The Extra's Rise-Chapter 172: The First Hero’s Clone (3)

Ren’s frustration spiked. He activated Event Horizon, his fists coated in warped gravitational distortions that bent the very air around them. A single direct hit would be devastating, but it was all or nothing now.

His fists blurred, striking in a rapid barrage, but my sword danced between them.

One miss.

Two.

Three.

Then, the moment he needed to adjust his footwork—I struck.

A horizontal slash—clean, decisive, and absolute.

Ren’s body staggered, his vision finally betraying him. His eyes twitched, his breath caught, and his knees buckled. The glow of God’s Eyes flickered once—twice—before fading entirely.

I stood over him, my sword poised, the match already decided.

Silence fell over the stadium.

Ren’s fists clenched, his jaw tightening as he let out a slow, frustrated breath. Then, he did the only thing left to do.

He raised his hand.

"I yield."

The declaration rang out like a bell, echoing across the stunned arena.

I sheathed my sword and extended a hand toward him. Ren hesitated for a moment before sighing, his pride making way for something else—acceptance. He grabbed my hand, allowing me to pull him up.

"You bastard," Ren muttered under his breath. "Since when did you—"

He stopped himself, shaking his head. "Tch. Whatever."

The announcer’s voice boomed, snapping the audience out of their shock.

"Arthur Nightingale wins!"

The crowd erupted.

Some cheered, some whispered in disbelief, and in the VVIP section, some of the most powerful people in the world leaned forward in their seats, their interest piqued.

I turned toward them, my eyes locking onto Lucifer’s.

One fight left.

And I would not lose.

__________________________________________________________________________________

The six Immortal-rankers seated in the VVIP box found themselves caught in an unusual state of silence.

It wasn’t often that something truly unexpected happened in the world of the strongest, where every talent, every art, every rising star had already been measured, studied, and placed within an unspoken hierarchy.

But this?

This was something else.

A student had created a Grade 6 art.

Not inherited, not gifted from a family lineage, not learned from an ancient sect.

Created.

"What... is this?" Leon Viserion finally muttered, his golden eyes sharp with something between astonishment and hunger. His fingers drummed against the armrest as he stared at the battle stage. "A student? At his age?"

Li Zenith exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. "I told you," he said simply. "You would see something special from my disciple."

"Very special," Duke Blazespout mused, his lips curling into a slow, approving smirk. "The last time I saw something like this, it was the Martial King."

"Too soon to compare him to the Martial King," Kem Kagu interjected, though his voice lacked its usual confidence.

"Perhaps not," Paul Lucrian murmured, his dark gaze still fixed on the stage, as if trying to unravel the enigma that was Arthur Nightingale. "And yet, something still doesn’t add up."

They all knew about Arthur’s Lich. The single most impressive necromantic creation in the past century.

And yet, he hadn’t used it.

Why?

"It must be the dual-mana restriction," Valerie said, leaning forward, piecing it together faster than the rest. "His new art is based on light mana. His Lich requires dark mana."

Paul nodded, realization dawning. "Of course. Since his White Star and Black Star cannot coexist, he cannot activate both at the same time. A self-imposed restriction. Interesting."

Li didn’t comment. He didn’t need to.

His dark eyes never left Arthur as the young swordsman stepped off the stage.

Because despite all the brilliance, all the talent, all the mind-breaking feats that Arthur had already shown—

The real question had yet to be answered.

Who would win?

Lucifer Windward or Arthur Nightingale?

’Even I cannot tell,’ Li admitted to himself. There was an unpredictable element to Gifts, an unknown variable in any battle between those who wielded them. The raw power of Lucifer’s Yin-Yang Body, the mystery behind Arthur’s unnatural rise—either could tip the scales.

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The arena was silent for only a moment longer before the roar of the crowd erupted once more, the world itself holding its breath for what came next.

Outside the VVIP box, the students were watching in stunned silence.

Rose’s fingers curled against her sleeves, her lips parted slightly. "…Incredible," she whispered. She had always known Arthur was strong. But this—this was something else.

Dominance.

It wasn’t just that he won. It was how.

Like the very moment he decided it, the entire battle shifted in his favor. Ren Kagu, the boy everyone had thought untouchable, the one blessed with the same talent as the great Hero who had slain the Heavenly Demon, had been left grasping at shadows.

And Arthur had done it without his Lich. Without his God Flash. Without the full extent of what he could do.

"He’ll do it." Cecilia’s voice cut through the silence, smooth, confident. A slow smirk tugged at her lips. "He’ll surpass it."

Seraphina didn’t say a word. But the way her fist clenched at her side spoke volumes.

And Lucifer—he simply turned away.

He walked, slow and measured, his face unreadable. He didn’t stop. Not until he reached the medical wing.

Inside, Rachel lay on the bed, still recovering, her breathing even but her body weak from her earlier battle. The medical staff scrambled as soon as they saw Lucifer enter, their heads bowing low in respect.

"Your Highness!"

Lucifer barely acknowledged them with a flick of his fingers. "Leave us."

They obeyed without hesitation, filing out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

Lucifer’s verdant eyes studied Rachel. He took in the way she looked at him—not with admiration, not with warmth, but with steady, unwavering certainty.

He exhaled. "I see."

Rachel tilted her head. "See what?"

"I see why you did something so reckless." His voice was as smooth as ever, but there was something colder beneath it. "It was because of Arthur."

Rachel didn’t flinch. "Yes."

Lucifer’s lips pressed together.

"And it wasn’t reckless," she continued. "I surpassed it, didn’t I?"

Lucifer didn’t respond.

Instead, he said something that made her heart pause in her chest.

"I’ll just crush him, then."

Rachel inhaled sharply.

"Then you’ll be my Saintess again, right?"

There was no question in his voice. No arrogance. No anger. It was simply a statement. A fact.

Rachel stared at him, her mind racing. He wasn’t saying this out of love. It wasn’t an obsession.

It was expectation.

Because Lucifer was the Hero.

And the Hero had a Saintess. The Hero had an Archwitch. The Hero had a swordswoman he could trust with his back. That was how the world was supposed to be.

Arthur had broken that.

And Lucifer, unable to process it, was trying to put things back into their rightful place.

Rachel took a breath. Then another.

And she let it out.

"No."

Lucifer blinked. Just once.

Rachel’s sapphire eyes shone like glass in the medical room’s artificial light. "I don’t care if Arthur wins or loses," she said, her voice steady. "I am his."

Lucifer’s expression wavered—just a fraction, but it was there.

"You must be my Saintess," he said again, slower this time, as if she simply hadn’t understood.

"I refuse."

Silence.

A beat.

"I am Arthur’s."

Lucifer’s verdant eyes darkened.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

And for the first time in his life, something inside him cracked.

That wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He was Lucifer Windward. The Second Hero. The one chosen by prophecy. He was meant to defeat the coming threat. To stand above all others. To save the world.

Rachel was meant to be at his side.

But she wasn’t.

Lucifer’s mind blanked. He couldn’t comprehend it. The world, the very structure of it, was tilting—wrong, uneven, unstable.

So he latched onto the only solution that made sense.

"I’ll kill him, then."

Rachel’s breath caught. "What?"

Lucifer took a step forward. "If I kill him, who will you latch onto?"

Rachel shot up from the bed. "Have you lost your damn mind?"

"No," Lucifer said, and for the first time, there was something sharp beneath his voice. Not anger. Not rage. Something more desperate. Something that shouldn’t exist within Lucifer Windward.

"I’m fixing it."

Rachel felt the hair on her arms rise.

Lucifer’s eyes were eerily blank, as if he wasn’t looking at her, but through her, past her, at something only he could see.

"I am the Hero," he whispered. "I am the savior of this world."

Rachel’s heart clenched.

This was what it had done to him.

The prophecy. The weight of expectation. The belief that everything in the world had already been decided. That he was meant to win, meant to lead, meant to stand at the peak.

And Arthur—Arthur had broken it.

Rachel exhaled. Her fingers curled at her sides, but she forced them to relax.

She met Lucifer’s verdant eyes, calm, unwavering.

"If you kill him," she said softly, "I will make sure you die, too."

Lucifer flinched.

Rachel smiled, slow and razor-sharp.

"You want to be the Hero so badly?" she whispered. "Then try. Try to kill him, Lucifer."

A slow, creeping chill settled into the room.

"Because you won’t be able to."

Lucifer didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Rachel’s voice was almost gentle as she continued, her words slicing like a scalpel. "That talent of yours—the one you’ve always relied on? It’s going to fail you."

Lucifer felt something deep in his gut twist.

"You will fall," Rachel said.

And for the first time in his life, Lucifer Windward felt fear.