The Extra's Rise

A harried group of Tower defenders crouched behind a toppled statue in a wide marble hallway. Their breathing came in ragged bursts, sweat glistening on their foreheads.

An oppressive heat drifted down the corridor, an aftermath of clashing spells that had scorched the very air. Before them lay a swirl of drifting smoke and shattered stone where a cultist war party had battered at the Tower's inner defenses.

A flicker of pale light pulsed across the defenders' comm devices, drawing their attention. Static hissed, then a voice cut through the noise.

They both looked at each other, their faces brightening up as they recognised the voice as their Master's.

It was calm yet urgent, outlining swift, surprising tactics. They exchanged puzzled glances but followed the directives, each set of instructions sounding like a puzzle piece that fit perfectly into the chaos.

At the far end of the corridor, two cultists brandishing twisted staves had begun channeling a wave of crackling energy. Their robes rippled as they poured mana into a violent projectile meant to blast through any resistance. The defenders braced for impact, shoulders tense, lungs tight.

Then, on the comm line, the new orders arrived. They told the defenders to cluster in a tight formation, not to turtle behind wards, but to rush.

It felt counterintuitive—charging headlong into the jaws of a freshly summoned offensive spell. Yet the voice's confidence stirred them. They counted to three, hearts pounding, and broke cover.

A group of five mages led the charge. Their boots pounded the marble floor, accompanied by the ragged shouts of those behind them. A dozen more followed, forming a wedge shape with staff-wielders at the center and enchantment specialists on the flanks. They swarmed the cultists like a living wave.

The cultists unleashed their crackling sphere of power. It tore down the hall, throwing out arcs of harsh light. Yet at the last second, the defenders shifted into a diagonal pattern—an abrupt maneuver whispered into their comm devices. The sphere glanced off an improvised barrier created by three closely linked illusions, then ricocheted harmlessly against the far wall.

Furious, the cultists tried to cast again. But the defenders pressed in, numbers overwhelming them. One of the Tower's apprentices, eyes blazing with courage, shoved a ward-charged gauntlet forward, releasing a stun pulse that caught the nearest cultist mid-chant. Another mage whipped a coil of binding magic around a robed figure's ankles, yanking them off balance.

The corridor erupted into a flurry of frantic motion. Distant flames crackled, painting the walls in flickering reds and oranges. Shouts of triumph and anguish echoed. Under different circumstances, the defenders might have played it safe and stayed behind wards, exchanging spells from a distance. But that voice in their comms insisted: swarm the enemy, deny them time to shape large spells, exploit their confusion.

The approach worked. Robes rustled as the cultists found themselves face-to-face with a surge of determined mages. Forced into close combat, they lost the edge of their ranged incantations. Panicked, they lashed out with chaotic bursts of flame and shadow, but the defenders had the momentum. They relied on brute, coordinated force, combined with short, sharp illusions that caused cultists to misjudge distances.

Bit by bit, the cultists retreated. A few collapsed under the combined assault. Others managed to slip away down side corridors, searching for safer ground. The swirl of smoke thickened, but in the swirl, a triumphant chorus of whoops and cheers sounded from the defenders as they realized they'd taken control of that section.

Farther along, in a domed antechamber dotted with star-shaped ceiling lights, another batch of Tower mages faced a cunning group of cultists wearing masks of polished obsidian. Four masked figures arranged themselves in a circular pattern, chanting in low, guttural tones. Their combined power generated a swirl of black cinders that orbited the chamber like a malevolent halo.

The defenders froze, uncertain how to approach this. Then came the voice again, this time telling them to form pairs. Pairs? They blinked at one another, questioning the strategy. But it was said with such unwavering clarity that they obeyed. Each pair approached from a different angle, stepping carefully around the swirling cinders. Find exclusive stories on My Virtual Library Empire

In pairs, they projected illusions of themselves while brandishing small bursts of disruption magic—tiny arcs of forced static. Like choreographed dancers, they moved in and out of the swirling cinders, timing each approach so the illusions drew hostile fire. The real mages ducked under crackling sparks, weaving low amid the chaos to close the distance.

Soon, the cultists found themselves under pressure from six directions at once. Their circular chant faltered. The black cinders flared in disarray, creating random bursts of heat and light that missed their marks. A disguised enchanter used a quickfire stun on one cultist, while a second mage followed up with a rope of shimmering hex, pulling them down.

The black cinders vanished. The cultists, seeing their formation shattered, abandoned that post and melted into the side passages. Another victory. Another instance of swarming, illusions, and cunning that outpaced raw destructive power.

These small clashes repeated across the Tower's labyrinth. In the library corridor, where rows of floating shelves hummed with enchantments, defenders followed unexpected instructions telling them to lure cultists between the shelves, then trigger illusions of collapsing aisles.

Taken by surprise, the robed intruders panicked, seeing towering shelves come crashing down in what appeared to be a lethal avalanche of books. The illusions had no physical force, but the confusion it caused left them wide open to stun bursts and physical takedowns.

Elsewhere, near the Tower's alchemical labs, a group of advanced mages used illusions in a different way—projecting false images of doorways that led nowhere. Cultists rushed through them, only to find themselves in cramped alcoves or dead ends.

Mages then swarmed from all sides, layering binding spells and tranquilizing potions. One robed figure attempted to teleport out, but the combined illusions scrambled his spatial lock, resulting in a botched jump that left him sprawled on the floor.

Throughout these pockets of battle, a single thread linked the defenders' success: timely, precise orders whispered into their comm lines.

As the minutes crawled by, the cultists found themselves steadily squeezed. They lost ground in the library, in the sub-level labs, in high balconies overlooking the city. Reports filtered through the comms of squads of zealots forced into a frantic retreat, or pinned down by illusions so convincing they dared not move for fear of a nonexistent avalanche or collapsing floor.

In one particularly cramped hallway, two robed figures clashed with a half-dozen mages. Flames and illusions spiraled overhead, scorching the stone ceiling. Under normal circumstances, the cultists might have driven the defenders back with withering spells. But the defenders rushed them in pairs from opposite ends, as though reading from an identical script.

They unleashed a wave of chilling magic from one side, a flurry of illusions from the other. The cultists jerked in confusion, turned too late, and caught a half-dozen stun bolts all at once.

They collapsed, their battered forms smoking. The defenders sank to their knees, exhausted, relief flickering across their faces. Another success. Another corridor reclaimed.

Along the Tower's grand staircase—usually a place of solemn reflection, lined with portraits of great mages—fierce combat raged for nearly ten minutes. The cultists tried a last-ditch stand there, attempting to control the heart of the Tower. They bombarded the approaching defenders with swirling arcs of shadow-laced wind, toppling statues and warping the steps themselves.

But a new set of instructions arrived, telling the defenders to form squads of four. Each squad was to take a different landing, converging from multiple elevations at once. In effect, they swarmed from every nook in the stairwell. At the top, illusions made it look like an entire platoon was descending.

On the middle landing, real squads advanced slowly, hurling stun bursts and illusions of collapsing pillars. And from the bottom, reserves surged upward with swirling wards and intangible illusions that flickered like ghosts.

The cultists struggled to see through the multi-tiered assault. Their spells ricocheted off illusions or crashed into wards, and soon they realized they were trapped in the center with foes above and below. Panic took hold. Several tried to break away, only to run into illusions that disguised exits.

Another fired a powerful beam of black fire, only to have it fizzle against a conjured image of a reflective wall. Each escape route slammed shut, courtesy of illusions layered with cunning timing.

By the time the dust settled, the cultists had either fallen or vanished into the hidden corners of the Tower, leaving the staircase littered with cracked stone and the echo of victory cries.

Across the Tower, the corridors flickered with the aftermath of each small skirmish. Tattered robes lay discarded, and the faint stench of burnt mana clung to the walls. Yet the defenders' morale soared. They no longer felt cornered, no longer outmaneuvered. Step by step, corridor by corridor, they reclaimed the Tower's labyrinthine depths.

Eventually, pockets of cultist resistance collapsed in on themselves. Reports trickled in of disorganized retreat. Some robed figures managed to flee to upper floors, trying to regroup. Others simply surrendered, drained of mana and will.

The unstoppable momentum had turned, and now it was the Tower's defenders on the offensive, their hearts lifted by small but decisive victories repeated over and over again.

In the hush after another rout, a group of exhausted mages leaned against the base of a grand spiral pillar, their comm devices flickering as they listened for the next order. One of them, eyes brimming with relief, murmured, "We can win this."

No one disagreed.