The Extra Who Shouldn't Exist-Chapter 398 - 399 : A Monstrous Creation (1)
Hephaetaestus did not speak immediately.
The forge’s dim glow cast long, flickering shadows across his weathered face, the heat from dying embers humming faintly in the background like a weary heartbeat.
Instead, he lifted his trembling hand and pointed forward, veins bulging under his scarred skin from the effort.
A faint pulse of fading divinity flickered from his fingertips, weak and sputtering like a candle in the wind.
The air distorted, rippling as if unseen fingers stirred the ether.
Light bent inward, warping the forge’s orange haze into fractured prisms.
And a holographic screen materialized before them, its edges shimmering with ethereal static.
It hovered silently in the center of the forge, suspended amid the scent of molten metal and charred wood.
Alex narrowed his eyes, his muscles tensing instinctively.
Lina’s breath hitched, her hand instinctively gripping the edge of a nearby anvil.
Inside the screen—
A village appeared.
Or what used to be one.
Wooden houses burned slowly, flames crawling lazily across collapsing rooftops, devouring thatch and timber with crackling whispers. Smoke rose in thin, dying spirals, carrying the acrid bite of charred flesh and splintered oak. The ground was soaked in darkened blood, pooling in muddy craters that reflected the dying firelight.
Bodies were scattered everywhere.
Men, their calloused hands still clutching rusted scythes.
Women, dresses torn and muddied.
Elderly, twisted in final agony.
Young children, tiny forms crumpled like discarded dolls.
Some lay face down in the dirt, faces buried in the filth. Some still clutched farming tools, fingers locked in death’s grip. Others were frozen mid-run, arrows piercing their backs, feathers quivering faintly in the projection’s illusory breeze.
The air inside the projection seemed heavy with rot, a cloying miasma that seeped even into the forge, turning stomachs.
Several corpses had already begun decomposing. Skin turning gray and sloughing off in patches. Limbs stiff and bloated. Flies gathering in buzzing swarms, their iridescent bodies darting like specks of malice.
Silence hung over the massacre, broken only by the distant pop of embers.
Then—
Laughter, sharp and mocking, slicing through the quiet.
Black, feathery-winged figures moved between the bodies, their shadows stretching grotesquely in the firelight.
Fallen Angels.
Their wings were vast and layered with midnight feathers that shimmered faintly with a metallic sheen, rustling softly as they prowled. Their skin was pale—almost marble-like—but streaked with faint black veins that pulsed with corrupted energy, like rivers of ink beneath porcelain. Their eyes glowed a dim crimson, sharp and predatory, scanning for any twitch of life.
Each wore dark silver armor engraved with jagged runes that hummed with faint, malevolent power. Their bows were long and elegant, carved from obsidian-like material, strings glowing faintly red as they drew and released arrows of condensed energy, each shot trailing a whisper of scorched air.
Two of them stood atop a collapsed rooftop, boots crunching on shattered tiles.
They were firing arrows casually into buildings that showed the slightest movement, the projectiles hissing through the air with lethal precision.
One arrow pierced through a wooden door, splintering it inward.
Another tore through a window, glass shattering in a brief cascade.
A faint scream echoed—high and desperate—
Then silence, abrupt as a snapped thread.
One of them snorted, wiping sweat from his brow with a gauntleted hand.
"Pathetic creatures," he muttered, not even bothering to aim carefully, his voice dripping with disdain.
The other chuckled, a low, guttural sound that echoed off the ruins.
"They still prayed while we were burning their homes." He nocked another arrow, drawing it back with casual ease.
He loosed another arrow into a barn, the shaft burying deep into straw and shadow.
"Still believing their precious god would save them."
A smirk stretched across his pale face, revealing sharp teeth.
"Hephaetaestus, was it?" The name rolled off his tongue like a curse.
The first one scoffed, hawking and spitting onto the bloodied ground.
"A god with barely any believers left." He kicked a corpse aside with his boot, the body rolling limply into a ditch.
"Forsaken trash worshipping a forsaken god."
They both laughed, the sound harsh and echoing, mingling with the crackle of flames.
"Maybe if they prayed harder, he’d crawl out of whatever hole he’s rotting in."
Another arrow flew, streaking red.
The building collapsed in a roar of timber and dust.
Then—
The sky darkened.
Not from smoke, which still curled lazily upward.
But from wings, blotting the faint sunlight like an eclipse.
Hundreds.
No—
Hundreds of black-winged figures descended from above, their synchronized wingbeats creating a thunderous downdraft that scattered ash and embers.
The two fallen angels on the rooftop froze, bows slackening in their grips.
Their laughter died instantly, replaced by the pounding of their hearts.
They looked up, eyes widening in dawning terror.
Their faces drained of color, pale skin turning ashen.
They swallowed hard, throats bobbing visibly.
Without a word, they leapt down from the rooftop and landed heavily on the ground, knees buckling from the impact.
The moment their boots touched the blood-soaked earth—
They dropped to their knees.
Heads pressed against the dirt, foreheads grinding into the muck.
Wings folded tightly behind them, feathers trembling.
The massive force of Fallen Angels landed around them in disciplined formation.
Not a single feather out of place, ranks perfect as a blade’s edge.
The ground trembled under their synchronized descent, sending ripples through the blood pools.
At the center—
A tall figure stepped forward, his presence parting the ranks like a shadow.
A scar ran diagonally across his face, cutting through one crimson eye and trailing down to his jaw, the tissue puckered and white.
His wings were larger than the others.
Darker.
Denser, absorbing light like voids.
His armor was black with deep crimson etchings that pulsed faintly, syncing with his steady breaths.
Lord Corvin.
He surveyed the destroyed village with cold indifference, his good eye flicking over the carnage without emotion.
His gaze fell upon the two kneeling soldiers, lingering like judgment.
"You two," he said calmly, his tone slicing the tension.
His voice was smooth.
Controlled.
Terrifying, carrying the weight of unspoken threats.
"Give me your report."
The two trembled slightly but did not lift their heads, spines rigid with fear.
"My Lord Corvin," one of them said quickly, voice tight and cracking at the edges.
"We have annihilated the entire village."
"None were spared."
The second added hurriedly, words tumbling out, "All targets eliminated. No survivors."
Corvin stared at them for a long moment, the silence stretching like a noose.
Then—
"Good."
He stepped forward, boots crunching over broken wood and bone, each step deliberate.
"Lady Victoria is arriving here soon."
His single visible eye narrowed slightly, shadows deepening in its crimson glow.
"I do not want her to see any kind of incompetence in my unit."
His voice hardened, edges sharpening like a blade drawn across stone.
"If you spared even one alive—"
He pointed lazily toward the sea of corpses, finger steady.
"You will be lying next to them."
The two soldiers swallowed hard, audible in the hush.
Sweat formed along their temples despite the cold air, beading and trickling down.
"We understand, my Lord."
Suddenly—
A third fallen angel rushed forward, wings beating frantically before folding as he landed hurriedly before Corvin.
He dropped to one knee, chest heaving.
"Lord Corvin—Lady Victoria is here."
The moment Corvin heard those words—
He straightened instantly, spine snapping rigid.
His posture sharpened, every muscle aligning in perfect deference.
His wings unfurled slightly in rigid discipline, feathers aligning impeccably.
And then—
The sky turned red.
