An Extra’s Rise in an Eroge

Time passed slowly.

The battlefield was still, blanketed in the stench of burnt soil, metallic blood, and the lingering pulse of divine energy. The sounds of war had died, replaced by soft murmurs, ragged breaths, and the occasional crackle of scorched earth cooling.

The warriors of the Wolf Tribe moved like ghosts among the fallen. Some crouched beside their comrades, tending to wounds with shaking fingers. Others sat silently with vacant expressions, the weight of survival pressing down harder than any enemy blade. A few wept quietly—low, private sobs over friends and brothers who would never stand again.

At the center of it all lay Fenrir.

The Divine Beast's massive body was curled like a slumbering mountain. Chains still bound his limbs and collar, but he no longer thrashed, no longer roared. The chaos in his eyes had faded, leaving behind only peace. His breath was deep and steady, each exhale washing over the battlefield like a breeze that cleansed the corruption in the air.

It was over—for now.

Morrika stood beside Arthur, both of them facing the sleeping beast. Her armor was in ruins, exposing bruised skin and old scars. Dried blood clung to her brow, and her wild hair was caked with dirt and sweat. She hadn't spoken since helping Arthur to his feet, but her presence was firm—like a commander still standing for the sake of those who couldn't.

All eyes were on Fenrir.

A voice finally broke the silence. "What now?"

Morrika turned slightly. Her voice, when it came, was steady but hollow. "We wait. Wait for our God to wake up."

A pause.

"…And what about those chains?" another warrior asked, eyeing the glowing bindings that wrapped Fenrir like divine shackles. "If even he couldn't break them… how are we supposed to?"

The question sank into the crowd like a stone in water. The faint hope that had begun to bloom in their chests faltered, soured by the reminder that their god—though calmed—was still imprisoned.

Morrika's brows furrowed. Her jaw clenched. It was a good question, and one she had no answer for.

What kind of power could unbind what the gods themselves had chained?

She felt dozens of eyes shifting to her. Looking for leadership. Looking for hope.

And instinctively… she looked to Arthur.

It was almost automatic now.

She didn't understand it, but since the moment he appeared in their village—since he casually beat her in a spar, since he led them here, saved her warriors, calmed their god—he had always had a solution. Always stood with confidence where others doubted.

So when another impossible problem presented itself, her eyes sought him, almost before she even realized it.

Arthur, standing quietly, his body battered and bruised, met her gaze.

He didn't flinch.

She saw no arrogance in his eyes… only thought. Calm, calculating thought.

"…You have something in mind?" she asked quietly, voice low enough for only the two of them to hear.

Arthur's eyes turned back to Fenrir, scanning the golden chains, the ancient runes etched into them, glowing faintly as if still feeding off divine will.

"I might," Arthur muttered, brushing his fingers along his chin. "But I'll need a closer look… and time."

With the warriors watching in silence, Arthur stepped closer to the slumbering titan. Each of Fenrir's breaths rumbled like distant thunder, the weight of his divinity still hanging faintly in the air. Arthur approached the nearest limb—massive as a fortress wall—and knelt by one of the glowing golden shackles.

The divine chain pulsed with a light so pure, it made his skin crawl. Etched with ancient runes, the metal burned with sanctity. Even without touching it, he could feel the power coursing through it like a heartbeat.

'Say, Sol,' Arthur called within his mind, 'you got anything on this?'

But the response wasn't Sol's calm voice.

It was a far more familiar, smug one.

[I can break them.]

It was Azryth—the spirit within his demonic sword.

Arthur blinked. 'You? These things are practically drenched in holy energy. I thought you feared divinity.'

[Feared? Excuse me?! I hate it, yes. But fear it? Don't lump me in with your average cursed blade. I'm Azryth—the Bane of Saints, remember? Divine artifacts like these… they're my favorite kind of destruction. They insult me just by existing.]

Her voice radiated disdain and pride in equal measure.

[The only reason you got the jump on me back then is because you, Arthur, are the real monster. That divine mana flowing through your veins? No normal human should have that. What are you, really? A god in disguise?]

Arthur sighed. 'Are you done flexing, or do I need to shove you back in the inventory?'

[Tch. Fine. Try me, golden boy.]

Arthur smirked faintly and, with a flick of his fingers, summoned Azryth from the system inventory.

A surge of oppressive energy exploded around him the moment the sword appeared in his grasp.

The air trembled. Shadows danced violently around his form as demonic energy radiated outward in waves. The warriors staggered back, instincts screaming at them to flee. Even Morrika took a step away, eyes narrowing, hand reaching for her own weapon.

Azryth had changed—her dark blade now bore crimson veins that pulsed with power, her aura sharper, more primal. She had grown—feeding off Arthur's mana, the countless souls of his enemies, and his ever-rising strength. This was no longer a sealed spirit. This was a predator reawakening.

Arthur's brow twitched.

'Stop showing off. You're scaring them, idiot.'

[Hmph! I was just making an entrance! It's been ages since I've had a proper audience.]

Arthur rolled his eyes and casually smacked the flat of the blade against the ground.

The demonic pressure vanished instantly, as if it had never existed. Only a faint echo of it remained—enough to leave the air heavy with tension.

The warriors slowly stopped retreating, but none stepped forward. Their eyes remained locked on the sword, their bodies tense.

Arthur raised a hand, his voice calm. "Relax. She's not going to hurt anyone."

The reassurance, however, only made them back away further—especially since his sword happened to be pointing directly at them when he spoke.

Realizing his mistake, Arthur blinked and awkwardly lowered the blade. "…Right. My bad."