The Extra Who Stole the Hero's System
Chapter 57: Megmura

Chapter 57: Megmura

The dim glow of the lantern flickered against the walls, casting shifting patterns of light across the room as I started packing. My belongings were few – a change of clothes, a small pouch of coins, some biscuits. Each item I placed into the worn leather satchel felt like a step further away from the life I had known, both as Alex Miller and as the adopted son of House Sapphire. My hands, still tender from my self-inflicted wounds, moved stiffly, but my mind was a whirlwind of second thoughts.

Herald. His demands. My fingers instinctively gripped the hilt of my training sword, which I had retrieved from the floor. The cool steel felt solid, grounding, but also utterly inadequate. Was this truly a good idea? To basically run away with him, to be his apprentice, to plunge headfirst into a war against a cult?

I squeezed the sword hilt, the pressure so intense that my palms began to bleed faintly from the tender skin over my healing wounds. I assessed my combat strength, running through every scenario in my head. If I tried to escape now, if I tried to face Herald, would I be able to distract him enough to pull it off?

Then came the dreadful conclusion. No. I wouldn’t even last a second in combat against Herald. The sheer mana force emanating from his Mythic Dragon’s Eye alone was enough to obliterate me. I had seen it. I had felt a mere fraction of it. The way he had erased those guards, the way he had shattered an A-tier artifact with his bare hand. He was on a completely different level of power, a being beyond my current comprehension, let alone my ability to fight. Any attempt at escape would be futile, suicidal. I was trapped.

Mid-thought, I felt a heavy presence behind me. Not a sound. Not a rustle. Just a sudden, overwhelming sense of someone being there. My instincts screamed. My body reacted before my mind could even process it. I immediately lunged forward, spinning on my heel, bringing the blunt training sword up in a desperate, defensive arc, aiming at the perceived threat.

But my blade met empty air.

I completed my turn, my eyes wide, my heart hammering against my ribs. Standing calmly beside me, just a few feet away, was Herald. He hadn’t moved. He simply stood there, his black cloak pulled tight around him, his hood obscuring most of his face.

I let out a shaky sigh of relief, the adrenaline slowly receding. "Master Herald!" I exclaimed, my voice a little breathless. "Why... why did you sneak up on me like that?"

He tilted his head slightly, his tone utterly non-chalant. "I didn’t sneak up on anybody. I used spatial magic to come here. It would be faster than walking all the way from the courtyard."

My jaw dropped. Spatial magic? My mind reeled. That was an advanced element, a complex and incredibly rare form of magic, even for Mage Knights. Herald was an equivalent of a Sword Knight, a master of the blade, not a mage. The novel had never explicitly stated he could wield advanced magic. It had hinted at his vast mana pool and his unique abilities through the Mythic Dragon’s Eye, but spatial magic? That was a whole different ball game.

But then, the immediate shock faded, replaced by a dawning realization. Herald was on another level of mana mastery in this world. He was capable of both high-level sword arts, as evidenced by his duel with Lord Sapphire, and high-level mage arts, as evidenced by his casual use of spatial magic. He wasn’t just a Sword Knight; he was a hybrid, a true master of mana in all its forms. His power was far more comprehensive, far more terrifying, than I had ever fully comprehended. He was truly a force of nature.

"Spatial magic," I murmured, a new respect, tinged with a deeper apprehension, entering my voice. "That’s... impressive, Master."

He replied, his voice flat. "Now, are you ready? We leave for Megmura."

****

The journey to Megmura was long, stretching over several days. We traveled mostly at night, moving through the shadows, avoiding main roads and populated areas. Herald, despite his immense power, was surprisingly cautious, almost paranoid. He never stayed in one place for too long, never lingered in towns, always choosing secluded campsites in the wilderness. It was a stark contrast to the pampered noble life I had just left, a harsh reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond the manor walls.

During our travels, I tried to engage Herald in conversation, to gather more information, to understand him better. My immediate concern was his spatial magic.

"Master Herald," I began one evening, as we sat by a small, carefully concealed campfire, the only light in the vast darkness of the forest. "You mentioned using spatial magic earlier. Why couldn’t you just use it to teleport us both directly to your hideout in Megmura? It would be faster than walking all the way."

"I am not able to teleport other living things with me, Disciple," he replied, his voice flat. "Or without me, for that matter. My spatial magic is limited to my own person. It allows for rapid movement, for infiltration, for escape. But it is not a means of transportation for others."

I nodded, making a mental note. One of Herald’s limitations. Even with his immense power, he wasn’t omnipotent. His spatial magic was to the bare minimum he was capable of doing – personal teleportation, not mass transport. It was a small detail, but a crucial one. Every piece of information about Herald, about his strengths and weaknesses, was vital for my long-term plan.

I then shifted the conversation, trying to probe deeper into his past, into the trauma that drove him. I knew from the novel about Herald’s past life in the once-vassal Kingdom of Eudenia, how he had worked in his father’s blacksmith shop as a child, his hands calloused by the forge. I knew how he was later recruited, when of age, to serve as a man-at-arms for Eudenia during the Great War of Unification, more than three hundred years ago. I knew about his trauma, how he had lost everyone he knew in the battlefield, especially that one incident when a strange cult member had appeared in the sky and used a high-level mage art to literally wipe everyone from the battlefield. That event alone had sparked Herald’s rage for the cult, initiating his centuries-long quest for revenge.

"Master Herald," I ventured, my voice soft, almost hesitant, "you mentioned your past, your time in Eudenia. What was it like? Your childhood? Your family?"

Herald stiffened.

"Those are not questions for a student to ask," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "My past is my own."

"But Master," I pressed, choosing my words carefully, "to understand the enemy, one must understand the one who fights them. Your drive, your purpose... it’s rooted in your past. To truly be your hand, I need to understand the depths of that conviction. What drove you to fight for so long? What did you lose?"

He remained silent for a long moment, his gaze piercing. I held my breath, bracing myself for his anger, for a violent dismissal.

"Very well," he murmured, his voice softer now, tinged with a profound, ancient sorrow. "A few questions, then. But do not presume to understand my pain."

And so, under the vast, star-studded sky, by the flickering light of a small campfire, Herald began to speak. He spoke of his childhood, of the clang of his father’s hammer, the smell of hot iron, the simple joys of a blacksmith’s son. He spoke of his first love, a girl with hair like spun gold and a laugh like wind chimes, lost to the ravages of war. He spoke of the camaraderie of his fellow soldiers, the bonds forged in the crucible of battle, the shared dreams of a unified Ostina. He spoke of the horrors of the war, the endless bloodshed, the sacrifices. He spoke of the cult member, a shadowy figure descending from the sky, unleashing a devastating, high-level mage art that had consumed his entire camp, erasing everyone he knew and loved in mere seconds. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, yet the raw pain of centuries of grief resonated in every word. He didn’t cry. He didn’t rage. He simply stated the facts, the brutal, unvarnished truth of his loss.

I listened, utterly captivated, my own pain and fear momentarily forgotten. This was the true Herald. The man behind the legend, the warrior driven by an unimaginable trauma. It was a heartbreaking story.

As the night deepened, and Herald’s voice trailed off, a sudden sound pierced. The rustle of leaves. The snap of a twig. Footsteps. Multiple footsteps. And then, a voice, low and gruff, from the darkness ahead.

"Well, well. Look what we have here."

My head turned. Three figures emerged, clad in rough, dark clothing, their faces obscured by hoods. They carried crude, but effective, weapons – a rusty axe, a heavy club, a jagged knife. Bandits. Or worse.

Before I could react, before I could even draw my blunt training sword, another figure, he was definitely silent as he took his steps directly behind Herald. His dagger held at Herald’s neck.

"Finally," Herald commented, his voice calm, almost bored, "some action."