The Extra Can't be A Hero

Chapter 334: Dante & Damien (2)

Dante and Damien.

The twins the world had abandoned.

Decades before Amon and Leon were ever fated to walk the earth, the brothers were born in a quiet countryside town to a pair of prosperous merchants.

Their family, though lacking the deep-rooted prestige of ancient houses, had risen with remarkable speed. In just a few generations, they had clawed their way into the ranks of the local elite—wealthy, influential, and ever-present in the circles of power that governed their humble domain.

They stood on the brink of something greater.

Just one step more, and they would ascend into the echelon beneath lordship itself—the threshold where merchants ceased to be mere traders and became figures of true authority.

But that final step was not theirs to take freely.

It belonged to the Holy Church.

More precisely, to the priests who presided over the cathedral that loomed above the town like a silent arbiter of fate. In a land where development lagged and hardship endured, faith was not just belief—it was lifeblood. The townsfolk clung to it, depended on it, feared it.

And the merchants were no exception.

They paid their tithes without fail, attended every sermon with dutiful reverence, and bent themselves into careful shapes to win the favour of the clergy who held unseen power over both soul and status. Everything was aligning. Every calculated gesture, every offering, every alliance—it all pointed upward.

Until the moment the matriarch of the family was seized by labour… and the course of their fate began to unravel.

"My child… What of my child?!"

"Madam… you have given birth to an abomination."

The midwife, a nun who had long served under the guidance of the local priest, was the first to see what had been born.

What lay between the matriarch's bloodied legs was not, in her eyes, a child.

It was something grotesque, something that seemed to defy the Goddess herself.

Twins… yet not truly separate.

Two boys fused at the head, their skulls sealed unnaturally together as though the world had refused to finish shaping them. No blade could part them, no healing spell could mend them. Their limbs were incomplete, fingers missing, their heads swollen far beyond what any newborn should bear.

It was not a birth of good fortune… It was an omen of evil.

The madam saw it too.

Exhausted from hours of agonising labour, she barely had the strength to lift her gaze, but when she did, her eyes met the sight of her children… and something inside her broke. Horror overtook what little life remained in her, and with a final, trembling breath, she died upon the bed.

Her death marked the beginning of the family's fall.

Word spread quickly, as it always did in small towns. What could not be hidden became spectacle, and what became spectacle turned into judgment. The merchant family, once admired, was now whispered about in fear and disgust.

Rivals seized the opportunity, claiming the family had clawed its way to prominence through forbidden means—that this "birth" was divine punishment for their greed.

Even the priests who had once accepted their offerings now turned away. They looked upon the newborns and saw not children, but condemnation.

And so, the rot began.

Customers vanished. Trade routes dried up. Goods were left untouched, shunned by villagers who believed anything tied to the family carried a curse. Superstition spread like wildfire through the countryside, choking whatever influence the merchants once held.

Piece by piece, everything they had built collapsed.

All because of a single, ill-fated birth.

The patriarch could not endure it. To watch decades of ambition crumble into ash—to see his name dragged through mud, his legacy twisted into a cautionary tale—was more than he could bear.

So he fled.

Without a word, without a glance back, he abandoned what remained of his family and disappeared, choosing cowardice over ruin. With him gone, the last pillar shattered.

Their estate was carved apart, their wealth absorbed by opportunistic hands, their name erased from relevance as if it had never existed.

And the heirs… were left with nothing.

No home. No protection. No mercy.

The twins were cast out like refuse, thrown onto the roadside before they had even learned what it meant to live. Branded as cursed, they became objects of ridicule and revulsion.

By the age of five, they were already beggars—if they could even be called that.

No one offered them kindness. People spat on them. Mocked them. Kicked them aside like vermin. Children threw stones. Adults turned their heads away in feigned righteousness.

And yet… none of them delivered the final blow.

Not out of compassion. But out of doctrine.

The people still clung to the Hyades faith, reciting its teachings with hollow devotion. They would not kill, for that was a sin. And so, they chose something far crueller—they let the twins suffer.

They let them live. If it could even be called living. Hunted for sport. Cursed at every glance. Fed nothing but scraps and wastewater.

Even the Holy Church, which preached charity and mercy, ignored them completely—hoping, perhaps, that nature would do what they would not, and leave their bodies rotting in a ditch.

By the time the twins turned eight, they were little more than shadows of life.

Disease clung to them. Hunger hollowed them. Their bodies, already fragile, had no strength left to endure. Each breath was shallow, each movement a struggle. Death loomed over them, patient and inevitable.

They were not meant to see another day.

And so, as the end crept closer, something within them twisted.

They did not pray. They cursed.

Why were they born into such suffering? Why were they forced to endure a fate they never chose? Why… had the world abandoned them?

No answer came. No voice responded.

But by then, it no longer mattered. With what little strength they had left, the twins made a vow—not to the Goddess, not to the Church, but to the void that had watched them suffer in silence.

They would have vengeance.

On the people who mocked them. On the family that discarded them. On the world that had deemed them unworthy of existence. They did not know how. They did not know when. But they wished for it with everything they had left.

And that wish… was heard.

"Children… Would you like to have revenge?"

The Prophet found the twins, in all their nascent glory, and offered them a deal they couldn't refuse. Even if they were going to sell their soul to the devil, they were going to have their revenge. And well… the twins were born anew.

Not as conjoined twins who were spat and shunned… but as the Demonic Humans...

Dante and Damien.

Demonic mana poured through their fused form, thick and suffocating, warping the air around them as if reality itself recoiled from their existence. Their frail, dying bodies were reborn into vessels of wrath, sustained not by life, but by hatred.

The first to fall was their own blood.

They returned to the remnants of the family that had cast them aside—the aunts and uncles who had looked upon them with disgust, who had chosen reputation over kin, who had thrown them into the streets to rot.

There were no words, no hesitation. Only screams.

One by one, the household was erased, their lineage severed as mercilessly as they had once severed the twins from their name.

Then came the town.

Every face that had mocked them. Every hand that had struck them. Every voice that had laughed as they starved. None were spared. Those who had kicked them were crushed. Those who had spat on them choked on their own blood. Those who had hunted them for sport became prey themselves, dragged screaming into a terror far worse than anything they had inflicted.

The streets that once rejected the twins ran red, and the air filled with the echoes of regret that came far too late.

At the heart of it all stood the cathedral. The symbol of faith. The origin of judgment. The place where their fate had first been condemned.

They tore through its sacred halls without resistance.

The priests who had once turned their backs now fell to their knees in desperate prayer—but no salvation came. The nun who had delivered them, the first to call them abominations, was dragged before the altar she once served.

And there, her body and soul were twisted, corrupted into something unrecognisable—a living testament to the very "demon" she had claimed them to be.

The cathedral burned.

And with it, so did faith.

From there, the twins turned to the merchants who had helped dismantle their family's legacy.

Doors were shattered. Vaults were emptied. Empires built on opportunism were reduced to ash. Fire spread without mercy, devouring home after home until the entire town was swallowed in a blazing inferno.

By the time the flames died, nothing remained.

Nothing… except one final thread.

Their father.

The man who had abandoned them at the height of their suffering.

It did not take long to find him—not when their hatred burned as brightly as it did.

And what they found only deepened the abyss within them.

He was… happy.

Living under a different name, in a different place, he had built a new life. A new wife. A new child. A thriving business.

Laughter filled his home—laughter that the twins had never known, warmth that had never been given to them.

While they had starved… he had prospered.

While they had suffered… he had forgotten.

There was no hesitation. They slaughtered his new family before his eyes, ensuring that he felt every ounce of despair they had once endured. They burned his home, his business, his fragile illusion of peace.

And when there was nothing left—when his world had been reduced to the same emptiness he had forced upon them—they turned their gaze to him.

In that moment, whatever remained of their humanity shattered.

They killed him. Not swiftly. Not mercifully. But completely.

Patricide was not the end of their fall—it was its culmination.

The final thread that bound them to who they once were snapped, leaving behind only vengeance given form.

And yet… When the blood dried, and the flames faded… It wasn't enough.

The town was gone. Their family was gone. Every soul that had wronged them was gone. But the hollow within them remained.

Because their suffering had never belonged to just a town… or a family… or a single man.

It belonged to something far greater.

Something that had watched, and judged, and abandoned them from the very beginning. And so, the twins turned their hatred outward—beyond the ashes, beyond the ruins, beyond everything they had destroyed. Toward the true source of their pain.

The world.

Or more precisely… Humanity.

And henceforth… the Twin Brutes morphed into chaos incarnate. A force that was sworn to burn humanity to the ground… the Apostles of Vengeance.