The Extra is a Genius!?-Chapter 159: Ashes of the Faithful

The night air still carried the weight of holy light, the sacred dome glowing faintly above the Holy Capital. But down here—beneath the golden hue—there was no warmth. Only footsteps and steel.

Charlotte led the group through a side street flanked by chapel walls, Noir padding silently ahead, her violet eyes glowing in the dark. Behind them, Garron, Laziel, and nearly a dozen Holy Guards moved in disciplined formation.

Charlotte’s daggers were already in her hands.

"Careful," she whispered, slowing near a crossing. "There’s movement up ahead."

They turned the corner.

And saw them.

Standing beneath the arch of a sanctified corridor were nuns, priests, and guards—cloaked in the robes of the Church, hands folded as if in prayer.

But their eyes told another story.

Each of them bore the mark—a crimson sigil glowing just above the brow. The same brand seen before on traitors of the Circle.

"You... serve the Church," she said, confused. "Why are you—?"

One of the priests stepped forward, voice calm and smiling.

"The Church serves power, child. You’ll understand, eventually."

Then he raised his hand.

"Kill the Saint."

The traitors struck.

Three guards charged first, swords raised high.

"Formation!" shouted one of the loyal knights.

Steel rang out as blades collided. Charlotte vanished into a sidestep, her form flickering like a shadow between two armored men.

Her daggers struck low—one slicing through a tendon, the other sinking into a throat.

"You’re not taking another step," she whispered.

Behind her, Garron met two attackers head-on, slamming one into the stone wall with a shoulder tackle and driving a gauntleted fist into the other’s stomach with a thunderous crack.

Laziel raised both hands.

"Vapor Mirage."

A shimmer bloomed over the street, bending the light—three false Charlottes scattered outward, confusing the next wave of attackers.

Fire arced from Laziel’s palm.

"Scatter Flame."

Priests and traitor-nuns screamed as the blast exploded beneath their feet.

The faithful moved like a wall. The corrupted broke like splinters.

Charlotte stepped back to Garron’s side as Noir circled behind them, fangs bared.

The last of the traitor nuns fell with a cry, her body crumpling beside a cracked statue of the first saint. Silence returned—brief and shallow.

Charlotte stepped over a scorched robe, her breath steady but her grip tense. Noir had stopped ahead, ears flat, body low.

Then, from the archway, he emerged.

The air grew cold.

The old priest walked forward, slowly, as if the battle meant nothing to him. His robes were white no longer—mud-streaked, frayed at the edges, marked with dark sigils. His skin sagged. His bones showed. But the weight of his presence was unmistakable.

Charlotte’s heart dropped.

"You?" she breathed.

The man didn’t answer at first. His pale lips curled into a thin smile.

She stepped forward, expression shaking.

"Why you? You’ve served the Church your whole life. Seventy years... You—"

"Have opened every gate in this capital," he interrupted softly. "And this will be the last."

"You taught me prayers when I was five... you stood beside the High Pope..."

He raised a trembling hand.

"And I stood still as they lied to your face."

Charlotte froze.

Behind her, the Holy Guards were forming a line again, weapons rising.

The priest let his hand drop.

"I saw what was buried. I heard what the surface tried to silence. And so, I buried myself. Until I found purpose again. The Circle gave it to me."

He drew a small stone from within his tattered robe—black and lined with carvings of bone and decay.

He let it fall.

It shattered.

The earth beneath their feet groaned—and then burst. Tiles split open as skeletons in fractured armor clawed their way out of the blessed soil, skulls scraping stone, rusted weapons clutched in bone hands.

Garron took a step forward, face tense.

"Necromancer... bastard."

"Defend the Saint!" one of the Holy Guards shouted.

Steel clashed as the undead surged forward.

Among the guard line, the same knight who had once stepped between Charlotte and a traitor now raised his shield.

"Saint Charlotte," he said calmly. "With your leave—I’ll take point."

Charlotte nodded once, eyes still locked on the priest.

"I’ll deal with him."

The dead surged like a tide.

Skulls grinning. Rusted armor clinking. Weapons too old to shine, but sharp enough to kill.

The Holy Guards met them head-on, shields slamming into bone, swords carving through ribs and spinal cords. But the necromantic magic pulsing through the corpses held them together longer than it should have. Blades cracked femurs only for the skeletons to rise again moments later, joints held by threads of cursed mana.

Charlotte didn’t hesitate.

She darted between her allies and enemies like a shadow, her daggers flashing. One cut severed a spine. The next drove clean through a helmet, stabbing through where eyes once were.

They weren’t children. They weren’t innocents.

These were shells.

"You shouldn’t have risen," she whispered, ducking under a swinging axe.

The knight with the tower shield fought like a fortress—absorbing the blows meant for others, planting his feet like they were roots, never giving ground.

Garron, meanwhile, charged into the thick of it with his fists blazing with raw mana. One punch shattered three ribs. A second broke a skull like glass. Bones scattered around him, but he moved forward like nothing could stop him.

Laziel raised both hands from the back line, his eyes glowing with magic.

"Flash Bind."

A burst of light blinded the skeletons charging the flank, buying precious seconds for two wounded guards to regroup.

Then:

"Mirror Image."

Two copies of Garron appeared, crashing into the enemy lines—phantoms made of mist and mana. The undead attacked them blindly, slashing through nothing.

"Frost Shatter."

Ice exploded from the ground under a cluster of enemies, freezing their legs in place before Garron brought his heel down and shattered the entire patch in one blow.

But still they kept coming.

The corrupted priest stood at the center of it all, watching with cold detachment as the dead fought for him.

Charlotte moved closer with every strike, her eyes fixed on him.

His lips moved in silent prayer, but the light in his voice was long gone.

Charlotte’s breath came sharp as she rolled between two skeletal knights, one dagger slicing through a spine, the other catching a glint of ribcage.

She was close now.

The priest stood at the far end of the broken chapel grounds, where holy statues had been defaced and the altar cracked down the middle. He no longer chanted—he simply waited. His hands were open at his sides, sleeves tattered, bones visible through pale, sunken skin.

"You look tired, child," he said as she approached.

Charlotte’s daggers dripped with blackened ichor.

"You desecrated your faith. You raised the dead from sacred ground. You have no right to call me child."

The priest tilted his head.

"I prayed for seventy years. I saw nothing. Heard nothing. Not from the saints, nor the stars. And now, you think I should fear your blades?"

His hand lifted.

A lance of black energy shot toward her.

Charlotte dashed sideways, the spell missing her by inches. The blast struck a pillar and reduced it to ash.

She didn’t falter.

"You think silence means abandonment," she said coldly, sprinting straight at him. "But the heavens don’t answer on your schedule."

He snarled and raised his other hand—but she was already within reach.

The priest swung a jagged ceremonial staff toward her, infused with withering mana. Charlotte slid under it, her shoulder skimming the broken tiles, and sprang up with a sharp cry.

She slashed upward.

One dagger caught his arm.

The second carved across his robes.

He stumbled back, clutching his side.

Still, he laughed—low and broken.

"Then strike, Saint. Show me your mercy."

Charlotte looked at him—this crumbling ruin of a man who had once held her hand through sermons.

Her grip tightened.

"No mercy. Not for the damned."

And she stepped forward again.

The corrupted priest raised his staff one last time, mouth open in a broken chant—some desperate attempt to conjure another wave, another curse, another delay.

Charlotte didn’t give him the chance.

She closed the gap in a single step, the wind at her back as her daggers flared with faint golden light—blessings she hadn’t spoken, only felt.

With precise motion, she jumped and crossed her arms mid-air.

Both daggers sank into his neck, forming an X just beneath his chin.

His eyes widened.

The sound of steel on bone echoed for half a second—

Then his head tore free.

It flew into the air, slowly, as if gravity itself hesitated to claim it.

Blood poured like ink over sacred stone. The staff clattered to the ground. His body collapsed without sound.

Charlotte landed in a low crouch, blood dripping from both blades.

Silence returned to the desecrated courtyard.

Behind her, Garron stood panting, Laziel still holding a minor illusion in place. The Holy Guards didn’t cheer. They didn’t move.

They all just watched her.

Charlotte stepped forward slowly. Her boots touched the blood without flinching.

She stopped beside what was left of him, lowered her head, and closed her eyes.

"May you find peace in the sky above, Priest," she whispered.

Updat𝒆d fr𝒐m freew𝒆bnov𝒆l.c(o)m