The Extra's Rebellion
Chapter 65: Space vs Thunder

Chapter 65: Space vs Thunder

Zephyr stood motionless, swaying. His ribs ached, his scythe was fused to his hand, his vision swam in red. The air still hissed with heat, filled with the sickening stench of scorched flesh and vaporized blood. And yet, none of that clung to him as tightly as the scene before him.

The boy was crouched now—knees bent, face stretched into a grin too wide, too crooked. His eyes gleamed with something darker than bloodlust. He wasn’t here for vengeance. He wasn’t mourning a friend. No—he was entertained.

And then he moved.

He pressed his foot against Lyria’s lifeless backside, grinding it slowly, deliberately. A moan escaped him, followed by a muffled grunt as his hand slid under his waistband.

Zephyr didn’t blink.

He should’ve shouted. He should’ve vomited. He should’ve screamed that it was wrong, that this wasn’t war or justice or revenge—it was filth.

Instead, he thought.

’Has it always been this way? Does humanity need a leash—an overlord, a god, a tyrant—to behave like people? Was this it? The true form of man?’

He felt no divine revelation, only a hollow understanding.

It had barely been hours. Hours since the school was over turned. Since he’d fought for survival, bled, broken bones, nearly died. And now—he was watching evil unfold. Not in some grand throne room or monstrous battlefield. Just here, in the ruins of a crumbling school, with corpses still warm.

’Was I part of it now? Would someone watching me think the same?’.

He stared at his own hands. Bloodstained. Trembling. One hand still welded to the blackened scythe. The other twitching from the aftershock of battle. His breath was thin, but the heat in his chest wasn’t from pain anymore.

It was anger. Cold, searing, sharp like jagged shards.

’Maybe that’s what the world needs’. He thought. ’A figure. Not a god. Not a savior. A figure of terror—pure and unrelenting’.

He took a single breath. His lips parted, voice raw and low.

"Then maybe I’ll be it."

The scythe twitched.

Zephyr didn’t know if it was the uncanny resemblance that Lyria’s situation had to his mother’s—the same headless body he had seen in his dream for years. Or if it was some whisper of conscience, a last thread of morality threading through a blood-wet battlefield, begging him to act.

But he moved.

Scythe lifted. The blade, molten at the edges, shimmered as if excited to serve again.

He stepped forward, quietly, shadows swallowing his figure. The boy didn’t notice. He was too lost in his act—moaning, rutting against the lifeless body like a beast.

Zephyr raised the weapon.

No witty line. No threat. No chance to beg. A blur of movement, the scythe sang but the boy wasn’t an ordinary Eplision.

He was a Grade-3.

He dodged back, slipping out of range in a blink. Zephyr didn’t pause, his other hand rose—gun drawn.

He pulled the trigger. The boy ducked, retreating even further. Then—Zephyr shifted. The muzzle turned.

Not toward the boy, but toward the two lifeless bodies.

Bang.

Compressed Aether screamed through the air and obliterated the corpses, bone, blood, flesh—scattered into nothing.

Zephyr exhaled, a prayer.

"Rest in peace."

He didn’t know if it made him a hypocrite. He had killed them. But he’d also given them dignity the monster wouldn’t.

And maybe—just maybe—his mother, from both worlds, would be proud. The boy froze mid-motion, hand still in his waistband, eyes locked on where the bodies used to be.

Silent.

Zephyr didn’t pounce. Not yet. He held his overheated gun and channeled energy, imitating a healing art, buying seconds to charge his weapon.

The boy turned his head to look at him, then said in a savage expression.

"Why did you do that". Zephyr didn’t answer him. He didn’t answer to no one and definitely not a beast.

"Why did you ruin my toy". His previous savage expression turned to one of annoyance as his eyes scrutinized Zephyr’s body up and down.

"You don’t look half bad". He said taking his hand out of his pants. "Without your head you would do".

The boy didn’t recognize him, and he wasn’t surprised. He was taken to the pit at age five, throughout his stay in the academy he hasn’t come in contact with anyone other person out of the phoenix wing and from the mark on the nape of the boy, he could see the black tortoise emblem. But this wasn’t a time for internal dialogue.

Space Screamed— then a furry of movement.

The fight that followed was bloody and borderline sadistic. The boy lightning infused fist didn’t touch any other part of his body except his face and chest region.

Zephyr managed to narrowly evade and block a few punches but he never got a moment to strike back. He was been tossed around by fists and kicks.

The boy struck. A lightning-infused fist slammed into Zephyr’s ribs. He staggered, vision flashing white.

’I’m losing’.

Zephyr reeled, thinking fast. His boots scraped across fractured tile—

—and then he saw it— a crack in the ground. Not natural. Structural.

’we are still on the first floor’.

He dropped his scythe low, dug in, and let the next hit come. Fist met jaw. Lightning erupted, Zephyr flew but twisted mid-air, shifting toward the cracked ground. As soon as he passed the cracked pavement and the boy was just few steps from it he shot at it.

Bang!

His overheated gun barked. The ground shattered, a hole bloomed beneath them. The boy yelped, losing footing, tumbling down into the darkness.

Zephyr barely stabilized himself before he followed, a slit second between each movement.

He fell with blade first, his Scythe positioned in his chest aimed to finish it—

But the boy was ready, even in mid-fall, he was charging an art. A glyph flickered. Thunder coiled.

Zephyr’s eyes widened. ’An amplifier’.

He’d seen it before. Dangerous. It didn’t cast an art—it multiplied one.

The roar came a second later.

Zephyr spat a curse, slammed Aether into a spatial lock—but he was nearly dry. The space warped sluggishly, weak and fragile.

The thunder shattered it with a bang.

Crack!

He positioned his scythe in front of his chest— his last line of defense against the charged Art.

It struck.

Zephyr screamed—a raw, savage sound—then fell silent as his body went limp and unresponsive. The thunder launched him into the sky.

He soared like a broken marionette—limbs twitching, ribs crushed, lungs seared—

—and then he fell.

Down.

Through the air. Through a half-collapsed rooftop. Through stained glass and rubble.

The ground rushed up like a hammer.

Crash.

And everything went black. No pain. No thought. And no fear of death. Just blackness.