Path Of The Extra Chapter 162

Vincent narrowed his eyes, his gaze fixed on Azriel, who sat upon the ice throne like a monarch surveying his domain.

The moment Azriel spoke, a palpable tension filled the arena. The expressions of the three Horsemen shifted, their faces hardening with a cold, steely resolve. The temperature in the Colosseum seemed to drop further as their disdainful gazes bore into him.

Vincent’s voice carried an edge of irritation as he muttered, his eyes never leaving Azriel.

“Subject 666 finally decides to speak… and makes enemies of them all. What an idiot. Why does he always have to act out in the most

infuriatingly

bizarre ways?”

Arthur, standing beside him, scoffed, his smirk laced with amusement.

“It’s exactly how I trained him to be.”

Vincent turned to Arthur, his expression darkening.

“What do you mean by that?”

Arthur’s smirk widened.

“I told you before—666 isn’t like the others. I trained him personally, broke him down, and rebuilt him. He adapts faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. Still just a kid, but those fractured roots in his mind… I nurtured them, let them grow wild. He’s the kind of creature that keeps others in check and… fulfills his own desires whenever possible. Selfish to the core.”

Vincent’s frown deepened.

“What desires?”

Arthur’s smirk faded as his gaze turned cold and calculating.

“You know emotions are like a drug to us. Too much, and we become addicts. 666… he’s long since crossed that line. There’s no saving him now, not that he’d want saving. What he desires currently… is satisfaction.”

“Satisfaction?”

Arthur nodded slowly, his eyes flicking back to Azriel below.

“Yes. Right now, in this battle, what 666 desires more than anything is a victory that will satisfy him—something to fill the void, even if only for a fleeting moment. Something to feed his addiction.”

Vincent sighed, his gaze returning to Azriel.

“That doesn’t mean he isn’t stupid.”

Arthur chuckled darkly.

“Never said he wasn’t. I’m just saying he doesn’t see the world like we do. As long as he stands victorious in the end… nothing else matters.”

Vincent’s expression softened slightly.

“…He has my respect, though.”

Arthur blinked, surprised.

“Respect?”

“No matter how much I… punished him, he never broke. Even knowing his actions are reckless, he still walks his chosen path without hesitation. It’s stupid, but there’s a strange honour in it.”

Arthur’s lips curled into a rare, genuine smile.

“For once, we agree on something.”

“Indeed.”

Their conversation paused as they turned their attention back to the arena. The three Horsemen remained still, their eyes locked on Azriel, waiting for his move.

Vincent broke the silence.

“Have you uncovered anything about his past? Any clues?”

Arthur’s expression darkened for a moment. The truth was, he had his suspicions. Spending so much time with Azriel had given him fragments of a larger picture—enough to form a hypothesis.

The answer had been there all along, in his soul weapon, in his blood-red eyes. Yet no one dared to piece it together.

‘If they find out… he’s dead. I can’t let that happen. Not yet.’

Arthur shook his head, feigning ignorance.

“Nothing. Likely born in some uncharted outskirts, his existence erased from every record.”

Vincent nodded, seemingly satisfied. Arthur exhaled silently in relief.

Then, a sound like crackling thunder filled the arena. All eyes snapped to Azriel.

Seated on his throne, his long hair began to float, revealing his scarred face and those crimson eyes—beautiful and deadly. Red lightning sparked around him, crackling with raw power.

The three Horsemen tensed, their bodies coiling like springs. They had already decided: Azriel would be their target. This arrogant child needed to be taught his place.

Azriel’s voice, low and amused, echoed through the Colosseum.

“You’re right, Iron King. I am arrogant—a fool with a massive ego. But even with all your bravado, you still can’t defeat me. A kid

.

Just like back then. The only difference is…”

The Horsemen blinked, and in that instant, Azriel disappeared.

“”!!””

When he reappeared, he stood before War, his blood-red eyes gleaming with malice.

“…this time, I win.”

Chains of ice erupted from the ground, ensnaring the Horsemen before they could react. Azriel leaned forward, his face inches from War’s, his voice colder than death itself.

“I take it back. Impaling you is too… uninspired.”

A mist of white frost swirled in Azriel’s palm as he placed his hand on War’s metal face.

“ARGH!”

War’s agonized scream ripped through the Colosseum as frost spread across his iron flesh, freezing him.

The other Horsemen struggled, shattering their icy restraints, but they did not move to help him.

Azriel stepped back, a gleeful grin on his face.

“Would you look at that? Even someone a grade above me isn’t immune. How… satisfying.”

A spell he had crafted specifically for the Iron King himself.

Conquest’s voice rang out, soft but sharp.

“Death… why are you being so cruel?”

Azriel’s grin vanished, replaced by an icy glare.

“Cruel? The hypocrisy from you. Pain is fine when you inflict it, but when it’s directed at you, it’s ‘cruel’? Spare me your sanctimony.”

The air around Azriel shifted as a dark, oppressive aura spilled forth—an invisible force that made every subject shiver.

Vincent turned to Arthur, his voice tense.

“You… How did he learn to release his aura? That’s supposed to be impossible before becoming a Master.”

Arthur’s smirk returned.

“Who told you that nonsense? Anyone can release their aura—it’s just far more difficult before becoming a master. But difficulty isn’t a barrier.”

Vincent’s eyes narrowed.

“You’ve kept this a secret. Why?”

Arthur only chuckled.

“I didn’t feel like sharing.”

“….”

“Now, now, little ones,” Famine said with a sly grin.

“I understand the two of you are… emotional. We’ve never fought under such circumstances before, so perhaps we should try to calm down?”

Both Conquest and Azriel turned to him, their gazes sharp. For reasons he couldn’t pinpoint, a shiver ran down Famine’s spine.

“Since when did you stop being suicidal?

Conquest nodded toward Azriel.

“Yes, I agree with Death. Death, grant him death! His eyes are already closed—perfect for the occasion!”

Famine clicked his tongue, irritation flickering in his features.

“I refuse to die as some… spectacle. None of you will be granting me any death today.”

“You fucking brat!”

War’s low growl cut through the tension, snapping everyone’s attention to him.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, blood dripping from his face. The frost Azriel had inflicted was gone—but at a cost. The frozen flesh had been torn off, leaving raw, bloody wounds.

Azriel’s grin widened.

“Careful, 431. You’re starting to look a lot like me. Should I help you complete the resemblance?”

“You—”

War’s enraged snarl abruptly died on his lips. His face, twisted with anger a moment ago, shifted into something colder, eerier—a blank, unfeeling mask.

The sudden change rippled across the other horsemen. Conquest and Famine, too, stiffened, their expressions transforming into an identical, unsettling detachment.

Azriel’s grin faltered as his aura dissipated, his hair falling back into place.

“This… presence…”

Arthur’s face turned ashen, his usual demeanor evaporating. Vincent’s expression grew darker than the stormy skies outside.

“A—” Vincent began, but his words were abruptly silenced.

A voice, clear and melodic, rang out across the coliseum. Its gentle tone carried a disarming innocence, freezing every heart in the colosseum.

“Papa, why are there people fighting here?”