The Extra Who Shouldn't Exist novel Chapter 207

Chapter 207: Chapter 207 : Survival of the fittest (2)

The battlefield had become a massacre.

Blood hung in the air like rain; the ground was a quilt of mud and crimson.

Screams ricocheted between broken banners. Bodies of orcs, goblins, demihumans, elves, and lesser beasts littered the field — some already heads severed, some still twitching with limbless torsos.

The stench of burned flesh and iron burned the back of everyone’s throat.

’This is war. Be merciless,’ Alex thought, moving like a shadow with purpose.

He appeared everywhere at once — a flash of steel here, an eruption of force there. An orc lunged, tusks bared; Alex’s blade sliced an arc and the orc’s head flew in a slow, crimson bloom.

A pair of goblins tried to flank him; Alex planted a foot and the ground erupted, shaping jagged earth-spears that impaled them in a dozen points.

A demihuman cavalry charge bent toward him — a single stomp from Alex hurled a shockwave that shattered bones and threw riders like ragdolls.

Sometimes he cut off heads cleanly, watching them topple away as if removing inconvenient thoughts.

Sometimes he drove his sword through bellies, leaving men gasping eyes to the sky. Sometimes he tore limbs free with cold efficiency — no hesitation, only action.

He had not come here to be kind; kindness meant death.

’If I were them, I’d do the same. Survive or die. There is no room for regret now.’

A shredded elf crawled on the ground nearby; both arms severed, his sleeve a bloody rag. He looked up at Alex with wet, pleading eyes.

"Please—please, don’t—" the elf begged, voice broken. "Forgive me..."

Alex advanced, sword tipped down, the final note of a sentence in a story written in blood. He raised the blade.

Boom — a concussive force detonated through the air and knocked Alex off balance. He flew back in a blur, rolled, and slammed onto his heels. The ground kicked up under him, grass and dirt spitting in arcs.

A blond-haired elf stood where the shock had come from. The aura around him was not a simple shimmer but a pressure — the air itself seemed to crack under the weight of it, tiny fissures snaking outward from where he planted his boots.

He regarded Alex with an insolent stare.

"Looks like you enjoy killing the weak. Why don’t you try me?" the elf said, voice cold and sharp.

Alex whistled low. "Damn. Impressive speech. But this is war. If I were in their place, that freaking elf would have done the same." He shrugged, amused by the elf’s sanctimony.

The elf gritted his teeth and fell silent. Alex laughed, a short, humorless sound. "What, cat got your tongue?"

There was no answer. That silence tasted like mouthwash gone wrong.

Alex blurred forward — the movement was almost casual. He leapt and brought a kick aimed straight for the elf’s head.

To his surprise, the elf caught the kick, palm flat and steady, and with a sickening snap slammed Alex through force, sending him skidding across the ground.

Alex rolled, flipped up, and smirked. "Looks like you’re a strong one."

"Who the hell are you?" the elf spat, blood slicking his lips. "How can a human have that much strength?"

"Beats me. Maybe I’m not a normal human," Alex replied, voice low.

He attacked again. A feint, then a real strike — the first kick aimed for the gut was bait. The second landed full on the elf’s face, a clean explosive contact that sent the blond crashing into a shattered pillar.

He hit the wall and slid down, blood making a map across his features.

Rage warped the elf’s face. He drew a bow in a shaking hand and began to chant, words old and lethal. Magic ran along the arrow: runes seared into the shaft, words that burned with heat and blue flame.

He loosed it.

The arrow streaked like a falling star, shredding through two charging soldiers and scorching the skeletons of another who dared stand in its path.

Darkness swelled inside Alex, pooling like oil. He whispered a counter-chant and his body drank the leyline, shadow and void folding into him.

The elf’s arrows shuddered in midflight — then the darkness flipped them back, turned them into living shards of night that screamed into the bodies of nearby archers.

Flesh smoked; bone bubbled as if under acid. The blond’s strongest spell ate his own people.

The elf fell to his knees, eyes wide. "Impossible... that was my strongest—"

He looked at Alex and breathed, "You’re a monster."

’Are all elves idiots?’ Alex thought bitterly. ’Does he not understand this is kill-or-be-killed?’

Alex readied the finishing blow. The blond croaked, pleading, a pathetic flutter of defiance left in him.

Then, like a knife of wind, someone slammed into Alex’s face — close enough to knock breath from his lungs.

Alex caught the incoming fist with a single hand, palm clamped to forearm, feeling the raw, stored power in the attack.

The attacker was the red-haired leader of the Dragonkin; scales flashed beneath leather, muscles rippling like braided rope.

The leader expected bone to crush on contact — but his fist hung there, arrested by Alex’s hand.

"What the hell is he?" the leader thought, stunned.

The leader slammed his head forward; the collision rattled Alex. He released the hold, skidded back, hand pressed to his temple. "Damnit," he hissed, tasting copper.

Alex blinked and recognized the attacker. "I was deliberately not killing you and your people because I owe you a favor. But you’re making it hard to keep that promise now, Mr. Red Hair."

The leader — voice rough, pride like an armor — said, "My name is Samara, human. I’m telling you this because you’re worthy of knowing it."

Alex rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I don’t much care," he said, tone flat.

Samara’s eyes narrowed. "I know how much of a hypocrite that elf is, but I can’t let you kill him. I made a promise to someone to protect him. Since this guy is from my world."

Alex snorted. "I don’t care about that. But now that you’ve attacked me, you’re my enemy. That’s all there is to it."

Samara’s lips tightened. "That’s a shame."

They both shifted into stances. The air trembled with the energy bleeding off their bodies. The surrounding fighters backed away instinctively, some too slow and crushed by the pressure radiating from the two.

Samara studied him carefully. "Are you not going to use a weapon?"

Alex exhaled slowly. "The swords and weapons I brought already broke. They couldn’t handle my power. I’ve got no choice but to fight with my fists."

Samara’s eyes glinted with savage amusement. "Do you realize what you’re saying? Fighting a Dragonkin with your bare hands... Do you have a death wish?"

"Maybe I do," Alex replied dryly.

"You’re crazy."

"I hear that a lot lately."

Layers of mana spiraled and hardened around Alex’s fists, glowing faintly like molten steel. Samara grinned, lifting his own fists as a different, alien brilliance coated them.

The energy was sharp, dense, and strange — almost humming with a frequency that the arena itself seemed to recoil from.

Alex frowned. ’What is that?’

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