An Extra’s Rise in an Eroge

The room was dimly lit, a single flickering torch casting dancing shadows across the wooden walls. Arthur and Morrika sat across from each other, the tension between them thick as the scent of aged wood and old parchment.

Their gazes locked, neither willing to look away first.

For a long moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the rhythmic tapping of Morrika's fingers against the armrest of her chair.

Arthur leaned back, smirking. "You know, I was just taking my time checking you out."

Morrika's brow twitched. "Excuse me?"

Arthur's smirk widened. "I mean, it's not every day you see a woman built like a goddess of war. All that strength packed into a body that's both dangerous and—" His gaze flicked over her curves before returning to her intense crimson eyes. "—downright sinful."

Morrika's expression darkened.

"Tch." She clicked her tongue, a vein visibly throbbing on her temple. It irked her—being complimented by some cocky brat, as if her power was something to be gawked at.

Arthur chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. No need to glare at me like you're about to bite. I was just joking."

Morrika crossed her arms, her sharp nails tapping against her biceps as she scowled. "Just get to the point."

Arthur exhaled, his expression growing serious.

"Fine. Let's start with how much you know about Fenrir."

Morrika's wolf ears twitched at the question, her gaze narrowing.

"Are you seriously asking me that?" she scoffed. "I'm the damn chief of the Wolf Tribe. I have access to every record, every scrap of history passed down from my ancestors. There's nothing you can tell me that I don't already know."

Arthur simply tilted his head, unimpressed. "Relax, I'm not doubting your knowledge. I just need to know what you know so I can start from there."

Morrika let out a sharp exhale, drumming her fingers against the wooden table in slow, deliberate beats.

Her crimson eyes gleamed as she spoke.

"You know, outsiders always get it wrong about Fenrir."

Arthur listened, intrigued, as she leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping into something almost reverent.

"They think of him as a mindless beast, a monster to be feared. But we know better."

A pause.

Her fingers stopped drumming.

"Fenrir wasn't just a predator—he was a force of nature. The gods feared him, not because he was wild, but because he was unstoppable. No chains could hold him, no blade could cut him, and no coward's prayer could save those who stood in his way."

Arthur could hear the pride in her tone, the weight of a warrior clan's unshaken belief.

Morrika rolled her shoulders, as if recalling something long lost.

"In the old days, the Wolfman Tribe carried his blessing. Our ancestors could call upon his strength, run faster than the wind, and tear through steel with their bare hands. Some could even take on his form—half-man, half-wolf, warriors of the hunt. When they howled, the mountains trembled."

She exhaled, leaning back, her expression turning distant.

"But those days are long past." Her voice held no sorrow, only acceptance. "Fenrir no longer speaks to us."

Arthur remained quiet, watching her closely as she continued.

"Still, his blood runs in us. Even without his gift, we are stronger than most. We fight, we endure, and we never bow. That is enough."

For a moment, the room was silent.

Arthur studied her carefully.

There was no doubt in her voice. No regret. No lingering hope for Fenrir's return. Just the hardened resolve of someone who had accepted reality as it was.

And that's what made what he was about to say all the more interesting.

A smirk curled on his lips as he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.

"Well, that's all very inspiring and all." He tapped his fingers lightly against the wood. "But what if I told you that Fenrir's silence… isn't because he abandoned you?"

Morrika's eyes narrowed in an instant.

"Watch your next words carefully, boy."

Arthur leaned back, casually resting an arm on the chair. "Relax, I'm not here to say anything offensive." His voice was calm, but the glint in his eyes showed he knew exactly what he was doing.

Morrika crossed her arms, clearly not buying it.

Arthur continued, unfazed. "But I hate to break it to you—your knowledge of Fenrir is… lacking. It's like a bedtime story passed down through generations. I'm not saying it's false, but there's a lot more to the truth than what you've been told."

Morrika's ears twitched, her gaze sharpening. "And you, a human, claim to know more than me?"

Arthur shrugged. "Yes."

His confidence irritated her, but before she could snap at him, he pressed on.

"You were right about one thing—Fenrir wasn't just a predator. He was a force of nature. The gods feared him."

Morrika smirked, puffing out her chest with pride, her ample assets bouncing slightly from the motion.

Arthur's gaze lingered for a second before he continued, "But you were wrong when you said no chains could hold him and no blade could cut him. There was a chain that bound him. There was a sword that wounded him."

Morrika's smirk faded. "You better be able to back up that claim."

Arthur ignored the skepticism and leaned forward. "Let me tell you a story. You know about Norse mythology, right?"

Morrika nodded, intrigued.

"Good." Arthur took a breath and began. "Fenrir was born in Jotunheim, the land of giants. He was one of Loki and Angrboda's three monstrous children—his siblings being Jörmungandr, the World Serpent, and Hel, ruler of the underworld. But from the moment he was born… he was abandoned. He knew nothing but hunger and loneliness, yet he survived, clawing his way through life with sheer willpower."

Morrika was silent, her ears perked, absorbing every word.

Arthur continued, his voice steady. "The gods of Asgard feared what he might become if left unchecked. So they approached him… with an offer."

Morrika frowned. "An offer?"

"Yeah. They invited him to Asgard. And do you know what he did?" Arthur smirked. "He didn't resist. Because for Fenrir, it felt like… an invitation to finally have friends. He had spent his whole life alone. The gods, the mighty Aesir, wanted him among them. Of course, he accepted."

Morrika's expression softened slightly, but she didn't interrupt.

Arthur leaned back. "It was mutual. The gods got to keep an eye on him, and Fenrir… he was happy. For the first time, he wasn't just a feared beast—he had a place. He had people around him."

Arthur exhaled, his voice lowering slightly. "But he wasn't like other wolves. He grew unnaturally fast—too big, too strong. The gods started to fear him. And then, something happened."

Morrika tilted her head. "What?"

Arthur met her gaze. "He gained followers. Wolves, beastmen, warriors—they saw him as something greater than a monster. They worshipped him, and in return, he gave them more than any god ever did for their believers."

Morrika sat frozen, her nails digging into the wood of the table.

Arthur smirked. "And that… is where your Wolf Tribe's true history begins."

Silence stretched between them.

Then—"Why did you stop?" Morrika snapped, her voice impatient. "Keep talking!"

Arthur smirked and stretched lazily. "Throat's dry. I need water."

Morrika immediately stood up. "No need, I'll get it."

She rushed out of the room and returned in seconds, practically shoving a cup of water into his hands.

Arthur chuckled, taking a slow sip. "Well, that was fast."

Morrika ignored him, her crimson eyes locked onto him like a predator waiting for its prey to continue speaking.

Arthur took a slow sip from the wooden cup Morrika had hurriedly brought him, savoring the coolness of the water as it soothed his throat.

Morrika, on the other hand, was leaning forward, her sharp crimson eyes burning with curiosity. She had been hooked—utterly entranced by his words.

A chief, a warrior feared across the continent, was now sitting still like an eager disciple, waiting for him to unveil the hidden truths of her god.

Arthur smirked, setting the cup down with a quiet thud.

"I didn't take you for the impatient type, Morrika."

Morrika's ears twitched, and she scowled. "I don't have time for your teasing, boy. Keep talking."

Arthur chuckled. "Alright, alright. Where was I? Ah… right. Fenrir and the gods."

He stretched slightly, cracking his neck before continuing.

"Fenrir gave everything to his believers—more than any god ever did. And he was happy. For the first time in his life, he wasn't alone. He had followers who adored him, warriors who swore by his name, and a tribe that saw him not as a beast, but as their protector."

Arthur's voice dropped slightly, becoming more somber.

"But the gods of Asgard? They were never truly his friends."

Morrika's fingers tensed against the table.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her tone dangerously low.

Arthur's gaze darkened.

"They feared him from the very beginning. The moment he was born, they saw him as a threat. And the moment he became strong enough to stand on his own… they decided to chain him."

Morrika gritted her teeth, her nails digging into the wood.

Arthur continued, his voice unwavering.

"You said no chains could hold him, and no blade could cut him, right? Well… you were wrong. There was a chain, forged from six impossible things."

Morrika's breath hitched. "What chain?"