The Extra's Rebellion
Chapter 89: Zephyr vs Seralyn

Chapter 89: Zephyr vs Seralyn

"Next". The sharp bark of the instructor’s voice snapped Zephyr out of his thoughts like a whip. His shoulders twitched slightly before he sat straighter, blinking at the loosely formed combat circle in front of him.

The instructor stood in the center like a weathered monument—stone-faced and built like one too. He was a member of the Vermilion Clan, and the distinct features made that fact impossible to miss— murky yellow hair that looked like burnt gold left out in a storm, sun-tanned skin crisscrossed with old battle scars, and an Aether presence so thick it made the air feel sluggish around him. Zephyr didn’t know his name and wasn’t interested in asking.

His eyes, narrow and dull like aging amber, scanned the crowd with quiet contempt, as if everyone here had already failed him before even lifting a weapon.

"Get in the ring," the man said again, and this time Oliver trudged over to Zephyr’s side, wincing as he moved.

Even though Zephyr had zoned out he didn’t need an Oracle to tell him that Oliver got his ass whooped.

Zephyr rubbed his eyes. The day had started early.

He’d jolted awake when space itself whispered to him—someone approaching. It wasn’t loud or threatening, just a faint bend in space that tickled his skin. His instincts flared and he leapt to his feet... only to find Oliver sheepishly reaching out to shake him awake.

"You’re jumpy in the morning". Oliver had laughed, clearly startled.

The girls had already taken their bath, returning fully dressed. It was the boys’ turn. Zephyr followed Oliver’s lead around the massive tree at the edge of the dorms, arriving at a small bathhouse. It was called "small," but only in comparison to the world-sized tree it crouched behind.

Inside, their toiletries were set up like military gear—organized, minimal, and generic. They washed near the steaming pools and soaked briefly in silence. The mist was comforting.

Afterwards, they returned to the building, slipped into the standard academy and everyone headed to their respective corners.

Breakfast was unexpectedly good. He had taken Oliver to eat real food, where the boy won’t stop praising him and the dish

Then came combat class, it was supposed to be interesting until the instructor showed up and declared that it was a daggers only session.

It got boring real fast.

So now, each time the instructor’s voice boomed "Next," Zephyr’s body jolted in conditioned reflex, dragging him out of whatever daydream had tried to settle.

A girl moved from the congregation of students and into the loose circle. Zephyr’s hand flexed on the handle of his training dagger.

The instructor’s gaze, heavy and unyielding, swept over the students like a judge selecting the next execution.

His eyes landed on Zephyr.

"You. And her."

Zephyr sighed. ’Of course’.

Across the circle stood her, the third princess.

She stepped forward with the same casual grace one might use stepping over a puddle of blood. Her pale pink hair shimmered in the sunlight, drifting behind her like a banner of cotton candy and death. But what really caught the eye was the thing covering her left eye—a white patch, fluffy and round, shaped unmistakably like a bunny.

Zephyr blinked.

’Was it... Is she seriously wearing a bunny cosplay eye patch?’

It bobbed slightly as she walked, making her look one part whimsical and nine parts unhinged. The frills around her collar did not help.

’Is she using it to cover her left eye, under the guise of a fashion design’. Zephyr wondered, it definitely made sense knowing she did have something to hide.

She held her dagger like a fan, letting it spin once around her finger before catching it by the hilt. Her right eye—the one visible—was bright, intelligent. And Zephyr didn’t know if it was just him, but the eye was tinged with a wicked amusement, like she knew something he didn’t and found it hilarious.

Zephyr stepped into the loose circle opposite her, adjusting his grip on the dagger. The marble floor was dusty beneath his feet with hints of blood from earlier skirmishes. Using real daggers to fight, they sure know how to train students.

They didn’t bow. There was no ceremony.

Just silence.

Until—

"Begin."

Zephyr didn’t rush. He knew better then rushing blindly into battles.

The princess cocked her head slightly, her blank face hardened, then she took a single step forward—then disappeared.

No—she didn’t disappear, she moved so fast that by the time he saw her again, she was suddenly close. Too close.

Zephyr’s dagger came up fast, steel scraping against steel as her blade clashed against his. Sparks flared. She was fast—faster than she looked. But not faster than his whispering ally— space.

Zephyr ducked, letting her follow-through pass above his head, and struck out with his elbow. She twisted like a dancer as she used the momentum to vault backward with the grace of a cat.

The instructor’s voice, flat and unimpressed, called again from the edge of the ring.

"Faster, stronger".

’Bastard! Isn’t this fast eno—

He blocked, parried then slid back—again.

Admist his cursing, Seralyn had attacked him, she was fast. Too fast.

Her blade blurred, a silver flicker in the morning light. She struck low, then high, then pivoted and twisted the dagger in such a way that most people would’ve been skewered by now.

But Zephyr was no longer most people, even at Grade 1, he adapted, because of his strange eye his Aether had been condensed to the extent on pressing on the boundary of grade 3.

Every hit that landed on his dagger reverberated through his bones, forcing him back—but instead of tumbling or staggering, he turned the force into controlled momentum, shifting his stance, letting the inertia guide his feet instead of throw him.

But she was Grade 3, a genuine grade 3 and for almost a year now, so in a battle of strength and speed Zephyr was weaker.

Her strikes came down with the weight of compressed Aether. Her agility wasn’t just natural—it was enhanced by an energy far denser than what flowed through Zephyr’s veins.

And yet—

He didn’t fall.

Every slash pushed him, every twist broke his guard for a second, but Zephyr always landed sure-footed, knees bent, absorbing the impact like a storm-battered tree refusing to snap.

The princess narrowed her visible eye slighty, a flicker of surprise there, as if she expected him to be down by now, and in all sense of the world he was supposed to be down. But Zephyr was an anomality.

She lunged again, silent and deadly, her blade humming as she spun and cut low toward his leg.

Zephyr twisted sideways, the tip grazing the hem of his academy trousers. He hooked his foot behind hers in a flash of defiance.

She righted herself, almost too smoothly, but her expression twitched. Because Zephyr’s body was now entangled with her’s.

Their legs had caught mid-motion, the aftermath of instinct colliding with instinct. It wasn’t deliberate on his part—but it didn’t matter.

The moment their bodies brushed, her eyes froze. No—hardened.

Not only her, Zephyr felt the very air stiffen up, and Zephyr mind processed the indecent position.

The blank expression she wore like a second skin vanished in an instant, replaced by something cold and cutting. The corner of her lips curled downward—not in pain or discomfort, but in a disgust that seeped through her every muscle. Her dagger trembled—not from fear, but fury held back by control.

Zephyr realized too late what the contact must’ve felt like to her, what it looked like.

’Shit’.

He tried to pull back, disengage cleanly, respectively fast, But the moment he moved, her eyes narrowed—and she struck.

She took a half-step back—space just enough to move freely—and her hand shifted, fingers dancing around the hilt.

With a sharp twist, she reversed her grip.

Then she struck.

The dagger came down fast—a blur of silver and rage—plunging straight for his face.

Zephyr barely had time to process the attack as the tip of the dagger rushed toward his eye.

Everything slowed.

Instinct, fear— it all blurred into one silent pulse in his chest.

Time, in that moment, felt like a stretched string.

’Isn’t my death enough?’

That single thought echoed through his skull louder than the whistle of her blade.

She had already killed him once. Back then, her hands hadn’t hesitated. The verdict had come down swift and cold— his life deemed unworthy of redemption.

So why this? Why now?

Zephyr’s mind reeled. He was certain she wasn’t truly losing herself to rage. No— this wasn’t a slip. It was controlled, it was a calculated slip, an opportunity to hit harder.

’She’s pretending to be mad—just to hit harder.’

’How can someone be so damn petty?’

But even as the thought bloomed bitter in his mind, it wilted under a quieter, crueler truth.

He understood.

According to Keal, she’d turned herself over to the Vermilion Clan in pursuit of a purity she’d lost to him.

Zephyr could still hear Keal’s words as he whispered to him back at the cafe.

"She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just kept asking if they could wash it off. Over and over, like she was trying to erase herself".

He swallowed hard.

She’d handed her life over to strangers—let them break her body and hollow out her pride. That wasn’t vengeance, that was the extent of the trauma he had inflicted on her.

And she had died for it.

Zephyr knew the pain must’ve scarred was deeper than bone. The strongest minds would’ve shattered under it.

But he didn’t do it, that was the truth and at that moment his Aether rioted at the moment.

He was just a passerby at that point in time, he was just an observer, he was just a Spector.

At that moment his birthmark shone a violent amethyst light. With the words glowing brightly.

SPECTOR.