The Extra's Rebellion
Chapter 62: Progress (GT bonus - )

Chapter 62: Progress (GT bonus Chapter)

"Why can’t SCAR be patient? At least wait until the start of the damn tournament."

Zephyr muttered the words under his breath as he limped through the cracked corridor, each step jarring pain through his ribs. His destination— the school infirmary—or what was left of it. Blood soaked the right side of his uniform shirt, and though he’d managed to bind most of his wounds with torn fabric, the wooden shard still protruding from his chest remained untouched. He knew better than to remove it without medical support; the moment it came out, the wound would bleed freely—no, violently—and he had nothing on him to stop the inevitable flood.

The hall around him was barely recognizable. The usual polished stone walls were cracked, littered with debris and dust, the faint smell of antiseptic now replaced with burnt copper and something fouler—corruption. The once-sterile air had grown heavy with it.

SCAR.

The name alone filled Zephyr’s gut with a cold unease. They weren’t a typical terrorist group—not anymore. What began as anti-government insurrectionists had evolved—or devolved—into something else entirely. Their members practiced forbidden techniques, art forms twisted beyond Aether’s natural boundaries. Cursed Arts. He didn’t know how he understood this. He just did. As if the knowledge had been there all along, buried, waiting to surface.

And among these dark techniques was Miasma—a foul alchemy of flesh and Aether corruption that mutated humans into unspeakable horrors.

Zephyr’s jaw clenched. "Damn it..."

His vision swam momentarily, pain lancing through his torso. He had been crouched in this ruined corridor for the better part of an hour, monitoring the two Miasma-born abominations that patrolled the infirmary’s crumbling entrance. He couldn’t risk a direct fight—not in his condition. Every movement sent fire blooming through his chest, and his gun was still cooling down.

The creatures were grotesque parodies of the humans they once were—bulging, uneven limbs, skin drawn tight across spined mutations. They moved with twitchy, uncertain steps, as if constantly adjusting to a body that didn’t belong to them.

Zephyr’s plan had been simple— wait for an opening, slip into the infirmary, patch himself up, and retrieve any medical nanites or stabilizers he could. After that, he’d hit the training depot, restock his gear, and finally figure out what the hell was going on.

"But where the hell are the instructors?" His thoughts echoed with frustration. There hadn’t been a single faculty member in sight since the attack began. Either they were dead, hiding, or worse—converted.

Suddenly, a low rumble tore through the hallway.

Zephyr froze, instinct taking over. He pressed himself into the cracked wall as the two monsters stopped mid-patrol. One began to tremble violently, as if seized by a fit. Its flesh bubbled and swelled grotesquely.

Then—with a sickening series of wet pops and ripping sounds—the creature split vertically down the center, its flesh tearing open like overripe fruit.

From the torn shell, two smaller monsters slid free—newborn horrors, dripping with black ichor, their malformed bodies twitching as they adjusted to existence.

Zephyr’s eyes widened. He knew this.

The Miasma-born were weakest during birth. Their Aether flow was unstable. Their minds still fractured. Their limbs too soft, too slow. It was a window—brief, precious.

Newborn Miasma-born were unstable—disoriented, soft-bodied, their Aether pulses erratic. It was the only time they could be easily killed.

"Now’s my chance."

He braced his bloodied shoulder against the wall and pushed off, breath rasping through clenched teeth. The world blurred as he sprinted—each impact of his boots jolting his broken ribs, each movement demanding pain he didn’t have time to acknowledge.

The closest newborn turned at the sound, its half-formed head twitching toward him.

It saw a blur of motion—a flash of red-silver.

Then—nothing.

Zephyr’s scythe blade’s tip crashed into its temple with bone-splintering force, a dull crack silencing its half-born scream. The creature slumped instantly, black blood bubbling from its slack mouth.

He pivoted, arm up.

Bang.

His gun’s report echoed like thunder in the ruined hall. The second creature’s head burst open, chunks of brain matter and ichor splattering across the wall behind it like a grotesque painting.

The last one—a full-grown Miasma-born—charged forward on all fours, limbs scraping tile with insect-like speed, shrieking in layered, broken voices.

Zephyr didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t raise his hand to perform his Art— he didn’t need it, he was at Zeta grade 3 and a whisper was enough.

"Limbo—Border Jail."

Space folded—compressed visibly around the onrushing creature, the air groaning under unseen pressure.

The monster froze mid-leap, trapped in a prison of distorted space.

Zephyr jumped locked the space underneath his foot and shot off in the direction of the trapped monstrosity.

Slice.

With a movement so fast it almost didn’t exist, Zephyr’s scythe flashed into the being’s body.

The creature’s head separated cleanly from its shoulders.

It didn’t scream. It didn’t even react.

It died before it realized it was dead.

Zephyr didn’t stop. He slid under the collapsing archway that framed the infirmary, his shoulder barely scraping through.

Behind him, the monster’s head struck the ground with a wet, gelatinous splat—its malformed skull exploding from the impact. Chunks of mutated flesh scattered across the floor.

Its body, still spasming from the last residual nerve twitches, finally collapsed in a twitching heap. Black blood seeped across the tiles.

Zephyr collapsed to one knee inside the infirmary’s ruin, hand pressed to the wooden shard still lodged in his chest.

His breath came in ragged gasps.

"Patch up first". The previously large hall had collapsed on itself. He navigated his way towards that counter, then did something illegal— he prescribed drugs for himself.

He gritted his teeth, shut his eyes close and pulled out the wooden shard embedded in his chest.

He let out a silent scream, then applied disinfectant on a piece of white cotton wool that had turned brown due to dirt in his hand.

After a rough cleaning he applied a bandage lying around across his chest, then proceeded to clean the rest of the little scretchs that littered his body.

His spatial sence whispered to him, before he heard it. Footsteps that could not belong to Miasma creature rung out and curse.

Zephyr stiffen up. He knew the owner of the voice.

"Cealsen?".