The Extra's Rise-Chapter 801: Two Years (2)

Time passed differently now. I felt its shape in my bones, not just as moments ticking forward, but as the full weight of years compressed into insight. The kind of time that only made sense after you’d lost too much of it. Or changed too much within it.

Two years, seven hundred and thirty days, exactly as Stella had calculated through her tears when I left. But those numbers felt hollow now, inadequate to measure what had passed between departure and return. On Xerion Prime, time had moved like honey through crystal—thick with purpose, sharp with consequence. Every hour spent fighting Demon Marquises, every day dedicated to mastering new techniques, every week pushing myself beyond what human flesh should endure. All of it had led to this moment, sitting in an imperial car as Avalon City’s familiar skyline drew closer through the glass.

I looked at Empress Adeline, her presence as imperial as ever, poised and unreadable. Silver eyes that had witnessed decades of political maneuvering studied me with the kind of analytical precision that had made her legendary among continental rulers. Beside her, Emperor Quinn Slatemark radiated the kind of stillness that only came from surviving centuries and still not trusting them. novelbuddy-cσ๓

I remembered them both too well. Sharp memories carved into soft places. When I had returned to Avalon after my first year of magical training, I had still been a boy with a sword and too many plans. In front of Adeline, I had been helpless—charming words meant nothing when she could see through masks like tissue paper. As for Quinn... even at peak Ascendant-rank, I hadn’t been a match for him. His presence had dwarfed me then, his low Radiant-rank authority making my most impressive techniques feel like parlor tricks.

But now? Now the gap had narrowed into something almost poetic.

The transport—an elegant, dark-paneled imperial cruiser with mana-fused glass that shimmered faintly under the city’s artificial skylight—glided through traffic patterns that parted automatically for imperial privilege. There was enough space for a council meeting inside, but only three of us sat there. An empress. An emperor. And me.

The silence hummed with unspoken assessments.

Quinn turned, the crimson gleam of his eyes meeting mine as if scanning for something that shouldn’t be there. His magical senses, refined through decades of ruling one of the world’s most powerful empires, probed at my aura with the delicate precision of a master craftsman examining suspicious artwork.

"I can’t believe my eyes," he said finally, and when Quinn Slatemark said something like that, it wasn’t flattery. "Unless I’m mistaken... you haven’t reached Radiant yet?"

I held his gaze, letting him feel the edges of what I had become without revealing its full scope. No point bluffing here. These weren’t opponents to be deceived—they were allies who needed to understand exactly what they were working with.

"I haven’t," I admitted.

His eyebrows rose a fraction—an emperor’s version of a gasp. "But still... your strength..." He trailed off, the words evaporating before they made contact with meaning. There were no precedents for this.

"I became strong enough," I said simply. That was all that mattered.

The training on Xerion Prime hadn’t just enhanced my magical capabilities—it had fundamentally rewritten my understanding of what power meant. Learning to kill beings that shouldn’t die had given me perspective on what was truly worth protecting.

Quinn didn’t speak again for a while, though I could feel his analytical mind working through implications that probably disturbed him. Adeline, ever the tactician, had already calculated what my answer meant. She didn’t ask what I had done. She didn’t need to.

Because they both knew something I had made sure to show them—subtly, but unmistakably. That I didn’t return for ceremony or courtesy. I returned because the clock was ticking faster than most could hear.

The Imperial Palace rose before us like a monument to human ambition, its crystalline spires catching the afternoon light while defensive barriers hummed with barely visible energy. But as our car approached the main courtyard, I saw something that made my enhanced senses pause with recognition that felt like coming home.

They were all there.

Standing in formation that spoke to careful planning rather than casual gathering, every person who mattered most to me waited in the palace’s reception area. My enhanced vision picked out details that ordinary sight would miss—the way Rachel’s golden hair caught the light as she maintained perfect Saintess composure despite obvious anticipation, how Cecilia’s imperial bearing couldn’t quite hide the tension in her shoulders, the subtle way Rose and Seraphina had positioned themselves to provide mutual support while Reika stood slightly apart with the kind of quiet intensity that characterized her approach to emotional moments.

But it was the small figure at the front of the group that made my heart remember how to beat like a human organ again.

Stella. No longer the nine-year-old child I had left behind, but an eleven-year-old young woman whose mathematical precision had grown to encompass emotional calculations I could see in her carefully controlled expression. She stood with her chin raised, hands clasped behind her back in unconscious imitation of military posture, dark hair arranged with the kind of careful attention that suggested this moment mattered more to her than she was willing to admit.

Seven hundred and thirty days. She had counted every one.

"Your family requested permission to attend your return," Adeline said with gentle formality that couldn’t quite hide maternal warmth. "It seemed... appropriate to grant such a request."

The car slowly stopped with mechanical precision, but I barely noticed the subtle vibration as landing gear engaged. My attention was entirely focused on the group waiting beyond the vehicle’s reinforced doors—five extraordinary women who had agreed to wait for someone who might return changed beyond recognition, parents who had supported a son’s decision to abandon them for power, and a daughter who had trusted that promises made by fathers who fought demons were promises that would be kept.

The doors opened with hydraulic whispers, and I stepped out into afternoon air that carried the familiar scent of Avalon’s magical infrastructure mixed with autumn leaves and the distant promise of rain. But it was the sound that reached me first—Stella’s voice, carefully controlled but unmistakably filled with emotion she was trying to manage through mathematical precision.

"Seven hundred and thirty-one days," she said clearly, her voice carrying across the courtyard with the kind of absolute accuracy that had always characterized her approach to important calculations. "You’re one day late, Daddy."

The gentle rebuke hit me harder than any Marquis-level demon’s attack had managed. But before I could formulate an apology that might begin to address two years of absence, she was moving—not running, but walking with determined purpose that closed the distance between us while maintaining the dignity she had clearly been practicing.

"I know," I said, kneeling to meet her at eye level as she approached with eleven-year-old composure that couldn’t quite hide the tears gathering at the edges of her vision. "I’m sorry I was late."

"Did you become strong enough?" she asked with the kind of direct honesty that only children possessed, studying my face with analytical precision that reminded me of her mathematical gifts applied to emotional assessment.

"Yes," I replied with absolute conviction, reaching out to pull her into a hug that felt like rediscovering gravity after floating in space for years. "I became strong enough to keep all my promises."

The embrace lasted exactly as long as it needed to—long enough for Stella to verify that her father had indeed returned as promised, short enough to maintain the public dignity that palace protocol demanded. But in those seconds, I felt something fundamental shift in my perspective. The training on Xerion Prime, the battles with demons, the final confrontation with an Astral Leviathan that could have swallowed continents—all of it had been preparation for this moment.

"Arthur," came Rachel’s voice, warm with joy that had been carefully controlled for public display but couldn’t be entirely contained. The five women approached with coordinated precision that spoke to months of planning this reunion, each maintaining appropriate diplomatic distance while their expressions carried emotions that transcended political necessity.

Looking at them—at all of them—I felt the detachment that had characterized my perspective for two years finally dissolving into something approaching human warmth. These weren’t abstract concepts to be protected from dimensional threats. They were people who had chosen to build their lives around someone who had disappeared into space with promises about returning stronger.

My parents approached last, their expressions mixing relief with the kind of parental assessment that evaluated whether their son had returned intact despite obvious changes. The way they studied my face, searching for familiar features beneath whatever transformation training had wrought, reminded me that some bonds transcended even dimensional barriers.

"Welcome home, son," my father said with business-like efficiency that couldn’t quite hide paternal emotion.

"Welcome home, Arthur," my mother added with maternal warmth that had survived two years of uncertainty about whether her adopted son would actually return from his impossible journey.

"Arthur," Cecilia said with royal authority that couldn’t quite hide the relief flooding her crimson eyes, "perhaps we should move this reunion somewhere more private? There are... developments you should know about before formal briefings begin."

The suggestion carried undertones that made my enhanced senses immediately alert. Whatever had happened during my two-year absence, it was significant enough to require careful explanation rather than casual discussion. But looking at the faces surrounding me—at Stella’s careful composure, at the coordinated way my girlfriends had prepared for this moment, at my parents’ obvious relief—I realized that no threat could matter more than this.

The demons I had killed on Xerion Prime, the reality-bending techniques I had mastered, the final battle with Void-Singer Maethis that had nearly cost me my humanity—all of it had been worth enduring for this single moment of recognition that I had kept my promise to return.

Standing there in the Imperial Palace courtyard, surrounded by autumn air and familiar faces and the weight of responsibilities that felt meaningful rather than burdensome, I smiled with satisfaction that reached down to the core of my being.

It had all been worth it.

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