The Extra's Rise

In a world far, far from the blue marble called Earth, ancient wonders defied mortal comprehension.

This was a world where colossal Worldtrees stretched toward twin moons, their massive trunks spanning entire mountainsides, bark shimmering with veins of crystallized mana that pulsed like arteries of pure magic. Canopies so vast they formed their own weather systems, where cities of the Sylvan folk nestled within hollowed branches large enough to house entire human settlements.

Floating islands drifted lazily through prismatic skies, tethered to the Worldtrees by bridges of living wood that grew and shifted with the seasons. Waterfalls cascaded upward here, defying gravity as they carried life-giving essence from the realm's core to nourish the canopy above. The very air hummed with such concentrated mana that even the smallest wildflower could bloom in impossible colors—violets that shifted through every hue of the spectrum, roses that glowed like captured starlight, grass that chimed like distant bells when the wind passed through.

Rivers of liquid crystal wound between the great root systems, their waters so pure they were said to reflect not just physical forms but the very souls of those who gazed into their depths. These sacred streams had flowed unchanged for millennia, carrying the whispered prayers of countless generations to the heart of the world itself.

At least, that was supposed to be the case.

Now, the crystal rivers ran crimson with blood. The prismatic waters that once reflected starlight back to the heavens had become mirrors of death, their sacred surfaces broken by the bodies of the fallen. Where life-giving mana once sparkled in every droplet, now only the metallic stench of violence remained, coating everything in a film of corruption that made the very air taste of despair.

Amidst the corpse-strewn battlefield, one figure remained standing.

He was a man of the Sylvan race, seven feet of ancient dignity and desperate rage. His bark-like skin bore the deep wood grain patterns of a thousand seasons, each line telling the story of his people's long heritage. Golden eyes—the mark of his Earth affinity—blazed with power, but today they shone with something far more heartbreaking: the anguish of a protector who had failed everything he held sacred.

Blood dripped from his blade, though none of it belonged to his enemy.

"Korvash neth valdris! Korvash neth atheon! Korvash neth salveth!" His voice cracked as he screamed in the ancient tongue of his people, the words echoing off the towering Worldtrees that had borne witness to this slaughter. "Why are you doing this to us? Why are you hunting us? Why are you killing us?"

The target of his desperate pleas stood barely twenty feet away, yet she might as well have been in another dimension for all the concern she showed.

Alyssara Velcroix—the woman the surviving Sylvans had come to call Threneth Vashka, the Crimson Calamity—tilted her head with the idle curiosity of a child examining an interesting insect. Pink hair cascaded over her shoulders like spilled rose petals, a mockery of beauty against the backdrop of genocide. Crimson threads writhed around her form like living things, each one stained with the life essence of his fallen kin.

She raised a delicate hand to her cheek, wiping away a splatter of blood with casual indifference. The gesture—so utterly mundane in the face of such horror—made the Sylvan warrior's face contort with fury that transcended language barriers.

Behind him, far beneath the tangled roots of the Great Oak, the last stronghold of his people cowered in darkness. Children who would never see another sunrise. Elders whose thousand-year memories would die with them. All that remained of a civilization that had flourished for ten millennia, reduced to terrified whispers in the underground dark.

And here stood their final guardian—Korvain Silverleaf, the only demigod among them, wielder of High Radiant-rank power that could reshape landscapes. The mightiest of his generation, now the last hope of an extinct race.

"It's just EXP farming," Alyssara said with a shrug, her tone so conversational it might have been discussing the weather.

The Sylvan couldn't comprehend her words, but he understood her tone perfectly. The casual dismissal of his people's suffering, the complete absence of malice or hatred—just cold, calculating indifference. It was worse than cruelty. It was the attitude of someone stepping on ants.

Something snapped inside him.

"VASHKA!" The ancient war cry erupted from his throat as he raised his blade—Heartrender, forged from the heartwood of the first Worldtree, blessed by every Grove Elder for a thousand generations.

Every ounce of his divine power flowed into that final strike. The very sky split apart as space itself bent before the overwhelming force of a demigod's desperation. The air shrieked and reality warped, creating fractures in the dimensional fabric that would take decades to heal.

This was the technique that had once split mountains, that had held back the tide of three different apocalyptic wars. The accumulated might of an entire species channeled through their last defender.

"This is at the level of Magnus Draykar, I suppose," Alyssara observed with clinical detachment, watching the reality-rending attack approach. She extended one pale hand almost lazily, as if reaching for a glass of wine.

And caught the slash.

The dimensional rift that should have carved through anything in existence simply... stopped. Held motionless by five delicate fingers that showed no strain whatsoever. For a moment, the Sylvan's golden eyes widened in disbelief.

Then she closed her fist.

The attack didn't just dissipate—it shattered like glass, fragments of broken space spiraling away into nothingness. The backlash hit Korvain like a physical blow, driving him to his knees as his own power turned against him.

"How weak," Alyssara exhaled, the disappointment in her voice genuine.

Before he could even process what had happened, crimson threads erupted from the ground beneath him. They pierced through his ancient bark armor as if it were paper, through flesh and bone and the very core of his being. His divine essence scattered like morning mist, and the last hope of the Sylvan race crumbled to ash.

Alyssara barely spared his remains a glance before turning toward the hidden stronghold. Her threads spread through the earth like blood through water, seeking out every last trace of life.

The screaming began moments later. Brief, terrified, then silent.

When it was over, when the final echo had faded and the crystal rivers ran darker than ever before, Alyssara stood alone among the ruins of an entire civilization. She brushed dust from her clothing with the same casual gesture she'd used to wipe away blood.

Only then did she turn away from the devastation, her gaze lifting toward the star-scattered void between worlds. Her lips curved in a smile that held warmth for the first time since the slaughter began—genuine affection that somehow made her previous indifference even more chilling.

"I wonder if Arthur would like my present."