The Extra's Rise-Chapter 469: Vampire Elder (2)

Lazarus couldn’t believe it. His spear—his pride and symbol of dominance—was in his hands. His body trembled, not from exertion, but from a shame that coursed through him like a poison.

He had drawn his spear against a child. A boy who was less than a tenth of his age, a boy who had not surpassed the Wall, who hadn’t even reached the Wall.

And yet, Lazarus had felt fear.

The moment Arthur’s sword pressed against his astral energy, relentless and unyielding, a cold dread had crept into the Vampire Elder’s chest. For a fleeting instant, he believed Arthur’s blade might actually reach his throat.

The shame burned deeper. A Vampire Elder—an immortal warrior who had faced centuries of battle—forced to draw his spear against a child. It was unthinkable. Intolerable.

But it was necessary.

As the spear materialized in his grip, its surface rippled with power, the rhythmic pulse of its essence blending blood and night astral energy into a singular, ominous force. The air thickened around Lazarus, his presence swelling like a storm on the brink of unleashing its fury.

Lazarus was no mage. He was a warrior, forged in the crucible of countless battles. And so, he did what warriors do.

He struck.

The spear tip shot forward with blinding speed, its beating astral energy warping the space around it. The sheer pressure of the attack was suffocating, like the weight of an ocean bearing down. The point of the spear seemed to zero in on Arthur’s chest, the promise of death just a heartbeat away.

Arthur moved. His body twisted with the precision of a dancer, his sword alive with water and wind-enhanced aura, swirling like liquid grace and roaring gales. He slid his blade alongside Lazarus’s spear, deflecting it in an elegant parry that sent sparks cascading through the air.

But Lazarus was no ordinary opponent. He was a vampire who had reached Spear Heart, a master whose weapon was an extension of his very will. His foot dug into the ground, halting his momentum with the ease of someone who had done so a thousand times before. With fluid precision, he adjusted, driving the spear toward Arthur’s right flank, cutting off his attempt to parry completely.

The resonating layers of enhanced aura on Arthur’s blade collided with Lazarus’s astral energy, but the crushing force of the spear was too much. The aura splintered and fractured, its light dimming under the relentless beat of the spear’s power.

Arthur felt the weight of the attack, a force not just physical but suffused with centuries of skill and mastery. It bore down on him, threatening to overwhelm. But even as his blade faltered, his mind raced, searching for the next move, the next chance to turn the tide.

Arthur’s blade danced once more, its movement a symphony of steel and magic. Space and time magic wrapped around him, bending the battlefield to his will as he shifted into position. His sword became an instrument of art and destruction, each stroke a note in an unending melody.

A thrust, sharp and deliberate, cut through the air like the first crack of thunder.

From the thrust came a slash, smooth and precise, slicing through the moment as though it were silk.

From the slash came a downward strike, heavy with the weight of inevitability, falling like a star dragged from the heavens.

From the downward strike came an upward sweep, cresting with the grace and power of a surging wave.

And the movement did not stop. It couldn’t. Each strike flowed into the next, a ceaseless rhythm of destruction and creation, as natural as the pull of the tides.

A stream tumbled into a waterfall, cascading with relentless energy.

The waterfall crashed and twisted into a river, churning and carving its path with force.

The river surged, swelling into a sea, vast and unyielding.

And the sea stretched out into infinity, deep and boundless, until it became an ocean.

But as Arthur’s dance reached its crescendo, as his blade moved with the fury and grace of a tempest, Lazarus stood firm. The Vampire Elder’s spear met the blade, its pulse resonating like the steady beat of a war drum.

"Not enough," Lazarus said, his voice steady, unshaken. His spear struck with precision, and it was as if the moon itself descended upon the ocean.

The ocean broke.

Arthur’s strikes shattered against Lazarus’s spear, the relentless tide of his assault undone by the unyielding might of the Vampire Elder. Lazarus’s presence loomed larger than ever, the air trembling with his dominance.

The dance was beautiful, but beauty alone could not conquer the moon.

"Not enough, huh," Arthur muttered under his breath, steadying himself as the remnants of his movement dissipated like fading embers.

He hadn’t expected to defeat Lazarus with just his Grade 5 art. No, that was merely the prelude. The real battle was only beginning.

The two combatants stepped back, creating a careful distance. Their gazes locked, unyielding, as if the weight of their wills alone might determine the victor.

Lazarus broke the silence first, his tone calm but tinged with something deeper. "I will spare your life if you choose to join us—become a contractor of the vampires and serve the Red Chalice Cult."

Arthur’s brows furrowed as the Vampire Elder continued, his words precise, deliberate. "You are exceptionally strong and talented. With your potential, you could even be contracted to His Majesty himself. You might one day rise to lead the Cult."

Arthur’s lips curled into a smile, sharp and mocking. "Are you so afraid of losing that you’d offer me this?"

Lazarus’s expression twisted, his composure cracking under the weight of Arthur’s provocation.

Afraid?

The thought gnawed at him. Lazarus had to admit, the boy was extraordinary. His strength was undeniable. But there was a chasm between them, vast and unbridgeable. Lazarus was at mid Ascendant-rank, while Arthur had barely reached high Integration-rank.

To think someone like this could pose a threat to him was absurd. The very idea was galling.

"No," Lazarus said finally, his voice clipped but steady. "I simply think it’s a waste for someone like you to die here."

Arthur’s grin widened, his confidence unshaken. "Don’t worry," he said, his tone light but firm. "I don’t plan on dying."

The words hung in the air like a challenge. Neither moved. They simply stood there, watching, waiting. The tension grew thicker, pressing against the room like an invisible tide.

Arthur shifted.

It wasn’t dramatic. No glowing eyes or shouting or sudden gusts of wind announcing destiny’s chosen warrior. Just a shift in posture—barely more than a twitch—but it slid through the battlefield like a knife in the gut of silence.

Lazarus felt it instantly. Not with his eyes, but somewhere deeper. Primal. His Spear Heart—a thing ancient, bound to instincts older than war—began to beat harder. The spear in his hand drank deep of night astral energy, veins along his arms glowing faintly as power flooded in to steady him.

He braced.

But bracing only works when something’s stoppable.

What Arthur did next wasn’t a movement so much as a statement that space, distance, and time could all go take a long walk off a short starship. The battlefield ceased to matter.

He blurred—not with speed, not exactly. This wasn’t just faster than the eye could follow. It was faster than the idea of watching could comprehend.

God Flash: Absolute.

A Grade 6 movement technique in full bloom, enhanced by the purity of Purelight—the one force miasma couldn’t argue with and wouldn’t survive a debate against. His bone armour still bristled with Deepdark, yes, but it didn’t matter. The moment was pure, untouchable.

Lazarus tried.

He really did. His spear came up in a blur of reflex and desperation, catching the edge of Arthur’s strike—just enough to turn it from a deathblow to something survivable.

Barely.

The force of the impact drove him back half a step, and that meant something. Astral energy hissed as Purelight seared into his skin, carving little cracks of agony across his torso. His body began to heal immediately, of course. He was no amateur. But the damage had landed. That was the point.

He tried to bring the spear back around.

Arthur didn’t let him.

The tip of Arthur’s sword kissed the head of the spear, angled it down with deliberate grace. A simple movement. Final. Like telling someone "no" without needing to raise your voice.

And then Arthur’s fingers, cold with purpose and steady with promise, tapped against Lazarus’s chest.

Tap.

It was a gentle thing, really. Almost polite.

Lazarus blinked.

What?

That was the thought that crossed his mind. Not fear, not strategy. Just confusion, short and sharp.

Then—

Danger.

It exploded across every nerve ending in his body. His skin lit up with panic. His instincts screamed. And deep inside, the Spear Heart skipped a beat.

Because whatever was coming... it wasn’t going to be polite.