The Cursed Extra: Bloodline of Sacrifice

"We… win," Caspian muttered slowly.

He staggered out of the arena, every inch of his body screaming in silent protest. His vision pulsed with static, like his brain couldn't decide whether to stay awake or shut down.

Blood still trickled from the corner of his lip, trailing down his neck.

The last feral charge had pushed him past his limit—far past.

The world was spinning.

But still, he walked.

Then—

He saw—

Lyrius.

Standing near a quiet corner, leaning against the railing.

Cursing at the air, at himself, at someone unseen.

His voice cracked through the wind—sharp, bitter, venom-laced.

Caspian squinted.

There was no victory in Lyrius' face.

No relief. Just… humiliation.

He wasn't talking to anyone.

He was talking to himself.

Caspian opened his mouth to call out.

But then—

"Ding!

A notification came.

---

QUALIFIED TEAMS:

— TEAM ONLOOKER

— TEAM Z

---

"We qualified…" Caspian whispered, lips curling into a weak, tired smile.

And then everything went black.

His knees gave out.

The arena floor never greeted him.

Because someone else caught him.

---

(POV: Darian)

"Woah—hey! Hold on, don't die on me now, idiot."

Darian stumbled slightly as he caught Caspian mid-fall.

The guy was heavier than he looked—or maybe it was just all the tension leaving his muscles.

He cradled him awkwardly, lifting him over his shoulder with a grunt.

"Good work, benchmate," Darian muttered, trying to sound casual—but the words came out quieter than he expected.

A little too soft.

Like the admiration was trying to sneak past his ego.

Darian looked at him, unconscious now, eyes fluttering, body limp.

"He really gave it everything," he whispered.

He wasn't satisfied with his own performance—how it all ended, how Oliver crashed his rhythm—but he couldn't deny the effort Caspian had put in.

He respected that.

More than he'd admit.

Darian made his way toward the dorms, navigating through the slow buzz of students dispersing from the matches.

Room 88.

Caspian's.

He scanned the door.

Then stopped.

His eyes narrowed.

"What the…"

Paint.

All over the frame.

The number plate had been scratched.

The wood was defaced with crude words in ink and charcoal. Some of them barely legible.

"Disgrace"

"Trash"

"Vermin"

He reached for the handle.

The biometric panel blinked.

"Thumbprint required."

Darian pressed Caspian's thumb against it.

Click.

The door opened.

His nose wrinkled.

The stench hit him like a punch—stale food, spilled drinks, something foul.

Inside was worse.

A storm of destruction.

Mattress torn. Books slashed. Clothes ripped and scattered.

Drawings smeared. A mug shattered on the ground.

Even the mirror above the sink had a crack running through it.

"...What the fuck is this?" Darian whispered.

He carefully stepped in, carrying Caspian on his shoulder.

He turned in a slow circle.

There wasn't even a clean spot to lay him down.

Anger crept into his chest.

This wasn't random.

This was targeted.

Someone had done this.

Someone had been doing this for a while.

Darian looked around again. His fists clenched.

"...Is someone bullying him?"

It came out low. Tense.

But then—

Why?

Caspian wasn't weak.

He wasn't soft.

He wasn't a loudmouth.

He didn't even talk to most people.

So why would someone go this far?

Darian exhaled sharply.

"...Leave it."

He adjusted Caspian's weight.

"I'll ask him when he wakes up."

For now, Caspian needed rest.

He turned away from the room, pushing the door closed behind him.

No one noticed as he carried him across campus—toward the smaller, older medical building tucked behind the main training wing.

The one not many used.

It was quieter there.

As he walked, his jaw tightened.

He wasn't used to this—caring about what someone else was going through.

But…

Caspian.... This guy has earned his respect of being called Rival by beating him twice.

Darian muttered under his breath as he walked:

"You better wake up, idiot."

.

Five minutes had passed.

Just five minutes.

And yet to Darian, it felt like he'd been staring at Caspian's unconscious face for hours.

The room was dim, lit only by the quiet hum of the moonlight creeping through the blinds.

"…Damn it," Darian muttered, standing up from his chair and pacing the small room.

He should've woken up by now.

"I can't just leave him here. Not if someone's been messing with his stuff. If this really is bullying—who the hell do I call?"

The thought annoyed him.

He wasn't the type to get involved in other people's messes. He hated drama. Hated the feeling of getting tied down. But—

Caspian had his back.

So maybe, just this once, Darian could do the same.

He sighed, glancing toward the sleeping form again.

---

(POV: Caspian)

"Arthur…"

A whisper echoed through his mind.

He stood somewhere that wasn't real.

No sound.

No warmth.

Just shadows stretching for eternity.

"Arthur, you don't need to suffer this much…"

The voice sounded like it was right behind him—yet a hundred miles away.

"You were a good man… Why do you suffer so much? Why did everyone you loved die?"

Caspian blinked.

He knew this voice.

It wasn't someone he had met in this life.

It was a memory—one not his own.

Arthur.

"Why… did you still smile?"

As the words faded, the darkness twisted.

Another set of memories clawed their way forward.

This time, not human.

Small. Ugly. Wide yellow eyes, shivering in the darkness of a cave.

A goblin.

His memories washed over Caspian like cold water.

—His mother crushed under rubble during a dungeon raid.

—His father speared through the chest by a human adventurer.

—The screams. The fire. The laughter of the men who thought themselves heroes.

The goblin had survived. Not because he was strong—but because he was small. Because he hid.

"Why do they hate us?" the goblin had cried once, alone in the dark.

And then—

A black hole opened beneath Caspian's feet.

Reality ripped like paper.

The grief of the goblin. The pain of Arthur. The hundreds of nameless memories he'd taken in.

They wanted to consume him.

To drag him into oblivion.

---

Caspian shot awake.

"HAAH!"

His chest rose violently as he gasped for air, drenched in sweat.

"Haaah… haaaah…"

His heart thundered in his chest, pounding like war drums.

"What… was that?" he muttered, wiping his face.

His hands trembled.

He looked around.

A cold room. Shelves with potions. A rune-lit wall.

And through the half-cracked window, the moon watched silently.

Midnight.

He pulled himself upright slowly. Muscles sore. Bones heavy.

Then—he saw her.

Seated in the corner.

Asleep, knees pulled up to her chest.

Vynesaa.

Even like this, Her face peaceful, so different from the fierce warrior he'd fought alongside once.

"Why is she here?" Caspian thought.

He shifted slightly.

The motion stirred her awake.

Her lavender eyes fluttered open, locking with his.

"…You're awake," she said softly.

"…Yeah," Caspian replied.

His voice cracked, rough from sleep.

There was a pause. The air felt oddly gentle between them.

"You were out for almost half a day," she said, standing and walking toward the bed. "The staff said you overused a movement technique that wasn't stabilized with a body rune. You could've damaged your spine."

Caspian gave a tired smile. "Feral charge. Improvised version."

"Improvised? You're insane."

"Didn't have much of a choice."

She folded her arms. "Still. It was reckless."

A beat.

Caspian tilted his head. "Why are you here?"

Vynesaa looked away.

"…Darian told me."

Caspian blinked.

"…Oh."

"I didn't want to come at first," she added quickly, brushing her hair back. "But… when I saw—… nevermind"

As she stepped outside to call a nurse, Caspian stared at the ceiling.

His thoughts spiraled again.

Arthur.

The goblin.

The memories.

"…How many more do I have to carry?"

---

(POV: Oliver)

"I never thought I'd be cleaning someone else's damn room," Oliver muttered under his breath.

He flicked his wrist, air magic swirling into tiny cyclones that gathered dust and debris into the corner, sweeping it into a hovering dustbin.

Vera, crouched beside him, was scrubbing the floor in rhythmic circles.

Lyrius was by the small basin, washing clothes with an expression so deadpan it could've killed flies from across the room.

"…This is humiliating," Vera said.

"Shut it," Oliver replied.

Nearby, Darian was at the clothesline.

His job?

Drying clothes with flame magic.

The key word being drying.

But the acrid smell that suddenly filled the air…

Oliver's head snapped around.

Smoke curled near the corner of the room.

A pile of Caspian's shirts was slowly being incinerated.

"…You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

"HEY!" Oliver shouted, marching over. "FUCKER—YOU'RE BURNING THEM!"

Darian blinked.

Then looked at the smoking cloth.

"Oh. Shit."

"You clean the room!" Oliver snapped. "I'll handle the damn drying!"

"Fine, fine." Darian raised his hands in surrender, clearly not too bothered.

He took Vera's place, sweeping the remaining scraps into a corner.

Vera, to his credit, didn't complain once.

"...It's kind of poetic," he said.

Oliver glanced at her.

"What is?"

"Nothing" vera said