The Extra Can't be A Hero

Rewinding the clock by an hour, while Leon and his strike force struggled to hold back the relentless assault of an Apostle, a very different challenge was unfolding elsewhere.

Deep in the arid reaches of the desert, Gale, Adelia, Fenric, and Eris had embarked on a reconnaissance mission to uncover the secrets of the elusive Ghost Dynasty. What began as a routine investigation soon took a chilling turn.

Following faint spiritual echoes and spectral trails, the group stood before the entrance of a long-forgotten catacomb, half-buried beneath centuries of sand and scorched stone.

The opening yawned like a wound in the earth, cloaked in an unnatural stillness that muffled even the desert winds. Guided by Eris's quiet certainty, they pressed onward into the darkness. Their descent led them into the heart of a subterranean necropolis—an inverted pyramid carved into the very bedrock of the desert.

The air grew colder with each step, thick with the scent of dust, decay, and something more elusive—sorrow, perhaps. Endless rows of timeworn tombstones flanked the stone pathway, each etched with cryptic sigils and weathered epitaphs.

"W-What is this?"

Gale stood speechless, his mouth slightly agape, the words caught in his throat. He struggled to process the haunting spectacle before him, his senses overwhelmed by the weight of forgotten centuries.

Though the catacomb was shrouded in thick darkness, Fenric stepped forward and raised a hand, murmuring an incantation under his breath. Runes etched into his gauntlet flared to life with a soft, bluish glow, casting steady light across the chamber.

Under the magical illumination, the cave revealed its secrets—ancient stonework adorned with faded carvings, towering columns etched with the passage of time, and frescoes that whispered stories from a civilisation long buried.

The eerie light danced across the dust-laden surfaces, pulling the past into focus and lending the tomb an unsettling sense of presence. Each flicker of the runes seemed to animate the stillness, making the ancient murals seem almost alive beneath their gaze.

Eris, the Necromancer, paused—her breath caught in her throat.

Her connection to the dead allowed her to feel the lingering echoes of thought and anguish trapped within the tomb.

It was not malice that she sensed, but a mournful yearning—an aching desire to be laid for eternal rest.

With trembling hands, Eris knelt on the cold stone floor. Her eyes shimmered with emotion, reflecting the sorrow of countless departed souls. In the sacred hush of that ancient place, she bowed her head and whispered a prayer—not a spell, but a gesture of peace.

Though no words were spoken aloud, her intent was clear: to grant rest to the forsaken and offer compassion to those who had died with none.

"D-Did we… stumble across the discovery of the millennium?" Adelia gasped, unable to digest the weight of their discovery. "If these murals are true… Then human civilisation is much older than we originally thought!"

"Even before the Dragons and the Titans…" Fenric mumbled, falling into deep thought.

"Amon, that bastard… what exactly does he know?"

They all had varied reactions, but one thing was universal: They felt overwhelmed by their discovery and by the fact that they were about to rewrite history.

"..."

As her silent prayer ended, Eris rose slowly to her feet, a solemn stillness lingering in her posture. Her grey eyes shimmered with introspection, their depths clouded by thoughts. Strands of her lavender-white hair slipped gracefully over her shoulders, untouched by the stagnant air.

She pressed forward into the catacombs with quiet determination, her steps deliberate and unwavering. There was a new intensity in her gaze as she studied the murals lining the ancient walls—each brushstroke, each fragment of pigment a fragment of the past. She was drawn especially to the depictions of the dead: mourners with hollow eyes, warriors laid to rest in silence, and spectral figures reaching toward the heavens.

Every image seemed to whisper secrets only she could hear, and with each passing moment, her connection to the realm of the departed deepened.

"There was a calamity… One that destroyed the old world. And the Clay Emperor saved them. Saved the souls of the damned."

Eris's eyes quivered as the weight of revelation settled over her.

She had believed a lie.

She had thought the Clay Emperor a coward, a ruler who had abandoned his people and fled into the sanctuary of the Eternal Storm to escape ruin. But the truth etched into the murals and whispered by the lingering spirits was far more profound and tragic.

The Clay Emperor had not deserted his people. He had saved them. In a final act of devotion, he had bound the souls of his subjects within the inverted pyramid, preserving their essence through the passage of aeons.

It was not exile but sacrifice—a desperate attempt to shelter what remained of his crumbling dynasty. While the world above changed, eroded, and forgot, he slept undisturbed beneath the sands, surrounded by the quiet presence of those he could not bear to lose.

For centuries, the tomb remained untouched—a sanctuary for forgotten souls. But now, that fragile peace was unravelling. Intruders had come—not just the Demon Cult, whose dark ambitions threatened to tear open the veil of the past—but Eldorin as well, unknowing and yet complicit.

Eris felt the weight of it pressing on her chest. They were no longer mere explorers. They were witnesses… and perhaps, unwilling harbingers of disruption.

"We need to report this to Leon! We must keep the Clay Emperor from awakening!"

Without warning, the ground beneath their feet shuddered violently, as if the desert had awakened in fury. The tremor rippled through the catacombs like the roar of an ancient beast, sending dust cascading from the ceiling and stirring the silence into chaos. Instinct took over—hands reached for weapons, stances shifted, and the group braced for an imminent attack.

But no enemy came.

Instead, the shimmering barrier ahead—a wall of ever-flowing sand suspended in midair—began to unravel. Once caught in a rhythmic, magical current, the grains slowed and scattered, dissolving into the air like mist at dawn.

A tense silence followed.

Confused and cautious, the group hesitated. Their eyes scanned the chamber, searching for traps or signs of an ambush. Then they saw it—where once only solid stone had been, a new doorway had emerged from the shifting architecture. It stood tall and dark, carved with unfamiliar sigils and exuding a strange pull, as though the tomb had decided they were ready to go deeper.

"What was that?"

"I felt a huge surge of mana… Was that Leon's? But what followed that was…"

"Something sinister, but that wasn't what opened this path."

Though stunned by the tremor and the shifting of the tomb, their minds remained sharp, instincts alert beneath the lingering haze of dust and tension.

They hadn't seen the battle with their own eyes, but they could feel it—an echo in the air, a violent clash of power that had shaken the very foundation of the catacombs.

Somewhere far above, Leon was fighting… and not alone. The presence of the Demon Cult was unmistakable, their dark energy trailing like smoke through the unseen layers of the world. But there was something else—something older, greater.

The ancient wards that had protected the tomb for millennia were unravelling, thinning like mist at sunrise. The group exchanged wary glances, silently coming to the same conclusion: a higher force had intervened.

Whether it was divine or damning, they couldn't yet tell.

And yet, no one stood more shaken than Eris. She remained motionless, her expression caught between awe and dread.

What she felt went beyond magic or battle—a tremor in the threads of death itself. Something had shifted, and for Eris, who walked the delicate boundary between life and the beyond, that change struck deeper than any quake.

"N-No way! W-Were we too late?"

Eris felt it before the others—the subtle tremor in the air and the spiritual current shift. The ancient souls buried within the inverted pyramid had begun to stir, disturbed from their timeless rest. Over a million spirits, bound and protected for aeons, now trembled on the edge of awakening.

Whispers of forgotten voices echoed faintly in her mind—confused, angry, mournful. Their slumber had been violated, and the weight of their unrest pressed heavily against the walls of the catacomb. If left unchecked, it would only be a matter of time before the souls of the old dynasty rose once more, driven not by duty, but by vengeance.

Then, through the thick silence, a single chime echoed. Clear and resonant, the sound rippled across the desert, weaving through stone and soul alike. The bell rang seven times, each note delicate yet powerful, like a lullaby crafted for the dead.

With every toll, the fury within the pyramid dulled. The spirits, once restless, began to calm. By the seventh chime, their voices had faded into silence once more.

The dead had returned to sleep—but not without consequence. The damage had already been done.

The arcane barrier that once shielded the inverted pyramid had shattered. The Eternal Storm—an ancient force that had kept intruders at bay for centuries—was gone. For the first time in countless generations, the land was exposed and vulnerable.

And others would come.

Then, with a groaning creak that echoed like the sigh of a dying age, the ancient door ahead slowly began to open. The soft tinkling of chimes followed, growing louder with each step that approached from the shadows beyond.

A cold dread settled over the group. Their limbs stiffened, breath caught in their throats. Something was coming.

And then he appeared.

An imposing figure stepped into the chamber, the weight of his presence pressing down like a mountain. He looked no older than his mid-thirties—tanned skin, jet-black hair, and deep brown eyes that gleamed with unknowable depth.

He was clean-shaven and clad in flowing garments of ancient design, the fabric whispering of royalty and ritual. In one hand, he held a long staff, and from its curved tip hung a single golden bell—its chimes still echoing softly, unnervingly serene.

He walked with slow, deliberate grace, each step heavy with purpose. Though he spoke no threat, the air around him grew heavier with every pace. The group found themselves frozen, their instincts screaming in silence. Something primal within them stirred. And then, at last, he spoke.

"So… Were you the ones who tried to rouse His Majesty and his subjects from their eternal rest?"

"..."

"So, you choose silence?" the ancient man murmured, his voice low and laced with a tinge of weary frustration. He exhaled slowly, as if burdened by a duty he had hoped to avoid. His tone had no anger—only a sombre inevitability, as though the outcome had already been written long ago.

"I had hoped words would suffice," he said, almost to himself. "But if you won't speak… then I'll have to force the truth from you."

With a fluid motion, he raised his staff—and the golden bell at its end shimmered, its form liquefying in a swirl of light. The bell was gone in an instant, replaced by the gleam of a resplendent spear. Its shaft pulsed with latent power, its blade etched with ancient runes that hummed with divine energy. He spun the weapon with practised ease, the air whistling as it sliced through the stillness.

Then he took a step forward, grounding his stance with the confidence of a seasoned warrior. "Face me!" he declared, his voice now thunderous, echoing through the chamber like a challenge carved into stone.

"I am Manon—the Sky Spear! Right hand of His Majesty Justus Argillian, and Guardian of the Sekhmet Empire! And I shall be your opponent!"