Path of the Extra

Solomon and Zoran circled each other, the former grinning widely while the latter wore a displeased expression.

"You're really not living up to your name, acting so timid around me, oh great Heptarch," Solomon taunted.

Zoran furrowed his brows, tilting his head slightly.

"Timid? Unfortunately, I've already discarded such a useless emotion as fear."

Solomon paused, momentarily confused. Zoran stopped as well.

"You say that, yet you don't dare attack me. Doesn't that make you a scared little boy?"

Zoran's face hardened.

"I've discarded fear, not stupidity. Anyone who knows the name Solomon Dragonheart knows better than to strike first."

Solomon's eyes sharpened, his grin widening.

"Besides, anything that comes out of your mouth is of no real value."

"Well, I do feel honored! How about this? I promise to use only my [unique skill], and you're free to use whatever you like."

A tense silence followed before Zoran's expression darkened.

"...Was that supposed to be a joke?"

Solomon chuckled, shrugging.

"You tell me. Everyone else I've told that joke to is no longer around to share it."

Zoran sighed, glancing around before meeting Solomon's gaze again.

"There are rules in the dungeon. One of them is broken if more than two Apostles are on the same floor, which has already happened with me and the prince here. Another will be shattered if we Saints fight on the lower levels."

Solomon blinked.

"Am I supposed to care about these rules? By Apostles, you mean those supposedly blessed by the gods, right?"

Zoran raised an eyebrow at the sudden shift in conversation but nodded.

"That's correct. There are nine Apostles—well, ten Apostles now—ten children of the gods. I am one, the Child of Ruin, blessed by the God of Ruin. We Apostles are superior to lesser humans: stronger, smarter, more—"

"But not charming or attractive, clearly," Solomon interrupted, his mocking tone cutting through.

"Azriel is one of them, isn't he? The Apostle of Death, if I recall. A god who was supposed to stay neutral but didn't… Makes me wonder why that god broke his vow to bless Azriel."

Zoran shook his head.

"What the gods do is beyond human understanding. All that matters is what we do: survive. Survival is like climbing a mountain, and the Supreme Archon has given me the tools to reach the summit."

Solomon's smile faded, his expression turning bored. Zoran took a step forward, locking eyes with him.

"The higher you climb, the steeper it gets. You can either shed the weight you carry or make sure you've got the right tools to keep climbing—better, stronger, safer."

"...You sure love to talk, don't you? I noticed that when you kept yapping with Azriel."

Zoran tilted his head slightly before his eyes narrowed in realization.

"You were here the whole time, weren't you? Hiding in the darkness, close enough to hear everything, yet unseen."

Solomon's lips curved into a small smile.

"I didn't lie when I said I reached the twentieth floor. It was so chaotic there that I returned to watch Azriel battle that instructor. Maybe I should've given old man Benson a raise—it might've helped him keep his composure."

"...."

"Still, watching Azriel fight wasn't disappointing. He's smart enough to use the quality of his soul weapon to his advantage, and he knows when being a coward is better than being a fool. I see why he wanted me to plant that mana bomb beforehand."

Zoran nodded.

"He's young, but he has potential. A strategic mind. He's my brother, in a way. I expect much from him, even if his existence wasn't meant to be."

After a brief silence, Zoran clapped his hands, a small smile matching Solomon's.

"Indeed, I talk too much. Let's get this over with, shall we? Instead of your offer, I'd like to propose one of my own."

"Oh?"

Solomon's intrigue grew as he nodded.

"Go on."

"It would be a shame if our battle destroyed this entire floor. If that happens, only the gods will know what consequences await humanity. The dungeon might take ages to repair itself. So, instead, let's fight in the way we Saints are best known for."

Solomon's eyes widened, his smile stretching as he clenched his fists.

"Ah, you're not as boring as I thought you'd be."

Zoran's grin widened as well.

"Fair warning: Don't assume I'm your average Saint."

He suddenly pulled a small glass tube from his pocket, and Solomon's face froze in shock as he saw the black liquid swirling inside.

"The Supreme Archon is kind enough to gift us Heptarchs the blood of a Voidwalker."

Solomon blinked, his complexion paling slightly as Zoran uncorked the tube and drank the blood in one go. Solomon's expression darkened.

"...Crap."

Black veins began to spread across Zoran's face, pulsing unnervingly beneath his skin. He exhaled slowly, a twisted smile forming as he gazed at Solomon.

"Try copying this, clown."

The smile vanished from Solomon's face, replaced by a blank, unreadable expression.

No more words were exchanged. Both stood opposite each other on the fractured bridge.

Only silence remained.

It stretched for seconds... minutes...

And then...

"[Soul...]"

"[...Domain.]"

*****

"...What happened...?"

Zoran blinked, slowly rising to his feet. The rough texture of the ground pressed against his palms, as though he had been kneeling. His muscles were tense, his mind reeling, like he had just emerged from a trance.

A chill ran down his spine, and he instinctively clenched his fists. His vision blurred at first, disoriented. He had no idea where he was. The space around him felt wrong—unnatural.

Then his breath caught in his throat.

Everywhere around him...

He saw himself.

Dozens, no—hundreds of reflections stared back at him from every direction. His eyes, wide and unsettled, gazed from all angles.

Some reflections were twisted, others eerily still, like paintings with no life behind them. Some mirrored him perfectly, while others were frozen mid-motion, as if they had stopped halfway through a gesture.

The surface beneath him gleamed like polished obsidian, so reflective it felt as though he stood on the edge of nothingness.

Just below the thin sheen of black glass, another version of himself stared upward. Zoran's heart pounded, each beat echoing in the hollow silence of the place.

The sky—or whatever passed for one—was a dull gray, an endless expanse of mirrored clouds swirling and bending light in strange ways, casting distorted and warped reflections of the world below.

The space stretched infinitely in all directions, but it wasn't the openness that unnerved him—it was the suffocating presence of himself everywhere he turned.

Towering monoliths of broken mirrors jutted out of the ground, standing like fragmented giants. Each shard was at jagged angles, cracked and imperfect.

Some showed Zoran as he was, but others reflected versions of him out of sync—standing at a slight delay or performing motions he hadn't made yet.

Time was fractured here.

Zoran couldn't trust what he saw. His instincts screamed that some of the reflections weren't truly him.

One of the taller mirror spires distorted his face, the reflection smiling in a way he never would.

Its eyes seemed deeper, colder, as if it knew something he didn't.

The entire world around him was watching him.

Or worse—it was him.

"...!"

His skin crawled as every movement was echoed by countless forms. It felt as though his very essence was scattered, as if pieces of his soul were trapped in this bizarre reflection of reality.

This was no ordinary place.

A twisted realm where the line between reality and illusion blurred dangerously.

Zoran stepped forward, and his reflections rippled, as if the world around him were liquid, distorting with each movement.

Then, a voice.

It came from behind him. No, it came from all sides, from above and below. It was everywhere.

"Even with the blood of a Voidwalker, man... you really are absolute trash."