The Game's Extra: Azhriel Odyssey-Chapter 122: To The Brink-1

After Azhriel’s bid for the land was over, he wasted no time.

The moment he secured the item he came for, he stood up and left his lounge quietly, his expression unreadable. His next destination was clear—VIP Lounge 9.

Why that specific lounge?

Because right now, if we were to talk in the language of games, what is happening we would call it a sub event.

Yes, a sub-event was unfolding—one that would decide how things progressed from here.

In the game there were two different main scenarios for this route.

In the first scenario, the ones inside VIP Lounge 9—demons in disguise—would win the bid for the ruins. That victory would later trigger a chain of disasters, leading to a devastating outcome for the humanity.

In the second scenario, Arianne would win the bid instead. That path wasn’t as destructive, but it wasn’t without danger either.

In that version of events, she and the main cast would be forced into a deadly confrontation with the demons to protect the map they had just purchased.

However, Azhriel wasn’t interested in either of those routes.

What he wanted now was something completely different—a third path, one that never existed in the game.

A path that would rip the event apart from its very roots.

He wasn’t going to wait for the demons to make their move. He was going to end them here and now.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy—far from it. But Azhriel wasn’t walking in blind.

He had already prepared for this moment. Every detail, every hidden route, every face and weakness of the demons in that lounge—he knew them all.

After all, Phantom had already gathered everything he needed.

As Azhriel neared the VIP lounge, the muffled hum of the auction below grew faint behind the thick walls.

The carpeted hallway stretched in eerie silence, lit by soft white lamps that made his shadow waver like mist. His gaze hardened.

(Conceal).

The moment the command echoed in his mind, his presence vanished entirely. The faint trace of mana, his scent, his steps—everything disappeared into nothingness.

If anyone had looked his way, they would have sworn the corridor was empty.

He moved forward soundlessly, his body gliding like a drifting phantom. Every motion was deliberate and precise.

Outside the door of VIP Lounge 9 stood a single waiter.

Dressed neatly in a black uniform and white gloves, the man stood still, his expression composed but weary.

Azhriel approached from behind, not even the air stirring at his movements.

Then—thud.

A quick strike to the back of the neck. The waiter let out a faint, startled sound.

"Huh—?" His eyes widened briefly, but before his body could crumple to the floor, Azhriel caught him.

The boy’s strength was far greater than it looked; with a single arm, he lifted the unconscious man, adjusting his grip so the man’s head didn’t hit the marble tiles.

"Sleep well," Azhriel whispered softly.

He glanced around.

The hallway was still empty. The other guests were either inside their lounges or too engrossed in the ongoing auction to wander out.

Perfect.

Azhriel moved quickly, dragging the waiter’s limp body toward the men’s washroom at the corner of the corridor. The sound of his footsteps was almost non-existent barely audible even in the silence.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of soap and polished wood.

He checked each stall—empty.

Good.

He carefully lowered the man to the floor, then reached into his storage ring and pulled out a coiled rope.

The rope gleamed faintly with a mana seal, strong enough to hold even a trained fighter.

He bound the waiter’s wrists and ankles securely, making sure the knots were tight but not painful.

Then he carried the man into the last stall, locking the door from the inside before hopping out silently over the top.

"Even if you wake up, you won’t be going anywhere," Azhriel murmured.

He took one last glance to ensure everything was in order. The waiter’s breathing was steady; he’d be out for a few hours at least.

"Now then... phase two."

He straightened and reached into his ring once more.

This time, he drew out a neatly folded black-and-white uniform identical to the auction staff’s—complete with a nametag, gloves, and even a small notepad tucked in the pocket.

It was something he had prepared earlier, knowing he might need to blend in.

Within minutes, the transformation was complete.

The cold, sharp aura that belonged to Azhriel faded completely.

His hair, once white now darkened to black thanks to a thin mana veil. His expression softened, his gaze lowered, and his posture shifted from alert to subdued.

What stood before the mirror was an ordinary waiter—unassuming, quiet, and forgettable. The kind of man no one would glance twice at in a crowded room.

He adjusted his gloves, looked at his reflection once, and whispered under his breath, "Time to begin."

Then, as silently as he had arrived, he stepped out of the washroom, his eyes calm and unreadable, the air around him carrying no trace of who he truly was.

Azhriel walked down the dim hallway, the soft sound of his shoes muffled by the carpet beneath.

His expression was calm, his pace measured, though every muscle in his body was alert.

On a nearby serving table, a tray of crystal glasses sat filled with pale blue drinks. Without hesitation, he picked it up, holding it like any normal waiter would.

He stopped in front of the door marked VIP Lounge 9.

The faint sound of conversation leaked through the cracks, low and grim. His gaze sharpened for a moment before softening again, slipping into the calm neutrality of a servant.

Click.

The door opened smoothly. Warm light spilled over him as he stepped inside, bowing slightly.

"Your drinks, gentlemen," he said as he entered the lounge.

Three figures sat around a round table draped in red velvet.

The air inside the room was heavier than the hall—thick, almost suffocating. Azhriel’s eyes flicked across the room once, taking in every detail.

’Well, let’s begin.’