The Extra Can't be A Hero-Chapter 175: Eldorin (5)

As Samael finished his taunt, a heavy silence fell over the members of Eldorin. Muscles tensed, spells were primed. From their brief exchange, it was clear that this man, this Apostle, wasn't merely powerful. He was a calamity in human form.

Each of his effortless strikes had fatigued and injured two of their finest. And that wasn't him trying.

Leon knew it. He felt it in his bones. If Samael ever chose to fight seriously, this skirmish would become a slaughter. As the commander of this mission, Leon had half a mind to order a retreat. But his gut whispered a darker truth:

Samael wouldn't let them leave.

Why would he?

He was far more powerful than anyone present, and he did not need to grant them mercy. If anything, Samael should be hunting the members of Eldorin, just as they hunted the Demon Cult. Therefore, Leon knew that there was only one way to settle this…

"All of you! Cover me for a minute!"

Without a word, Leon sprang backward, planting his feet firmly in the sand as he gripped Ascalon with both hands. Golden fire exploded around him, roaring to life as all sixteen of his Suns ignited—burning brighter, faster, orbiting with a gravitational fury that bent the air around him.

The desert wind howled as his soul blazed like a dying star, and the sheer heat of his resolve cracked the earth beneath his feet.

That was the signal.

The rest of Eldorin surged forward without hesitation, rallying to his call with a war cry that shook the heavens. Blades drawn, spells flaring, and hearts alight—they charged the Apostle with unyielding resolve.

Yeon struck first, a blur of motion and arcane fury. No words, no hesitation—only the unbridled authority of the mage once feared as the Witch of Oblivion. With a sharp sweep of her arm, the skies cracked open, unleashing a tempest that fused ice with desert sand.

A howling blizzard born of Everfrost screamed across the battlefield, turning the arid dunes into a frozen wasteland. Snow swirled like razors, and shards of ice the size of ballista bolts rained down with castle-crushing force.

Samael's figure vanished beneath the storm for a moment, encased in a flurry so dense it turned the world white. From the outside, it looked like the Apostle had been sealed in a frozen tomb. But Yeon didn't stop.

And it was fortunate that she didn't.

The icy prison shattered in an instant—not from magic, not from heat, but from raw, unrelenting force. Cracks spiderwebbed across the frost before a deafening boom echoed through the dunes, and shards of Everfrost exploded outward like shrapnel.

Samael stepped forward from the wreckage, completely unfazed. His breath didn't fog. His muscles didn't tense. The cold hadn't touched him.

He laughed—an unsettling, boyish chuckle that barely masked the brutality beneath—and then lunged at Yeon like a missile.

But his path was cut short.

Flydian threw himself into Samael's way, shield raised high. Holy fire surged around his golden armour, swelling with radiant intensity. He looked like a bastion of divine wrath made flesh for a moment.

And then the Apostle's fist met him, and a detonating impact that rang like thunder. Flydian was launched backward like a cannonball, skidding across the frozen sand as cracks formed across his armour.

Yeon retaliated instantly, hurling a spear of razor-sharp ice aimed for Samael's heart. But the Apostle's feet twisted effortlessly, dodging the projectile with predator-like grace.

He didn't pause—just spun mid-motion and delivered a roundhouse kick that cracked through the air and sent Yeon tumbling. If not for Flyidan's Solstice Armour and a sheet of ice protecting her body, Yeon would have been killed by that one kick.

"Hah… To be incapacitated by one hit? Come on, try harder!"

Samael stomped the ground, sending a shockwave through the desert that triggered a cascading sand slide. The terrain shifted beneath the Eldorin members' feet, pulling them toward him like prey drawn into a predator's maw.

Flydian was still reeling from the devastating punch, barely able to lift his shield, while Yeon clung to consciousness by a thread.

They were in no shape to continue the fight. But Samael didn't care.

If they died from the aftermath, that was simply nature taking its course.

Fortunately, something caught his attention—a blur of motion and glinting steel—Khali.

The chakram dancer burst into the fray like a sandstorm given form. Her tanned skin glistened with sweat as she moved with feline grace and cheetah-like speed. Every twist of her body conjured slicing wind blades, trailing behind her amethyst chakrams like dancing spirits. She darted in and out of Samael's reach, striking with relentless rhythm.

Though her weapons skated off his impenetrable skin without drawing blood, she didn't falter—instead, her grin widened.

An opponent she didn't have to hold back against? That was rare.

Her movements sharpened. Faster. Wilder. More precise.

Afterimages blurred in her wake, making it nearly impossible to track her real location. Khali was Eldorin's premier close-quarters specialist, and at that moment, she proved it. Even with his monstrous strength and speed, Samael could not catch her. He swiped, lunged, pivoted—but she slipped through every attempt like wind through fingers.

And so the battle entered a standstill: a deadly dance where she couldn't pierce him, and he couldn't touch her.

"Hoh? At least one of you has potential… but!"

Samael slammed his foot into the ground, and a shockwave of raw mana exploded outward from his ironclad skin. The force hit Khali like a cannon blast, launching her into the air like a feather caught in a storm.

Agile though she was, Khali lacked the defences to endure a direct hit—she was a glass cannon through and through. Suspended midair with no footing to recover, she was completely exposed and Samael didn't waste the opportunity.

His demonic fist clenched, primed to end her life in a single strike.

But before he could release the blow, something tore through the air faster than sound. His instincts screamed. For the first time, Samael felt a flicker of danger. He raised his corrupted arm just in time to intercept the projectile, and winced.

The arrow punched through his defence, piercing his skin.

A clean hit.

Blood welled for a split second before the wound sealed itself shut with unnatural speed.

Still, Samael looked at the embedded shaft in surprise, then pulled it free, studying it with intrigue.

An arrow? Really?

His eyes traced the shot's trajectory to its source—a silver-haired woman with eyes as sharp as her aim. Venya stood calmly with her bowstring still humming from the release. She clicked her tongue, clearly irritated that the shot hadn't struck his head. But she didn't flinch. With fluid grace, she nocked another arrow and drew her bow again—ready to fire again.

Samael lunged forward, but Venya's arrow was faster. It whistled through the air like a divine judgment—ornate, razor-sharp, and seemingly untouched by wind resistance. Forged with expert craftsmanship and laced with tracking mana, the arrow curved with perfect precision, impossible to dodge and harder to block.

The kind of shot turned even the bravest warriors into prey.

The arrow buried itself into Samael's flesh once again. This time, his amused expression soured. His venomous green eyes narrowed as he yanked the shaft out with a grunt of irritation.

"Really?" he muttered, inspecting the faint purple sheen coating the arrowhead. "Poison?" He scoffed—not in outrage, but disappointment.

"If you're going to try underhanded tricks," Samael said, flicking the arrow away, "at least use something worthwhile. Something like Basilisk's acid or a poison that actually hurts."

He let the taunt hang in the air, disdain curling on his lips.

"This... barely tickles."

Samael lunged—and in the blink of an eye, he was already in front of her. Venya barely had time to register his movement before the Apostle's fist was inches from her face. Her breath hitched. As a ranged combatant, she had no defense at that range.

Instinctively, she shut her eyes, bracing for the inevitable blow. But the impact never came. Instead, there was silence… and then the faint hum of magic.

Venya cracked one eye open—and saw him.

Verso stood between her and death, battered but unyielding. Dust and blood streaked his once-pristine white coat, his hair matted from the chaos. A cut on his brow leaked crimson, trailing down his face. But he didn't flinch.

Held aloft by his outstretched hand, a radiant astral guardian—an ethereal being woven from pure light—gripped Samael's fist in midair, halting the attack with impossible force.

"Wow… It's one thing after another with you lot!" Samael couldn't contain his laughter as he retracted his arm.

"A false god? You sold your soul to something like that? Are you sane?"

"Anything is possible, my friend."

Verso's voice, low and resolute, was the trigger. In response, the astral guardian surged forward—its fist, forged from pure celestial light, crashed into Samael's chest.

For the first time since the battle began, the Apostle staggered. It was only a single step back—a mere meter—but it was enough. A flicker of satisfaction curled on Verso's lips as he let out a quiet, breathless laugh.

The guardian pressed on, each strike faster and fiercer than the last, its luminous blows raining with divine fury. The desert air cracked with every impact. But Samael—unfazed—matched the assault with fluid parries, his demonic arm deflecting the radiant fists with eerie calm.

Blow after blow was turned aside, until— He found his opening. With a grunt, Samael launched a devastating punch that shattered the guardian into shards of fading light. The backlash struck Verso like a thunderclap—he coughed blood, his body folding under the force as he collapsed to one knee.

Pain seared through every nerve. His vision darkened. But he did not fall.

He rose to one knee, chest still lifted, jaw clenched in defiance. Blood stained his lips, his body trembled… but his spirit did not break.

"Impressive!" Samael laughed with genuine interest. "Would you care to join us? If you join my gospel, I'll elevate you to Acolyte immediately. Given your talent, you could become a Deacon in a few years, maybe even a Vicar if you preach my gospel well enough."

"Hah… I appreciate the offer, but… over my dead body, heathen."

Facing rejection, Samael didn't feel insulted or angry. Instead, a wave of disappointment and sadness engulfed him.

"Honestly… Why deny fate? The world is doomed to fall to the Demon King. Joining the cult would only improve your standing in the destined future."

"Perhaps… But as long as humanity exists, there will be those who deny fate."

"And you are one of those?"

"No," Verso smiled with a mouthful of blood. "But, you will have to face them soon enough."

"What?"

That was when Samael sensed it—something was off.

The cold night air began to warm, subtly at first, then rapidly, as if the dawn itself were forcing its way into the battlefield. The twilight shadows retreated, replaced by a blinding radiance that grew with every heartbeat.

The Apostle's eyes narrowed. He had overlooked something.

No—someone.

Leon.

From within the sand-swept haze, Leon's soul ignited. Sixteen suns spiralled in unison, drawn into the swirling convergence of a river coil. Fire and water—opposing forces—merged in harmony, their mana fusing into Ascalon like tributaries into an ocean.

The holy blade pulsed with divine power, overflowing with energy beyond mortal comprehension.

Then, wings emerged. One of blazing gold, forged from living flame. The other, crystalline and fluid, woven from the primordial waters of the world.

Though not as seamless as Amon, Leon had mastered the art of dual mana affinity—a rare feat bordering on myth. And with the blessing of holy magic woven into his essence, he no longer resembled a man, but a divine force made flesh.

In that moment, he stood as the closest living echo of the Goddess herself.

With a roar that split the heavens, Leon unleashed everything he had stored—his fury, will, power—aimed squarely at the unflinching Apostle.

"Dawn!"