Extra To Protagonist-Chapter 66: Helping (3)

"Alive," he whispered. Relief punched through his lungs like a fist. "He's alive—he's fucking alive."

Elara crouched beside him, already scanning the wound.

"…Mana overdraw," she said. "Deep laceration. Some kind of puncture along the collarbone—bitten?"

Nathan flinched. "By what?"

She didn't answer.

Because they both felt it.

A lingering pressure.

Something had been here.

Something stronger than Merlin.

Something strong enough to leave him like this.

Nathan carefully slid an arm under Merlin's back, trying not to jostle the wounds.

"Hey," he said, voice low. "C'mon. You're not allowed to pass out dramatically before we yell at you."

Merlin didn't stir.

Elara's fingers brushed across Keryx. She stared at the blade.

"…It's not cracked and not bloody at all.

Nathan looked at her. "So?"

"That sword wasn't used or didn't work against whatever Merlin faced."

He blinked. Slowly. "…You think he beat whatever did this to him?"

"I think," she said, standing, "that he survived something he shouldn't have. I'm not sure if he beat it.."

Nathan looked down at Merlin's face.

There was blood at the corner of his mouth. His expression was tight even in unconsciousness—jaw clenched, brow furrowed like he was still fighting something in a dream.

'You idiot,' Nathan thought.

He pulled Merlin's arm over his shoulder, hoisting him with slow care.

"Let's get him out of here."

Elara nodded, already moving ahead to scout.

Nathan took one last look at the dark corridor behind them.

Something else was still here.

Watching.

Waiting.

But they had Merlin now.

And Nathan wasn't leaving him behind again.

Not ever.

—

The only sound was the drag of their boots over warped steel.

Nathan adjusted Merlin's weight on his shoulder again. The bastard wasn't light, and unconscious dead-weight didn't help his slipping grip. But he didn't complain.

Not when Merlin looked like this.

"…He's burning mana in his sleep," Nathan muttered, eyes darting toward the faint flickers pulsing under Merlin's skin.

"What the hell happened to you down here?"

No answer, obviously.

Elara was ahead of him, scanning the tunnel with short, efficient glances.

Spear in hand, tension coiled in her posture like a spring. Her pace wasn't rushed, but it wasn't slow either. Just fast enough to say we are not safe.

And they weren't.

The air here was wrong. Too dense. Saturated with old, corrupted mana that felt like it had grown teeth.

"…Where did you even wander off to?" Nathan muttered again. "Did you find a demon? Make a deal? Start a cult?"

He kept walking. Half out of breath.

The tunnel was winding now—curving, sloping upward at odd angles.

The emergency lighting that had once blinked along the ceiling was completely dead here.

Only the faint shimmer of Elara's wardstone gave them vision.

Until they weren't alone.

The corridor shifted.

The space in front of them folded.

Not violently. Not like an attack. Just… rewrote itself.

One second, the hallway was empty.

The next, she was standing there.

Barefoot.

Drenched in shadows.

Updat𝓮d from frёewebnoѵēl.com.

Hair so pale it could've been white—if it wasn't soaked through with something dark. Her face was unreadable. Empty. Not hostile. Not exactly. But not human, either.

Nathan froze mid-step. His stomach flipped. His fingers instinctively twitched toward his daggers but didn't reach.

"…Elara?" he said, voice barely above a whisper.

"I see her," Elara murmured back. Her spear snapped up without hesitation, mana coiling at the edge of the blade.

The girl didn't move.

Didn't blink.

She simply stood there—watching. Quiet.

Too quiet.

Nathan's voice came again, low, cautious. "Who—?"

But he didn't finish.

Because something dripped from her fingers.

Not blood.

Not quite.

More like a fluid that wanted to be blood, but had given up halfway through the process.

Her skin was too pale. Her eyes—if they were eyes—were like mist condensed into sockets. A glow just barely contained.

And behind her… nothing. No presence. No mana signature.

Like she was never part of the system at all.

Elara's voice didn't waver. "Identify yourself."

Still nothing.

The girl stepped forward.

Elara shifted, blocking Nathan and Merlin with her stance.

"No further," she warned.

The girl tilted her head.

Not aggressive. Just studying.

Then—finally—a voice. Soft. Off-pitch. Like it had been borrowed from someone who'd never spoken before.

"He's broken."

Nathan flinched. "What?"

Her gaze stayed on Merlin.

"He came in alone. Walked too deep. Touched things that shouldn't be touched." Her head tilted further, unnatural. Birdlike.

"And now he's… quiet."

Nathan's heart slammed once in his chest.

Elara's grip on her spear tightened. "Did you do this to him?"

The girl didn't answer.

She just stepped aside.

One small shift of bare feet on steel.

Elara didn't move.

Nathan hesitated. "You're letting us go?"

Silence.

Then—

"You won't get far. But you should try. You people aren't interesting anymore. I found someone else."

That was it.

She turned.

Not walked. Not stepped.

Just turned.

And vanished.

Like she'd never been there at all.

Elara didn't lower her weapon. Not for a long time.

Nathan swallowed hard. "Okay. That was terrifying."

"She wasn't breathing," Elara whispered. "Not even once."

They didn't speak again after that.

Just moved.

Faster now.

Whatever that was—whoever she was—they didn't want a second encounter.

And Merlin?

Merlin was still out cold.

Faint traces of corrupted mana clung to his skin like burn marks.

His pulse flickered under Nathan's fingers.

But he was alive.

At least, for now.

—

The air burned cold.

Not natural cold. Not weather. Not magic.

It was the cold that followed something hollow—like the silence after a scream that was never meant to stop.

Morgana stepped into the hall with a grace that made no sound, her heels barely brushing the scorched steel beneath her.

Her coat fluttered behind her like a drifting shadow, and her clear white eyes cut through the dark like knives through frost.

Subject 0 stood at the far end of the corridor.

Her hair hung loose, white and clotted with drying ichor. Her bare feet were slick with the blood of the creature she'd torn apart minutes earlier. Her smile was small. Not amused—knowing.

"You finally came, I felt your energy. You seem strong." Subject 0 said.

Morgana didn't answer.

Instead, she stepped forward—just once. The steel groaned beneath her foot as if in warning. Mana laced the air like humidity before a storm.

Subject 0 tilted her head.

"I wondered how long you'd wait before interfering."

"You touched something that was under my protection," Morgana said. Her voice was quiet. Velvet threaded with iron.

Subject 0 blinked. "The boy?"

She smiled faintly.

"He walked in on his own."

"You bit into his soul," Morgana replied, tone still calm. "I'm not fond of parasites."

Subject 0 chuckled softly. "He survived."

"No," Morgana said. "He endured it."

There was a pause. Then Subject 0's smile widened.

"I wanted to see what he was made of."

"And I want to see what you're made of."

The words weren't loud.

But they struck like thunder.

Subject 0's posture shifted. Her limbs relaxed. Her stance changed—lower, sharper, like an animal preparing to strike.

"You think I'm afraid of you?" she asked.

"No," Morgana said. "I think you've got no idea how strong I actually am."

And then—

She vanished.

Not blinked. Not teleported.

Vanished.

Subject 0 had just enough time to flinch—

When a heel crashed into her side.

The impact hurled her across the corridor like a thrown puppet, her body slamming into the wall with enough force to dent steel.

She crumpled.

Twitched.

Then stood.

Flesh already knitting back together, bones rearranging with sickening pops.

"You're fast," she said, spitting black blood. "Not enough to kill me."

"Hah," Morgana laughed.

"You are merely a candle holder compared to me."

She raised one hand.

The corridor trembled.

Not from power.

From refusal.

The walls groaned like they were trying to run. The air warped, and runes lit beneath her boots—ancient ones, etched in languages no one remembered.

A circle bloomed at her feet.

Subject 0's smile faltered.

"…You're not human."

"I am," Morgana said.

The light surged.

"Just better."

Subject 0 lunged.

She moved like a whisper—no sound, no telegraphing. Her arms split at the forearms, fingers branching into claws, jaw unhinging as a second row of teeth slid into view.

Morgana met her with a hand.

And stopped her mid-lunge.

There was a crack.

Then silence enveloped everything.

Subject 0 froze—body locked in the air—her limbs trembling violently as she hovered, suspended by a grip around her throat.

Morgana's fingers flexed.

Mana surged through Subject 0's body—burning white, sharp as frostbite and twice as cruel.

She screamed.

The walls shook.

Morgana didn't blink.

"You are not the worst thing that crawled out of this place," she said softly.

"But you are the definitely the ugliest."

With a flick of her wrist, she hurled Subject 0 backward—this time through the far wall.

Steel buckled. Sparks flew.

Subject 0 landed, tumbling like a broken doll.

She coughed once. Black liquid splattered the ground. Her smile had cracked.

"You'll… kill me?" she asked, voice rasping.

Morgana stepped through the hole in the wall.

"No," she said. "I'll remind you who the strongest is."

Subject 0 screamed and launched forward again.

Faster this time.

Her claws met air.

Because Morgana had already moved.

A palm slammed into Subject 0's chest—flat, open, casual.

And her entire torso caved inward.

The scream died in her throat.

She crumpled again.

Not regenerating this time.

Not rising.

Just twitching—soft, small, confused.

Morgana leaned down beside her.

"I told you," she whispered. "You picked the wrong one to bite."

Subject 0 tried to speak.

But Morgana's fingers brushed her forehead—softly.

And the world around them froze.

Not literally.

But mana stopped moving. The walls stopped creaking. The light stopped flickering.

Everything—everything—held its breath.

"I changed my mind, I don't want you making a mistake like this again" Morgana said. "Die."

The air trembled as Subject 0's body began to twist and turn unnaturally after Morgana snapped her fingers.

After a while the corridor was silent.

Not the silence of absence.

The silence of aftermath.

Morgana stood over the broken remains of Subject 0.

The creature's body was twisted, limbs bent at unnatural angles, ichor pooling beneath her.

Her once-smiling face was now frozen in a final expression of shock and pain.

Morgana's eyes, cold and unblinking, surveyed the scene.

She had given no quarter.

Subject 0 had been a threat—a parasite that had dared to touch what was hers.

And Morgana did not tolerate threats.

She turned away, her cloak billowing behind her as she walked down the corridor, leaving the shattered corpse behind.

There was no satisfaction in her stride.

Only purpose.

She had done what needed to be done.

And she would do it again.

Because in this world, power was the only truth.

And Morgana was its embodiment.