The Extra Can't be A Hero

Chapter 286: Demon Prince Vol’giman (4)

With Amon's true self awakened, his power surged beyond any familiar threshold. It did not merely increase—it ascended.

The Nine Moons blazed with transcendental radiance, their cold light no longer purely mystical but tinged with unmistakable divinity.

Moonlight thickened, carrying weight and authority, as if the heavens themselves were acknowledging his existence.

At the same time, Amon's soul began to evolve. The invisible ceiling that had bound every human before him wavered, its edges fracturing as the distinction between mortal and immortal blurred into irrelevance. For the first time, a human stood in a place that had never been meant for humanity.

Amon raised Nyx, its obsidian surface drowned in deep silver radiance, while his pupils turned completely metallic, reflecting nothing but moonlight.

He swung the blade with almost insulting leisure—like a master demonstrating a basic form to an apprentice.

And yet, from that gentle arc came annihilation.

A blinding silver void erupted, tearing through Vol'giman's false sun, splitting the heavens, and erasing everything in its path. This was no energy slash. There was no explosion, no lingering heat. There was only emptiness.

If Vol'giman's sun was raw energy, then Amon's moon was the void that devoured it. Nothingness clashed with power—and in a domain where the moon reigned supreme, there was no ambiguity in the outcome.

The Demon Prince was forced to evade.

Had he failed, his incarnation would have been erased from existence entirely. That single act of retreat made Vol'giman roar, equal parts fury and humiliation. Vol'giman wouldn't actually perish if that strike hit him. His actual body and soul remained anchored safely within the Demon Realm.

This form was nothing more than an incarnation, perhaps less than ten percent of his whole existence, forcibly sustained in a world that actively rejected him.

Even now, the planet groaned under his presence, its laws pushing back against the foreign god. And Amon stood at its centre.

An executioner shaped by the world itself—one who punished invaders and defended the land that had birthed him.

That truth only enraged Vol'giman further.

Someone of his stature should have crushed Amon long ago.

And yet… the fact that he could not only survive, but also force him back?

That was exhilarating.

Laughing with unrestrained delight, Vol'giman unleashed a shockwave that obliterated the Moonlight Sanctum. Pillars of silver light shattered as magma erupted from the fractured land, flames and molten rock surging skyward. Even against Amon's newly awakened divinity, the Demon Prince's power remained overwhelming.

No, especially against divinity.

Demon Prince Vol'giman was the son of Autarch Zur'guth the Conqueror—a being who ruled through sheer dominance, who crushed entire realms beneath his will.

Amon, by contrast, was a guardian, a defender chosen by the world itself.

Their natures were opposed, and their powers reflected that fundamental truth.

Vol'giman moved to reclaim the advantage.

Fire coiled around his fists as he launched a blazing punch toward Amon. He barely avoided it.

The passing flames made his stomach churn, saturated with demonic energy so dense it rivalled the primordial source from which all demons were born. But Amon couldn't get a single moment to rest.

Vol'giman pressed the assault relentlessly, forcing Amon into a desperate dance of evasion and parries. They clashed high above the land, each exchange tearing open the sky, every missed blow capable of cleaving mountains or rupturing the firmament itself.

Minutes passed. Then something became clear.

Vol'giman's strikes were losing weight—not from exhaustion, but from deprivation.

The atmosphere simply lacked the demonic energy required to sustain a Demon Prince's incarnation. The summoning itself had been rushed, incomplete. Isadora had forced his descent in arrogance, believing no one could oppose him.

Even the thousands of souls she offered were insufficient. The planet had never been prepared to host a being of his calibre. In this, the Prophet's restraint was prudent.

Even a Demon Prince could only remain for moments before rejection set in. Vol'giman glanced at his destabilising form and spat in disgust.

To be expelled by circumstance rather than defeated by an enemy—after finally finding a worthy opponent—was intolerable. It had been aeons since he'd tasted a battle like this. And he refused to let it end so pathetically.

[Inferior creature! Come and show me your best! Don't hold back!]

Vol'giman unleashed every remaining fragment of his power, tearing open a fracture in the fabric of reality itself. Flames erupted from his chest as countless crimson magic circles—billions upon billions—layered over one another, encasing the Demon Prince in a shifting lattice of destruction.

Behind him, a false sun reignited, grotesquely swollen and unstable, fed directly by the disintegration of his own incarnation.

The world warped in response.

Gravity twisted into violent spirals. Space folded inward as though attempting to flee his presence. Even time seemed to falter, hesitating under the unbearable pressure he exerted upon existence.

Flames beyond Amon's comprehension wreathed Vol'giman's form—fire so dense with demonic authority that it no longer behaved like heat, but like a substance with will and hunger.

Demonic energy poured from his veins in such volume that the world itself seemed to hold its breath. The planet's laws reacted in panic.

Invisible yet absolute, they converged upon Vol'giman, tightening like shackles forged from reality itself, desperately attempting to reject the intruder before he could tear the realm apart.

The land groaned, the sky cracked, and the air screamed as the world fought to expel him. But it was already too late.

[Screw off!]

For a fleeting instant, the Demon Prince succeeded in overwriting reality itself, recreating a fragment of the Demon Realm within the confines of this world.

It was a violation of cosmic law, an act that ran counter to the universe's immutable principles.

Such a feat should have been impossible. And yet, Vol'giman forced it into existence. The air curdled as alien laws asserted themselves, demonic authority briefly supplanting the natural order. The world screamed in rejection, its foundations shuddering as reality strained to correct the intrusion.

The vision lasted less than a heartbeat.

But it was enough.

In that infinitesimal window—where this realm was no longer itself—Vol'giman gathered everything he had left and unleashed his final blow.

[Inferior creature! Take my strike!]

The false sun descended like a vengeful god, its approach carrying the weight of absolute judgment. Space and gravity warped violently beneath its mass, bending inward as though reality itself sought to escape.

Even standing at its periphery, it felt as though Amon would be swallowed whole… erased before the strike ever landed.

For the first time, Yue's confidence wavered. Her stomach churned, teeth clenched tight as instinct screamed at her to intervene.

Not even she could survive such an attack.

Yet she did nothing.

She could do nothing.

She had to trust Amon.

As for him, Amon did not avert his gaze. He stared directly into the descending sun, and the wrath etched into his features faded into utter stillness. His mind sharpened, every fragment of focus pivoting toward the Nine Moons and the divinity now rooted within him.

Silver authority descended like a verdict. There wasn't any panic or doubt.

Only clarity.

Amon stepped forward, Nyx hanging loosely at his side, moonlight flowing from him not as power—but as law. Behind him, the lunar goddess lifted her head at last. Tears slipped from her eyes, each one crystallising into starlight before dissolving into nothingness.

Power surged from Amon's core as he released everything… too much in fact. His newly ascended body screamed in protest. Muscles tore. Bones cracked. Blood burst from his eyes, ears, and mouth as divine pressure ravaged his flesh from within.

But Amon endured.

The silver slash that manifested was not an attack—it was a conclusion.

It embodied the void, the stillness of annihilation, and the final embers left behind at the end of creation itself.

When the false sun reached Amon… It stopped. No—it ceased.

There was no explosion. No shockwave. No lingering heat.

Moonlight swallowed the detonation whole, void consuming energy without resistance or delay. The laws of annihilation unfolded with flawless precision, as if the outcome had been decided long before this moment ever arrived.

[Lunar Blade].

The blade that passed judgement on those who dared to trespass upon his land.

A silent crescent of silver void severed Vol'giman's incarnation from causality itself. Flames vanished, his runes unravelled, and his body was fading out of existence.

And yet… Vol'giman did not scream. He did not beg. He did not falter.

Instead, a grotesque smile stretched across his fading visage—like a predator who had finally found worthy prey. With his demonic voice, low and venomous, he muttered:

[This isn't the end, inferior human… We shall meet again.]

Vol'giman's voice lingered as the last echo of the Demon Realm before it was finally silenced. Then the world exhaled.

The sky steadied, its wounds sealing as unnatural hues faded back into familiar blue. The suffocating demonic energy that had threatened to poison the land was purged, lifted away as if it had never been. And most importantly—Solfea lived.

Amon's treasured hometown remained standing, spared from annihilation.

Only then did Amon allow himself to let go. He lifted his gaze toward the calm sky, and the strength holding his shattered body together finally unraveled.

Exhaustion struck like a collapsing mountain. His knees hit the ground as his vision blurred, consciousness flickering in broken intervals. Blood dripped from his wounds, his divine radiance dimming to a faint, fragile glow.

At last, darkness claimed him.

The newly ascended divine fell forward into unconsciousness—his duty fulfilled, his world protected—finally granted a rest he had more than earned.