The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He?

The world froze.

Emeron's claw hovered midair, inches from Luca's sabers. The black mana that had moments ago threatened to consume everything... stopped. The battlefield turned silent. Still.

Luca blinked—

And suddenly, he was somewhere else.

The choking corruption of the dungeon vanished. Warm light filtered through towering stained-glass windows, painting the white marble with hues of gold, crimson, and sky-blue. A soft hymn echoed in the distance—voices raised in praise. Frankincense and wild lilac floated in the air.

The Holy Kingdom.

But not as it was today. No.

This was before, perhaps 40,45 years back from today by seeing the surroundings.

Luca found himself standing in the middle of a grand chapel, sunlight spilling across a boy kneeling alone on the stone floor. No older than ten, frail, bones too visible beneath the robe. His hands were clasped, eyes shut in fervent prayer.

Luca felt it before he realized it.

His hands.

That boy's hands.

He was in his body. Not observing from afar like before.

"…Is this... Emeron?"

A whisper—his own thoughts.

"…Didn't I experience this from a third-person perspective last time?"

But the boy didn't respond. He only prayed harder.

"My Lady... please help Papa walk again. Please let Mama stop crying. I promise I'll be good. I'll never lie again. I'll give up sweets... just let them be okay…"

The vision rippled.

Time moved.

Faster.

Luca was thrown through memory like a stone through glass.

He saw Emeron's father—once a knight, now paralyzed from a failed holy crusade. He lay in bed, limbs twisted, coughing blood. The church's priests visited once, offered prayers—and then never returned. Said "he had been judged already."

His mother worked as a laundress for the cathedral. She was caught stealing leftover bread from the priests' dining hall.

They called it blasphemy.

They shaved her hair. Made her kneel naked in front of the temple steps while pilgrims threw rotten fruit. Emeron had watched, crying, fists clenched—but said nothing.

Because faith demanded silence.

Because "the Goddess forgives only the obedient."

She took her life a week later.

Emeron was twelve.

Luca reeled inside this boy's skin.

This is... this is already too much...

But it continued.

Another ripple. Another fall.

Emeron, now older, scraped by on temple charity—barely enough to survive. Until a stormy night, when he stumbled on an infant swaddled in robes outside the cathedral gates.

A baby.

Abandoned. Half-dead.

The temple refused her.

But Emeron didn't.

He raised her himself.

Named her Mirelle.

His light in the dark.

The only thing that kept him praying. Smiling. Breathing.

They lived in a shed behind the temple. Shared meals. Shared laughter. They had nothing—but they had each other.

He worked as a scribe during the day. Studied divine scripture by candlelight at night. Trained with wooden swords behind the chapel until his hands bled. Helped in an orphanage every weekend.

All to protect her.

All to serve the Goddess.

Mirelle asked him "Why do you always help people brother?"

He answered "We are all the child of goddess, shouldn't we always help each other?"

"Anyway, I don't want anyone else to suffer like we do ,right?"

Mirelle nodded with a smile "Yes, brother."

Even after everything.

Years passed, still enduring the hardships, but Emeron's faith never wavered.

Mirelle has also grown up to be a beautiful woman, she was 19 this year.

Luca felt it now—Emeron's hope.

That fragile, unwavering flame.

He still believed. Even now...

But then—

Everything shattered.

Mirelle grew ill. A strange fever—twisting her body, draining her mana. Emeron begged the temple.

"Please… the Cathedral has healing scrolls! You hoard elixirs—please just one!"

The bishop sneered.

"She is an orphan. A foundling. Perhaps this is the Goddess's will."

"But I've served! I've prayed—I bled for Her—!"

"You question Her judgment?"

For his disobedience, Emeron was beaten.

Mirelle's condition worsened.

Then—

The unthinkable.

Late one night, Luca—no, Emeron—returned to find her gone.

The door to their shack had been left open. Mirelle's shoes were still near the entrance. Her scarf on the table.

He screamed her name, barefoot as he sprinted through the cold corridors of the temple grounds. Desperate. Heart pounding.

He found her in the bishop's private sanctum.

Not on an altar.

But in a bed.

Drugged. Barely conscious. Her robe torn. Hands bound in golden scripture-twine.

The bishop sat beside her—smiling. Calm. Reassured.

"She's going to die anyway," he said, sipping sacred wine. "The fever's already hollowing her out. A year at most."

Emeron froze.

"What…?"

"She's young. Pretty. Fertile," the bishop continued, adjusting the collar of his ceremonial robe. "The kingdom needs children. The Goddess commands growth. Rebuilding. Who better than a willing offering? It's an honor, truly."

Emeron's vision darkened.

The bishop waved a lazy hand toward two guards. "She'll be cared for. Housed. Fed. She'll be repurposed for the divine good."

Mirelle moaned softly, her eyes fluttering open—unseeing.

The bishop stood. "We all serve in our own way."

He placed a hand on Emeron's shoulder, mockingly paternal.

"Be proud, boy. Your sister will help the Kingdom flourish."

Emeron didn't scream. Not right away.

He moved.

Fast.

Violent.

He grabbed the bishop's staff and smashed it across his jaw. Before the guards reacted, he tackled him—fists raining down, teeth bared, screaming.

But two iron grips seized him.

Dragged him away.

His sister's voice, slurred and terrified, echoed behind him.

"Brother…? Brother…!"

He was thrown into a cell.

This time, not for days.

But years.

At first, Emeron clawed at the walls. Slammed the door until his hands bled. Begged. Pleaded.

They fed him once a day. Watered him less.

But what hurt most—

Were the stories.

The laughter of guards outside.

"She's popular, that one."

"The bishop auctions her out on feast days. Some say a high-ranking knight took her for a week."

"One of the captains calls her his 'holy concubine.' Says she doesn't even cry anymore."

Luca felt the bile rise.

He wanted to tear off his skin.

The despair wasn't sudden.

It was slow.

Rotting.

A year passed.

Then two.

And one night, he overheard a drunken priest outside his cell.

"She finally did it. Cut her wrists in the fountain."

"Guess the bishop will have to find another 'blessed womb' now."

Luca couldn't move.

Inside Emeron's body, he felt the final crack.

Not anger.

Not fury.

Just—

Nothing.

A silence so deep it choked.

Emeron sat there, in chains, and whispered one name over and over.

"Mirelle… Mirelle… Mirelle…"

Then one day, the cell door opened.

No explanation.

Just freedom.

But he never returned to the chapel.

Never looked at the Goddess's statue again.

That night, Luca—No Emeron still kneeling in the remnants of that memory—understood why he had no light left.

Emeron had been broken not in a moment.

But over years.

Not by evil.

But by righteousness twisted by men in robes.

Now a man with nothing left—no home, no name, no god—he walked into the wilds. Alone.

And something else found him.

A voice in the dark.

Not the Goddess.

But something else.

It whispered not mercy.

But truth.

"You were born to suffer because they needed a scapegoat."

"You were cast aside because they feared your strength."

"You were never the problem. They were."

And Emeron… listened.

Accepted.

Embraced it.

And from the ashes of faith, a new belief took root.

Not in divinity.

But in destruction.

And Luca, trapped in this memory, finally fell to his knees.

His hands trembled.

His breath caught in his throat.

And for the first time, he whispered the thought he was afraid to admit:

"…Was he really wrong?"

Luca's voices sounded in his own head "Is…is he really wrong for him to be this way?"

Luca's vision darkened. 

Then he saw a different vision. The vision was not clear like a broker mirror. He wasn't able to see clearly or hear anything.

 *&^%^^%A&(&^&(*woman*&^&*&^Barden's(*&(%^&*&^&orphange(^&(*^4/567958

#$%^&?#$A#$%^?#$%baby#$%%

$#@A%$#@Radiant%$#@!@$%smiling%$#@!#@woman%$#@$#@

And then he heard it clearly "May the Goddess bless you with a smile."

****

The world snapped back into motion.

Mana howled. The ground trembled.

Emeron's claw came down like a guillotine—

Luca didn't move.

His body still knelt between Selena and death, but his mind was elsewhere—crushed beneath the weight of what he had just lived. Not seen. Lived.

He couldn't even raise his blades.

But before the claw could rip through him—

CLANG!

A blade intercepted.

Vincent.

His blood-red sword locked with Emeron's claws, sparks screeching through the air. A heartbeat later, a gleam of mana whistled past—

THWACK!

Elowen's arrow pierced Emeron's shoulder, jerking him back with a roar of pain.

"Luca!" Selena shouted, grabbing his arm. "Are you okay?!"

He didn't respond.

Vincent grunted, exchanging blows with the monster that Emeron had become, pushing him back inch by inch. In the middle of it all, he stole a glance over his shoulder.

"Luca—! You alright?"

Still no answer.

Luca's eyes were wide. Empty. His body trembled, not from fear or injury—but from what now lived behind his eyes.

He had experienced Emeron's life.

Not just as a ghost passing through memories—but as him.

He had felt that hunger. That betrayal. That helplessness. That final, soul-crushing silence.

His hands had been the ones that couldn't save Mirelle.

His screams had echoed in that cold, dark cell.

He had lived Emeron's descent—not into hatred, but into nothingness.

And now…

Now he lay slumped on the ground, weapons forgotten, guilt blooming in his chest like rot.

Selena squeezed his shoulder. "Luca?"

Still nothing.

Because Luca was no longer sure of anything.

His lips parted, voice a whisper that no one heard.

"...Can I really call him a villain?"

Vincent clashed blades again with Emeron, the monster's laughter twisted and furious.

"Would anyone have turned out differently," Luca thought, eyes glazed, "if they had lived his life...?"

Would I?

And in the heart of that cursed dungeon—bathed in corrupted light and broken prayers—Luca closed his eyes.

Still trembling.

Still kneeling.

Still unable to answer the question:

Who decides which broken soul is worth saving… and which one is damned?