The Extra's Rise-Chapter 397: The Well of Miasma (1)

"Ha," he scoffed, the sound carrying genuine amusement. "Far, far from it, Nightingale."

We crested a ridge, and I suddenly understood our destination. Below us stretched a vast depression in the earth, perhaps a kilometer in diameter. Unlike the barren landscape surrounding it, this pit was filled with churning darkness—not the absence of light, but something actively consuming it. Tendrils of miasma rose from the surface like spectral fingers reaching for the sky, only to be pulled back into the roiling mass.

"What is this place?" I asked, though I already suspected the answer.

"A miasma well," Original Arthur confirmed, his expression unreadable as he gazed down at the corruption. "One of several scattered across the Northern border. This particular one remains undiscovered by the Covenant—for now."

"And why have you brought me here?"

"Because you lack desperation," he stated simply. "You've grown complacent in your knowledge, relying on your foreknowledge rather than pushing your limits. Lucifer is stronger than he was in your 'novel' because he fights with true desperation—he has no map to follow, no assurance of eventual success."

I studied the miasma well with growing unease. "What exactly are you planning?"

"I'm going to leave you here," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "At the bottom of this well, surrounded by concentrated miasma that will continuously spawn manifestations drawn from your own fears and weaknesses."

"That's suicide," I protested, watching as shapeless forms briefly coalesced within the darkness before dissolving again. "The corruption alone would—"

"Kill a normal person within hours," he finished for me. "But you're not normal, are you? You have both Purelight and Deepdark affinities. You have Soul Resonance with Luna. You have Erebus. You have all the tools needed to survive."

"For how long?" I asked, my throat suddenly dry.

"Until next January," he replied. "That gives you eleven months."

I blinked in surprise. "Eleven months in that pit?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "If you fail to escape before then, you'll die. The Umbravale Covenant will discover this well around that time—they're always seeking new training grounds for their Bishop candidates. Every new year, they send their prospective Bishops to miasma wells as a final test. If you're still there when they arrive, they'll kill you."

The casual way he described my potential death sent chills through me. "And if I manage to escape?"

"Then you'll have grown strong enough to face what's coming," he said. "The world is changing faster than your 'novel' predicted. The threats are evolving. Adapting."

"You expect me to become stronger than Bishop Lyra in eleven months?" I asked incredulously. "She's Ascendant-rank! That's impossible!"

For the first time, Original Arthur's expression softened slightly. "You don't need to reach the same rank to surpass her strength. Ranks are generalizations, not absolute measurements. What you need is to transcend your current limitations—to stop fighting like you're following a script and start fighting like someone whose life depends on every move."

He stepped closer to the edge of the well, peering down into its depths. "Besides, I've already given you a head start by breaking through the Aspect wall. Sword Resonance is now within your grasp—you just need to fully integrate it."

I stared at the churning miasma, trying to process what was happening. Part of me wanted to resist, to fight against this original self who had appeared so suddenly to upend my carefully constructed path. But another part—the part that had felt the overwhelming gap between myself and Lyra—knew he was right.

"The miasma beasts you'll face aren't like standard Dark beasts," Original Arthur continued, his tone becoming instructional. "They're pure manifestations of corruption, given form by your own fears and weaknesses. They'll evolve as you do, always presenting the perfect challenge to push you further."

"And you think this torture will make me stronger?" I asked bitterly.

"I know it will," he replied with absolute certainty. "Because it's what I would have done, if I'd had the chance." His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I glimpsed something like regret. "I'm giving you the path I wish I'd had."

He stepped to the very edge of the precipice, our body now poised above the swirling darkness below. "One final piece of advice: don't resist the miasma entirely. Learn from it. Understand it. Only by comprehending corruption can you truly master its opposition."

"Wait—" I began, suddenly realizing he intended to jump.

"Eleven months, transmigrator," he said, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "Make them count."

With those words, he leapt forward, our shared body plummeting toward the churning surface of the miasma well. As we fell, I felt his control slipping away, consciousness returning fully to me just as we broke through the surface of the corruption.

The miasma closed over me like liquid night, cold and burning simultaneously. It pressed against my skin, seeking entrance through every pore, every breath. Instinctively, I channeled Purelight to create a barrier, but I remembered Original Arthur's words about not resisting entirely.

With grim determination, I allowed a controlled amount of miasma to touch me, to be processed through my dual affinities rather than rejected outright. The sensation was excruciating—like having my nerves scraped raw—but I maintained focus through the pain.

As I sank deeper into the well, vague shapes began to form in the darkness around me—featureless at first, then gradually taking on more defined forms. I caught glimpses of claws, teeth, eyes burning with malevolent intelligence.

The miasma beasts had noticed my presence. The real training was about to begin.

Eleven months to become strong enough to escape. Eleven months to surpass an Ascendant-rank Bishop. Eleven months to live or die by my own strength.

The hunt had begun.