An Extra's Rise in an Eroge-Chapter 227: Fenrir [4]

The warriors slowly stopped retreating, but none stepped forward. Their eyes remained locked on the sword, their bodies tense.

Arthur raised a hand, his voice calm. "Relax. it's not going to hurt anyone."

The reassurance, however, only made them back away further—especially since his sword happened to be pointing directly at them when he spoke.

Realizing his mistake, Arthur blinked, lowering the blade awkwardly. "…Right. My bad."

Morrika stared, her expression stuck between awe and horror. "Is that… what I think it is?"

Arthur gave her a lopsided shrug, as if he were talking about an old trinket. "Yeah… It's Satan's sword. Abyssal Fang."

The surrounding warriors visibly stiffened. Whispers erupted. Some even backed away again, gripping their weapons on instinct. Just the name alone was enough to send a chill through them.

[Heh. Did you see that? That's the proper reaction. That's how mortals should respond after learning who I am. Tremble, you worms. Quiver in awe. You are in the presence of greatness.]

Arthur thumped the sword against the ground with a dull clank. 'Would you shut up for a second? You're not helping.'

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Turning back to Morrika, he offered a calm smile. "Relax. I've completely tamed this sword. It's not Satan's anymore. It's mine."

He lifted the blade slightly, dark runes pulsing along its edge.

"And now," he said, stepping closer to the chained god-beast, "this sword is going to cut through those divine chains."

Morrika raised an eyebrow, skepticism creeping back into her voice. "Seriously? Even that thing can cut through divine chains?"

There was a moment of silence.

And then—

[YOU INSOLENT FLEABAG!]

Arthur barely kept the sword from jerking in his grip as Azryth exploded in his mind.

[Lowly mutt! How dare you question my abilities?! I'll cleave you into vapor! No—splinters. Shreds. Microscopic specks of shame!]

Though Morrika couldn't hear the voice, she could certainly read the hostility in the way the blade suddenly arched toward her, its edge glinting dangerously. The hilt trembled in Arthur's grip, and a faint crimson mist coiled around it like smoke.

And still… she held her ground.

Her eyes flicked to the sword, then to Arthur, and after a beat of silence, she did something unexpected.

She bowed slightly.

"I apologize," Morrika said with calm dignity. "I didn't realize your sword could… hear. And I didn't mean to disrespect a legendary artifact. I was simply—" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "—surprised. But now I understand. The divine chains don't stand a chance against the Abyssal Fang."

There was a haughty silence in Arthur's head.

Then—

[Hmph. That's more like it.]

Arthur sighed. 'You're the most dramatic sword I've ever met.'

[You love it.]

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Arthur turned back toward Fenrir. "Alright, enough talk. Let's get this over with."

He approached slowly, each step deliberate, as if not to wake the slumbering god-beast. The chains continued to glow faintly, golden lines pulsing with divine power—symbols of justice, punishment, and divine wrath, etched into the very core of their existence.

Arthur stopped in front of one, lifting the Abyssal Fang.

It thrummed in his hand.

'You ready?'

[Born ready. Let me show you why they sealed me away in the first place.]

Darkness surged around the blade—like ink bleeding into light—and as the tip of the sword touched the chain, the holy energy hissed in protest.

Arthur stood in silence, letting the demonic sword settle in his grip.

Abyssal Fang no longer radiated that suffocating aura. Instead, its edge glowed faintly with a subtle black gleam—like a calm tide before a storm.

"Let's get this over with," he muttered and raised the blade.

The first chain shimmered with golden light as if sensing the threat.

Clang—

The sound was almost underwhelming. No grand explosion of light, no divine wail of protest. Just a clean, effortless slice.

The holy shackle snapped in two and dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

[Did you see that?] Azryth's voice rang in his mind, smug and satisfied. [That was a piece of cake. These so-called divine chains are nothing but fancy decorations.]

Arthur didn't respond. He moved to the next.

Slice.

Another chain fell.

And the next.

And the next.

Each restraint, no matter how sacred or heavily enchanted, parted under the Abyssal Fang like paper to a hot knife.

The gathered warriors watched in stunned silence. No one dared to interrupt. Even Morrika stood still, eyes wide, lips slightly parted as she witnessed each golden shackle fall away without resistance.

Fenrir didn't stir. The beast god remained curled, breathing evenly, still resting.

When the last of the restraints clattered to the ground, Arthur stepped back and gave the blade a small flick, shaking off the lingering divine residue. The sword hummed with satisfaction.

[Hmph. Too easy. I didn't even get to stretch.]

Arthur knelt and gathered the shattered pieces.

Despite being broken, the fragments shimmered—glowing faintly with a silvery luster. Mithril. But not ordinary mithril. These were fused with divine inscriptions, still pulsating with residual holiness. Each piece held immense potential.

"Even in pieces, you're worth more than a kingdom," Arthur muttered.

With a thought, he opened his system window and stored the fragments one by one, the broken divine shackles disappearing into his inventory with soft flashes of light.

"You'll make something nice later," he added under his breath, already imagining the kind of artifacts he could forge with these materials.

Azryth let out a proud hum.

[Of course. Thanks to me, you've got a haul fit for a god. Admit it—you're lucky to have me.]

Arthur just smirked. "Sure. Let's just keep moving before your ego starts leaking into the real world."

[Too late.]

Arthur shook his head and turned back toward the others.

"Done," he said simply.

The warriors stared at him with a mix of awe and disbelief, but Morrika was the first to step forward, offering a deep, quiet nod.

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