The Extra's Rise

Rachel exhaled, steadying herself as another barrage of spells screamed through the ruined streets, smashing into the storefronts ahead of her. The concussive force rattled her bones, a shockwave of dust and debris blasting outward like an invisible fist. She braced herself against a chunk of collapsed stonework, gritting her teeth as the air filled with the acrid tang of burnt mana.

Everything stank of battle—the scent of scorched concrete, the lingering static of discharged spells, the unmistakable iron tang of blood where someone, somewhere, hadn't been quite fast enough to dodge. Behind her, archers huddled low, their hands steady despite the rising tension, arrows nocked and ready, waiting for her next command.

The second years had stopped playing games.

Their attacks were sharper now, no longer just probing spells or half-hearted defenses. Every strike was coordinated, relentless, efficient. No wasted mana, no pointless skirmishes. They were pushing forward with the kind of methodical brutality that only came from experience.

Rachel inhaled deeply, mind whirring with calculations. How long could they hold their position? How many casualties would they take if they pushed forward? Could they reposition without sacrificing too much ground? She had minutes—no, seconds—to decide before another wave of destruction rained down.

At first, the battle had gone almost too well.

Her archers had taken key vantage points early on, their arrows picking off second-year scouts who strayed too close. Ian's elemental casters had held the center, their fire and ice barrages funneling the enemy into predictable, controllable routes.

And then, of course, there was Ren.

Ren, who was treating the battlefield like his personal playground, plowing through enemy lines with reckless enthusiasm. The reports were all the same—he was laughing as he fought, smashing straight through defensive formations, leaving scattered, shell-shocked opponents in his wake.

For a moment, it had seemed like the second years were crumbling.

But Rachel had been on too many battlefields to believe in easy victories.

It had been too smooth.

And she had been waiting for the catch.

The first sign came as a whisper through the air, a pulse of mana too strong to ignore, a storm brewing just beyond her sightline.

Then, the pressure shifted.

Rachel turned her head sharply, scanning the abandoned intersections and half-toppled buildings beyond their line. Something was coming.

She could feel it.

And then, just like clockwork, the real threats arrived.

A burst of compressed air shattered a chunk of the wall near her, obliterating stone and mortar in an instant. Archers scrambled backward, some barely dodging the impact zone as debris rained down like shrapnel. The concussive force left a ringing in her ears, a temporary white noise that almost drowned out the sound of approaching footsteps.

Rachel didn't need to see them to know who had arrived.

Tanya Vale.

A silhouette emerged from the swirling dust, wreathed in crackling violet mana, her presence commanding the battlefield before she even cast another spell.

Rachel barely had time to process Tanya's arrival before a second figure loomed behind her, taller, broader, carrying a massive glaive that gleamed under the dim battlefield light.

Orson Lirian.

Rachel clicked her tongue.

They had been waiting.

Letting their lesser forces handle the initial fight, letting them absorb damage, letting them observe the first years' tactics.

And now, the real fight was starting.

"Tanya Vale, Orson Lirian—second-year elites incoming, east sector!" she barked into her communicator, already moving to cover as another spell screamed toward her position.

The earpiece crackled.

Then, Arthur's voice—steady, unbothered, completely unsurprised.

"What's their formation?"

Rachel gritted her teeth, rolling behind a half-collapsed column just as another gust of ferocious wind magic carved a deep scar into the ground where she had been standing. Dust billowed, stinging her eyes.

"Tanya's focusing on terrain destruction. They're trying to force us to reposition. Melee units are closing in—if they break our line, they'll carve straight through us."

Arthur's response was immediate.

"Anchor your formation. Do not retreat. If they're forcing a push, give them space—but control how much. Make them think they're winning ground."

Rachel inhaled sharply.

It wasn't just the orders—it was how fast he had given them.

Like he had already anticipated this exact scenario.

She didn't have time to question it.

"Got it."

She turned to her unit, voice clear and unwavering.

"Hold your positions! Let them think they're driving us back!"

The archers hesitated—for only a second. Then, they obeyed.

They moved—not back, but sideways, adjusting their positions with a level of discipline that would sell the illusion of retreat.

They weren't running.

They were baiting.

And Tanya took the bait.

She and Orson pushed forward, thinking they had successfully forced a retreat.

Rachel activated her Gift.

A golden halo of light flared behind her, translucent wings stretching outward, mana humming through her veins.

The battlefield shifted.

Everything slowed.

Rachel saw Tanya's next spell before she even cast it, saw the tension in Orson's grip before he moved, saw the second-years behind them stepping forward, eager to press their advantage.

Rachel moved first.

"Fire!"

The archers loosed their arrows, each one aimed at the exact points she had seen opening up seconds before they even existed.

Tanya flinched, barely managing to deflect one shot—but not all of them.

An arrow grazed her shoulder, forcing her spell off course.

Orson swung his glaive, knocking aside two arrows, but he had lost momentum.

Rachel's casters struck next, launching perfectly-timed counterspells that tore into the exposed gaps in Tanya's defenses.

The second years' advance collapsed.

Rachel exhaled, letting the golden glow dim slightly.

Then—

The air shifted again.

But this time—it wasn't from magic.

The ground trembled.

A low, guttural sound rippled through the battlefield like a living earthquake.

Rachel's stomach twisted.

Every head snapped toward the western sector.

The battlefield froze.

A column of dust and rubble shot into the sky, the impact so strong that the shockwave reached even her position.

And then, from the ruins, a monster emerged.

A six-star Dark Beast.

Rachel's throat went dry.

She pressed her earpiece. "Arthur."

A pause.

Then, his voice, smooth, steady.

"Yes, I see it."

Rachel clenched her fists. Of course, he did.

"Tell me this wasn't your doing."

Another pause.

Then, that infuriating amusement.

"Does it really matter?"

Rachel exhaled sharply, watching as the towering beast's eyes glowed with hunger.

And for the first time since the war began—

She felt real fear.