The Extra Can't be A Hero-Chapter 167: The Sword Saint (5)

The mirror dimension shuddered violently, its once-flawless surfaces now riddled with cracks that pulsed with a sickly light. Tendrils of corrupted mana slithered through the fractures like serpents, eroding the boundaries the Sword Saint had so carefully forged. From within the largest rift, a procession of dark figures emerged—cultists robed in deep crimson and black, their chanting low and discordant, a twisted hymn that gnawed at the very essence of the realm.

At the edge of the breach, standing apart from the seething mass, Malachi looked on with cold satisfaction. His face, half-hidden beneath a hood adorned with bone trinkets, was unmoving, but his eyes gleamed—sharp and predatory.

For the longest time, he had waited for this opportunity—the opportunity to raid the Sword Saint's lair.

And now that it has finally arrived, Malachi wasn't going to squander it.

'Just a bit more… a bit more and I would get to see you again!'

Gritting his teeth, the Apostle of Subservience endured the wait in silence. He had waited years—what were a few more minutes? The once-smooth, dome-like surface was now laced with widening cracks, no longer mere fractures but a gaping fissure. The barrier was failing. Soon, very soon, Malachi would breach it—and his long-coveted prize would finally be within reach.

PSSSTTTTT!!!

A sound of shattering glass erupted in the hills, and Malachi's face broke into a fearless grin. However, before he could celebrate, a familiar face emerged from the broken pieces of the mirror dimension.

Amon's golden eyes burned with cold fury as he surveyed the swarm of cultists encircling the fractured dome. The cult's choir pressed on with their eerie harmonies, utterly unbothered by the infernal judge now hovering above them.

Their voices rose in twisted unison, resonating with the vile tendrils of demonic energy that snaked deeper into the crumbling mirror dimension. Each note, each pulse of dark mana chipped away at the sanctum's defences. If left unchecked, it was only a matter of time before they shattered the final barrier and breached the heart of the realm.

Therefore…

Amon didn't hold back in the slightest.

Seven blazing suns orbited the Knight, casting a searing radiance so intense it could melt the eyes of any who dared to look. The sky ignited into a vast canopy of golden fire, and with a thunderous eruption of mana, a wave of crushing pressure swept outward, flattening the weaker cultists where they stood. The unholy symphony faltered, its harmony shattered. Faces twisted in shock and horror turned upward—but it was already too late.

"Dawn."

Amon used the most rudimentary of all the Solaris Mystic Arts… and yet, it was the most iconic.

A silence fell—unnatural, weighty—as if the world itself held its breath. Then the sky split open. From the breach poured a column of divine light, not warm or gentle, but pure and absolute, a blade of radiance descending from the heavens. It struck the ground with the force of judgment itself, engulfing the cultists in a tidal wave of golden fire.

The force of Seven Suns erupted with a brilliance beyond anything Amon had cast before. As it struck, there was no explosion—only erasure. The corrupting influence of the cultists' magic evaporated instantly. Their bodies disintegrated, not burned but unmade, as though they had never existed.

The flames continued to proliferate, like a plague that didn't know how to quit. The golden flames were intent on eradicating every single cultist gathered, and if left alone, Amon would have annihilated the Demon Cult members right then and there.

But there was someone who defied the fury of the flame lord.

A wave of darkness surged from the depths of the forest, sweeping over the wildfire like a crashing tsunami. The golden flames sputtered and vanished beneath the consuming shadow, snuffed out as if they had never burned. Of the cultists who remained, nearly half exhaled in trembling relief, their breaths ragged and heavy. They had been spared—albeit for a fleeting moment.

"Stand back, you can't handle him."

Malachi emerged from the shadows and stood up to the fiery angel of judgment. None of his subordinates protested, and many immediately scurried away like scattering rats. The upcoming battle was something out of their league, and many knew it. But there were a few fanatics who stood around, eager to witness the legendary battle that was about to unfold.

"Sir Amon… You've grown quite a bit these three years."

"..."

Malachi's voice slipped past the clouds and echoed in Amon's mind—not spoken aloud, but delivered through direct mental transmission. At their level, such feats were routine. Amon didn't flinch, nor did he spare a thought for his opponent's skill. But he did raise an eyebrow at Malachi's familiarity.

"But you still have much to grow. If you stand aside, I won't harm you or your comrades in the slightest."

"Heh…"

"What's so funny?"

"At least try to wipe that smile off your face if you're going to lie. Who are you trying to bluff?"

Perhaps he was still riding the high from revisiting his old friend, the Apostle was unable to control his emotions. His eyes were glistening with expectation, and his arms were already reaching for his blade. If anything, Malachi was itching for a fight, and if Amon was going to give it to him, he was happy to oblige.

"Haha, son…"

Malachi drew his sword of pure white, and a chilling echo pierced into the heavens. Demonic mana poured out from his soul and enveloped the ground beneath the mirror dimension. By some miracle, Malachi didn't destroy the barrier through his mana alone, but from the way it was shaking, it was only a matter of time.

A monstrous swordsman—a legendary figure that once stood side-by-side with Alrock and the Sword Saint, was now bearing his fangs at Amon.

"You know… Our battle was cut short last time, so I'm itching to know the true depth of your powers. So… Don't disappoint me."

"... speak for yourself."

Amon's mana erupted like a shattered dam, flooding the world in a cascade of golden radiance. The sky ignited, unleashing torrents of divine flame that rained down in a relentless storm. To an onlooker, it might've resembled a breathtaking meteor shower—but each droplet carried the weight of annihilation. The sheer force of the bombardment could have reduced an entire city to ash.

But Amon wasn't here to raze the world.

He gathered every ounce of his power into a single, searing point and then descended, a blazing comet of wrath, aimed with terrifying precision.

[Heaven's Fall.]

The most explosive ability in the Solaris Mystic Arts was unleashed with full force.

Malachi flashed his teeth, clearly delighted to face such a prominent ability head-on. Without hesitation, he skipped the formalities and condensed his grey aura into a sharp force field that clashed violently against Amon's blade.

The moment of impact unleashed a cataclysmic shockwave that tore through the plains like a divine tempest. Grasslands were flattened in an instant, reduced to scorched earth beneath the sheer force of the collision. Trees at the forest's edge combusted where they stood, their trunks splintering and igniting in midair before being swept away like dust in a gale.

The ground cracked and heaved, sending ripples through the soil as if the very foundation of the land recoiled in pain. Firestorms howled outward in every direction, devouring everything in their path. The sky churned with golden embers and ash, painting the horizon in hues of ruin.

And yet—at the heart of the devastation, amid the smouldering wreckage and broken terrain—Amon and Malachi stood unmoved. Their cloaks fluttered in the heat, eyes locked, bodies untouched. As the world crumbled around them, the titans remained, untouched by the chaos they had summoned, silent within the eye of the storm.

The Apostle's eyes flashed with a flicker of disbelief as he stared down at his blade, momentarily stunned that he'd been forced to expend so much energy to deflect an attack from a mere junior. His grip tightened, jaw clenched—then he spat with contempt:

"What a monster… You reached this peak?"

Malachi cursed and praised Amon at the same time. He, of all people, knew how hard it was to reach this current level. It took years of blood, sweat and tears to even think of reaching the apex of humanity.

And how old was Amon? Twenty-two?

"To use all of my strength against a junior leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but… You warrant it, Sir Amon."

Malachi's mood turned almost immediately. There wasn't any playfulness in his words, just pure respect and seriousness.

[Gospel of Subservience: Act of worship.]

As the Apostle of Subservience, Malachi's power would grow whenever he was executing an order from his master. And in this case, the Prophet had ordered him to secure the Sword Saint by any means possible, which allowed him to amplify his strength.

Grey energy swirled around the Apostle as his presence grew. With his mana and physical aspect at their apex, Malachi now roared into life.

In the blink of an eye—faster than any human could hope to track—Malachi blurred through space, reappearing inches from Amon with his Bone Sword already mid-swing, the blade angled perfectly for a decapitating strike.

But Amon was no ordinary opponent. Instincts honed through countless battles kicked in, and he twisted his body just in time, letting the deadly arc pass within a hair's breadth of his throat. Without missing a beat, Amon countered with a precise upward slash of his own, his blade humming through the air as it aimed for Malachi's exposed side.

Yet Malachi, fluid as smoke, met the attack with a deft parry, deflecting the strike with a resounding clang. What followed was a dazzling storm of motion. For the next two seconds, the world around them seemed to vanish—no sound but the clash of steel, no movement but the blur of limbs and flashing blades.

In that brief window of time, the two apex swordsmen exchanged hundreds of strikes, thrusts, feints, blocks, and ripostes—each executed with a level of speed and precision that would have overwhelmed any onlooker. It was a duel not of strength, but of mastery—a whirlwind of technique and reaction that defied comprehension.

In terms of pure swordsmanship, the pair were almost equal. But in terms of raw strength… There was a clear winner.

Amon was hurled backwards, his body crashing through the air before skidding to a halt across the scorched earth. A grievous wound carved diagonally from his shoulder blade to his waist lay open, flesh torn and blood spilling freely.

Malachi's experience, sharpened by years of training, combined with the divine boon granted by the Prophet, made him something more than mortal. As he was, Amon was the weaker being. Blood ran in slow rivulets down his side, soaking into the ground beneath him. Yet, even in pain, Amon's expression remained eerily composed. He furrowed his brows with quiet resolve, his gaze locked on Malachi—not in fear, but in grim acknowledgement of the power now standing against him.

[Blessing of the Sun.]

One of the most cheat-like techniques within the Solaris Mystic Arts was unleashed. Reality itself seemed to shimmer as an ethereal energy surged forth—golden fire, both radiant and otherworldly, coiled around Amon like a living force.

The flames didn't burn; they mended. In mere moments, the deep, fatal gash that had torn through his body began to seal, flesh knitting together with divine precision. Muscle, sinew, and skin were restored in a wave of shimmering light, as if time itself had been reversed. When the golden fire finally faded, not even a scar remained.

Malachi watched Amon's quick recovery and couldn't help but let out a sigh.

"You even mastered that technique… Alrock truly has raised a monster."

"Monster, huh?"

Amon cast a long, steady gaze at Malachi's twisted, demonic form—eyes glowing with unnatural light, his presence radiating raw malice. For a brief moment, Amon wondered who the real monster was.

But to stand against a monster like that, Amon knew he couldn't remain entirely human. If he were to survive—if he were to win—he would have to abandon restraint, silence mercy, and embrace the monster within.

[Dragon form.]