The Extra Can't be A Hero

Deep beneath the ocean, in the heart of the Demon Cult's hidden stronghold, a well-dressed man collapsed to the ground, foam spilling from his lips as his body convulsed violently.

Agony wracked his frame as he gasped for breath, the pain unlike anything a mortal could endure. A full quarter of his soul had been torn from existence—ripped away without mercy. Any lesser being would have succumbed to the sheer torment, slipping into madness or death.

But the Prophet clung on.

With blood filling his mouth, he bit down hard, anchoring himself to the last fraying thread of consciousness. Slowly, desperately, he began the harrowing process of mending his fractured soul. An hour passed—each minute stretched by searing pain—before his condition stabilised.

At last, his blurred vision began to clear, the haze parting just enough for him to see. He had survived.

Barely.

"Huff… Huff… Power of Law… It was the Power of Law! How could someone other than the Goddess possess it?!"

A thousand thoughts ran through the Prophet's mind at that very moment. From the time Amon had announced himself to the Demon Cult, he'd always anticipated that the young Knight would be the most significant variable for his liege's ambition. But he was wrong from the start. The greatest variable of all was none other than the woman who stood faithfully by his side…

Yue Elune.

"Heheh, you look healthy."

"!!!"

In his moment of weakness, the Prophet was slow in realising the second presence in the room. Holding back the blood in his mouth, the leader of the Demon Cult raised his ghostly eyes at the middle-aged woman with rotten teeth, only to let out a helpless gasp.

"You disappeared for months, and you chose this moment to appear? Where have you been?"

"That's classified," the woman laughed sinisterly. "As you are aware, I'm not obliged to share all my movements with you."

"Still, you should give me a rough outline of your missions. We wouldn't be in this predicament if you loaned us your powers."

The Prophet clutched his head, struggling to hold onto the last threads of consciousness as waves of pain pulsed through his fractured soul. The woman stood over him, gazing down with a serene, almost pleasant smile—the same smile she offered all her victims just before subjecting them to unspeakable torment.

To the people of Alverton—the town once gripped by the terror of the Foolish Lich—her face would have been all too familiar. She was the unseen hand behind every shadow, the architect of every sinister whisper.

Warden Seraphina Ashford.

But within the Demon Cult, she went by another name…

"Even if I were there, I doubt I would have been able to win against the man who killed Abomination or the woman who mastered the Power of Law."

"N-Not that," the Prophet spat. "Although we've been growing fast, we still lack manpower. And now that we've lost Malachi, an Apostle, we are shorthanded, now more than ever."

"You want me to fill the role as an Apostle? Heh, that wasn't in the contract."

"Does the contract matter that much to you? We both serve our King… Zuphil."

The moment that name left the Prophet's lips, the Warden's smile widened, revealing a mouthful of blackened, decaying teeth. Then, without warning, her form dissolved into a swirling mist, her figure melting away like a fading illusion.

From within the haze emerged a skeletal man, tall and grotesque. His skin clung so tightly to his bones it was nearly indistinguishable from a skull, and his mouth appeared cruelly stitched shut. Deathly pale and radiating malevolence, he let out a raspy, crackling laugh as his crimson eyes flared with renewed amusement.

Long, ivory-white hair cascaded over his dark mage robes, flowing like silk spun from bone. Clutched in one bony hand was a staff, and emblazoned upon it—the unmistakable sigil of the Demon King.

"Oh? So are you questioning my loyalty to our King? A mere emissary?"

"I wouldn't dare," the Prophet shook his head, aware that one wrong word could send his already weakened soul into absolute peril.

The Warden, or rather, Zuphil the Mist Warlock, chuckled with bemusement as he stepped forward on equal terms with the Prophet.

"My contract is to protect the strategic resources of the Cult. Only with my defences online could you have peace of mind in executing your plans. Are you saying that you no longer need my protection?"

"..."

The Prophet remained silent. In the Demon Cult, he held complete authority. All of the Apostles answered to him, and the Demon King trusted him with all the necessary resources and command. But there was one exception.

Zuphil, the Mist Warlock.

On paper, he was a Demonic Human—an ascendant who had embraced the Demon King's blessing. Within the hierarchy of the Demon Cult, he held the same rank and authority as an Apostle.

But in truth, Zuphil was something far more dangerous.

He was a direct agent of the Demon King—an enforcer who answered to no one but the dark sovereign himself.

The Prophet didn't have the authority to command Zuphil to do anything. At best, he could give suggestions, and it was up to the Mist Warlock to fulfil those requests at his discretion. And more often than not… Zuphil acted on his own.

"Zuphil, our resources have been stretched too thin as of late. With Abomination lost, we must ensure that the matter with the Clay Emperor succeeds. And in the state that I'm in… I can't guarantee success."

The Demon Cult's grand scheme of taking over Hyades had hit one major hurdle after another, and at this rate, their plan would be pushed back a few decades, or in the worst case… They would have to give up on taking over this dimension altogether.

After pouring an astronomical amount of resources into their plan of world domination, failure was no longer an option.

"Just this once… Could you help us… Help me?"

"Hoh… The mighty Prophet is begging for my help, huh?"

"I have no other choice… You know that."

"Huehuehue… If that's the case…"

The Mist Warlock glanced down at the sweating Prophet, his voice dripping with honey as he whispered a deal that seemed to come from Mephistopheles himself.

"I'll help you."

❖❖❖

In the windswept frontier town of Olavaguel, Leon stood at the helm of a growing force. He had gathered all available members of Eldorin, reinforced by the elite reinforcements dispatched by Sir Gallahad Solaris, the esteemed Commander of the Golden Dragon Order.

Their objective was clear: to launch a full-scale assault against the Demon Cult.

Signs of the Demon Cult's encroachment had become increasingly brazen. Once scattered and covert, cultists and demonic entities now appeared in overwhelming numbers, their presence numbering in the thousands.

The land itself seemed to thrum with dark energy, and whispers of sacrificial rituals and summoning circles spread like wildfire. Amid this looming threat, the nearby desert mining town—once a bustling trade post—was being hastily evacuated under the direction of Governor Vaedros. Civilians were escorted to safety as war loomed on the horizon.

Leon's focus remained sharp. Neutralising the Demon Cult's influence in Olavaguel was crucial—not only to protect the innocent, but to ensure a secure path into the long-buried ruins of El Dorado. The ancient city held secrets vital to their mission—secrets the cult sought to twist to their ends.

"Have we secured the positions?"

"Affirmative," Horus, who now served as the second-in-command of Eldorin after Leon, answered the young Hero's question with a firm gesture. "We've calculated their forces, too. After the first skirmish, we believe that we have enough forces to completely pull the Demon Cult's forces away from El Dorado."

"Any sign on the Apostle?"

"Not yet."

"Okay," Leon nodded his head as any clear-minded commander would. "Keep Sir Gallahad on standby. The moment the Apostle shows himself, message him immediately."

"Understood."

Horus smiled as he withdrew from the command post. As the days passed, Leon had constantly proven himself to be a great leader and the best person suited to lead Eldorin in Amon's absence.

A clear example of this was the rowdy and insubordinate members who, under Amon's influence, were now kept in line. While many of them wore sour expressions, seeing them line up in standby as they waited on Leon's every command brought a satisfied smile to Horus's face.

"Johann, have you deciphered the runes?"

"Naturally," the future archmage gave a fanatic smile. "Amon's homework this time was quite challenging, but I managed to decipher it. We should be able to break into the city whenever we wish."

"Good," Leon replied with a calm, expressionless face.

Yet beneath his composed exterior and sharp tactical focus, a quiet anxiety gnawed at Leon. Several of his comrades had vanished in recent days—among them Fenric the Runic Monk and Eris the Necromancer. But what troubled him most was the disappearance of two he held closest: Gale and Adelia.

They weren't just allies.

They were friends—trusted companions who had fought by his side through countless trials. And no matter how heavy the burden of leadership became, Leon hadn't forgotten them.

"Have you found traces of them?"

Leon turned to the person he'd dispatched to handle this monumental task, only to find him hanging his head low in despair.

"... I apologise, we're unable to figure out where they went."

Bane bit down on his lip hard, completely embarrassed and frustrated at his incompetence. When he was forced to become Leon's underling, the Spymaster and leader of Echelon, Amon and Yue's intelligence agency, protested hard. Nevertheless, he had to grit his teeth and follow Amon's orders.

But Bane believed he could act on his own… to be independent from Leon and lead the intelligence branch of Eldorin all on his own to produce the best results.

And as it turned out… the miserly Spymaster was utterly wrong.

"We are unable to locate them, but we believe they shouldn't have fallen into the hands of the Demon Cult. If anything, they should be inside the ancient city. That's why we've been unable to locate them."

"... is that so?"

Leon's voice was neutral, but everyone present could hear his disappointment… and veiled anger.

Although he didn't swear at Bane, everyone could hear the admonishment that was taking place in silence, and there was nothing that Bane could do but take it head-on.

"B-But, we do have a lead! I-It's not a good one, but I believe it's worth a shot!"

"What's that?"

"In Olavaguel, there is a seer who claims to be able to predict the future. While her power of prophecy may be dubious at best, there is no mistaking that her information is real."

"Oh? And where is this person?"

Bane cast a glance toward the back of the room, and one of his subordinates gave a silent nod before slipping out. Moments later, she returned—this time with an outsider trailing closely behind.

The woman was striking, though not in the usual sense. Her skin was deeply tanned, and her long purple hair fell in uneven strands over shoulders that looked far too fragile. Her body was disturbingly gaunt, as if she had been mummified and then brought back from the brink of death.

Yet it wasn't her emaciated form that drew the most attention—it was the silk blindfold wrapped tightly over her eyes. Smooth and pristine, it gave no hint of damage or injury—only mystery.

"Greetings, Sir Hero. It's an honour to meet you in person finally."

"... and you are?"

The woman broke a brief smile before giving a solemn bow.

"A humble seer who happens to dream. But, in this part of the Republic, you may know me better by my nickname."

"Nickname?"

"Yes," the woman lifted her head and wore a warm smile as she said:

"This one's name is Agnosia—The Herald."