Path of the Extra

Chapter 255: Atropos’ Elegy

"Something you've never laid eyes on. Something you've never heard of. Something unknown. Incomprehensible. Beautiful. Powerful. Ancient. Sacred. Corrupted… Divine."

When Oscar said those words, anticipation brimmed inside the auction house like a swelling tide. All eyes locked onto the stage as a large box covered by a velvet cloth was wheeled onto the podium. Oscar himself walked toward it, his steps calm and deliberate.

"It's something my team and I discovered in the Void Realm… precisely at the infamous Fallen Sky."

A wave of gasps rippled across the room. Even whispers seemed hesitant to follow. No sane person would venture there—no sane person would survive.

For the first time tonight, Oscar's face turned solemn. His voice lowered, soft but weighty.

"The story behind this… I don't know whether it's true or false. I don't even know whether this thing is real or not. But I believe in it. Otherwise, I would never have dared to present it. This is something you'll only understand once you see it with your own eyes."

His words carried none of the vibrant showmanship he'd used before. No energy. No flourish. And yet… that subdued tone struck harder than anything else had tonight. Every guest leaned forward, breath held, unable to resist the pull of whatever lay hidden behind the cloth.

Then Oscar pulled it away in a single motion.

""!!""

Eyes widened across the hall. Silence crashed into the room like a wave. From the VIP rooms above, Oscar felt the pressure of gazes sharpen—dozens of folds more intense.

Mounted behind a transparent case… were wings.

Two immaculate white wings stretched outward, vast and breathtaking. Each feather was pristine, layered with delicate precision—catching the light like snow kissed by moonlight. The upper arches were broad and powerful, sculpted as if by the will of the wind itself, while the lower edges cascaded softly, like falling silk.

But it wasn't just their shape—it was their color. Not a dull white, but a shimmering blend of silver and pale gold, as though starlight had been woven into them. From soft, downy bases to sleek, aerodynamic tips, they embodied grace and silent strength.

They looked untouched. Eternal.

Not wings made for flight—but wings meant to remind the world of something purer.

Oscar's voice rang out, reverent yet steady.

"As you all can see… this is neither Soul Armor, nor Soul Weapon. It is not a Mana Artifact, Potion, Void Relic, exotic beast, or Void Creature. It is something beyond those things—two of the most beautiful wings one could ever lay their eyes on."

"…"

He paused, letting the silence settle once more.

"A dear friend of mine, who accompanied me on our expedition to the Fallen Sky, was the one who found them—inside a chamber that appeared to be a treasure room. These wings were the only things inside. Just to open the door… cost him his life. I believe they once belonged to either an ancient Void creature now extinct, or perhaps something closer to the divine. An angel… maybe even one of the gods."

Oscar raised his hands gently, as if bracing himself.

"I mean no offense to the Ten Heavenly Churches or any of their faithful. This is only speculation. But… looking at these wings, I believe many of you would arrive at the same conclusion."

Murmurs swirled like wind through dry leaves. The mystery deepened. The danger made it real.

Inside one of the VIP rooms, Jasmine turned toward Azriel with a hesitant glance.

Azriel met her gaze, head tilted slightly, the picture of indifference. As if this entire reveal meant nothing to him.

Jasmine pursed her lips, hesitating.

"…Those wings. Do you think they really belonged to an angel or a god?"

If anyone in this world had ever seen a god… it was Azriel. Perhaps even more knowledgeable than the Ten Churches themselves. After all—

He was the Apostle of Death.

Azriel looked back at the wings, his eyes reflecting faint amusement. Then he flashed a grin, white teeth gleaming.

"Nope. They're fake."

Jasmine blinked. Her expression faltered, then shifted to disappointment. She let out a sigh.

"As I thought. What a letdown of a main eve—"

"But."

Azriel's voice cut her off. His smile vanished.

His expression turned sharp—serious.

"They're fake… but they're flawless. Whoever crafted those wings has definitely laid eyes on the divine. And somehow, lived to remember it. Lived to recreate it… without dying or going mad."

Jasmine blinked at him. Then looked at the wings again.

"…Then… should we bid for them? Maybe they could help Dad uncover secrets about the gods."

Azriel shook his head, settling back in his seat.

"Trust me. Those wings are nothing more than a pretty shell. If Dad wants real knowledge about the divine… I could tell him things worth more than a thousand fake feathers."

Jasmine's eyes narrowed slightly.

"You say that so casually. Do you really hold secrets even we don't know… as the Apostle of Death?"

Azriel smiled again—this time softer, more intimate.

"Of course."

Instantly, Jasmine leaned closer, curiosity flaring in her gaze.

"Then tell me."

"I could."

"…But?"

His smile twisted into something darker. Sadistic.

"…Don't wanna."

Jasmine froze. Her brain lagged for a second, mouth parting—then closing again.

She slumped with a groan.

"Ugh… Y-you…"

As she glared at Azriel, who simply averted his eyes but kept smiling, Nol spoke up.

"Master. Sister. You both do realize we still have to bid, right? Wasn't the whole reason we came here to outbid the Nebula King?"

They turned toward Nol, who looked back at them while casually munching on a bag of chips.

"Nol... you're actually right for once."

"Little brother... it seems your influence on him is finally starting to wear off."

Nol tilted his head, still chewing. Both Jasmine and Azriel exchanged a grin before rising and walking toward the minibar. Azriel stopped halfway and turned back with a wide smile.

"Nol. Knock yourself out. Go as high as you want—just make sure you have fun. And win."

The bag of chips fell from Nol's hands as his eyes lit up like stars piercing the night. He snatched up his tablet, fingers flying across the screen.

Meanwhile, Azriel joined Jasmine at the minibar, where she was already pouring a glass of red wine—for him and for herself. The two clinked glasses, then turned their attention to the display.

Behind Oscar, for the first time, a massive screen had descended from the ceiling, showing the live bid history for the fake divine wings.

"Amazing! 5 million velts from number 24!"

"10 million from 001!"

"20 million from 86—no hesitation!"

"Double in a flash! 40 million from number 667! Now we're talking!"

"A sudden raise—100 million velts from 27! What is happening?!"

"A colossal leap! 200 million from 612!"

"And 409 isn't holding back—300 million velts, just like that!"

"500 million from number 13! Half a billion!"

"This is pure madness, ladies and gentlemen! Every second brings a new titan to the stage!"

"A new contender rises again—700 blasts us to 650 million! We are climbing mountains here!"

"Another bid from 001... and boom—800 million velts! Where's rival 666? Did they already burn through their money?!"

"History is unfolding before our very eyes—can anyone dare to challenge that?"

"Wait, what's this? 86 isn't done yet—900 million velts! Just shy of the billion!"

"Oh! A new player has entered! Number 327 joins with one billion velts! An astronomical move!"

"One. Billion. Velts. The entire auction has gone silent... who will answer this?"

"It's 409 again—1.25 billion! Absolutely staggering!"

"Another colossal jump! 612 hammers down a bid of 1.5 billion! They're not flinching!"

"Back from the dead—001 offers 1.8 billion! Is there no limit tonight?!"

"And now—oh! A monstrous 2 billion velts from number 13! This is beyond all expectations!"

"409 —3.5 billion velts! A cold, ruthless bid!"

"Silence falls… and then—667 casually offers 5 billion!"

"001, not one to be outdone, steps forward! 10 billion velts!"

Oscar was practically sparkling, his eyes turning into coins with every passing second. Meanwhile, Azriel and Jasmine sipped their wine, watching the chaos unfold with amused expressions.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have officially reached 10 billion velts! The same winning bid that crowned number 666 the owner of the Desert Eagle! Can we go even higher?!"

"Wait—86! Yes, we can! 15 billion velts!"

"We're flying through numbers that once felt untouchable!"

"667 doesn't even blink—20 billion velts! Is this still an auction or a declaration of war?!"

"A breath... then—25 billion from 409! A true veteran refusing to bow!"

"Oh my—40 billion velts! That's from 86 again! Is this real?!"

"409—42 billion velts!"

"667 answers without hesitation—45 billion. A devil among demons!"

"And now, ladies and gentlemen… 50 billion velts from 001!"

"Astonishing! It seems none of these bidders even know what hesitation is!"

"Oh my! Am I wrong?! Then—going once! Going twice! And... wait! 60 billion velts from number 013! What a last-minute twist!"

The bidding continued, rising to ridiculous numbers—figures so high that only the guests in the VIP room could still afford to play.

"All this... while they don't even know if it's real or not. Just because the Nebula King wants it…" Jasmine muttered.

She leaned her face into her palm, sipping slowly from her glass, her expression exaggerated as she watched the screen.

Azriel shrugged.

"In public, we all pretend to be peaceful—pretend to work together. But in the end, it's all just a farce. Sooner or later, every single one of them will move to claim Asia for themselves. Mom. Dad. The rest. Just like how the Ten Heavenly Churches monopolized both North and South America."

Jasmine gave a slow, silent nod. Her expression turned solemn.

Then came a click—the door opened.

Oliver stepped into the room, carrying a sleek black case. Jasmine's face shifted instantly, her amusement wiped clean, replaced by an icy mask. As Oliver approached and placed the case on the counter, he bowed respectfully.

"Thank you for your generous contributions to today's event, Your Highnesses," he said. "I hope you'll be staying for the afterparty?"

"It's only natural that we do," Jasmine replied evenly.

Azriel didn't wait. Without hesitation, he opened the case.

Inside lay the Desert Eagle—pristine, perfect, regal. His fingers curled around the weapon like they were always meant to. It felt right in his grip. Almost too right.

Like it had been made for him.

Jasmine and Oliver watched quietly, expectantly. Azriel wasted no time. He began channeling his mana into the gun—and in the blink of an eye, a panel appeared before his vision.

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Status Update!

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New Soul Weapon Acquired!

[Atropos' Elegy]

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'It's exactly like in the book,' Azriel thought, his expression unreadable.

He continued examining the Desert Eagle, then read the inscription engraved in the data.

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[Atropos' Elegy]:

The story of the three Moirai was her favorite. While others played, she read. She wasn't just obsessed—she wanted to be obsessed. And at some point, it became more than obsession. She wanted to become them.

But she could not be the Spinner—her younger sister had already claimed that role. Nor could she be the Measurer—the middle sister had taken that as her own. So she chose to become the Cutter. Her favorite. The most feared. The eldest.

Life was cruel—still is. And so instead of shears or sacred scissors, she forged a weapon suited for her kind.

Not a blade. Not a relic. But a gun.

A gift, she believed. A mercy, perhaps. But to others, it was far worse than any weapon. Her kind fought. Her blood spilled. And still, they worshipped her. They praised the death she brought—until the one she loved most stood in her way.

Her husband, weeping, begged her to undo what had been done. So she offered him the gun instead. He took it with pride. And vanished—without word or trace. And so did she.

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Azriel kept his face composed, but inside, a fire stirred.

'These fools... They had no idea what was hidden right under their noses. Letting go of such a weapon for money.'

If someone from the Ten Heavenly Churches had become the owner of this weapon... they would have uncovered a truth far more valuable than money.

That this Desert Eagle...

It had been forged—by a god.

Azriel might have sighed in disappointment, had he felt even a shred of sympathy. But he didn't.

Instead, a soft smile crept onto his lips.

Now, the gun belonged to him—not to a delusional merchant who would one day be called mad. Not to a nameless collector who would be assassinated before unlocking its true nature. And not to the countless hands that would chase after it, years too late, once they realized what they had lost.

No. It was his now.

And unlike that merchant, Azriel could fight.

He took a slow sip from his glass, a satisfied sigh leaving his lips.

But then... his smile faded. Bitterness touched the edge of his expression.

'I think it's time to meet... him.'