The Extra's Rebellion
Chapter 61: Tournament of Power

Chapter 61: Tournament of Power

"26th."

That was the number he counted—twenty-six girls leaving the bathhouse in quiet succession, each emerging like specters into the thin morning light. No laughter, no casual chatter. Just the sound of wet footsteps, soft towel rustling, and silence—thick, loaded silence. Their faces were pale, eyes either cast downward or fixed straight ahead. Focused. Distant.

Zephyr watched from the edge of the room, his back pressed against one of the cold, polished columns that ringed the bathing quarters. The stone beneath his fingertips was damp with the last remnants of dawn mist. The sky hadn’t even lightened yet. Pale lilac hovered above like a blanket stretched too tight, not ready to give way to sun. He wasn’t sure if it was morning or just the death of night.

He’d woken up without cause. No alarm, no call. Just the sudden sharp awareness of being conscious. His eyes had blinked open in complete darkness—no ambient glow from the sky, no light filtering through the crystal roof, no sense of time. For a few seconds, he thought maybe he was dreaming again. Then the chill of the room hit him.

He tried to sleep again, flipping onto his side, then his back, then curling slightly. But the restlessness stayed. Not the jittery kind—the deep, carved kind. The kind that grew out of something you couldn’t name. Anxiety? Maybe. Anticipation? That too. But deeper than either, a wordless stirring in his gut. Something was coming. The tournament.

Eventually, he sat up, rubbed his face, and gave up on sleep.

By the time he entered the bathhouse, the steam already hung heavy in the air, thick as fog on a battlefield before dawn. The temperature hit him immediately—humid and warm, almost oppressive, wrapping around his skin like a wet cloak. The water was still. Not calm. Just waiting.

A few others were there when he arrived. No one spoke. Not out of formality or shyness, but because something about the moment didn’t allow for it. The tension wasn’t loud—it was too old, too settled. It had lived here longer than they had.

He stepped into one of the side pools, the stone warm beneath his feet. Submerged slowly. The heat crawled up his limbs, coaxing aches from his muscles he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying. His breath left in a soft hiss.

Around him, others did the same. Boys from his class. All silent. Some stared ahead. Some had their eyes closed. One guy, with a buzzcut and ritual scars on his back, was muttering something under his breath—prayers maybe, or the names of past matches.

Zephyr rested his arms on the pool’s edge, gazing at the fogged ceiling. His reflection trembled faintly across the water’s surface, barely recognizable in the glow of the subterranean lights. The ripple of someone entering the water beside him distorted it completely.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. Everyone here was the same this morning. Focused. Hollowed out.

They weren’t bathing for cleanliness. They were purging. Calming the nerves. Ritual soaking. So that when the duels began—when the tournament arena roared with spells and steel—none of them would flinch. No tightness in the limbs. No hesitation in the breath. No weakness.

His fingers flexed underwater, brushing against the ceramic ridges at the bottom.

Zephyr stood up as water rolled off him in sheets, steam trailing from his shoulders as he walked toward the dressing room where his uniform was folded neatly. He dressed slowly, methodically, each motion deliberate. He buckled the reinforced vest. Slipped his boots on and tightened them till they bit slightly.

He stared at his reflection in the polished obsidian mirror near the exit. His eyes didn’t look uncertain. But they didn’t look fearless either. Just ready.

He stepped outside.

The air was cooler now. The horizon tinged with the faint blush of morning. He considered the cafe, but his feet led him elsewhere—toward the weaving class.

He hesitated at the door. A moment too long.

It was empty.

She was always heard before she was seen. Her humming. Her needles. Her breath. The drifting of smoke through the air.

Not today.

"Why did I think she’d be here?" he muttered, chastising himself before turning toward the cafe.

Luckily, he had the day off. He ate alone.

Later, the sky had brightened. He made his way to class.

No one spared him a glance as he entered. He took his seat in the pod-like chair, waiting for instructions.

An hour passed.

Mr. Fisher entered at last—late, as always. But not even the tension thick in the air could dull the brightness in their goofy instructor’s voice.

"Good morning, class! I hope you all had a nice sleep!"

Too loud.

His voice roared like a storm against Zephyr’s still, tender eardrums.

"I reckon there’s no need to go over the tournament again... right? Anyway, prepare your minds and bodies and get ready to start. Well, figuratively—because the time’s been shifted to nine."

Mr. Fisher’s voice carried its usual mixture of dry sarcasm and sleepy command. He tapped the interface floating beside him and yawned like a man bored of his own speech.

Zephyr stared at him, dumbfounded.

’What’s wrong with this clown?’

He barely registered the rest of the instructor’s words. They washed over him like static. His mind had already drifted—not to the tournament, not to his studies, but to yesterday.

It wasn’t a fight. Not really.

She hadn’t said anything cruel. Neither had he.

And yet... somehow, things had cracked.

A sentence misread.

A tone misheard.

A silence too long.

Now there was distance.

His gaze dropped to the digital clock on his desk.

9:52.

Seconds ticked by.

9:59.

Mr. Fisher was still rambling, something about "interval recalibration" and "last-minute syncs." Nobody listened anymore.

The moment the clock struck 10:00, time seemed to hold its breath.

Then—

KRAAA-BOOOOOM.

A violent eruption ripped through the air with a sound so massive it didn’t just hurt Zephyr’s ears—it invaded his skull.

The world around him became a blur of white light and deafening force.

Heat.

Fire.

Shock.

The explosion was not a single burst—it was a sequence of detonation, like a chain of suns igniting in the walls and floor.

The glass interfaces shattered midair. Screams fractured into static. His desk was thrown sideways, colliding with another student. Someone flew past him—flung like a ragdoll.

Then the blast wave hit him directly.

It wasn’t just fire or wind—it was like the air itself turned to a hammer. His body lifted off the ground, flung backwards through a veil of searing heat and broken light.

Something heavy struck his side.

Then—

Darkness.

Silence, vast and crushing, took him for a moment. A vacuum after violence.

His eyes fluttered open slowly, vision swimming.

Smoke.

Dust.

The sky above was no longer clean and high—it was blackened, bruised by flame, cut through with pillars of rising smoke and ash. The ceiling of the classroom was gone. In its place: a jagged wound opening into chaos.

Zephyr tried to move.

Pain bloomed across his ribs and back. He coughed, tasting ash in his mouth. Bits of molten metal and cracked tile lay scattered across his chest. A piece of his own desk, still sparking faintly, rested beside his arm.

He was half-buried in debris—splintered stone, steel frames, fragments of the polished marble floor that once gleamed beneath their feet. His legs were pinned. His ears rang with a high-pitched whine, but beyond that, he could make out the groans. The coughing. Distant shouts.

Somewhere nearby, someone was screaming a name.

A gust of wind swept past, fanning the smoke.

A nearby desk was on fire.

A student lay slumped beside it—unmoving.

Zephyr’s hand trembled as he pushed himself up by the elbow, coughing hard. His nose bled. A gash ran along his temple. The ringing in his head faded just enough for panic to begin clawing at the edges of his thoughts.

’What the hell... just happened?’ Zephyr pushed aside the debris and struggled up and then he realized something.

"And why am I holding my Scythe". Zephyr eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, on his hand was his Scythe and he could feel his gun and dagger pressed against the side of his waist.

"I don’t remember taking it to class". And then his Spatial sence exploded with motion. He had barely slipped the scythe out of his back when he felt a ramming force hit him in his back. He was sent flying forward with whatever had hit him.

He hit the ground with a thud, the shard of wood driving deeper into his chest. For a moment, he lay still, trying to separate himself from the pain—but his spatial sense flared with a flurry of movement.

He glanced up.

Two figures, locked in brutal combat.

Infested.

The word came to him as naturally as breathing. Their eyes were blackening at the edges. If they lived much longer, they’d complete the transformation into Riftspawn.

He shifted his body—his hand now free from underneath his body. It crept toward the sheath at his side and pulled out his customized gun. He began charging it.

The two were so consumed in their fight, they didn’t notice the third figure inching toward them.

One of them launched a barrage of head strikes—raw, feral. He landed a solid hit, cracking his opponent’s nose. Blood streaked down the other boy’s face as he reared back for a final blow—

—and then he heard it.

The sound of air being sliced apart.

Sword.

No thought—just instinct. He ducked.

The blade carved clean through the neck of his opponent, separating head from shoulders with a sickening, wet sound. The headless corpse teetered, still standing for a heartbeat too long.

As the boy who ducked straightened, he found himself staring into the barrel of a fully loaded gun.

"Wait—"

Bang.

Aether compressed and expelled in a single, deafening burst. It tore through the air and collided with the boy’s skull. His head exploded like an overripe melon. Bone and flesh scattered. His body crumpled, just moments before the headless corpse of his opponent collapsed on top of him.

Zephyr stood there, drenched in blood.

Slowly, he lowered his outstretched arm, the gun cooling in his hand.

In a low voice, he murmured, "It’s better to die human than a monster."

They were infested. If he hadn’t killed them, they would have turned. And worse, they would have bred more—asexually.

Howls echoed in the distance.

Zephyr didn’t wait. He darted away from the murder scene without harvesting their hearts. He could stomach eating monsters Aether Art.

But not humans.