The Extra's Rebellion
Chapter 85: Heavenly restricted phantasm

Chapter 85: Heavenly restricted phantasm

"I must admit... this caught me off guard."

Zephyr didn’t know why he’d expected normalcy, some small irrational part of him had assumed that after all the hype, he’d be given a private room—maybe even a personal training chamber, something dramatic like that.

But, as always, the Author had an hyperactive imagination.

’really why don’t you just make a normal dorm’.

"This place brings back so many bad memories," Oliver muttered, snapping him from his thoughts.

Zephyr blinked. Then, with a sigh, he shook his head and followed as Oliver led the way directly into the trunk.

He just passed through like an hologram, Zephyr stood outside dumbfounded as the scene, it was only when Oliver poked his head from behind the trunk and inquired why he was still stranding they. Zephyr muttered some Curses under his breath before walking in.

Inside, the air changed.

The chamber opened into a vast circular space, far larger than the tree’s exterior suggested. The walls curved upward, lined with staircases carved from smooth wood, spiraling into the sky like a great coil. Lush hanging moss fell from unseen heights, and distant torch-lights flickered somewhere above, illuminating shadowed balconies and bridges suspended in midair.

Zephyr stared for a long moment, his words slipping out before he could stop them.

"...How is this possible?"

Oliver gave a tired laugh. "Yeah, the DuskFall Clan really are monsters with space."

Zephyr’s brow furrowed. Right. The DuskFall Clan—renowned for their manipulation of spatial dimensions. Warp corridors. Folded interiors. Spatial pockets inside artifacts. He’d read about them once in passing, when he was looking for inspirations to to create space related Hollow Art. Apparently, this tree was more than just a dorm—it was a spatial marvel wrapped in bark and wood.

"This open space is where the students usually spar". Oliver pointed at the bare space in front of them.

"Come on," Oliver said, already climbing.

Zephyr followed, feet tapping lightly on the spiral stairs. Up and up they walked. Five minutes. Then ten. The air grew thinner, petals occasionally fluttered past from higher levels. The walls were lined with wooden doors, glowing nameplates, and hanging lanterns, all silent witnesses to the endless ascent.

At one point, Zephyr muttered, "This staircase is a curse."

"No," Oliver replied dryly. "This dorm is a curse."

Finally—finally—they reached another platform, wide and circular. Vines hung from the ceiling like curtains, and the hum of Aether was stronger here, causing Zephyr’s hearth to work overtime.

And yet—

Zephyr narrowed his eyes.

"...There’s more."

Oliver pointed up with a grimace. "We’re not done yet."

Zephyr let out a long, exhausted breath. He didn’t say anything as they resumed the climb, his muscles aching with each step. Well that was a lie, but it felt like it.

"No wonder they all climb". Oliver’s voice rang out along the tapping of their feets.

"Huh?".

"Well the students usually climb the tree, I mean it not that hard".

"Then why didn’t you say so".

"Well it slipped my mind. It’s been a long time I have been here".

"So you are nervous". Oliver didn’t reply, but his expression already gave Zephyr the answer to his question.

After what felt like an hour-long trek through wooden hell, they finally reached the end.

Zephyr walked in and immediately his attention was stolen by the ground.

The ground beneath Zephyr’s feet crunched faintly as he stepped forward, the was made of stacked pink leaves, it should’ve been soft—but it wasn’t. It was unnaturally firm. Hardened, locked in place and he recognized the sensation immediately—it mimicked the spatial density of his very first Art. A technique that sealed space in layers, compressing it into solid form.

His gaze drifted sideways, directly to his left he could see the sky, although it was covered by sparce branches and hanging ropes vines. He also felt the locked space.

The entire time he had sensed that space had been tempered with, but it was only after Oliver confirmed that he realized that the space here had been stretched. And now this upper floor was covered in harden space— a prison, he could already feel his Aether revolting. He was a jailer not a prisoner.

But what truly drew his attention wasn’t the architecture, it was the people.

Some were seated. Others stood. All were staring at him.

Their eyes carried a serious of emotions. Curiosity. Judgment. Wariness. Calculation.

A girl with glossy pink hair sat upright on her bed, spine rigid, posture regal. Zephyr recognized her instantly—Seralyn, the Third Princess. Her face was calm, but one of her eye was covered, and the other one? It pinned him in place, examining him as if he was something new.

Kneeling beside her, fingers gently weaving through Seralyn’s long hair, was the silver-haired, silver-eyed girl black beauty from the class.

Her expression was neutral as she worked, lips slightly parted in focus. She moved with precision, as if each braid was ritual. The two of them were encased in an almost sacred silence, their presence dominating the left half of the chamber.

On the opposite end, a brooding boy with black hair and onyx eyes leaned against the wall, arms folded. He didn’t sit. He didn’t blink. His gaze felt like staring down a sealed gate with something horrible on the other side. He didn’t speak, but the room bent slightly around his mood.

To his right sat a boy with dark violet-black hair, fingers covered in rings that gleamed faintly as they caught flickers of sunlight. His legs were crossed. His lips unmoving. But his eyes... they roamed Zephyr’s form with too much interest. He didn’t smile, but it felt like he was about to.

Behind them, partially veiled by hanging vines, sat Lunethra— Fourth Princess of the Realm.

Her lilac-colored hair cascaded like silk over her shoulder, one arm resting on the bedpost, fingers absently tracing the air. Her gaze met his and held it—silent, unreadable, heavy.

But she didn’t show any iota of hostility, or any sign that she was going to attack him.

Two others nearby bore the dusk-gold insignia of the DuskFall Clan—one, a tall girl with storm-gray eyes and an exhausted expression, slouched deep into her bed with a book held just above her face. The other was shorter, refined, and perfectly upright, her posture impeccable, every breath measured. A scholar’s poise.

Lastly, in the far corner, two students wore the crimson mark of the Vermilion Clan—a boy with long, murky yellow wild hair and a smirk that looked permanently glued to his face, and a girl with a single braid tapping her pen against a floating piece of leather.

From the strings of Aether flowing around her, he could tell she was a weaver.

Ten students, seven girls and three boys. Now, with Zephyr and Oliver—twelve.

Oliver leaned closer and whispered, "Try not to respond to any provocations." His voice was tight. Strained.

Zephyr didn’t answer. His eyes were still locked on Seralyn.

And Seralyn was still staring back.

She remembered. And judging from the subtle shifts in posture among the others... Noctis in particular— remembered.

Back when he had awaken from his ’Rem sleep’ his right eye was activated and his ability clairvoyance was active. Maybe it was because they wasn’t any opponent but it had shown him the past.

Back then, in that royal bathhouse, Zephyr hadn’t taken over after death.

No. He’d awoken before the death. Before the he was bound in chains. His clairvoyant eye had shown him everything.

He saw her—naked, vulnerable, and drunk.

He saw himself, the Zephyr of this world, frozen. Shaking then he saw himself, Zephyr from Earth, take over. Screaming. Panicking. Begging to go home.

Then came the blade. Not the guards.

Her’s.

Seralyn had killed him herself—before the guards arrived.

And yet her voice, as she screamed for help... was so convincing. So fragile.

But her expression? It had been cold. Controlled.

Things didn’t add up.

If he had raped her, as Keal’s said, why didn’t the two clans go to war? No compensation would have been enough. A princess was raped.

And if she had the strength to kill him despite being drunk... then why hadn’t she done it in the original script?

Why had she allowed herself to be raped?

Unless... she was a regressor, that was what he had taught until he fainted in the arena. He was shown another memory, another recollection of the past.

He narrowed his eyes.

He had seen something else—something strange. Something she had covered ever since.

Her left eye.

Back in the bathhouse, it had been exposed. And what he saw there...

It looked eerily similar to his own changed eye.

But instead of lavender it was pale gold, and just like his own, every single movement from her caused pale gold to bled from her pupil causing pale gold concentric circles to surround her pupil.

And he remembered what she whispered, while he bled from his throat.

"Thankfully... I’d awakened my own Heavenly Restricted Phantasm."