The Cursed Extra: Bloodline of Sacrifice

The room was silent.

Zareth stood in the center.

Jaxar groaned, rolling onto his side, blood pooling from his mouth. Eirak lay against the wall.

Then—

More footsteps.

The already tense atmosphere grew heavier as three figures entered the room.

Upperclassmen.

Caspian narrowed his eyes. He didn't recognize anyone of them, but judging from the way he casually walked past him and stopped beside Zareth—they were friends.

Zareth must have called them.

And then, without another word—

They moved—

The room exploded into violence once more.

The second-years barely had time to react before the third-years descended upon them like predators.

One of them dodged a panicked punch from a second-year, stepping in and slamming his knee into the guy's stomach.

Another third-year grabbed a student by the back of his head and smashed his face into the wooden crates. Blood splattered across the floor.

The red-haired one—didn't even waste time. He stepped forward and delivered a single devastating punch to a second-year's jaw. The poor bastard spun in the air before crumpling to the ground, unconscious.

The power gap was clear.

The second-years who had been so smug just minutes ago were now the ones groaning in pain, barely able to move.

The only ones still standing were Eirak and Jaxar.

Then Lior walked past them without a glance and knelt beside the bound, naked boy. His hands worked swiftly, untying the knots.

The boy—his younger brother—looked up at him, eyes red and swollen from crying.

Lior placed a hand on his head, ruffling his hair. "Come on. We're leaving."

The younger boy sniffled but nodded, clutching onto Lior's sleeve as they walked toward the exit.

Eirak's eyes twitched.

"The fuck is this…?" He wiped the blood from his mouth, "You third-years… helping a first-year loser bastard?"

But before he could say another word—

CRACK.

A sharp pain exploded across his face as Caspian's fist slammed into his jaw.

Teeth broke. Blood splattered.

Eirak's body twisted mid-air before he collapsed to the floor, gasping.

Eirak struggled to sit up, his face swelling from the impact of Caspian's punch. His fingers trembled as they pressed against his jaw.

"You… You little fucking—"

THUD.

Another punch.

Eirak's head snapped back. Blood splattered across the ground.

Caspian stood over him, crimson eyes devoid of hesitation. His knuckles throbbed from the repeated impact, but he didn't stop.

He wouldn't stop.

For years, he had endured. For years, he had suffered under these hands.

And now?

It was his turn.

He grabbed Eirak by the collar, lifting him slightly off the ground.

The weight wasn't much—he had always thought of Eirak as this looming figure in his nightmares, but now? Now he felt small. Pathetic.

Eirak tried to throw a weak punch, but Caspian caught his wrist midair and twisted it—

SNAP.

A scream tore from Eirak's throat as the bones in his wrist cracked.

"Y-You fucking bastard! I'll kill y—"

CRACK!

Caspian slammed his knee into Eirak's ribs.

A choked gasp escaped his lips as his body convulsed from the blow.

His ribs had definitely cracked—maybe even broke.

Caspian grip tightened on Eirak's collar, dragging him up slightly.

"What's wrong?" Caspian whispered, "You were so talkative before."

Eirak coughed, spitting a mouthful of blood onto Caspian's cheek.

Caspian didn't even flinch.

Instead, he wiped the blood off his face with the back of his hand and—

BAM!

Another punch. This time to the temple.

Eirak's body went limp for a second, his head swaying like a broken doll.

Jaxar, who had been dazed from Zareth's earlier attack, finally seemed to realize what was happening.

His eyes widened in horror as Caspian continued the assault.

"No—Wait—!" Jaxar started, but—

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Fist after fist rained down on Eirak.

Caspian's mind felt blank. His body moved on its own.

With each punch, he felt something in his chest unravel—like a chain that had been wrapped around him for years was finally breaking.

Was this what revenge felt like?

Was this what it meant to stop running?

Eirak's body slumped.

His arms twitched weakly, barely able to defend himself.

His once-arrogant face was now swollen beyond recognition, blood coating his lips, his nose bent at an unnatural angle.

Yet, even now, Caspian's anger hadn't faded.

Because this wasn't enough.

This wasn't the same pain he had suffered for years.

This wasn't the same agony that had nearly broken him.

And then—

All of them were down.

Eirak, Jaxar, and the remaining second-years lay sprawled on the ground, groaning in pain.

The third-years stood above them, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"Tch. That was boring."

Zareth's gaze shifted to Caspian. "Satisfied?"

Caspian exhaled, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Yeah."

His hands still trembled from the lingering adrenaline, but for the first time in years—

He felt lighter.

Like a weight had been lifted off his chest.

Like something had finally ended.

And then—

BANG!

The doors burst open.

A voice, laced with authority and irritation, rang through the room.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Professor.

The air froze.

Silence fell over the entire hall.

Zareth clicked his tongue. "Well… shit."

Caspian sighed, rubbing his temples. "Great. Just what we needed."

The professor stepped forward, taking in the sight of bloodied students, shattered furniture, and the sheer destruction of the room.

His gaze locked onto Caspian.

He didn't flinch.

He sighed heavily, massaging her forehead. "All of you… Disciplinary Hall. Now."

No one moved at first.

Then—

"…Weren't you just saying the professors wouldn't interfere?" Caspian muttered dryly.

Zareth chuckled. "Yeah. Turns out we were wrong."

Caspian exhaled, shaking his head.

Maybe his luck really was zero.

He barely felt anything.

His mind was blank, but in the back of his thoughts, one bitter truth echoed.

Why the fuck is my luck so bad?

It wasn't even a question anymore.

Everything that had happened—every damn miserable event—wasn't coincidence.

His luck was zero.

Had been zero since the day he was born.

Or maybe—

Maybe it was because he was never supposed to be alive in the first place.