The Extra Can't be A Hero

Chapter 291 291: The Return of the Titans (2)

The return of the Titans did not send the world into immediate panic.

That, in itself, was an anomaly.

Had they risen at the peak of their strength, continents would have trembled, oceans would have recoiled, and even the skies would have bent beneath their presence. Yet the Titans had awakened sluggishly, their colossal forms still shackled by the lethargy of millennia-long slumber.

Their minds were clouded, their instincts dulled, their dominion over the laws they once embodied fractured and incomplete.

For now, they lingered in a state of half-conscious rebirth, reacquainting themselves with reality.

It would take weeks, perhaps months, before they fully understood the era they had awoken into. Before they realised that primordial beings or ancient divines no longer ruled the world, but by fragile, short-lived creatures who called themselves humans.

Only then would their wrath truly descend.

And when it did, the consequences would be cataclysmic.

Though few in number, each Titan possessed power that eclipsed even legends.

The Solaris Lord, whose name alone once made armies kneel, would be crushed beneath their heel. The Sword Saint, hailed as the pinnacle of martial humanity, would be little more than an inconvenience.

Only Amon could truly stand against them. Yue, with her unfathomable grasp of law and divinity, might hold her own.

The newer divines, Aluria with her dominion over the oceans, or Yval with her newly ascended draconic powers, could match them.

But humanity as a whole?

Humanity was not ready.

And yet, for all their looming dread, the Titans were not the crisis that consumed the world's attention. Because the present burned hotter than the future.

The Demon Empire, silent for a long time, had finally torn away its veil.

Like rot beneath a pristine surface, it surged outward with violent intent. Cultists emerged in droves from every corner of civilisation—priests, nobles, scholars, farmers—anyone desperate enough to cling to the false promise of survival.

Demons poured into the world by the thousands, slipping through fractured barriers and corrupted summoning arrays.

They did not conquer through grand battles alone.

They infested cities like parasites, feasting upon the weak, the poor, and the forgotten.

Entire districts vanished overnight, reduced to blood-soaked ruins before dawn could arrive.

The Hyades Republic mobilised swiftly. Its ranks boasted elite Knights whose bodies had been tempered through decades of war, and Magicians whose mastery of the arcane rivalled natural disasters.

On paper, they possessed the strength to repel the invasion.

Reality, however, was merciless.

The Demon Empire did not strike in one place… it struck everywhere.

The Republic found itself fighting a wildfire that fed upon chaos.

Every battle extinguished only one flame while a dozen more ignited elsewhere. Supply lines snapped. Reinforcements arrived too late. Victories felt hollow when measured against the losses. Strategic necessity forced the Republic's hand.

To cut their losses, the Hyades Republic focused on protecting strategic points. Major cities, business hubs, checkpoints, mana crystal mines… And so, countless villages were abandoned—not out of malice, but inevitability.

Entire communities vanished from maps and memory alike.

For many, joining the Demon Empire was not an act of devotion or ambition. It was a surrender. A bargain struck in fear. Kneel, or be devoured. Serve, or watch your family die screaming.

They prayed to Hyades for salvation.

But the Holy Church did not come. No, it was not that they refused. They could not.

A divine revelation had descended upon the Pope, a command delivered through sacred channels that allowed no dissent.

The Goddess had spoken.

Hyarum was to be defended at all costs.

The Church's full strength was to remain there, bracing for a demon invasion that had yet to arrive. The faithful were told it was divine foresight. The desperate called it abandonment. As cities burned beyond Hyarum's walls, resentment festered.

Faith eroded.

People whispered that the Goddess was either blind or cruel—or worse, false. Tithes dwindled. Churches stood empty. Statues were defaced beneath the cover of night. And at the centre of this unravelling storm stood the Saintess… Ellahan.

She had been an ordinary, pious girl once.

Kind, gentle, devout.

The sort who prayed not for blessings, but for others' safety.

Becoming the Saintess had never been her ambition. It had been a decree—absolute and irrevocable. She had accepted it because she believed she could help people.

Now, she was no longer sure.

Ellahan wanted nothing more than a quiet life with the man she loved, Leon.

To wake beside him without ceremony. To laugh without obligation. To exist without the crushing weight of divine expectation.

Instead, the Goddess's will had twisted her dreams into something distant and unreachable.

Ellahan had always been different from the clergy that surrounded her. Where bishops debated doctrine, she listened to cries. Where priests weighed risk against reward, she stepped forward without hesitation. She walked into the slums without escorts. Healed the diseased. Fed the starving. Even during missions with Eldorin, she placed herself in danger again and again, despite being a healer whose life was considered invaluable.

She embodied the Saintess the people believed in.

Which was precisely why the Goddess's revelation tore her apart.

"Leon," she said softly, nestled in his arms, "I'm returning to Solfea with you."

Her words were not tentative. They were resolute.

Ever since Amon had granted Eldorin leave, Leon and Ellahan had been resting in Hyarum.

It was a city of memories—childhood laughter, old friends, fragments of simpler days.

Leon had only felt compelled to leave when news of the Demon Prince's appearance in Solfea reached him.

Ellahan remembered his expression then. The fear he tried to hide. The tension in his shoulders. Amon had driven the Demon Prince back, and Solfea was recovering. Leon's presence would have changed nothing.

And so Amon ordered him to stay.

But Leon had never been good at remaining still.

"Are you sure?" Leon asked quietly. "The Goddess ordered all forces to remain in Hyarum. I can ignore it—I wield the Holy Sword, but I'm still a Solaris. The Church can't touch me. But you…"

Ellahan lifted her gaze, emerald eyes burning.

"Am I really the Saintess?" she asked. "Or am I just a decoration they hang on the wall to make people feel safe?"

"...Ella."

Had anyone else heard those words, her fate would have been sealed. But within the privacy of her chambers, truth had room to breathe.

"Leon," she continued, "what is my duty? To serve the Goddess unquestioningly? Or to save people who are dying while I kneel behind sacred walls?"

Leon had no answer. He had never been deeply devout. Standing beside Amon—an existence that defied all logic—had warped his perception of divinity. Even the Solaris Founder and Saint, whose souls dwelled within the Holy Sword, called Amon an anomaly.

And when Leon's mother ascended as the Ocean Goddess, doubt took root.

"I want to help people," Ellahan said. "I won't be caged in Hyarum while the world burns. And how could I stay here… when you're walking straight into danger?"

Moonlight spilt through the window, illuminating her emerald hair.

For a fleeting moment, Leon thought she looked more divine than any Goddess he had ever seen.

"Ella," he said softly, "if this is your choice… I won't stop you." He never intended to.

"If that's the case," Ellahan smiled faintly, "shall we do something fun?"

"Fun?" Leon blinked.

"What do you mean?"

"I've always been jealous of Amon and Yue," she admitted. "They're called the Fantasy Couple for a reason. So… let's borrow a page from their book."

Leon froze.

"Huh?"

And so, quietly—without blessing or permission—the story of the Hero and the Saintess turned a forbidden page.

For the first time in history…

The next morning came with an ominous stillness.

Sunlight filtered gently through the stained-glass windows of the Saintess's residence, painting the immaculate halls in hues of gold and ivory. It should have been a sacred hour, one where hymns echoed softly through marble corridors and the Saintess rose to prepare for her morning rites.

But something was wrong.

When the maidservants arrived at Ellahan's chambers to wake her for her duties, they were met not by the familiar warmth of her presence but by silence.

The bed was untouched. The curtains were drawn open, as though someone had deliberately allowed the morning light to pour in, yet there was no sign of Ellahan anywhere in the room.

No discarded garments. No hurried mess. Everything was neatly arranged, almost reverent—too orderly for an accident.

At the centre of the bed lay a single letter.

Its envelope bore Ellahan's name, written in her elegant, unmistakable hand. The maidservants froze. For several heartbeats, none of them dared to move. Then one of them finally gathered the courage to pick up the letter, her fingers trembling as if she were holding a cursed relic.

Realising the gravity of what they had found, she immediately summoned the upper clergy.

Within minutes, the chamber filled with hurried footsteps and strained whispers.

Archbishop Ignatius Araquiel arrived first. Ellahan's grandfather, one of the most powerful figures in the Holy Church. As his eyes fell upon the empty bed, his steps faltered.

The Captain of the Paladins, Sir Arthur Pagiel, followed closely behind him. Clad in his white-and-gold armour even at this early hour, the veteran warrior took in the scene with a soldier's instinct—his gaze sweeping the room for signs of intrusion, violence, or struggle.

There were none. Only the letter remained. Ignatius reached for it with a hand that betrayed a faint tremor. He broke the seal and began to read. With every line, the colour drained from his face. By the time he reached the end, the Archbishop's dignified composure had shattered.

His face flushed red, veins standing out along his temples as disbelief and fury warred within him.

"This… this is impossible," he muttered, clutching the parchment as if it might dissolve. "She wouldn't… she couldn't…"

Sir Arthur leaned over and read the contents himself. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, unexpectedly, a rough, incredulous laugh escaped his lips.

"…She actually did it," he said, shaking his head slowly. "Now I really have seen everything."

For the first time in generations, the Holy Church had lost its Saintess.

"Leon and I are eloping. Please don't look for me. Signed, Ellahan Araquiel, the Saintess."