The Extra's Rise-Chapter 142: Spring Break (4)
Creating a Grade 6 art was like trying to compose a symphony on a broken piano in the middle of a relentless hurricane. The wind of logic and precision battered you from every side, demanding method and technique, while the howling storm of raw, unbridled creativity threatened to tear your careful plans to shreds. It wasn’t a matter of cold equations or tidy scribbles on parchment—though those had their place. No, it demanded something more elusive.
Imagination.
Not just the dreamy, whimsical kind, though that played its part. This was imagination harnessed by discipline, shaped by intent, and fueled by raw emotion. It wasn’t enough to dream; you had to believe in that dream—feel it coil around your identity until it became inseparable from who you were, until its shape and form were yours, not borrowed from someone else’s story.
That was where I was hopelessly stuck.
Because if I was honest, God Flash wasn’t really mine. In the original novel, it had been Lucifer’s crowning technique—his creation, his triumph. I’d plucked it off the page like a thief at a bazaar, filching his masterpiece for my own. I’d altered it here and there—replacing the original lightning magic with light magic, nudging its structure to fit my constraints—but in the end, it remained a borrowed blade, not something shaped from the fires of my own soul.
If I wanted to elevate it into the opening movement of a true Grade 6 art, I had to do more than bolt on a few modifications. I needed to reforge it, reimagine it, invest it with my blood, sweat, and will until it belonged to me in a way no stolen technique ever could.
That was why I was here, sitting on a rock, clad in swim trunks, with my arms folded against the bitter cold. A picturesque scene on paper—maybe something out of a holiday postcard, if you missed the crucial detail that the waterfall looming above me was trying to kill me.
And by "waterfall," I really mean a thundering torrent that felt more like a manic fortress of water, aimed straight at my skull. The roar of it was deafening, a ceaseless percussion that hammered against my shoulders and threatened to send me sprawling into the churning pool below. My teeth wouldn’t stop chattering, my spine ached from bracing against the onslaught, and my spirit felt like it was being crushed under the endless cascade.
According to Master Li, I wasn’t allowed to leave until I "realised it." In a moment of naive desperation, I’d asked him what "it" meant, hoping for a crisp definition—some neat puzzle to solve.
His answer? "You’ll know when you know."
Brilliant. Profound. And about as helpful as a locked door without a key.
So, there I perched, half-frozen under a waterfall from hell, each droplet pummeling me like a fistful of iron pellets. Time stretched in an endless now, the hours merging into a grey haze. My mind felt like it was stuffed with soaking cotton. I clung to one single thought to keep me from succumbing to the punishing cold: ’How do I make God Flash truly mine?’
Nothing about this was glamorous or heroic. The water hammered me from above, goosebumps rippling across my skin, reminding me how fragile a human body can be in the face of nature’s relentless force. My breath came in shallow gasps, chest locked in a frigid vise. The moment I let my focus slip, the waterfall threatened to send me headlong into the swirling pool. Yet I remained, because for better or worse, I believed there was something down this path—something intangible I needed to find.
"It’s not about speed," I murmured through numb lips, my voice promptly drowned by the waterfall’s roar. "Not just about light mana, either. It’s about a single, perfect moment. A reason."
Yet the words felt hollow, like lines from a script I’d rehearsed too many times. Intent, focus, single motion—these had all become catchphrases, repeated so often that they lost their meaning. I tried to conjure images: the brilliance of a star slicing through the dark, the edge of a blade cleaving the horizon, the unstoppable push of my will. But each image crumbled away under the water’s relentless pounding, leaving me with half-formed ideas that dissipated as fast as they arose.
I found my thoughts drifting—inevitably—to Lucifer, the original creator of God Flash in the novel. He hadn’t gained it by quiet reflection or waterfall meditation. He’d earned it in the crucible of battle, forging it under the heat of necessity and brilliance. That was the difference, wasn’t it? Necessity. He created it because he had to, because at that moment, there was no alternative. So what drove me? Necessity or convenience? Did I truly need to shape God Flash into a Grade 6 art, or was I just chasing a storyline that wasn’t really mine?
A fresh wave of water slammed against my neck, making me gasp as I refocused on staying upright. The waterfall felt like an extension of Master Li’s lessons—merciless, unyielding. Perhaps that was the entire point: to beat my mind into stillness until something genuine emerged. I forced my eyes shut, letting the brutal cold become a sort of meditative anchor. No matter how my thoughts spun, the water provided a reality check, a tangible impetus to keep me grounded.
Gradually, the roar receded from my conscious awareness. My mind slipped into a slower rhythm. My body ached, but in that pain, I found a fragile clarity. I pictured God Flash in its earliest form—Lucifer executing it with unstoppable confidence, his blazing arcs of lightning unstoppable. In my version, I’d replaced that lightning with light mana. But it remained an imitation, a shell. So what was I missing?
The "why." A technique of that caliber wasn’t about raw stats or arcane geometry. It was about the reason you moved, the conviction behind the blade, the undeniable intention that made the motion inevitable. A single, perfect instant of will. God Flash soared beyond a mere demonstration of speed or brilliance. It was a testament to need, to a moment when the swordsman’s entire being demanded the move exist.
And so, here I was, pinned under a killer waterfall to discover my need. Because Lucifer’s reasons were never mine. My need couldn’t be cribbed from the novel’s pages. I had to find my own impetus, my own reason to shape the moment into a new Grade 6 art.
Time slurred again, the hours morphing into a singular, punishing blur. My teeth chattered uncontrollably now, limbs close to numb. The constant barrage on my spine felt like each drop was a tiny hammer. My mind swam in circles. The fleeting clarity I’d grasped kept slipping away, replaced by a creeping despair: ’What if I can’t do it? What if Lucifer was always meant to have it, and I’m just a thief who can’t harness it fully?’
Eventually, my eyes drifted shut, more from overwhelming fatigue than deliberate choice. The cacophony dulled, as if I floated somewhere deeper inside. The cold, the pain, the tension—none of it vanished, but for a moment, it all felt… quieter. Like my heart had found a slower rhythm amid the storm.
"Arthur."
The voice sliced through that half-dream state with alarming clarity, like a blade through mist. My eyes snapped open, disoriented. The waterfall roared on, but my hearing felt dulled. My mind spun, uncertain of reality. Then I glimpsed her silhouette near the edge of the crashing water—Seraphina.
She stood just beyond the waterfall’s direct onslaught, the arcs of water spraying against her arms. "Arthur, it’s dark," she said, her words cutting through the noise. "You’ve been here all day." Confusion flashed in my mind. Was it night already? My body felt so battered I’d lost track of the sun’s position hours ago.
"You need to stop," she insisted, stepping closer, the swirling mists soaking her coat. Her usual calm voice carried an undertone of exasperation. "Come back to the sect and rest."
I blinked slowly, trying to piece my scrambled thoughts together. The bone-deep cold told me I was well past my limit. And yet, a stubborn flicker of defiance lit in my chest—What if the revelation was just a moment away? But the truth was stark: I was on the edge of collapse. Pushing further might break me before I discovered anything meaningful.
Reluctantly, I gave a faint nod. My trembling arms uncoiled from my sides. The moment I tried to stand, pain knifed through my lower back, and my legs wobbled precariously on the slick rock. I pitched forward, half-blinded by swirling water, until Seraphina caught my shoulder with a steady hand. She cursed under her breath, a rare show of frustration.
"You’re an idiot," she muttered, voice quavering with a mix of anger and concern. "Staying out here so long… You’ll freeze or drown or both."
I managed a shivering laugh. "I… lost track of time."
She let out a huff that might’ve been amusement or annoyance. "Clearly." Her grip on my arm was firm but careful, guiding me off the rock. I nearly tripped at the final step, the force of the waterfall still tugging at me, but Seraphina yanked me back from the edge.
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Once out of the waterfall’s direct fury, the cold air hit me differently, sending violent shudders through my body. My mind felt hazy, eyelids heavy. But a small spark lingered inside me—something had stirred under that onslaught, a flicker of comprehension about forging God Flash anew. Not a full revelation, not a triumphant eureka, but a seed that might grow.
Seraphina, noticing my distant gaze, frowned. "Don’t tell me you’re still fixated on that technique in this condition," she snapped, though the softness in her eyes belied her harsh tone. "Come on. Let’s get you warmed up before you destroy yourself."
