The Extra Who Shouldn’t Exist - Chapter 303

Chapter 303: Chapter 303 : The first Victory (2)
[ Southern Borders of the Avaloria Empire ]

Dran’s gaze snapped toward the voice, and his eyes widened as they locked onto the dark blue-haired man standing calmly among the human ranks.

But the most astonishing detail hit him like a blow—the two sleek, obsidian horns curving back from the man’s forehead, hidden by subtle camouflage until now. They were elegant yet menacing, like polished blades catching the dim light.

‘A demon,’ Dran thought, shock rippling through him. ‘What the hell is a demon doing here? None of our scouts mentioned this.’

He forced himself to steady, clenching his jaw. ‘One demon. What can he do against a thousand Lycans? I’ll kill him and report it to command.’

“Attack!” Dran roared. “Capture that one alive! I’ll torture him myself!”

—

The Lycan horde surged forward like a tidal wave of fangs and fury, their howls echoing across the barren plain. The human soldiers braced, hearts pounding, certain this was the end—overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

Then darkness fell.

Not a natural shadow, but an unnatural void that swallowed the light, turning the battlefield into a suffocating abyss. The air grew thick, cold, and heavy with the scent of decay.

Azrael’s voice cut through the gloom, low and dangerous. “It’s time to wake up.”

He raised his hands, palms glowing with an eerie purple-black energy. “Bound by darkness, freed from death—return to this world! Rise… and serve your master.”

The ground trembled.

Cracks split the earth like veins, and from them, hundreds of undead clawed their way upward. Skeletons rattled into form, their bones fused with jagged armor and rusted weapons. Rotting zombies lumbered forward, flesh sloughing off in chunks, eyes glowing with unholy light.

Monstrous ghouls—twisted hybrids of human and beast—snarled as they rose, claws dripping ichor. Even fallen Lycans from previous battles stirred, their corpses reanimated into shambling horrors.

The undead army was a nightmare made flesh—relentless, fearless, and utterly without mercy. Their numbers matched the Lycans, wave for wave.

Dran’s breath hitched. For the first time in this war against humans, fear clawed at his chest. ‘What… what is this?’

Azrael laughed, the sound chilling. “Looks like our forces are even now.”

In a low, commanding whisper, he added, “Attack.”

The clash erupted in a storm of violence.

Lycans charged with savage speed, claws raking through undead ranks. One massive warrior tore a zombie’s arm clean off, then ripped through a skeleton’s ribcage in a spray of bone shards. Their strength was monstrous—ripping heads from shoulders, crushing skulls under paws.

But it was futile.

The fallen undead rose again. The zombie, arm dangling uselessly, lunged back into the fray with a guttural moan. The skeleton reformed its shattered frame, sword swinging anew. No matter how many times the Lycans struck, the dead simply regenerated, driven by Azrael’s dark command.

Worse—a fallen Lycan twitched, then rose as an undead thrall. Its eyes glowed vacant purple as it turned on its former comrades, tearing into them with feral abandon. Screams of betrayal echoed as brother fought brother.

Panic spread like wildfire among the Lycans. A group of five shifted into full wolf forms—hulking beasts with silver fur and jaws like steel traps. They pounced on a cluster of ghouls, shredding flesh and snapping spines. One wolf clamped its jaws around a zombie’s neck, shaking it until the head flew free.

Yet even as they fought with desperate might, the undead pressed on. A ghoul’s claw pierced a wolf’s flank, dragging it down. The beast yelped, but as it fell, its body began to stir—already twisting into Azrael’s service.

Reynard and the human forces watched in stunned awe. For the first time since the invasion began, they were not just holding—they were winning. Tears welled in soldiers’ eyes as the tide turned.

Reynard stared at Azrael, astonishment rooting him in place. ‘I knew he was powerful… but this? This is on another level entirely.’

Dran, the Lycan leader, could scarcely believe the slaughter unfolding before him. His forces—unstoppable until now—were being ground down by an endless tide of the dead.

Dread coiled in his gut. ‘This isn’t right. I have to report this to high command immediately. That demon… he’s too dangerous.’

He turned to flee, barking orders to his lieutenants.

But Azrael was already there.

The demon stood mere inches away, a faint smile on his lips. “Where are you going?” Azrael asked softly. “Didn’t you say something about torturing me? I’m right here. Why don’t you try it?”

An aura of domination poured from Azrael’s body—thick, oppressive, like chains wrapping around Dran’s soul. The Lycan leader’s entire frame shook, instincts screaming in primal terror. His fur stood on end, knees buckling under the weight.

With a desperate roar, Dran shape-shifted. His body swelled, bones cracking as he transformed into a massive wolf—towering, silver-furred, with eyes blazing red. Claws like scythes dug into the earth.

He lunged, jaws snapping for Azrael’s throat.

Azrael sidestepped effortlessly, the wolf’s fangs closing on empty air. Dran whirled, slashing with claws that could rend stone.

Again, Azrael dodged—light as a shadow.

Dran charged once more, a blur of fury and speed.

Azrael’s hand shot out, faster than thought. His fingers plunged into the wolf’s chest, through fur and muscle, and closed around something warm and pulsing.

He yanked.

Dran staggered back, gasping as Azrael held his still-beating heart in a blood-slick hand. The wolf form flickered, reverting to the Lycan’s humanoid shape as he collapsed to his knees.

“You… who the hell… are you…?” Dran choked, blood bubbling from his lips.

Azrael smiled, flicking blood from his fingers. “My name is Azrael. That’s all you need to know.”

Something clicked in Dran’s fading mind. He coughed, more blood spilling. “It can’t be… you’re the Reaper of the demon world…”

Azrael’s eyes gleamed. “Wow. You know me. Good puppy.”

He stepped closer. “I’ll add you to my forces. Don’t worry—you’ll kill your own people from now on.”

Dran’s eyes widened in horror. “No—”

Azrael crushed the heart in his fist.

The Lycan leader slumped lifeless to the ground.

Reynard approached, still catching his breath from the chaos. “I can’t believe someone like you is taking orders from Alex,” he said, shaking his head.

Azrael gave a wry smile. “To be honest, I can’t believe it either.”

Reynard clapped him on the shoulder. “Good work. Take some rest—you’ve earned it.”

Azrael shook his head. “How many sectors have we lost? You said three?”

Reynard nodded. “Yes.”

Azrael’s gaze hardened. “By the end of this day, we’ll recover two.”

Reynard’s mouth fell open. “What?”

But Azrael was already moving. The undead army stirred, marching toward Sector Three without pause.

Reynard looked around, but Azrael had vanished into the shadows.

He laughed out loud, the sound raw with relief. “Looks like the saying was right. The young ones will replace the old eventually.”

He tilted his head toward the smoky sky. “Am I not right, Edward? Hope you’ve finally found some peace now.”

—-

That day marked the first true victory for the human empire. Azrael, single-handedly, reclaimed Sector Two and Sector Three of the southern territory—lands Avaloria had long written off as lost forever.

—-