The Extra Can't be A Hero-Chapter 155: Olavaguel (4)

There was a deluge of endless sand in the heart of the Olavaguel desert, where no man had dared tread. The desert stretched endlessly, a sea of golden dunes shifting under the relentless sun. Wind howled across the barren landscape, shaping and reshaping the sands, erasing all traces. To any wandering traveler, there was nothing but dust and heat, an inhospitable wasteland where only the desperate or the doomed would tread.

But beneath the dunes, hidden from the world’s gaze, lay the secret lair—a sprawling network of caves and tunnels carved into the earth’s bones. The entrance, masked by layers of illusion magic and the natural shifting of the desert, was nothing more than a shadow beneath a jagged rock formation, where sand funneled down into a seemingly bottomless void.

Inside, the air was thick, carrying the scent of damp stone, burning incense, and something darker—like old blood soaked into the walls. The tunnels twisted like veins, their walls carved with blasphemous symbols that pulsed faintly as if the rock was alive. Veins of crimson crystal jutted out in places, shedding a dim, unnatural glow and providing just enough light for those who dwelled here.

The chamber flickered with the dim, eerie glow of the enchanted torches, casting jagged shadows against the sandstone walls. The air inside the cavernous hideout was thick with burning incense and damp earth, starkly contrasting the arid wasteland stretching beyond the dunes that concealed the Demon Cult’s sanctuary.

An inner sanctum remained peaceful within the ever-changing secretive lair as the storm raged outside. Here, luxury and decadence reigned. The chamber was vast, its high ceiling adorned with silken drapes the color of dried blood hanging from ancient, crumbling pillars. The walls, carved from obsidian and dark sandstone, were inlaid with gold veins gleaming under the flickering glow of enchanted braziers. Plush carpets woven with intricate demonic sigils softened the hard stone floor, their patterns twisting like serpents beneath one’s feet.

At the heart of the chamber rested an enormous bed, its frame carved from deep-black wood, inlaid with silver filigree that shimmered faintly under the dim lighting. The sheets were of crimson silk, smooth as sin, draping over the figures within its embrace.

And with a King-sized bed, there must always be a King.

Laid comfortably in the middle of the bed was an Adonis-like man with five beautiful women serving his every need. The girls sat in varying states of tension—some kneeling on the plush rugs, others perched on the edge of the grand bed, their silk robes loose and barely concealing trembling forms. Their faces bore expressions of fear, their eyes darting between one another, uncertain of their fates. Some dared not meet the man’s gaze, while others watched him with wide, unreadable eyes, frozen between terror and the allure of power.

None of the girls knew if this would be their last day on earth when serving this powder keg of a man, so they buried their fear and gave the man his due reverence.

For he was one of the top executives of the Demon Cult—an Apostle.

"Lord Samael, may I enter?"

"Mmmm, what’s up?"

A youthful voice echoed through the chamber, triggering the cultist to push open the heavy oak doors. Once he entered, the girls instantly covered themselves in linen and blankets, hoping to save some semblance of decency. Alas, the robed cultist wasn’t interested in the disposable women.

Kneeling at the foot of the bed, the cultist spoke loudly: "My lord, I have an urgent report."

"Urgent, you say? Did our sleeping beauty finally awaken from his slumber?"

"No, we’re still supplying the inverse pyramid with mana, but it seems…"

"And here I hoped that I would be able to leave this dastardly place."

The man interrupted the cultist’s words and got to his feet, revealing his entire naked body for all to see. The man approached his subordinate without a shroud of shame while waving a handless hello. Feeling the pressure, the robed cultist mustered the courage to peek at the domineering Apostle.

He stands tall and commanding, exuding an air of dark charisma. His sharp features are chiseled, with a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and a straight nose that gives him an effortlessly regal presence. His piercing green eyes glow with an eerie intensity, a gaze that seems to peer into one’s soul, holding wisdom and a dangerous, otherworldly allure.

His hair is a sleek silver-grey, strands falling carelessly over his forehead, giving him a slightly untamed yet sophisticated appearance. Despite the streaks of age in his hair, his face remains youthful, untouched by time, save for the faintest hints of battle-worn experience etched into his expression.

But the most striking part of him is his right arm—a twisted, demonic limb of pure darkness. Blackened veins pulse beneath the surface as if shadows writhe within his skin. The fingers are clawed, elongated and razor-sharp, imbued with an unholy power. It radiates a sinister energy, an unearthly presence that warps the air around it.

His presence alone was suffocating, and the cultist could only imagine the depth of his immeasurable power.

Samael, the Demon Fist.

He was the Apostle of Chaos. Preaching from the Gospel of Chaos, his every act was inordinate and sporadic. No one could predict his movements, and no one could stop him. Even the Prophet had to keep a tight leash on this Apostle, for he was the most dangerous. And even then, the Prophet had no control over his daily outbursts.

"So? What’s so urgent that you had to bother me during my fun time?"

A surge of demonic mana erupted from Samael’s green eyes, and the pressure mounted on the cultist exploded. Feeling his bones crack, the demonic follower gritted his teeth and braced himself as blood trickled down his lips.

"M-My Lord… M-Mercy…"

"Mercy? You interrupted Lisselle as she was about to climax. You deserve death for that, don’t you think so too, my baby?"

Samael addressed a woman who was covering her body in linen. Terrified at what the Apostle might do to her, she hurriedly nodded in agreement, bringing a smile to the handsome man’s face.

"See? But I’m merciful. If you give me a good reason, maybe I’ll forgive you on behalf of Lisselle."

The pressure that Samael emitted choked the cultist for air. In a twisted way, Samael gave the man a slice of hope, but simultaneously, his pressure prevented the cultist from replying. It was only through sheer force of will that the cultist was able to blurt one key word to save his life.

"H-HERO!!!"

"Hero?"

Finally intrigued, Samael withdrew his mana, allowing the cultist to breathe and regain himself.

"What about the hero?"

"W-We spotted him! I-In Olavaguel!"

"Oh…"

As his anger subsided, the Apostle fell deep into thought: "What is he doing here? Did they manage to predict our plans again?"

Time and time again, Eldorin had been a thorn in the Demon Cult’s flesh. It seemed like with every move that they made, the young upstart Order was able to predict and intercept the Demon Cult. It proved to be a point of humiliation for the Prophet and Mind Stealer, the two highest ranking executives of the Demon Cult. But for Samael, it only served as a new amusement to his bland life.

"That’s good, though. Things have been going too smoothly with El Dorado."

Samael’s perfectly white teeth flashed as he broke into a sinister smile.

"When did he arrive?"

"Yesterday," finally freed from his restraints, the cultist was able to report the whole story: "Accompanying the Hero is the Saintess, the Knight of the Morning Sun, the Unyielding, and half of the highest ranking Knights and Magicians from Eldorin."

With secrecy no longer shielding them, the Demon Cult moved freely, investigating without restraint. Uncovering hidden truths in a barren land like Olavaguel was effortless—their reach extended far and wide. Even without recruiting new members through corruption, they secured all the information they needed through bribery alone.

"Quite the entourage… but where is Amon? Their commander?"

As one of the highest executives in the Demon Cult, Samael was privy to every intelligence the enigmatic cult had. And he knew how obsessed the Prophet was with Amon. Leon was a threat, no doubt, but in the eyes of the Prophet, Amon was a far more significant obstacle that had to be removed by all means possible.

In simpler terms, if Leon was a four-star target, Amon’s rating was one step above, at five stars.

"Their commander… is absent from this expedition."

"Absent, you say?"

Samael rubbed his hairless chin in contemplation.

Was this a coincidence? No, perhaps it was a trap. Either way, the apple was too sweet for Samael to refuse.

"Did you find out why they’re here?"

"N-Not yet, my lord."

"Hah, how useless…"

Samael’s disappointment was enough for the cultist to brace himself for the worst. His life was at the mercy of the Apostle, and if Samael was in a bad mood, that was enough for his head to fly off his neck.

Fortunately, today was not his last day in the mortal realm.

"Even though I’m so busy with El Dorado and our sleeping beauty, more hindrances have come to obstruct my mission. It’s alright. Continue your investigation and report to me daily."

"U-Understood!"

Unwilling to linger in such a volatile situation, the cultist hastily retreated from the chamber. Yet, just as he turned to leave, he caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye—a smile so wicked, so utterly malevolent that it seemed to embody the very essence of human evil.

"The Hero, huh? I wonder how easy it will be to break him!"