Path of the Extra Chapter 5: Ragnar Frost
Previously on Path of the Extra...
"Death's... Blossom."
The events that unfolded moments ago seemed utterly bizarre.
He felt as if he were trapped in a vivid, controllable dream.
"First form, eh? Yet it fails to reveal the total number of forms available,"
Azriel whispered, staring at the trio of decapitated corpses.
Oddly enough, exhaustion hadn't gripped him as severely as anticipated.
Indeed, executing the initial form of the Dance of Death consumed a bit of mana, though far less than he had foreseen.
"Maybe I misjudged the god of death too hastily—"
His words cut short when the grade 1 wolf abruptly charged toward him.
Startled, Azriel lacked the moment to shift his whole frame aside or lift Void Eater.
By leaning his torso to the side, he hastily encased his right shoulder in ice right before the creature's jaws clamped down, steering the bite away from his throat.
Crack!
Ice fragments shattered with a resounding noise as fangs pierced into his right shoulder.
"Argh!"
"That fucking hurts!"
Yelling in agony that almost plunged him into blackout, he clamped his tongue between his teeth. Crimson lightning sparked across his left palm as he thrust it straight into the void wolf's skull, scorching its brain matter.
The feeling of his fingers burrowing through neural tissue and the grotesque snap of bone fracturing caused Azriel to clench his jaw and force back the bile surging upward.
"Shit, this is utterly revolting."
Pulling his hand free from the beast's cranium, the wolf collapsed heavily beside him. Black ichor coated his left hand from the creature's fluids, urging Azriel to heave.
Sensing another lapse in focus approaching, he clutched his katana more firmly and swiftly scanned the spot where the final void wolf lingered.
The grade 2 monster had vanished...
Regardless of which direction he pivoted, the wolf remained nowhere in sight. Only after a full minute did it dawn on him that the creature had escaped.
"I suppose that's the reason for its pair of eyes, unlike this one's..."
Evidently, the grade 2 wolf possessed the cunning to realize its own doom after witnessing the abrupt demise of its three packmates.
"Tch, I've always preferred cats anyway!"
With those words, he iced over the gash on his right shoulder once more, halting the blood flow. No healing items were in his possession.
"Mmpfh!"
'Damn it, those bites from the flayed hounds sting like hell! Though, I shouldn't have let my mind wander to begin with...'
Fortune favored him in deploying the ice swiftly, preventing the grade 1 fiend from severing his whole limb.
'...Curses, this chill is biting deep.'
Clad merely in shredded, threadbare garments, the frost clinging to his skin intensified his shivers, chattering his teeth uncontrollably.
"Alright, time to extract those mana cores, I reckon," he grumbled under his breath.
He resolved to claim their mana cores promptly, lest additional void beings detect him. The skirmish with the void wolves surely drew some attention.
Still, if a minor figure like himself merited the effort of slaying or devouring by superior void entities, he had no desire to discover.
Using his katana, he carved a careful cut close to the heart's location. The edge glided effortlessly into the meat, yet the foul heat and stench of gore and entrails provoked his gag reflex. His fingers shook faintly while probing inside for the mana core.
As his digits grazed the sleek, rigid orb, he winced and yanked it forth, slick with gore and flecks of matter.
"Ugh, that's nauseating," he grumbled.
Shifting to the subsequent corpse, the ordeal proved no less grueling. Every plunge into the remains brought the repulsive warmth of fluids and the slippery, viscous feel of innards, compelling him to dry-heave.
"I need a damn shower..."
********
"Haa..."
A weary exhale slipped from Ragnar's mouth while he traversed the hallways of a fortified outpost in France—a secure haven.
Ragnar exuded striking allure, his locks as pristine and white as untouched snowfall, flowing in gentle curls to his shoulders.
His sharp azure gaze evoked flawless gems, gleaming with a fervor that pierced straight to the core.
He looked to be approaching thirty, boasting sculpted, elegant contours. Prominent cheekbones accentuated a firm mandible.
A depth in his stare hinted at myriad ordeals endured.
However, the true essence distinguishing him, compelling all passersby to lower their heads in dread and reverence, stemmed from the overwhelming vibe of power and command he emanated. Merely his existence could evoke wonder and shudders among onlookers.
A Grade 1 Grandmaster—the leader of the Frost Clan, among the quartet of mighty lineages dominating the Asian landmass. The Crimson Clan held sway over the eastern territories, as the Frost Clan oversaw northern Asia.
Trailing a pace behind stood his loyal aide and attendant, Thomas. Lacking his master's striking looks, Thomas still ranked among the world's most captivating males.
His lustrous golden tresses and verdant orbs gleamed akin to myriad lights in an ebony sky. Though not a Grade 1 Grandmaster like his superior, Thomas held Grade 3 Grandmaster status.
"The official from the administration mentioned you must remain in France for additional days, my lord, rather than departing today," Thomas stated deferentially as they headed to the command center.
"And just who do they imagine themselves to be?" Ragnar shot back.
"Remind that fool and the rest that the Frost Clan serves no allegiance to the government, nor do they possess authority to order us."
To the masses, Ragnar's presence aimed to illustrate the backing and partnership of Asia's four premier clans, especially the Frost Clan, with governmental efforts to retake Europe.
Yet the primary motive lay elsewhere...
Numerous alerts spoke of potential Phase 4 voidrifts emerging in France and Spain, though none had materialized thus far.
Ragnar lingered here beyond a week since humanity dared not squander their precarious foothold in Western Europe.
Nevertheless, the previous week yielded zero traces of void rifts. Moreover, no void entities surpassing Monarch tier had surfaced in France.
"We'll depart after a concluding inspection today," Ragnar proclaimed, displaying his disdain for prolonging his stay in this vulnerable nation.
"I'll assign several of ours to linger and aid the forces if required," he added.
"In truth, my lord... Signal disruptions are hindering all outreach beyond Europe at present, while intercontinental transit remains unhindered," Thomas informed.
Ragnar paused, a frown creasing his brow as he turned to Thomas. His unease swelled further.
"Since when has this problem persisted?" Ragnar pressed.
"...From the past hour," Thomas answered steadily, despite a faint sheen of perspiration revealing his worry.
Ragnar dismissed it with a head shake and pressed onward.
"It changes nothing. Departure happens today regardless. Notify the authorities that Frost Clan envoys arrive solely upon signal recovery."
He yearned to head back to Asia, bypassing the north for the east. The morrow marked a pivotal occasion for his closest ally, Joaquin Crimson.
Contrary to common assumptions, the four grand clans nursed no outright hostility—well, not completely. Bonds between the Crimson and Frost Clans ran deepest of all.
Likely for this reason, many favored Asia, where the clans collaborated effectively rather than clashing.
This alliance also explained the Hero Academy's placement there—safeguarding Asia's stability was vital, for any clan's collapse risked turmoil.
Joaquin and Ragnar forged their friendship in youth, both enrolling at the Hero Academy.
And on the morrow... it followed the natal day of Joaquin's sole heir, Azriel Crimson, absent and presumed lost for two years past.
'...They refuse to embrace his passing even now. Not that they ever recovered his remains or pieced together the full tale,' Ragnar mused gravely, pondering the sorrow afflicting Joaquin's kin.
At last, Ragnar and Thomas reached the command chamber.
But nearing it, both detected irregularity. They strained to overhear the exchange within.
"Do you reckon he truly felled those four Void Wolves solo?"
"Well, is there anybody else visible alongside him?"
"...Even so, he appears awfully youthful."
"And quite attractive."
"Hurry, archive this recording for future use..."
"What if he's no human but a skinwalker in disguise?"
"Skinwalker or otherwise, this clip could fetch a fortune."
"Possibly, yet he might be a wanderer?"
A "wanderer" typically denotes a human who unwittingly ventures into a death zone via entering and emerging from a void rift.
Captivated by the chatter, Ragnar advanced with Thomas, masking their auras as they neared a colossal holographic display dominating the room's forefront.
It broadcasted drone imagery centered on a adolescent lad...
The youth lounged casually atop a beheaded Voidwolf's remains, idly toying with its vacant mana core via his blood-smeared left hand, darkened by the monster's essence. A obsidian katana stood plunged into the earth nearby.
Disheveled raven tresses and scarlet irises defined him, his ragged attire and frosty patch on his right deltoid hinting at the fresh clash.
Breezes tousled his mane while he fixed a faint grin straight at the drone's lens.
Abruptly, he brushed the drone with his right palm, jolting it and the feed.
"Hello? Is there a microphone on this gadget?"