The Extra's Rise-Chapter 114: Nimran (9)

I closed my eyes, and suddenly the world melted away. The chamber’s dim phosphorescence dissolved into a blinding, swirling vortex of memory and shadow. In that overwhelming surge, I was no longer standing in the cold, silent temple. Instead, I found myself back in a time that I had long tried to forget—a time when I was nothing more than a scrawny orphan navigating the treacherous corridors of a school where every day was a battle for survival.

In this flashback, the hallways were cramped and oppressive, the scent of disinfectant and stale sweat mingling in the air. I was smaller then, my shoulders hunched as if perpetually trying to hide from the world. The walls seemed to close in on me, each classroom a confessional of cruelty. I remembered the whispers like shards of glass: "Monster," "Pariah," "He killed his parents." The labels clung to me as tenaciously as the grime on the school’s worn desks.

And then, as if the memories themselves had taken physical form, the Basilisk Heart’s dark influence surged. Its power, a tangible weight in my mind, twisted the familiar corridors into a nightmarish playground. The fluorescent lights above dimmed and flickered, their harsh glow softening into a surreal, ambient haze. I found myself in the school’s courtyard, but it was no longer the place of timid recess and muted laughter—it had become a brutal arena.

In this vision, I saw a younger version of myself, eyes narrowed and sharp with intelligence, a calculating glint in their depths that belied the loneliness I had felt. That younger me stood tall amidst a throng of jeering peers. Their faces blurred into a tide of sneers and jeers, each one a challenge to be met with cold, ruthless logic. I watched as that self, emboldened by a desperate need to protect what little dignity I had, began to change. The timid, frightened orphan transformed before my eyes into someone fearsome—a top dog in the hierarchy of schoolyard cruelty.

I could see the transformation in vivid detail: the way his once slumped posture straightened, how his eyes, previously filled with a quiet sadness, now burned with the fierce determination of someone who had learned to use his intelligence as both shield and sword. He started speaking, and his voice, once soft and uncertain, now carried the sharp cadence of command. He issued orders that sent lesser bullies scurrying like frightened mice. His words were precise, each syllable measured and deliberate, as if he were drafting a blueprint for domination.

Amid the chaos of that hall, the Basilisk Heart’s insidious whisper echoed in my mind—a seductive, persuasive murmur that urged me to discard compassion. It whispered, "Hurt them before they hurt you. Use them as tools. Let your intelligence be your weapon, and let kindness be the mark of weakness." In the illusion, the darker version of me grinned, a cold, calculated smile that chilled me to the core. I could almost see the metaphorical claws of ambition digging into his soul, urging him to become a super-intelligent sociopath—ruthless and unfeeling, a master manipulator who cared for nothing beyond the cold logic of power.

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I felt my heart tighten, a primal instinct clawing at my mind. In that moment, I remembered every act of cruelty I had been forced to endure as a child—the isolation, the relentless bullying, the empty pity of those who mistook my intelligence for arrogance. The Basilisk’s voice grew louder, its seductive pressure almost tangible as it pressed me toward that dark, alternate self.

But then, something stirred inside me—a quiet, persistent spark that refused to be snuffed out by the cruel allure of merciless power. I saw through the illusion. I saw the tear-stained faces of the children I had once wished could show me kindness, the rare moments when a stray word of comfort had broken through the endless barrage of cruelty. I remembered the single act of defiant compassion that had come from a girl who had once stood up for me, who had used her words to shatter the chain of isolation. In that moment, the seductive whispers of the Basilisk fell away, drowned out by a resounding inner voice that said, "No. You are not that monster."

I clenched my fists, the image of the ruthless bully—the one who would hurt others before being hurt—fading as I forced myself to recall the warmth of that solitary kindness. I could still see her face, determined and fearless, her words echoing: "Stand up for yourself, Arthur, but never let them win. Never let the darkness define you." That memory, vivid and pure, cut through the malignant influence of the Basilisk’s visions like a beam of light.

In the vision, the dark, ruthless version of me faltered, his calculated smile faltering as if struck by a sudden, sharp pain. The oppressive pressure in my mind loosened, replaced by a fierce clarity. I realized then that the true test was not whether I could become a ruthless mastermind by using my intelligence to dominate others, but whether I could rise above that, harnessing my formidable intellect to protect, to create, and to lead—without sacrificing the kindness that had always been my secret strength.

I saw the vision begin to unravel. The brutal schoolyard faded away, replaced by the cold, dark chamber of the temple. The echo of the Basilisk Heart’s power subsided into a low, persistent hum. I blinked, feeling my mind clear as if the storm of illusion had passed. The seductive voices were now distant murmurs, overshadowed by the resounding truth that had always been mine: no matter how brilliant or ruthless one might become, there is strength in kindness, in empathy, in the refusal to become what the world expects you to be.

I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes—not from sorrow, but from the intense, bittersweet understanding that even in the darkest of trials, one can choose a different path. The dark vision of my past self, the bully who had used his intelligence to dominate and hurt, faded away, leaving behind a single, unwavering truth: I was Arthur Nightingale, and I would never let cruelty define me.

Slowly, painfully, I withdrew my hand from the pulsating, dark-green orb of the Basilisk Heart. Its oppressive power had been a test, a trial by fire and shadow that had forced me to confront every part of myself—the ambition, the loneliness, the hunger for power, and the deep, unyielding kindness that I had clung to all my life. The heart’s influence, potent and invasive, had nearly shattered me, urging me to become a soulless predator. But I had held on. I had resisted.

As my hand gripped the Basilisk Heart, a surge of power erupted, ripping through my body like a tidal wave. My vision blackened, and for a moment, I thought I had failed. Then, the darkness moved—not as an absence, but as a living, breathing force, slithering into every corner of my mind.

It wasn’t pain, not exactly. It was knowledge—dense, raw, and unrelenting—being forced into my brain. I staggered, gasping, as threads of understanding unraveled and rewove themselves in patterns I had never imagined. Dark mana wasn’t just a tool. It was alive, fluid, shifting like shadows under a flickering light. It demanded respect, balance, precision—not brute force.

I saw its rhythm, its currents, and in that instant, I understood. Compression, refinement, control. The chaotic void wasn’t meant to be crushed—it was meant to be shaped, guided with intent. The pieces snapped together, and I could almost see the Black Star forming, a perfect core of condensed dark mana, pulsing with limitless potential.

My knees buckled, my breath coming in ragged gasps, but my lips curved into an astonished smile. The darkness hadn’t consumed me. I had bent it to my will. And for the first time, it felt as though it answered me.