The Extra's Rise-Chapter 169: Sovereign’s Tournament (5)

Today was the day.

The day of the semi-finals.

And the first matchup was mine.

Lucifer Windward vs. Rachel Creighton.

To the world, it was an inevitable conclusion. The Second Hero against the Saintess. A preordained victory. A battle where I was supposed to shine briefly, gracefully, before succumbing to the natural order of things.

Nobody expected me to win. Not because I wasn’t strong—I was. But because Lucifer was simply stronger.

His mana rank towered above mine. His swordsmanship was refined beyond mine. His Gift was an anomaly, the power to wield what no human should possess—black mana and white mana, chaos and order, the perfect balance of existence itself.

But I didn’t step onto this stage for them.

I wasn’t fighting for their expectations.

I climbed the stairs to the battlefield, my hands steady, my breath even. Opposite me stood Lucifer, the prince of the North, golden hair catching the artificial stadium lights, verdant eyes watching me with something that felt frustratingly close to fondness.

His gaze was expectant. Not nervous, not wary—expectant.

He thought he already knew how this fight would end.

"Begin!" the announcer called.

Wings of light erupted from my back, their golden glow illuminating the stage. I felt it immediately—the weight of my mana, the crushing power of my Saintess Gift surging through me, reinforcing my very existence.

This was the power of order.

The power of the Saintess.

Four-circle spells manifested at my fingertips, light arrows forming in an instant, humming with the raw force of purified mana. I fired them all at once, a storm of golden streaks hurtling toward him.

Lucifer didn’t even blink.

The next moment, my arrows vanished, swallowed by an expanding five-circle spell.

A five-circle spell.

He hadn’t even moved, just let his mana do the work.

"Rach," his voice was carried by mana, a whisper meant only for me, smooth and gentle, as if he were asking me to dance rather than fight. "I don’t want to hurt you. Let’s end this nicely, okay?"

I chuckled.

Lucifer never understood.

Those verdant eyes of his, always full of expectation, always dictating how things were supposed to be.

They were the eyes of someone who had already written the script of my life before I even stepped onto the stage.

They saw me as the Saintess.

Not as Rachel.

My grip tightened. I formed a light lance, its brilliance sharper than steel, and hurled it toward him with all the force I could muster.

Lucifer sighed.

He sighed.

As if my efforts were beneath him.

He extended his hand, and in the space between us, a shimmering orb appeared.

Not light. Not darkness.

White mana.

The unnatural construct of his Gift.

A power that didn’t belong in this world.

The moment it touched my lance, my attack crumbled to dust, unmade, erased from existence as if it had never been there in the first place.

I gritted my teeth.

My Gift allowed me to amplify my light mana, to bring divine power into form through sheer force of will. Cecilia’s Gift transformed spells, fusing them into crimson chaos.

But this?

This was beyond that.

Lucifer’s Gift didn’t augment. It didn’t refine.

It created.

It was something outside the natural order.

And yet.

I spread my wings wide and pushed forward, light bursting beneath my feet as I launched myself toward him.

Lucifer barely moved, his sword lazily raising to meet me. I fired another barrage of light arrows mid-air, twisting the very photons around me to guide their path.

Again, his white mana expanded. Again, my attacks dissolved.

I landed hard, skidding backward as I reinforced my body with mana, pushing past the sharp sting in my muscles.

"You always do this," I muttered, wiping sweat from my brow.

Lucifer cocked his head. "Do what?"

"Decide how things will go before they even happen."

I launched forward again, forcing mana through my circuits at a reckless speed. If precision wouldn’t work, then overwhelming force would.

I struck.

Lucifer blocked with ease, his sword barely shifting.

But I wasn’t done.

I struck again.

And again.

And again.

Each impact sent sparks flying, each clash of metal against mana pushing me further past my own limits. Lucifer’s expression remained calm, measured, as if this were nothing but a sparring session.

He was holding back.

I hated that.

Light erupted from my entire body, my circuits burning as I poured everything I had into one last strike. My wings flared, my entire being becoming a beacon of radiant energy.

Lucifer’s eyes widened.

For the first time, he moved.

He slashed his sword downward, releasing another wave of white mana.

I met it head-on.

For a brief moment, just a fraction of a second—

My light didn’t disappear.

Lucifer staggered back, his grip on his sword tightening as his white mana wavered, disrupted for the first time.

For the first time.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t a win.

But it was enough.

I fell to my knees, my vision swimming, my body barely responding. I could hear the announcer’s voice, the roaring of the crowd, but none of it mattered.

Lucifer was staring at me.

His verdant eyes, always so calm, were wide with something close to disbelief.

I let out a breathless chuckle.

"Did I surpass it?" I whispered.

Lucifer didn’t answer.

For the first time in his life.

He didn’t know.

I was half-carried, half-dragged off the stage by the medical staff, my limbs aching, my head ringing. Every muscle protested, but I barely noticed.

Because I was happy.

I had done it.

I had shattered the cage.

The Saintess. The ever-dutiful, ever-benevolent Saintess, destined to stand behind Lucifer, to heal, to support, to love him. That was the role carved out for me since birth. A path paved in gold, but it was still a path I never chose.

And today, I had broken free.

Arthur told me once—he didn’t want me as his Saintess. He just wanted me as Rachel. But I couldn’t do that, not entirely.

Because I did want to be his Saintess.

I wanted to be his light. I wanted to heal his wounds, to fight beside him, to make sure he was never alone. I wanted to be the one standing next to him, not as some divine title, but as someone who chose him.

And it wasn’t about whether he won or lost against Lucifer. That didn’t change anything for me.

But at the same time—God, I still wanted him to win.

The moment I saw him waiting for me, standing there at the edge of the medical station, that calm, confident smile on his face, something inside me steadied.

"Rachel," he said, his voice steady. "You did well."

His words wrapped around me like warmth against the cold.

"Don’t worry," he continued, his blue eyes alight with something fierce. "Tomorrow, I’ll end it."

I believed him.

And yet, even though I had just convinced myself that winning didn’t matter—I still wanted him to win.

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Maybe I wasn’t the perfect Saintess after all.