The Extra Who Stole the Hero's System
Chapter 33: Herald - 2

Chapter 33: Herald - 2

The dawn was too quiet.

Fog rolled thick over the forest floor like a blanket trying to suffocate the world. Trees stood as shadows in the haze, their branches reaching the sky. Herald could barely see two feet ahead of him. His boots sank into the wet earth, and every step felt like it echoed through the silence. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, the ribbon Myrin had given him fluttering in the chill air.

Their unit had been called in the middle of the night—orders from command. A border village near the Tumedian-controlled line had been raided. No survivors. The attackers were still believed to be nearby. They were to investigate. Reinforcements would come later, they were told.

But Herald knew what that really meant. They were bait. A test. If they survived, reinforcement would come. If not, they’d be forgotten and the village ceded to Tumedia.

Sylas marched at the front, eyes scanning the woods like a hawk. Myrin moved silently behind him, bow ready, fingers coiled. Lio brought up the rear, grumbling under his breath.

"Bad feeling about this," Lio muttered. "Like walking into a trap, everything just seems to easy, enemies haven’t been spotted."

"You always say that," Herald said, trying to steady his voice.

"Yeah, and I hope I’m never right."

They found the village around midday. Or what was left of it.

The houses had been burned down to their foundations. Ash covered everything like gray dust. The air stank of smoke and something worse—flesh. Bodies were piled in the square, stripped of weapons, faces frozen in terror. Some were children.

Myrin turned away, her jaw tight with a tension she couldn’t quite suppress. She couldn’t bear to look any longer. The eerie stench of blood clung to the air, thick and suffocating. Her hands trembled at her sides, fists clenched—not out of readiness, but helplessness. Beside her, Herald stood frozen, eyes wide and unblinking. There was no honor in this. No clash of warriors or test of wills. This wasn’t a battlefield.

It was butchery. Cold. Methodical. And utterly devoid of mercy.

"Mercenaries," Sylas said coldly, nudging a corpse with his boot. "Tumedian coin. They leave nothing behind."

They buried the villagers. No one told them to. They just did. Sylas said a few words under his breath, but otherwise they worked in silence. Herald couldn’t stop looking at their faces. He didn’t know them, but he couldn’t look away.

When night fell, they set up camp on the outskirts of the ruin. The fire was small. The mood was smaller.

"Why would the Tumedians do this?" Herald asked.

"Because they can," Sylas replied.

"Because they want to remind us who owns the east," Myrin added.

Herald looked down at his hands. He had started forming calluses from the sword. But his fingers still trembled. He didn’t say anything more that night.

The attack came just before dawn.

It started with a whistle, sharp and sudden. Then came the screaming. Men erupted from the woods, blades flashing in the firelight. The mercenaries had waited. Watched. And now they struck.

CLANG!

Herald barely had time to grab his sword before one of them was on him. He parried, stumbled and quickly ducked a wild swing from one of the mercenaries, he then drove his blade into the man’s stomach. The mercenary gasped, eyes wide, then he slumped. Herald yanked the sword free, blood splattering across his chest. He didn’t have time to think.

More came.

The camp erupted into chaos—steel clashing, voices screaming. Lio was already deep in the fray, shield up, barking curses in sharp Calvadian slang as he drove back attackers. Myrin loosed arrows with ruthless speed, each one silent and sure. Sylas slipped between mercenaries, blade flickering with a silent, surgical and unstoppable intent.

A scream tore through the din, as someone young was cut down too fast to finish a cry. Lio didn’t flinch. He surged forward, slamming his shield into a raider’s chest with a crack of bone, then brought his axe down in a brutal arc that left no second chances. Blood sprayed across his face, but he kept moving, teeth bared. There was no room for hesitation—only forward, or death.

Nearby, Myrin shifted positions, arrows nearly gone. He dropped his bow and drew his short blade, breath ragged. A man charged him with a wild swing, but Myrin ducked low, drove steel into his gut, and twisted. The man’s weight fell on him, hot and heavy. Myrin shoved the body aside and looked up, eyes locking with Sylas—who, without breaking stride, slit a throat and kept walking. Wordless understanding passed between them. Survive now. Mourn later.

But they were outnumbered. Badly.

Herald found himself back-to-back with Lio, panting.

"Still think this is just fog and bad luck?" Herald shouted.

"Definitely bad luck!" Lio yelled, blocking a strike and pushing forward.

Then it happened.

A spear caught Myrin in the side. She cried out, stumbled, and fell behind a fallen tent. Herald’s world slowed, he was devastated at the sight of Myrin on the floor.

He shouted her name, but there was no response. He quickly broke formation, rushing through the blur of sword clangs. He found her slumped against a tree, blood pouring from her waist— as she tried to stop the bleeding by clutching her stomach, but it was to no avail. The bow at her back was snapped in half.

"Myrin!"

She looked up, eyes slowly shutting. "Still scared?" she managed to whisper.

Herald dropped beside her, tearing at his coat, pressing it against the wound. "You’re not dying. You’re not."

"Herald, listen to me..."

"No. Just shut up. You’re not leaving me. Not like this."

He fought to stop the bleeding, but it was bad. Too bad. Lio appeared, he quickly dragged them behind a supply cart, fending off attackers as they regrouped. The enemy was beginning to fall back, as reinforcements had finally arrived.

The next hours didn’t feel real to Herald, he didn’t remember much—as his brain refused to process what had just happened, what he knew from that night were just fire, screams, blood, and Myrin’s voice fading.

When it was over, and the camp was secure, he sat with her body. He hadn’t let go of her hand for a second.

Sylas stood beside him, eyes downcast. "She fought well. You all did."

"It wasn’t enough," Herald said.

"It never is."

They buried her beside the village. Herald placed her broken bow atop the grave. He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. He just stared until the sun came up, That day, he made a vow — never to lose anyone special to him again.

The allied command praised their "valiant resistance." The report said the enemy was driven back. A strategic win. No mention of Myrin. Or the villagers. Or the fear that still lingered in Herald’s bones.

That night, he took out his notebook and wrote down the names of the fallen. He began with the name of the first woman he ever loved.

Myrin Aster. Archer. Brave. Clever. Kind. Forever Loved.

After her name, he wrote down the names of the other fallen soldiers — from Henry to Jack, to Carhill. He listed everyone he could remember.

He closed the book.

"You’re just not names," he whispered. "I won’t let them be."

Lio sat beside him, silent for once.

"You still scared?" he asked.

"Yeah," Herald said. "But now I’m angry too."

The fog had lifted by morning. But something inside Herald had darkened. He had drawn first blood. And it had cost him everything.

The war wasn’t just distant politics anymore. It was personal.

It was real.

And it had only just begun.