The Extra's Transcension-Chapter 113: The Truth [5]

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A man with long, raven-black hair strode through the damp tunnels of an abandoned sewer, his boots echoing against the walls like the ticking of a clock in a crypt.

The stale air was thick with rot and rust, yet he walked with calm indifference, as if filth and decay were old friends.

A single ember flickered between his fingers,

a cigarette, half-burned, the smoke curling lazily around his pale face.

His long coat, obsidian and dusted with grime, swayed lightly with each deliberate step.

Those who might've seen him would have mistaken him for a wraith, tall, lean, and silent, with eyes so dark they reflected no light at all.

It was Azrael Darkbrone.

The corners of his mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile as his thoughts spiraled inward, excitement lacing the edges of his mind like fire beneath ice.

'Hm…'

He mused, taking a slow drag.

The glow of his cigarette flared crimson against the gloom.

'I wonder if the rumors are true… that the myth himself, Sleipnir, has finally returned.'

"Haa..."

He exhaled, and smoke drifted upward like whispers of the dead.

"After all these centuries,"

He murmured to the shadows,

"The cycle begins again."

The faint hum of mana pulsed through the tunnels, old, ancient, awakening.

He kept walking, his footsteps steady, following that subtle rhythm like a man walking toward destiny rather than danger.

The place felt wrong, not just abandoned, but ancient in a way that made him pause mid-step.

He stood deep in the tunnel of a sewer system, its walls slick with moss and time, its arches ruined but still proud beneath the earth.

A faint drip echoed somewhere far ahead.

This wasn't just any old drainage system.

It dated back before the Great Catastrophe of 2098, before humanity had even discovered mana.

Back when the land was still young and the rules of the world were simpler.

The tunnel was situated beneath the north-eastern reaches of a land once called Manipur,

a state in India nestled in hills and valleys, once known as

The Jewel of India or Sanaleibak, the Land of Gold.

Its capital, Imphal, lay over an oval-shaped valley, surrounded by nine ranges of hills.

This sewer?

Buried beneath centuries of silt, memory and ruin.

He knew the legends: Sleiphnir, the first being granted elemental force; a variable created when the upper realm rewrote timelines.

'Heh... Lyrium Blackwood, you're not the only one who's gifted with the ability to negate timeline changes.'

And here, in this drowned sewer beneath the hills of Manipur, a pulse of ancient mana whispered beneath the mud and rust.

"Huff..."

Azrael inhaled slowly, his mind alive with possibilities and danger.

The world above may not remember this place, but the ruins remembered.

And so did he.

.

.

.

.

After walking for what felt like hours through the damp, twisting tunnels, Azrael finally came to a stop.

The passage ended abruptly before him, but it wasn't just a dead end.

It was a wall.

A plain, unremarkable slab of stone at first glance, save for the faint cracks running across its surface and the dark, dried stains that trailed down like ancient blood.

The air around it felt wrong, heavier, as if space itself refused to flow past it.

Azrael tilted his head slightly, studying the formation.

A thin smile crept across his lips.

"Hm… let's see."

He flicked the cigarette from his fingers.

The ember hit the ground, scattering tiny sparks before he crushed it beneath his boot.

Then he raised both hands slowly, the air around his palms beginning to tremble.

Whoosh—!

Dark mana started to coalesce, dense, fluid, and suffocating.

It swirled violently between his fingers, condensing into a growing sphere of pure void energy.

The vortex hissed, pulling in dust, light, and even the faint echo of sound.

The walls around him groaned as if reality itself feared the spell.

Azrael's eyes narrowed, and with a short exhale, he thrust the orb forward.

"Let's see what you're hiding."

Boom—!

A deafening blast tore through the sewer, shaking the ceiling.

Dust exploded outward, rolling through the corridor like a storm cloud.

For a moment, there was nothing but the echo of his own power, ringing endlessly through the underground.

Then silence.

"...!"

As the haze settled, Azrael stood motionless, his coat fluttering from the shockwave.

The wall before him remained, untouched.

Not even scorched.

The only marks were the old cracks that had been there long before.

A single chuckle escaped his throat.

"Just as I thought."

He stepped closer, dragging his hand across the stone's cold surface. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

No mana signature, no defensive runes, and yet, his attack, capable of collapsing matter itself, had done nothing.

"It's not a normal wall…"

He murmured, eyes glinting with fascination.

"A wall that can withstand the density of a black hole?"

He smirked.

"Hah. Now this… this is interesting."

Azrael crouched, running his gloved fingers along the cracks.

They pulsed faintly, not with mana, but with something older, something that predated the concept of mana itself.

It wasn't alive, yet it felt aware.

Watching.

Waiting.

He clicked his tongue.

"Tch. So the rumors were true…"

He stood again, brushing the dust off his coat, his sharp eyes narrowing at the faint, circular engraving barely visible beneath centuries of grime.

A symbol, a horse with eight legs, faint but unmistakable.

"…Sleipnir."

The name left his lips like a curse and a prayer all at once.

For a brief moment, the atmosphere shifted, the air rippled, distorting as if space itself was listening.

The dark-haired man grinned wider, taking a step back.

"So this is it, huh? The gate to the Old Path."

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small obsidian cube engraved with faint silver lines.

The object hummed softly in his palm as he poured his mana into it.

A low resonance filled the air, deep, primal, like a whisper from the abyss itself.

Lines of light began tracing the wall, circling the cracks and forming an enormous rune that stretched far beyond the visible surface.

The sewers trembled violently, as if something enormous was awakening beneath the earth.

Azrael's expression didn't falter; instead, his grin widened with each tremor.

"Come on…"

He muttered.

"Show me the door. Show me the path to the old world."

Then…

A rumble.

The entire tunnel shook as the markings on the wall flared with crimson light, illuminating the darkness around him.

The ground beneath his feet cracked open slightly, leaking faint tendrils of mist, black and cold as death itself.

Azrael's pupils dilated.

"Bingo."

A circular pattern rotated on the wall, gears of light and shadow intertwining until the center split apart, revealing a sliver of swirling void beyond.

A voice, ancient, distorted, layered like a chorus, slipped through the opening.

"Who… disturbs the boundary of the Fallen Gate?"

Azrael chuckled lowly, the sound echoing through the chamber.

He raised his hand in greeting, eyes glowing faintly red from the reflection of the rift.

"Azrael Darkbrone,"

He said calmly.

"Bearer of the Abyssal Brand. I've come seeking the truth about the one who returned,

Sleipnir."

There was silence.

Then, the voice responded, deeper, more menacing.

"…Sleipnir… does not belong to this age."

Azrael smirked, his tone laced with intrigue.

"Neither do I."

And with that, he stepped forward, into the shifting light of the gate.

***

"Lyrium… I guess it's time for you to wake up."

Hercules' deep voice broke the silence as he glanced sideways at Lyrium, who sat beside him on the balcony of a ruined house.

The two of them stared at what remained of the city, a graveyard of steel and memories.

Lyrium's faint reflection trembled in the shattered glass before him.

"So… am I recovered?"

Hercules nodded slowly, his tone carrying a strange weight.

"You're completely recovered, Lyrium. But someone just stepped onto the Old Path. Whoever that is… he's walking straight toward the disaster itself."

Lyrium tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

"Hmm… someone's trying to enter the Old Timeline, huh?"

He exhaled softly, his eyes glimmering with something between amusement and pity.

"There are still people who can't let go of the past… I can't bring myself to hate them for that. Whoever it is… I don't want to destroy his dream."

Hercules' gaze dropped to the broken streets below.

"Sometimes, doing something terrible to one person can bring peace to another,"

He said quietly.

"But this man, if he crosses that line, his life will no longer belong to him."

The wind howled through the ruins, carrying the faint echoes of a world that once was. Neither of them spoke for a while.

Finally, Lyrium let out a long breath.

"Haa… I guess that means it's my turn, huh?"

He stood, brushing the dust off his coat, and turned to face Hercules.

Their eyes met, one calm, eternal; the other weary yet alive.

"Will I see you again?"

Lyrium asked.

"I exist in every timeline, Lyrium,"

Hercules replied with a faint smile.

"Yes… you'll meet me again."

Lyrium gave a short laugh, though it carried a hint of melancholy.

"That's good… I mean, I'm gonna miss you."

Hercules chuckled lightly.

"We only talked for a few hours."

"Yeah, I know."

Lyrium grinned faintly.

"Guess I trust people too easily, huh?"

"...."

Hercules didn't answer, he simply raised his hand.

The space around them began to fracture, the air bending and humming with divine power.

The world started to collapse in on itself as Lyrium's body slowly began to disintegrate into shimmering motes of light.

"Well then… goodbye for now, Lyrium."

"Yeah…"

Lyrium's voice grew faint as the light climbed his body, his shoulders, his neck, his jawline.

"Wait…"

He suddenly said, his fading eyes flashing with realization.

"You said Sleipnir was the eight-legged horse from Norse mythology… but you never said who he rea…"

Before he could finish, his words vanished into the void, swallowed whole as his body dissolved completely.

Only Hercules remained, standing amidst the endless dark.

His hand lowered slowly as silence devoured the last echo of Lyrium's presence.

"That…"

Hercules murmured, his tone barely a whisper that trembled with something almost human.

"…Is something you have to find yourself, Lyrium."

***