The Extra is a Hero?-Chapter 310: THE KING’S REQUEST
Chapter 306: The King’s Request
The moonlight filtering through the crystalline windows of the Guest Spire was not the gentle, silver glow of the human realms. In Sylvaren, the light was filtered through the dense canopy of the Silverwood and the residual mana of the Great Barrier, casting long, iridescent shadows that seemed to crawl across the floor like living things.
Despite the luxury of the spire—the silk hangings, the furniture grown from living white-wood, and the basins of scented water—the air felt thin and sterile. It was a gilded cage, and the bars were made of High Elven arrogance and the silent, watchful presence of the Night’s Watch stationed at every archway.
In the center of this opulent prison sat King Elandor. He was a man who, by all accounts, should have been the most powerful being in the North, yet he looked like a guttering candle in a dark room. He sat huddled in a high-backed chair, his skeletal hands gripping the armrests so tightly the knuckles were white. The dark, ink-like veins tracing up his neck pulsed with a sickly rhythm, a physical manifestation of the rot eating the heart of his kingdom.
"You look at me with pity, human," Elandor whispered. His voice didn’t sound like a King’s command; it sounded like dry autumn leaves skittering across a tombstone. "Do not. Pity is a wasted emotion in Sylvaren. The pity belongs to my people. They walk through streets of silver and light, blinded by the glamour of the Council, never feeling the splinters in their own souls."
Michael stood by the balcony, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t offer a bow. He didn’t offer comfort. To Michael, Elandor wasn’t just a King; he was a failing biological system. His [Quantum Analysis Mind] was pushed to its limit, the purple fractal patterns of the skill shimmering in his retinas.
To Michael’s eyes, the King was a mess of data. He could see the king’s mana circuit—once a majestic river of gold—now choked by pulsing black nodes. It was as if a computer virus was systematically deleting the code of the man’s life force.
"The link," Michael said, his voice cold and devoid of the awe most humans felt in elven presence. "The Elven Kings are tethered to the World Tree’s core, aren’t they? You aren’t just dying of a disease, Elandor. You’re dying because the server is crashing. You’re the mirror image of a rotting God-Tree."
Elandor gave a weak, appreciative nod, a ghost of a smile touching his grey lips. "You are as perceptive as the rumors from the Academy suggested, Michael Willson. Or perhaps you simply possess eyes that see the world as it truly is—a series of interconnected burdens. My lineage was designed to be the Tree’s guardian, its sensory organ. When the Tree flourished, we were gods. We could hear the forest breathe for a thousand miles. Now that the Rot has taken hold of the Spirit Realm roots... I am simply the first to feel the decay."
Leon Lionheart stepped forward from the shadows near the door. His golden aura, the heritage of the Lionheart bloodline, flickered with a restless, protective heat. His hand rested on the hilt of his training sword, his knuckles white.
"If you’re the King," Leon demanded, his voice echoing with the blunt honesty of a Hero, "then why are we being treated like prisoners? We saved your daughter. We fought through a Dead Mana Zone and a Level 60 dungeon while your Council sat behind their walls. Why is Selena being held in a ’sanctum’ instead of being here with you?"
The King’s eyes clouded with a sorrow so deep it seemed to swallow the light. "Because I am a King in name only, Leon Lionheart. You speak of the Council as if it were a branch of my government. It is not. The Council of Elders, led by Elder Valen, has staged what your people would call a soft coup. They claim my ’condition’ makes me unfit to govern the mana-flow. Valen now holds the keys to the Root Gates. He controls the Silver Guard. He has convinced the people that the Rot is a ’foreign impurity’—a plague brought by the touch of humans."
"A classic scapegoat play," Michael muttered, turning away from the balcony. "Standard authoritarian playbook: invent an external enemy to justify internal tyranny while the foundation of the state turns to ash."
"Valen intends to use Selena," Elandor gasped, his chest heaving with the effort of the revelation. "Her bloodline... the blood of the Ancestors, the Blood Elves. It is purer than mine, more resilient to the Void’s touch. Valen believes that by sacrificing her vitality—by literally plugging her into the Tree’s heart—he can ’reboot’ the system. He doesn’t care if she survives the process. He wants to save the city at the cost of his own daughter’s soul."
Leon’s training sword rattled in its scabbard, the metal vibrating with his fury. "That’s not happening. We saved Selena from the Raids, from the parasites, and from the Beastmaster. We didn’t bring her home just so some old man could turn her into a battery."
The King looked at Leon, seeing the fire of the Hero, but then his desperate gaze drifted back to Michael. He knew who the true architect of their survival was. He knew that Leon was the sword, but Michael was the hand that swung it.
"I cannot help you openly," Elandor whispered, a puff of dark grey spores escaping his lips as he coughed. "My every movement is watched by the nature spirits Valen has corrupted with Abyssal Mana. But I know you possess knowledge that even our Grand Archivists lack. You see the ’glitches’ in reality, Michael Willson. Save my daughter. Save the World Tree. Because if the Tree dies, the Zone of Silence will not just stay in the Wilderness. It will expand until it swallows the North, and eventually, the world."
Michael stayed silent for a long moment. He leaned against the crystalline wall, his mind a whirlwind of calculations. He wasn’t a hero of justice. He wasn’t Leon. He was a player who had been dropped into a broken save file, and he knew the cost of every item, every quest, and every life. Helping a dying King and declaring war on a Council of S-Rank elders was statistically equivalent to a suicide mission.
"I need a reason to risk my neck, Elandor," Michael said finally. His voice was transactional, sharp as a ledger. "Leon’s sense of heroism is a fine sentiment, but it doesn’t pay the mana bill. We are currently unarmed, outranked, and surrounded by a thousand archers who want to turn us into pincushions."
"Michael!" Leon turned, his face flushed with shock. "How can you talk about a ’bill’ right now? This is Selena’s life!"
Michael ignored him, his gaze locked on the King. "I want access. Full, unrestricted access to the Royal Archives. Not the public library where you keep the poems and the sanitized history. I want the Secret Vault—the one containing the records of the First Era, the forbidden Spirit Arts, and the original blueprints of the Spirit Realm roots."
King Elandor’s eyes widened, his pupils dilating until they were almost as black as the rot in his veins. "The Secret Vault? Humans have been executed for merely whispering its name. The knowledge within is... not meant for mortal minds. It contains the truth of how our world was built, and the price that was paid."
"Knowledge is the only thing that’s going to stop the Rot," Michael countered. "The game—the world—is glitching. The rules are changing. I need to know the ’source code’ of this Tree if I’m going to find the backdoor and fix the corruption. Give me the seal, and we have a deal. I’ll save your daughter, and I’ll save your tree. But I won’t do it blind."
The King reached into the heavy, tattered folds of his royal robes. His hand shook as he pulled out a small, emerald-colored signet ring. It wasn’t made of metal; it was grown from a single, solidified drop of the World Tree’s sap. It vibrated with a faint, ancient resonance that made Michael’s [Nova AI] on his wrist chirp a low-level warning.
"This will get you past the first two layers of the Archive’s defenses," Elandor said, reaching out to hand the ring to Michael. "But the third layer... the Sanctum of the First Era... that requires the blood of a Royal. You will need Selena for that. She is the final key."
Michael took the ring. The cool wood-stone felt heavy, carrying the weight of a dying civilization’s secrets. [Item Obtained: Royal Signet of Elandor (Quest Item)].
"Consider the contract signed," Michael said, sliding the ring into a hidden pocket.
"Wait," Leon said, his anger cooling into a sharp, focused concern. He looked toward the adjoining room, where the doors were sealed with shimmering blue mana wards. "What about Maria and Selena? They’ve been unconscious since we got here. The Life Dew... you said it was working."
Elandor stood up, his bones creaking like the branches of an old, dying oak. He prepared to vanish back into the shadows of the Spire, his form beginning to blur into a swirl of dark mist.
"The Life Dew is a potent catalyst, young Hero," Elandor warned, his voice fading into the wind. "It is the blood of Gaia itself. It does not just heal the body; it awakens the sleeping potential of the soul. Your friends will not be the same when they open their eyes. The Dew forces the soul to confront its highest potential... or its deepest, darkest shadow. They are undergoing a metamorphosis that will change the hierarchy of this city."
As the King disappeared, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and rot behind, a sudden, violent crack echoed from the back room.
It wasn’t the sound of wood snapping or glass breaking. It was the sound of the air itself being pulverized. A wave of localized pressure hit Michael and Leon, nearly knocking them off their feet.
"The countdown is over," Michael muttered, his hand going to the silver dagger at his belt. "The transformation is complete."
From beneath the crack in the infirmary door, a thin, needle-like frost began to race across the floor, turning the warm elven wood into a brittle, frozen wasteland in seconds. The temperature in the room plummeted, the air turning into a cloud of shimmering ice crystals.
CRACK.
The door to the girls’ room didn’t just open; it was shattered into a thousand jagged splinters. A figure stepped out of the fog, her eyes glowing with a terrifying, matte-blue light that held no warmth, no recognition—only the absolute, terrifying cold of the void.
The "Gilded Age" of their school trip was officially over. The war for the Fractured Crown had begun.
(To be Continued)
