the dim jungle light, the sum of every kill I'd made so far. It was a lot—more than most students would ever rack up in this test.

But it wasn't the best.

Because Lucifer existed.

And Lucifer could casually hunt five-star beasts, probably bored out of his mind while doing it.

Ren and Rachel weren't far behind either. Both of them were high Silver-rank. To them, fighting a five-star beast wasn't a desperate battle—it was just a well-calculated effort.

I was still mid Silver-rank. Still weaker on paper.

I exhaled, rolling my shoulders, feeling the dull ache creeping through my body.

"I should rest up a bit," I muttered, though I wasn't entirely convinced I believed it.

Because to me, this wasn't about points.

It never had been.

Points were just numbers, just something to measure against other students, something the Academy used to determine who looked the best on paper.

But strength—real strength—was different.

And that was the only thing that mattered.