The Extra Who Shouldn't Exist novel Chapter 355

Chapter 355: Chapter 355 : A Bet in the midst of a battlefield.

As Morag’s axe came down toward Reynard, time seemed to slow.

The air thickened.

Then, without warning, black fire erupted across the battlefield.

It swallowed the world in an instant.

Flames of midnight roared outward, devouring frost, swallowing the giants’ cold, turning glaciers into steam. The ground trembled as the frozen landscape melted in jagged chunks, water hissing beneath the unnatural heat.

Morag’s eyes narrowed.

He jerked his axe back, instinct forcing him to retreat a step as the inferno washed over where Reynard knelt.

A single word echoed through the battlefield.

"Veytharion."

The sky tore open.

A portal split reality itself—a vertical wound of writhing darkness rimmed in pale violet light. From within it, something vast slithered forward.

A six‑eyed serpent–dragon hybrid emerged, scales as black as the void, each eye burning with eerie, ancient light. Its long body coiled through the air, teeth bared as it rose above the Frost Giants, hissing down at them like a nightmare given form.

The giants braced, frost forming instinctively over their limbs.

From within the black flames, a figure walked toward Reynard.

Alden von Crestvale.

He stepped through the dying embers, coat singed at the edges, eyes hard. He came to a stop beside his father and let out a slow breath.

"Looks like I made it in time before my old man croaked," he said.

Reynard blinked, stunned.

Then he actually smiled. "Did Alex come with you...?"

Alden’s mood soured. "And why would he be here?"

The smile vanished from Reynard’s face.

He smacked Alden on the back of the head.

"You idiot of a son," Reynard snapped. "What are you doing here? You can’t defeat him. If that silver‑haired boy were here, it’d be a different story. But you? You’ll die like an ant. Even I can’t defeat him. Can’t you see he’s far stronger?"

Alden yelled back, "That’s the problem with you—you never trust me!"

Morag watched them with faint amusement.

"Let them talk," he rumbled to his kin. "He is his son. Let them have their last words."

Reynard exhaled, then looked Alden straight in the eyes. "Tell me honestly. Can you defeat him?"

Alden glanced at Morag.

’I’ll die for sure,’ he thought.

Reynard’s shoulders drooped. "I knew it. You came here without a plan."

He tightened his grip on his sword again, stepping forward. "I’ll occupy him. You escape. Your mother won’t be able to bear it if both of us die here today."

Alden suddenly smiled.

"That’s what I mean when I say you underestimate me," he said. "I do have a plan."

Reynard’s eyes narrowed. "...Go on."

The sky ignited.

A massive phoenix materialized above them, wings spanning hundreds of meters, feathers blazing with holy fire. Upon its back stood Ethan Williams, aura flaring as he raised his hand.

In the air around him, spears of light formed—dozens, then hundreds.

They shot down toward the Frost Giants like a storm of radiant meteors. The attacks stabbed into giant torsos and arms, sizzling against ancient frost. The damage was shallow—but it was damage.

Morag smiled faintly. "Is that all, boy? Looks like you really are an idiot—just as your father said."

Alden’s mouth twitched. "Who said that was all?"

The ground split.

A massive army of the dead began to claw its way out of the earth—skeletal hands, rotted flesh, armored bones dragging rusted weapons behind them. Undead dragons unfurled tattered wings and lifted into the sky.

Lycans with exposed bones snarled. Goblins, ogres, human knights, beasts of every kind—all stripped of life, bound by will—rose in endless ranks.

Azrael stepped onto the battlefield.

His presence alone sent a chill through the Frost Giants that had nothing to do with cold. For the first time, their expressions changed—concern, perhaps even fear, flickering in their eyes.

Azrael’s gaze met Morag’s.

Morag’s lips curled. "Found you, demon."

Veytharion roared, black flames surging alongside the undead tide as the army of the dead and the Frost Giants clashed.

The collision was apocalyptic.

The first of the Frost Giants swung their colossal arms, smashing through ranks of undead, sending bones and rotting flesh flying. But the dead did not scream. They simply reformed, pulled back together by necrotic magic, or were replaced by more corpses rising from the shattered ground.

Undead dragons slammed into Frost Giants mid‑stride, jaws clamping onto icy shoulders. Giants responded by ripping them apart with their bare hands—but even as undead bodies were shattered, more rose beneath their feet.

Lycans leapt onto giant limbs, clawing at joints. Goblin and orcish undead swarmed ankles and knees, hacking relentlessly. Human knights in broken armor drove rusted lances into the same weak points again and again.

The Frost Giants were strong—every step could annihilate squads of living soldiers.

But the dead refused to stay dead.

For the first time, the Frost Giant line was pushed back.

Chunks of icy armor shattered. Joints cracked. Some giants went down under sheer weight of numbers, their bodies dragged and torn apart by swarming undead.

The battlefield became a hellscape of frost and corpse‑fire.

On the other front, Azrael, Alden, and Ethan now stood facing Morag himself.

Morag had not moved from his original spot. Any undead that approached him were obliterated by a casual swing of his axe or frozen mid‑air, locked in time and ice.

He looked directly at Azrael.

"So you’re the demon necromancer," Morag said. "The one whose interference ruined our invasions again and again."

Azrael’s cold gaze did not waver. "So what if I am?"

Morag smirked. "You’re my ticket to feeding my people—and to taking back my planet from that accursed Dragon King Zarvok. So you will have to die."

Azrael tilted his head. "Then come. No need to waste your breath."

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