Chapter 1
"So it all ended this way…"
Zevir Vel Ashborn murmured as he stood amidst a desolate wasteland. Before him lay mountains—no, hills—of corpses, the lifeless bodies of hundreds of thousands. The mountains themselves were shattered, the sky above dyed a deep, apocalyptic red. Every trace of life had been extinguished from the world. Nothing remained.
A figure appeared beside him, stepping silently out of the shadows.
A man with sharp eyes and jet-black hair.
"Your Majesty," the man said calmly, "the bearer of the Shard and his companions have already fled this world."
Sebastian. His most trusted aide.
"I sensed as much," Zevir replied, his voice as cold as the void. "It's amusing, isn't it? The so-called protectors of this world turned their backs and ran—leaving everyone else here to die."
He paused, eyes scanning the horizon of death.
"Well… it was a smart move. A few more borrowed days of life for them. What were their names again? The Shard bearers?"
"Arthur de Varynx," Sebastian answered. "And Marcus Blackwood."
Zevir's eyes narrowed. "Blackwood? As in the Blackwood family? The immortals?"
"Yes, my lord. But Marcus is a discarded member."
"Hmph. So even a discarded Blackwood dares to defy me…"
He turned away. "There's nothing left here. Let's go."
"What of the remaining survivors?" Sebastian asked.
"Leave them. We seek the Shard bearers, not the ashes of this world."
Sebastian gave a silent nod and vanished into a swirling black void.
Zevir took one last look at the carnage, then followed—disappearing into the same endless darkness.
End of Volume 1
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Online Comment Section
Immortal_86:
"WTF? The MC and the other lead just let their whole empire die? What the hell was that?"
Zenith_Heaven:
"Wait… Marcus is from the Blackwood family? That's actually kinda cool. Good writing, I guess."
Carefree_Reader:
"1000 chapters… and that was just Volume 1?! What the actual fuck!"
NG_the_GOAT:
"Screw you, author. I've been reading this for a year! 1000 chapters and all the MC does is play second fiddle, never fights back, never schemes—just steals opportunities and girls from other MCs. Survival's fine, but why does he always aim for second best?! So many people died because of his weak-ass mindset!"
Cr7_is_best:
"Cool, man. This is the only novel I follow lol."
——————
In a dimly lit room, Rudra sat hunched over his phone, reading the final chapter of Extra as an MC—a web novel that had taken the internet by storm. It wasn't just the story that had gained attention, but also the fact that the entire 1000-chapter saga was free to read. No paywalls. No microtransactions.
Rudra had begun reading it back in his final year of college, sometime around Chapter 100. Even after landing a job and starting his professional life, he kept following it—out of loyalty, or perhaps habit.
But if he was being honest with himself, he hated it.
The story had started strong, gripping even. A fresh take on the transmigration trope. The protagonist was reborn as an extra in a fantasy world… but that wasn't the problem. No, the issue was that even after receiving insane opportunities and cheats, the so-called MC remained second-best—always behind someone else. No ambition, no grit. Just excuses.
"Shit, man… I really wasted too much time on this crap," Rudra muttered. "I should be focusing on my presentation."
He tossed the phone aside and grabbed his laptop, trying to shake off the frustration.
Time passed quickly. By 11 PM, he had finished working, packed his bag, and eaten dinner.
He lay down, staring at the ceiling in silence, then slowly drifted off into sleep…
——————————-
Rudra slowly opened his eyes.
He had always been an early riser—up before the sun, off to the gym, prepping for the day ahead. His job didn't start until 11 AM, leaving him with ample time each morning.
But this morning… something felt wrong.
The ceiling above him wasn't his. Gone were the familiar cracks in the plaster, the dull fan spinning overhead. Instead, an ornate ceiling stretched above him—etched with intricate golden carvings, like something pulled from a royal palace.
His heart skipped a beat.
Where the hell…?
He sat up slowly, his breath catching. The bed was far too soft. The sheets too silky. The air too still.
And then—pain.
A searing, blinding pain shot through his skull like a red-hot needle being pushed through his brain. He clutched at his head, gasping, but no sound left his mouth. His vision blurred, his lungs burned. It felt as if his very soul was being rewritten.
Memories.
Not his own.
A flood of them—strange, vivid, violent—crashed through him. Names, faces, battles, kingdoms, blood. A voice that wasn't his own screamed inside his head.
And then… silence.
He collapsed back into the bed, panting, drenched in sweat. The pain faded, leaving behind only confusion—and the echoes of a life not his.
"Did I… get transmigrated?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.
The words came out before he could stop them. And the strangest part?
He wasn't panicking.
No wild screams. No flailing. Just… a cold, eerie calm settling in his chest like dust in an empty room.
A nervous chuckle escaped his lips. "Why the hell am I so calm about this?"
He threw off the covers and stumbled toward a tall, polished mirror leaning against the wall. Each step felt surreal, like walking in a dream that had no end.
And then—he saw it.
A boy. Twelve years old. Silver-white hair that shimmered like moonlight. Eyes like molten gold. Skin too flawless, features too regal. He didn't look human.
He looked like a prince.
And somehow, he was.
Memories clicked into place like puzzle pieces. He wasn't Rudra anymore.
He was Ezra Vel Celestrian—Second Prince of the Celestial Kingdom. Son of Maximus de Celestrian, the man revered as the continent's strongest sword saint. A prodigy with untold potential.
And yet… doomed.
Ezra stared at his reflection for a long moment.
"This poor kid," he whispered, voice barely audible. "He's supposed to die."
He remembered it now. The novel he'd stayed up all night reading—Extra as MC. This world. These names. These fates.
This was the very world that ended in fire and ash.
He knew what would come.
His father—killed in a losing battle against the Phoenix Order.
His brother—the valiant Crown Prince—slain in a rebellion.
Ezra himself—murdered in cold blood at the academy at just 18, his life ended before it even began.
All so a traitorous duke could rise in power.
Five years. That's all the time he had.
"Five years…" he muttered, eyes narrowing. "Five years before everything falls apart."
But not this time.
Not. This. Time.
His fists clenched at his sides. A strange warmth pulsed in his chest—not fear, not panic, but something else.
Resolve.
"I don't know who brought me here," he said softly. "I don't know if this is punishment, a joke, or fate."
He looked into his own golden eyes in the mirror—unwavering now.
"But I won't die like a footnote. I won't be an extra in someone else's story."
"I'll change everything. Surpass the chosen ones. Break the script. Save my family. And if anyone dares stand in my way…"
A flicker of cold determination passed through him.
"I'll burn them down."
And somewhere, in the threads of fate, a ripple began to form. A small disturbance, unseen by the gods who thought they controlled this world.
A new player had entered the game.
The age of Ezra Vel Celestrian… had just begun.