The Extra is a Genius!?-Chapter 157: The Breaking Point

The light in the office shimmered unnaturally, golden and soft, as if reality itself had bent around the sacred energy pulsing from the center of the room.

Pope Orthran knelt in stillness beside his desk, hands clasped around the golden cross at his chest. His eyes were closed. His breath was slow, but his skin had already begun to pale—his lips dry, his fingers trembling slightly.

He was praying. And through that prayer, the Blessing of the Church—a holy shield that enveloped the entire capital—remained active. It wasn’t fueled by mana, but by life itself. By years.

He was burning.

The chamber itself had no enchantments, no defensive magic or runes etched into the stone. Only Charlotte’s sacred barrier, hastily invoked, stood between the Pope and the outside world.

But it was already weakening.

Cracks shimmered at the edges, flickering like fragile glass under pressure. Charlotte stood near the entrance, both hands raised, sweat running down her temples. Her knees trembled, not just from strain, but exhaustion—a consequence of having invoked another powerful blessing weeks ago, when she purified the rivers and lakes cursed across Iskandar and Estermont.

Behind her, Garron and Laziel stood guard.

"They’re coming," Garron muttered, his voice low.

Charlotte didn’t respond. Her focus was entirely on maintaining the barrier.

Then it shattered.

With a faint hum, the golden dome around the door blinked out—and three figures in ceremonial robes burst through, weapons drawn, eyes glowing faint red, and a circular mark burning on their foreheads.

Charlotte stepped forward before they could strike.

The air around her lit up for an instant—one last invocation—and a thin wave of sacred light pushed the attackers back for a breath’s worth of time.

Laziel’s hands lit with multiple elements at once—water, fire, wind—and he launched a barrage that scattered the intruders temporarily.

"Cover me!" Charlotte shouted. "The Pope must not be interrupted!"

She dropped the barrier completely and drew two small silver daggers from beneath her robes.

Garron blinked. "You fight?"

Charlotte didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she let out a quiet, almost playful "hihi", her daggers flashing into her hands as she stepped forward.

The first intruder lunged forward, blade drawn, aiming straight for Charlotte’s throat.

He didn’t reach her.

She spun low, her left dagger slashing across the man’s thigh while the right struck cleanly under his ribs. He dropped instantly, barely able to cry out before hitting the floor.

Charlotte didn’t pause.

Two more came at once.

She ducked beneath the swing of a staff, rolled across the floor, and emerged behind the second attacker—daggers flashing again in a blur of silver and blood. Her movements were fluid, sharp, and impossibly fast for someone her size.

Garron raised his brows in shock as he cracked his fist into a fourth enemy.

"...She fights."

Laziel chuckled awkwardly, launching a gust of wind to blast another opponent away. fгeewebnovёl.com

"She really fights."

Charlotte didn’t answer either of them. Her face was calm, but her eyes were focused—deadly. She moved with the grace of someone trained in silence, each step timed with the rhythm of breath and holy instinct.

Her body glowed faintly. Not with mana—but with divine power, subtly enhancing her muscles, accelerating her reflexes. She didn’t just invoke blessings—she had become one.

Laziel raised a wall of flame as more enemies poured in through the shattered doorway. His other hand conjured shards of earth and ice, launching them in rapid bursts to cover Garron’s side. Though his spells weren’t complex, the sheer volume and variation kept the enemy pinned.

Garron moved like a tank—one hand gripping an attacker by the collar and slamming him into the wall, the other elbowing another in the gut so hard the sound cracked through the room.

Still, the pressure mounted.

The Pope remained knelt in the center of the chamber, unmoving, surrounded by chaos and flame. If even one enemy reached him...

Charlotte sliced down another robed figure, breathing hard now.

Then—

The doors behind them burst open again.

Reinforcements.

Dozens of armored soldiers in white and gold surged into the room—members of the Holy Guard, drawn to the Pope’s light.

Without a word, they filled the space, pushing back the infiltrators with precision.

One of them saluted Charlotte briefly. "Saint, are you hurt?"

She shook her head. "No. I need half of you with me. Now. We’re going to find the one behind this."

The knight hesitated only a second before nodding.

Behind her, Garron grinned. Laziel was already wiping sweat from his brow.

Charlotte looked toward the broken doorway and narrowed her eyes.

"Let’s go."

The cathedral’s lower levels echoed with the sound of armored boots as Charlotte led a column of Holy Guard up the wide stairwell. Garron and Laziel flanked her, weapons drawn, alert to every shadow.

Above them, the Holy Capital simmered in chaos—shouts in the distance, steel clashing against steel, and flashes of light from magical combat bouncing off the stone walls. The golden dome overhead pulsed steadily, its divine energy pressing down on the city like the weight of judgment.

Charlotte’s brow furrowed. She moved quickly through the streets, breathing hard, her dagger still gripped tight.

"Noel said they’re somewhere beneath the western wall," she murmured. "That’s all we have."

One of the knights beside her spoke. "That’s a wide area to search. Do we split our forces?"

Charlotte hesitated. Before she could answer—

A dark blur landed silently in front of them, just beyond the next intersection, its impact barely more than a whisper against the stone.

Noir.

The shadow wolf stood still, her sleek black body outlined by the faint golden hue of the dome’s light. Her glowing violet eyes locked on Charlotte’s.

Then, without a sound, she turned and began walking.

She walked with quiet confidence, each step certain, as if she knew exactly where they needed to go.

Charlotte exhaled, a hint of relief in her voice.

"She’s leading us."

She turned to the guards. "Stay close. No one falls behind. We follow the wolf."

Without hesitation, the group moved.

Through alleys, courtyards, and silent corridors, they followed Noir.

—

The moment they stepped through the barrier, the world changed.

It wasn’t just the temperature or the light—it was the absence. The chaotic noise of the Holy Capital vanished completely. No screams, no footsteps, no magic bursts. Not even the low hum of the sacred dome above.

It was silent.

As if the very air swallowed sound before it could exist.

Marcus looked around uneasily. "Why can’t I hear anything?"

Noel’s voice was low. "The barrier muffles everything. That’s why no one ever heard the children screaming."

That hit Clara like a punch.

They moved forward in formation, each step echoing faintly underfoot, but even their own movements felt dulled. The corridors were old and jagged, carved into ancient stone and partially rebuilt with darker material. What little light remained came from dim magical lanterns fixed high above.

Clara’s steps slowed as they entered a wide passage filled with cells.

She froze.

Within the cages were children—or what had once been children. Bodies misshapen, fused with bone or metal, some restrained by shackles too tight for their limbs. Others floated in tanks of translucent liquid, suspended between life and something worse.

Several had wires or tubes pierced into their flesh, and faint magical glyphs pulsed across their skin like veins.

Clara clutched her mouth, but couldn’t hold it in.

She turned away and vomited, her body shaking.

Marcus stepped in front of her, shielding her from the worst of it. His fists were clenched, eyes dark.

Noel didn’t say anything.

He had already seen all this an hour ago.

In a distant chamber of the underground complex, the tension broke.

A robed cultist, panting heavily and bleeding from a shallow wound, stumbled through an iron-bound doorway and dropped to one knee before a trio of masked figures.

"It’s urgent!" he gasped. "We’ve been discovered. We have to accelerate everything—now!"

One of the masked figures froze. Another turned sharply and sprinted down a side corridor.

Moments later, a deep, resonant gong echoed through the underground halls—three strikes in succession, each louder than the last.

The sound wasn’t just a warning. It was a command.

Across the compound, acolytes and sentinels began to move—rushing to their posts, tightening restraints, gathering weapons.

In the main hall, Noel, Marcus, and Clara moved swiftly, guided now by Noel’s memory of the path.

They reached a wide, circular room.

Dim torches flickered along the perimeter. At the center stood a ritual platform with bloodstained floors and an altar of blackened stone.

And waiting before it was her.

The Sixth Pillar.

The elven nun—now fully transformed. Her skin was dark as obsidian, her hair jet black and falling past her shoulders, her outfit formed of tight black leather and ceremonial wraps. Her back was turned, but the massive scythe strapped across it was unmistakable.

Noel’s eyes locked onto her immediately—but they didn’t stop there.

His gaze dropped to the stone table beside her.

There lay Erick.

Pale. Still. Restrained with glowing chains. His chest rose and fell in irregular bursts, and faint black lines pulsed beneath his skin.

Noel froze.

His brain stopped processing.

He hadn’t known. Not this.

Not him.

Marcus spoke behind him. "Noel?"

Too late.

Noel’s hand shot to his dimensional pouch, and in a flash, Revenant Fang was in his grip. He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

He launched himself forward.

The Sixth Pillar turned—just in time to see the blur of steel coming at her.

But it was too late for Erick.

His body twisted violently, mana surging from deep within his Core as his form began to shift. Veins bulged. Skin cracked.

And with a voice that was more breath than sound, he whispered:

"Help... it hurts... Noel..."

Marcus’s voice rang out behind them:

"Noel, calm down!"

But Noel couldn’t hear him.

He wasn’t listening anymore.

For the first time in his life, Noel surrendered not to logic, but to instinct and emotion—driven by rage and fear.

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