The Extra's Rise

Charlotte exhaled, a slow, measured breath that carried the weight of pure annoyance. In that moment, the Tower's corridors seemed to hold their breath, the mana in the air thick with expectation. "I cannot believe this," she muttered under her breath, rolling her shoulders as her mana unfurled around her—thick as a tidal wave and just as merciless. The very air shuddered under the sheer force of her power, as though reality itself were trembling at her might. Continue reading stories on My Virtual Library Empire

"To think," she continued, her emerald eyes glinting with cold fury, "that I would be this underestimated." Her mana swirled hungrily around her, like a kingdom's subjects bowing in absolute submission to their sovereign, every spark and wisp eager to obey.

And when she let it loose, it obeyed without question. The space around her detonated—the force whipping through the chamber like a hurricane. The explosion sent the three cultists hurtling backwards; their robes were torn, still smoldering as their bodies regenerated almost immediately, skidding to a halt on the scorched floor. They gritted their teeth in unison, a pitiful chorus of defiance.

But these were no ordinary cultists. They were Cardinals—high-ranking figures of the Order of the Fallen Flame, Immortal-rank mages whose very names could inspire terror in the hearts of lesser beings.

In almost any other battle, these Cardinals would have been unrivaled.

Almost.

Because against a Radiant-ranker, against Charlotte Alaric herself, they were utterly outmatched—nothing more than pawns in a game they never truly controlled.

Charlotte tilted her head, the glow of her magic flaring even brighter as if to scorn their audacity. "Come on, then," she said, her voice edged with a mocking tone that cut through the tension. "Is your little Pope not here?" Her words dripped with disdain, as if to suggest that without their supreme leader, these Cardinals were nothing but overgrown children.

No answer came from the group. Instead, the Cardinals stood firm, their expressions shifting from furious to coldly focused. That subtle change in their demeanor made Charlotte narrow her eyes even further.

'They're buying time,' she realized with a growing sense of both irritation and caution. For all their supposed power and fanaticism, they weren't attacking with the ferocity one might expect. They were stalling—waiting, calculating.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

'Where the hell is their Pope?' Charlotte's mind screamed the question as her fingers tightened around her staff.

The Order of the Fallen Flame followed a strict hierarchy, its structure eerily reminiscent of the ancient religions of old.

At the top sat the Pope, the undisputed leader whose mere presence held sway over all. Beneath the Pope were the Cardinals—cultists wielding Immortal-rank power. Below them, the Bishops, each an Ascendant-ranker with the air of one who had transcended mortal limits, followed by the Priests, who reached White and Integration-rank. And finally, the foot soldiers—the nameless zealots who comprised the bulk of their forces.

Charlotte's grip on her staff tightened even further. "Whatever," she muttered, raising her arm with a force that made the very ground tremble. The space before her shimmered with raw potential—and then, in a dazzling display of arcane might, collapsed inward as a nine-circle spell took form.

It was vast, absolute—the kind of spell that ended wars, that could bring even the mightiest foes to their knees. In that single, terrible moment, the battle would no longer be a mere clash of spells. It would become an execution.

Before the spell could tear through the enemy ranks, a voice, light and playful beyond belief in such a dire moment, slithered through the charged air. "Aww, Char-Char, are you bullying my Cardinals?" The voice was familiar, disarmingly casual—almost absurd in the context of the carnage.

Charlotte's eyes snapped wide, her spell's devastating force abruptly interrupted. The formidable nine-circle spell—a world-breaking torrent of pure, devastating mana—was suddenly snatched away from her grasp.

It wasn't countered or deflected; it was simply, inexplicably, deleted. The very waves of her magic curled inward, entangled in an intricate bloom of black roses that had materialized from nowhere. Their petals unfurled with an eerie, liquid grace, and then, with a soft, almost mocking crunch, her spell was gone.

Charlotte clenched her teeth, her face contorting with anger. "It's you," she spat, her voice low and dangerous, her grip on her staff tightening as if to shatter it into splinters.

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward. Her dark red hair caught the dim glow of the ruined battlefield, and her eyes—deep jade, so strikingly similar to Charlotte's own—gleamed with an unsettling mix of amusement and something far colder. The figure paused, letting her presence be known, and then the truth hit like a bolt of lightning: Evelyn Alaric.

The revelation of Evelyn's presence sent a shockwave through the already chaotic scene. For a heartbeat, even the Cardinals seemed to pause. Charlotte's expression twisted into a mixture of disbelief and rage. "It is you after all," she growled, her voice dripping with venom. "Evelyn."

Evelyn smiled, a sly, knowing grin, and cocked her head to the side in a manner that was both playful and infuriatingly casual—as if she had just knocked over a priceless vase in a moment of mirth rather than treachery. "It's been some time," she mused lazily. "How have you been, sister?" Her tone was light, almost nonchalant, but beneath it lurked a tension that belied the words.

Charlotte bristled, her anger mounting. "A traitor like you isn't my sister!" she snapped, her voice a blade slicing through ice. The fury in her eyes was as bright as her radiant mana, and it threatened to consume everything in its path.

Evelyn pouted, mock-offended. "Come on, don't be so mean~" she cooed, stepping forward with a swagger that belied the gravity of the moment. Instantly, the air between them crackled with clashing mana—a violent collision of energies, each as potent as the other, twisting and writhing like two apex predators locked in silent war. The energy of their confrontation painted the chamber with flashes of red and green, as if a small, private storm had erupted between them.

The three Cardinals, caught in the crossfire of this sibling showdown, instinctively backed away, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and self-preservation. They knew better than to meddle in a personal feud of this magnitude. This was no ordinary fight—it was Radiant-rank against Radiant-rank, a battle of pride and betrayal, a deeply personal struggle that transcended mere politics.

Charlotte's eyes, still blazing with fury, fixed upon Evelyn, the woman who had once been her kin, now her enemy. "Why the hell are you here again?" she demanded, her voice low and menacing.

Evelyn's smile remained, though it was tinged with a trace of something almost wistful. "Oh, don't be like that, Char-Char. I have something important I need in the Tower." Her tone shifted, a dangerous playfulness mingling with her words. "Honestly though," she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "you were quite a bad sister, weren't you? What were you doing with my thing?" The insinuation hung heavy in the air, laden with accusation and old wounds.

Charlotte's jaw locked, her eyes narrowing to slits. "You have no humanity left, do you?" she spat, her words as sharp as the edge of a finely honed blade.

Evelyn shrugged, a dismissive gesture that seemed to mock any sense of remorse. "Well," she said softly, her voice honeyed but devoid of true warmth, "I guess not."

For a moment, silence reigned—a tense, brittle calm that was the precursor to the inevitable storm. The air around the two sisters vibrated with unsaid words and ancient grudges. Their mana swirled in turbulent patterns, colliding in midair as if the very fabric of magic were straining under the weight of their animosity. Shadows danced across the walls, thrown by the erratic light of their clashing power.

Then, without warning, the tension broke. Charlotte's staff swung in a wide arc, and Evelyn's eyes flashed with icy determination. The first strike came like a clap of thunder—a violent burst of emerald and dark crimson mana colliding, shattering the tenuous calm that had briefly held them in suspension.

Their magic intermingled, creating a chaotic tapestry of power that twisted the air and distorted the space around them. The sight was both mesmerizing and terrifying—a dance of light and darkness that spoke of ancient rivalries and deep-seated pain. Sparks flew, and the sound of colliding energies filled the chamber, a cacophony that drowned out even the desperate cries of the Cardinals who watched in stunned silence.