The Extra's Rise-Chapter 457: Mind Break (2)

Rachel had given Lucifer a Divine Miracle.

Not a spell. Not a technique. A Divine Miracle. The kind that happened only when talent, desperation, and divine affinity all got fed into the same blender and someone hit "liquify."

Born from her Gift and her absurdly rare talent for Purelight, it was a surge of raw holy power—a blessing that wrapped around Lucifer like a second skin and supercharged his body to unnatural limits. It gave him wings, literally. Light-forged angel wings now shimmered behind him, burning mana to keep him airborne and fast enough to race thunder.

It should have been enough.

Maybe even more than enough.

But then her eyes met his—Arthur’s.

Azure eyes. Brilliant. Unblinking. And full of something that cut deeper than any blade: pleading.

Those weren’t the eyes of a man on a rampage. They were the eyes of someone drowning under the surface—begging silently, subtly, for someone to understand. To stop him. To save him, maybe. From others. From himself.

Rachel’s breath hitched. Her heart twisted with guilt so strong she could’ve mistaken it for pain. Those eyes weren’t fair. He wasn’t fair.

This was why she wanted to cage him. To keep him close. To hold him so tightly that the world couldn’t touch him and he couldn’t destroy himself.

Because without that—without her—this happened. These moments happened. Where the one person more important to her than herself stood in the middle of a battlefield, sword drawn, soul cracked, and no one else knew how to reach him.

She blinked away tears and focused. There’d be time for guilt later—assuming there was a later.

She lifted both hands and began weaving binding spells with Purelight, not to destroy, but to restrain. Light gathered like strands of silk around her fingertips, each one humming with sealing intent. A net of holy spells—not meant to harm, only hold.

Meanwhile, Lucifer shot forward like a white comet.

The angel wings behind him flared, boosting him across the field with enough speed to slice through sound. His sword was already in motion, white and black mana entwining in a double helix of perfectly controlled chaos. He was fast, precise, and terrifyingly complete—his strikes backed by the harmony of Yin-Yang Body, enhanced with ice, layered over divine and infernal mana alike. And all of it sharpened further by the all-seeing clarity of God’s Eyes.

But Arthur met him.

And matched him.

Sword to sword, blow for blow.

Because Arthur Nightingale was something else entirely.

There was no hesitation. No wasted movement. No tell. His swordplay wasn’t trained—it was breathed. His Mythic Body made him faster, stronger, lighter, denser. His Sword Resonance echoed in the air, each strike ringing like a hymn, each parry like a counterpoint in a perfectly orchestrated performance.

Lucifer, talented as he was, found no gaps. Not a flicker. Not a twitch. Even with God’s Eyes wide open, Arthur’s form offered no openings. It was like trying to beat a machine designed solely to win a duel—and the machine was in a bad mood.

Arthur’s sword style shifted smoothly into Tempest Dance, a technique designed not to strike—but to overwhelm. Every swing fed the next, built up speed, force, rhythm. It was a dance meant for war, not sparring. It was elegant, yes. But elegant in the same way a tidal wave is elegant: unstoppable, terrifying, and far too much to handle politely.

And Lucifer, for all his strength, couldn’t land a single blow.

Because Arthur could hurt him.

And Lucifer couldn’t bring himself to hurt Arthur.

Every time Arthur left a vital point open—and he did, intentionally, tauntingly—Lucifer’s blade slowed. Twitched. Hesitated. Arthur knew that. He used that.

And so the gap grew.

Silver-enhanced aura exploded outward from Arthur, ballooning to a crescendo. Lucifer braced, hand tightening around his sword, readying the Grade 6 art that might, just might, counter the oncoming wave.

But he didn’t get to.

Because the air filled with plum blossoms.

Blue plum blossoms.

They danced through the battlefield like snow on a quiet battlefield. Beautiful. Haunting. Deadly.

Seraphina’s aura had arrived—her ice-infused blossoms swirled around Arthur in delicate chaos, not aiming to kill but to disorient, to interrupt, to disturb the flow.

And then came Rose’s power.

Blue roses bloomed midair, petals twisting through space like they couldn’t decide what time it was. Paradox. A power that bent the rules and laughed while doing it. Her roses spiraled into Seraphina’s blossoms, fusing in a dance that shouldn’t have been possible.

And then Cecilia’s Witchcraft slid in like a whisper. No light. No flash. Just... a change. The kind that made everything feel wrong—made Arthur’s steps falter, his timing break, his rhythm wobble.

In three seconds, they shattered the Tempest Dance.

Not by overpowering it—but by unweaving it.

Arthur’s sword hesitated. His stance stumbled.

Lucifer stepped in again, blade raised, eyes wide, one final question screaming in his head:

Is it enough?

Arthur’s eyes darkened—flat, bottomless, a shade of rage dipped in sorrow—and the world around him seemed to fold. Not literally. Not yet. But it felt like reality was holding its breath.

Crimson bones wrapped around his body, jagged and pulsing faintly. Bone Armor of a Lich.

Lucifer’s expression tightened. The God’s Eyes, which had been whirring and analyzing data like a military-grade targeting system, dimmed slightly. The Deepdark interfered with precision. The very concept of clarity recoiled from it.

It was heavy.

And it was fast.

This was what Arthur had become in his disappearance. This was the level he’d clawed his way to while the rest of them were still figuring out which gods were watching. And now that Lucifer could see it clearly, it wasn’t just powerful.

It was terrifying.

Lucifer’s sword pulsed with layers of power—black mana, white mana, ice, fire, earth, and everything in between. A full mana spectrum boiled inside the blade. It had to. He needed everything. Nothing less would make a dent.

Seraphina moved first. She always did.

Her sword shimmered with frozen plum blossoms, cascading in a pattern designed to disrupt aura flow and stall momentum. But Deepdark flames met her blossoms mid-air, devouring them like dry leaves. Arthur didn’t parry so much as dismiss her strike, batting it aside before slamming his fist into her gut with bone-clad strength.

She staggered, breath forced out in a choke. Arthur grabbed her by the hair. His hand hesitated—just for a second. And that second was all she needed. Her blossoms surged forward, trying to dig into the gaps in the bone.

They scratched.

Barely.

Then came the crimson chains—Cecilia’s witchcraft, snaring his limbs—and the blue roses, curling in from behind, blades of paradox from Rose’s Gift. They bit deeper. They found weakness where Seraphina had softened the bone. Arthur bled, his skin nicked beneath cracked crimson plating.

His eyes turned darker still.

Then came the boom.

One strike.

He brought his blade down in a single, sweeping arc, and everything shook. The ground cracked like it had been slapped by a vengeful god. It was the second movement of his Grade 6 art—Hollow Eclipse. Not just power. Not just speed. It was destruction, beautifully concentrated.

All three girls were blasted back. Not broken, but pushed. Hard.

And Lucifer was already there, sword flashing in from the side, silent as resolve.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly, barely above the hum of their colliding mana. "I can’t let you do something you’ll regret."

Because that’s what this was.

Mana deviation wasn’t about rage. Not truly. It was about heartbreak. About breaking under the weight of emotion until your magic didn’t know who to protect and who to kill.

Arthur was past the line now. Hurting those he cared about. And if this continued, there’d be no one left to save.

So it had to end.

Lucifer’s blade drove in.

But Arthur’s eyes flashed.

Purelight.

First movement of his Grade 6 art: God Flash.

Lucifer’s blade was thrown aside mid-thrust, the explosion of mana rocking the hallway. A wall disintegrated. Lucifer coughed, stumbling, blood on his lips. Arthur stood there, cracked bone armor still clinging to him like a nightmare, and for one moment, it looked like he’d won.

Except he hadn’t.

Because Lucifer’s sword had still pierced him—just enough. A clean line of red bloomed across Arthur’s side.

Arthur staggered.

Coughed.

Then raised his fist.

Lucifer looked down. That fist was glowing. With it came the pressure of death. This was it. The kind of spell you didn’t name, because naming it would’ve made it real enough to fear.

Lucifer couldn’t move. His body wouldn’t respond. Too slow. Too tired. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

He’d done all he could.

Then the world shifted again—not from magic, not from force.

From touch.

Rachel’s arms wrapped around Arthur from behind.

She didn’t attack.

She didn’t restrain.

She just held him.

"Please stop, Arthur," she whispered. "Please."

Lucifer’s eyes widened.

It wasn’t a spell. It was love. Raw, desperate, wounded love.

But sadly, love didn’t solve everything. Not this time.

Arthur turned. Slowly. Deliberately.

Lucifer tried to rise, to intercept again—but he knew he was too slow.

Until light speared through the room.

Not golden.

Not warm.

Not merciful.

A crucifix of Purelight erupted into existence and pierced Arthur through the chest.

An astral impalement. Formless, unannounced. Executed with surgical precision.

Arthur’s body seized, eyes blanking.

His crimson bone armor cracked. Shattered.

Then disintegrated, piece by piece, until nothing was left but him—bloodied, shaking, and suddenly small again.

Rachel held him as he collapsed, sobbing into his shoulder, whispering apologies that no one could hear over the silence.

And for the first time that day—

Arthur didn’t fight.