The Extra's Rise-Chapter 272: Second Mission Interlude (1)

The hall of the Red Chalice Cult stretched impossibly deep into the mountain, a vast chamber carved from obsidian that seemed to devour light rather than merely exist within it. Crimson torches lined the blackened walls, their flames unnaturally still yet somehow casting shadows that writhed and twisted across the floor like sentient things. The air tasted of iron and ash, carrying whispers that slithered into the mind rather than the ear.

At the center of this oppression sat Cardinal Akasha.

He did not simply occupy the bloodstone throne—he commanded it, as though the massive seat had been formed from the very earth to cradle his power. His robes cascaded around him in folds of such deep crimson they appeared almost black until he moved, revealing their true color like fresh blood emerging from a wound. The air around him hummed with a frequency just below hearing, a vibration that made one’s teeth ache and bones shiver.

His fingers, each adorned with rings carved with symbols that seemed to shift when viewed directly, tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm against the armrest. Each impact sent imperceptible ripples through the astral fabric of the chamber.

Before him, prostrated like a broken thing, knelt Bishop Vale.

The Bishop’s robes—once symbols of his station and power—hung in tatters from his frame. Blood—his own—had dried in patterns across the fabric, telling the tale of his defeat more eloquently than words ever could. His forehead pressed against the cold stone floor, not daring to rise without permission. Even in his diminished state, power rolled off him in waves that would have brought ordinary men to their knees.

Yet here, he was nothing.

The silence in the hall deepened until it became a physical weight, pressing down on Vale’s shoulders, squeezing the air from his lungs. No one moved. No one dared.

Then—

"Rise," Akasha murmured.

The word barely disturbed the air, yet it filled the entire chamber, reverberating not in the ears but in the chest, in the marrow, in the soul.

Bishop Vale straightened, his movements stiff from wounds not yet fully healed. His eyes remained downcast, fixed on a point just below the Cardinal’s chin. "Cardinal," he said, voice steady despite the shame that hung around him like a shroud. "I return in failure."

A ripple moved through the shadows at the edges of the hall, resolving into figures that had been standing so still they seemed part of the architecture. Other Bishops and Priests materialized from the darkness, their eyes reflecting the torchlight like predators watching wounded prey.

"A failure indeed," one of them said, voice dripping with contempt. "To lose not to another cult, nor to the Empire—but to a boy."

Laughter followed, soft yet cutting, each chuckle a blade slipping between ribs.

Bishop Vale’s jaw tightened, the only outward sign of his humiliation. Pride was a luxury afforded only to the victorious.

But Cardinal Akasha did not join in their amusement.

He remained perfectly still, his gaze fixed on Vale with an intensity that seemed to peel back flesh to examine the soul beneath. "Tell me," he said, each word measured and precise. "How did it happen?"

The chamber fell silent once more. Even the shadows stopped their dance.

Bishop Vale drew a breath that seemed to pain him. "The corruption of Redmond was proceeding exactly as planned," he began, his voice taking on the cadence of formal report. "The city was falling under our control through the Redknot Guild. We moved with meticulous care, ensuring our presence remained concealed even from the Knight Captain himself."

His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening. "But then he appeared."

Something changed in Akasha’s posture—a subtle shift, almost imperceptible, yet the entire room responded to it. The air grew heavier, the shadows deeper, the silence more absolute.

"Who?" The question hung in the air like a suspended blade.

"Arthur Nightingale," Vale said, unable to keep the raw frustration from his voice now. "A boy of sixteen. Young, but possessing a mind that sees through deception as if it were glass. He is not merely strong—he is dangerous in ways that defy conventional understanding. He anticipated strategies that had taken me months to craft. He turned Vice Guild Master Carrie Milton against me, extracted Reika from our grasp, and—"

He hesitated, shame threatening to choke his words.

"And?" Akasha prompted, his voice deceptively gentle.

"And he wounded me," Vale admitted. "Not just once, but repeatedly. He matched me even if I was injured, even if only for moments, with power that should be impossible for someone his age."

The amusement from the other cult members evaporated like water on hot stone. Their expressions shifted from mockery to disbelief, then to something darker—concern.

Cardinal Akasha remained motionless for several heartbeats, the only movement the steady tap of his ringed finger against the bloodstone. Then, with deliberate slowness, he leaned forward, the movement causing the shadows around his throne to stretch toward Vale like grasping hands.

"Interesting," he murmured, the word somehow more terrifying than rage would have been.

Vale swallowed against a dry throat. "He is... not normal," he continued, compelled by that terrible interest to speak further. "His mind operates on a level that surpasses even our most experienced strategists. And he possesses abilities that—" He faltered, then pushed on. "—that should be beyond the reach of any mortal his age."

A Bishop with hollow cheeks and eyes like burning coals stepped from the shadows, his disbelief evident. "You ask us to believe you were outmanoeuvred by a child?"

Another figure emerged, this one’s face half-hidden behind a mask of crimson porcelain. "Perhaps the esteemed Bishop simply wishes to elevate his opponent," the figure suggested, venom dripping from every syllable. "After all, how shameful to be defeated by a mere boy. How much more palatable if that boy were something... extraordinary."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the hall, but died quickly as Akasha raised a single finger.

The Cardinal’s lips curved into what might have been a smile on another face. On his, it was an expression that promised blood and screams.

"You believe," he said, each word falling into the silence like a stone into still water, "that this Arthur Nightingale represents a genuine threat to our designs?"

Vale met Akasha’s gaze directly for the first time, his resolve hardening despite the risk. "Yes, Cardinal," he answered, with absolute certainty. "I do."

Akasha exhaled slowly, the sound like wind through a burial chamber. He leaned back, seeming to sink deeper into his throne as he contemplated Vale’s words. The shadows danced around him, agitated by unseen currents.

"A child," he mused, his voice taking on a strange, almost wistful quality. "A mere boy who dismantled years of careful manipulation. Who tore apart an entire operation woven with such delicate precision."

The silence that followed was absolute. Not even the torch flames dared to crackle.

Then—Akasha laughed.

The sound was soft at first, almost intimate, like a lover’s whisper against skin. It grew slowly, building not in volume but in depth, resonating through the chamber until the very stone seemed to vibrate in response. It was not the laughter of amusement, but of awakening—of a predator who has scented worthy prey after years of disappointment.

"How utterly, deliciously fascinating."

His eyes gleamed with something that went beyond interest, beyond obsession—a hunger that had slept for centuries and now stirred, ravenous.

"Perhaps," he said, his voice now soft with what might have been mistaken for affection, "it is time I see this prodigy for myself."

The other cult members exchanged glances, unease rippling through their ranks like a contagion. Cardinal Akasha had not left this sanctum in over a decade. For him to consider doing so now...

Vale’s expression faltered. "Cardinal, I did not mean to suggest—"

"Of course you didn’t," Akasha interrupted, his smile widening to reveal teeth too sharp, too numerous for a human mouth. "But some gifts arrive unwrapped, unexpected."

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He rose from his throne in one fluid motion, his robes flowing around him like liquid shadow. The air in the chamber grew so thick with power that several of the lesser Priests staggered back, gasping for breath.

"Prepare the Chalice," he commanded, his voice resonating with terrible purpose. "I wish to see this Arthur Nightingale."

The cult members bowed their heads in unison, not daring to question.

In the flickering crimson light, Cardinal Akasha’s shadow stretched across the obsidian floor—not in the shape of a man, but of something much older, much vaster, with too many limbs and a crown of horns that scraped the ceiling.

His laughter still hung in the air, a promise of blood to come.