The Extra's Rise-Chapter 485: Friends

The cabin they gave me was luxurious, yes—more mana-regulated marble, glowing vines on the walls, and windows that adjusted their tint based on my mood—but all of it felt hollow. Like sitting in a velvet-lined cage. I had my arms crossed, legs folded, and my forehead crumpled like I was personally offended by the weather.

The sky outside was darkening. The Eastern skyline always did that thing where it looked like the horizon was brooding. Fitting. So was I.

I ground my teeth hard enough that the cabin’s lighting dimmed a notch, as if the room itself was trying to help me vent. It didn’t help.

Then I sighed and unclenched everything. No point gnashing my teeth into powder. As much as I wanted to be furious at my father—King of the Creighton family, Ninth Circle mage, general pain in Arthur’s ass—I couldn’t quite summon the hatred I wanted. Not really.

Because he did love me. Excessively. Annoyingly. Stubbornly. The kind of love that came in the form of background checks on every friend I made and occasional "accidental" appearances on the battlefield. And yes, his hostility toward Arthur was frustrating, but he never crossed a line. Just toe-tapped it a lot.

Still. I wanted to be with Arthur. Not here, not safe. There. With him.

My phone buzzed. I didn’t need to check who it was. Of course it was him.

I swiped to answer, the screen flickering on to reveal my father’s face. The King of the Creighton family, protector of the North, slayer of beasts—and right now, a tired dad trying not to look worried.

"My princess," he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Did you get on the plane?"

"Yeah," I said flatly. One word. Frosted with contempt and disappointment, because why not be dramatic when you have royal blood and your boyfriend’s still on a battlefield?

He winced. Just slightly. "Rach, don’t pout like that."

I blinked. My lips were pursed. How did he even—? Right, this was a man who’d once noticed a change in my blink pattern mid-battle and sent a healer.

"I’m mad," I snapped. Arms crossed tighter now, like I could wring the frustration out of myself.

"I know." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But you’re my daughter first, before you’re anything else. And if anything happened to you out there... I’m not sure I’d be able to stop myself from leveling half the Eastern continent."

It wasn’t an empty threat. A Ninth Circle mage who cared too much was a continent-sized problem. And he did care. That was the worst part. He wasn’t doing this out of paranoia or politics. He was just being a father. A powerful, exasperating, mana-shattering father.

"I get it," I said, softer now. "But Arthur’s still there."

His eyes closed. Not from disapproval, but from fatigue. He knew what I meant. Not just that Arthur was strong—he was. Not just that he’d defeated a mid Ascendant Vampire Elder without help—he had. But that wasn’t the point.

The point was, I wasn’t there.

What if I’d been too late? What if he’d died before I arrived? What if—

No. I couldn’t allow myself to drown in what-ifs. I was Rachel Creighton. We didn’t do helpless.

"We’ll talk when you’re back," he said, gently this time. "I’ll make arrangements. Just rest for now. You’re coming home."

The call ended. I stared at the screen for a moment, then slowly lowered the phone into my lap.

I didn’t want to rest. I wanted to move. I wanted to be there, to fight, to burn every last vampire who even looked at Arthur the wrong way.

But for now, all I could do was hope the Northern continent would send reinforcements.

And that I’d be at the front of them.

A knock at the door yanked me out of the thought spiral I’d been comfortably drowning in—thoughts of war, Arthur, and a to-do list titled Ways I Could’ve Changed the Course of History If Allowed to Punch My Father Just Once. I blinked, sat up, and padded across the warm mana-imbued floor of my private cabin.

The door hissed open to reveal Lucifer, standing there like a tall apology.

"Hey," he said, rubbing the back of his neck like it owed him an explanation. "Can we talk?"

I nodded and stepped aside, letting him in. The door sealed behind him with the kind of whisper only expensive doors make.

"What about Deia?" I asked, arching a brow.

"She’s asleep," he replied, plopping himself down on the edge of the window seat like someone not used to furniture that didn’t look like it wanted to stab you. "She was pretty worn out after... well, everything."

I hummed at that, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth before I could stop it.

Lucifer had changed. Genuinely changed. It wasn’t just the clothes—though the long coat with integrated armor plating and old Windward family insignia in radiant blue was a definite upgrade from his earlier "brooding prince of angst" aesthetic—it was him. The way he carried himself now didn’t scream look at me, it just quietly said I’ll handle it.

He hadn’t always been like this. Two years ago, I couldn’t stand being around him. He had all the charm of a spiked chair and just enough prophecy backing to make me pretend I liked sitting on it. But Arthur had dismantled that entire farce like it was made of wet paper and ego.

Now? Now I didn’t feel like I had to be his friend. I wanted to be.

"It’s good to see you smile at me," Lucifer said, tilting his head slightly. There was no smugness in it. Just genuine surprise. Like someone watching a cat not bite them for once.

"I’m just glad you finally became the Hero we needed," I said, leaning against the desk. It glowed faintly under my hand, registering my presence like an obedient pet.

"I thought you chose Arthur over me," he said, casually. No venom. No self-pity. Just a statement tossed out like a question wearing a trench coat.

I pursed my lips. People liked the idea of being Heroes. On paper, it sounded glorious—titles, cheers, magical sponsorship deals. But being one was... exhausting. Bloody. Lonely.

"I chose Arthur, yes," I said slowly, "but that doesn’t mean we only needed one Hero. We need two. I don’t want him carrying the burden alone." frёewebnoѵēl.com

Lucifer blinked. Slowly. Then he smiled in that awkward, lopsided way of someone who hadn’t smiled honestly in a while and was still getting used to the muscles involved.

It made me feel worse, somehow.

I rubbed my arm, eyes drifting to the floor. He hadn’t always been this person. And yeah, he’d been awful at times—entitled, arrogant, utterly convinced the world owed him a standing ovation—but I wasn’t exactly guiltless either. I hadn’t tried to help him become better. I just hated that he wasn’t better.

Maybe I thought that was enough. That he’d figure it out. That his insane talent would carry him the rest of the way. When he didn’t change fast enough, I gave up and convinced myself he wasn’t worth changing.

I failed him in a way I hadn’t realized until now.

"I’m sorry," I said, finally. "I said it before, but I’ll say it again—Lucifer, you really are like a Hero now."

His eyes widened again, and he gave a sheepish little laugh as he rubbed the back of his head. "And you really are like a Saintess now, Rachel."

I smirked. "Well, I try."

"I take that back," he deadpanned, just in time for me to let out a proper laugh.

It felt good, this. Simple. Like walking into a familiar room and finding someone had finally dusted it.

"Anyway," I said, grinning, "you seem to be taking extra-special care of the little caged princess."

His ears turned pink. Lucifer Windward, literal heir to ice and steel, possibly the future Second Hero—was blushing.

"I—it’s my duty," he coughed.

I scoffed. "Oh please."

The room echoed with the sound of two friends finding their way back to each other. And in a world where the skies bled red and monsters clawed through the cracks in reality, that was no small miracle.