Path of the Extra

"Officially, it has been 592 days since the start of Project New Eden. The drug PE-0 has been administered to 1,123 subjects out of the initial 2,500. Of those, only 406 survived Stage 1. Proceeding to Stage 2 with PE-1... only 141 subjects remained."

Doctor Arthur took a deep breath, his voice steady as he continued.

"By Stage 3... only four subjects survived. These four—Subject 431, Subject 001, Subject 101, and... Subject 666."

Arthur's fingers danced over the keyboard of his computer, pulling up the file for Subject 666 on the large screen in front of him. A faint smile curved his lips as he gazed at the data.

"The other subjects have taken to calling these four by special titles. It's interesting—out of everyone, these four exhibit the highest level of obedience when performing their tasks. Consequently, they've undergone the least disciplinary action since joining Project New Eden. Their behaviour, mindset, and resilience during punishment and orders are... exceptional. Particularly Subject 666."

Arthur paused, licking his dry lips, his expression one of fascination.

"It's been over a year since he joined Project New Eden. The most unique of the four. Subject 666 has never failed to comply with orders—except for a few notable incidents. The most severe was when he was tasked with killing a little girl who had somehow survived in the Void Realm and wandered into our facility. His orders were clear: take her life."

Arthur's voice grew quieter.

"But he refused. He simply said, 'I won't.' Do you realize how rare that is? The number of times 666 has spoken since his arrival can be counted on one hand. Five months of perfect compliance, and yet, when faced with a child—an insignificant burden, at best—he would not turn his blade."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, his gaze flickering with something between admiration and curiosity.

Even when questioned about his past or his name, he always claimed ignorance. He barely speaks at all, and yet... this one moment defined him. A perfect soldier, unshackled by attachment or memory, yet bound by a single tether:

his morality.

"And morality, I've found, is... resilient."

Arthur smirked, recalling the aftermath.

"After his refusal, 666 was sent to the dark cell for an entire week. The punishment was designed to shatter whatever resolve he had left. But this is where it gets truly fascinating."

Arthur adjusted his glasses, his tone taking on a clinical detachment.

"Despite the drugs coursing through his system and his body starving, he refused to eat the single meal provided each day. He didn't move. He didn't cry out. He simply endured in silence."

The dark cell was exactly what its name implied. Total isolation. A claustrophobic box devoid of proper oxygen, light, or sound. Most broke within days.

Arthur's smile turned grim.

The meals provided?

They weren't void creature meat. No, the 'meat' was from the bodies of subjects who perished in the underground coliseum. A final, calculated indignity. Yet even Vincent failed to break him.

Arthur chuckled, a sound both amused and cold.

"But no matter. We have time."

Leaning forward, Arthur tapped on the screen, pulling up more detailed data.

"As I said before, 666 is the most special of the four. His compatibility with PE-0, PE-1, and PE-2 is unmatched. He's the youngest, extraordinarily talented, with two greater affinities, a soul weapon, and an unparalleled aptitude for combat training. Unfortunately, the scars on his face remain. Even our health potions weren't enough to heal him."

Arthur's fingers hovered over the keyboard as he whispered to himself, his voice tinged with anticipation.

"But that might change today... considering who is coming."

He finally leaned back in his chair and stopped the recording device. Closing his eyes, he exhaled deeply, his mind swirling with thoughts of what was to come.

"He's almost there," Arthur murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"Almost."

*****

What was all of this again...?

Ah, right.

A memory.

A memory designed to break the mind.

Or perhaps not.

Azriel didn't really know. He had long since stopped trying to understand.

Now, he only waited.

Waited for it all to end.

If he followed the logic of these memories, more than a year had passed since Azriel had been trapped in them.

But...

That wasn't how it felt.

No.

To him, it all seemed like a week. At least, if he calculated only the time he had control over his body.

And he didn't always have control.

No.

Sometimes, he was a prisoner, locked in his body as it moved on its own. Azriel didn't watch everything—it wasn't worth it. Those moments felt more like a film, sped up toward the "important" parts where he could act again.

But skipping didn't mean forgetting.

No. He experienced it all. He remembered it all. He felt it all.

Yet, it was like recalling a dream. A disjointed haze that told him what his original self had lived through.

It wasn't pleasant.

No, what was truly unbearable was how it fractured his mind.

When Azriel gained control and acted, his actions deviated from his original self's path. His current self was stronger—more capable in so many ways. And every time he lost control, he received the memories of his original self. Memories of what actually happened.

For instance, in his current reality, Azriel had fought Subject 431 to a draw.

But the original Azriel?

He had lost. Miserably.

Hell, he hadn't even killed the two Awakened in that version of events.

The clash of these memories—two versions of the same event—left his head pounding, as if his skull would split open.

It was like walking two paths at once.

When he was in control, he walked his path. But afterward, he would relive the original.

Azriel now sat in the cafeteria, one of the rare moments subjects were allowed to interact. Most wore the same sterile white gowns.

Humans were social creatures, after all, even here.

But Azriel?

He wasn't interested.

Not because he didn't care, but because of the reputation that clung to him like a shadow. The "image" that preceded him wherever he went.
Continue your journey on m|v-l'e m,p| y- r

Azriel poked at the porridge and unidentifiable meat in front of him. His bangs, grown long, obscured his crimson eyes as he strained his ears to listen.

The whispers weren't subtle.

All eyes were on his table.

And why wouldn't they be?

He sat with them

.

To his left sat the massive, towering figure of Subject 431. Across from him, an elderly man with white, unkempt hair and a serene smile—Subject 001. And beside 001, a petite girl with shoulder-length brown hair and large, innocent eyes, Subject 101. Her cute features would have been endearing if not for the oppressive aura that clung to their table like a storm cloud.

They were the most successful subjects. The "elite."

The whispers carried through the room, despite the weight in the air.

"H-Hey, what's up with that table? Did they fight or something? The atmosphere's so heavy..."

One of the older subjects grinned knowingly, clapping a hand on the speaker's shoulder.

"You must be new. See those four? They aren't like us. Ordinary subjects, we get a choice—to join Project New Eden or not. But those four... they're different

.

"

The newcomer frowned, his face darkening.

"I declined. They didn't push me, surprisingly."

"Same here," the man continued, leaning in conspiratorially.

"But some people don't feel like they have a choice. Or they're just... insane. Like those four."

The man glanced uneasily at the table, his voice lowering further.

"Over a thousand people have gone through New Eden. Only those four survived. The doctors? They call them the most successful subjects."

The murmurs grew, overlapping like a storm of quiet chaos.

"Oh, yeah. And here's the thing. Every week, we're thrown into an underground coliseum to fight. Could be a random draw, or it could be discipline. But those who accept Project New Eden? They get thrown in immediately. Their first fight is always a deathmatch."

The man swallowed hard, his voice lowering further.

"And three of them? After their first fight, they were never sent back. Not like us, fighting to survive every week. No one makes them fight anymore."

"Thank the Gods for that," someone muttered.

"If they were allowed to fight like us, none of us would survive."

"Do you know what we call them?"

The newcomer shook his head, and the response came, reverent and fearful.

"The Four Horsemen."

He blinked, the name sounding almost absurd.

"The Four Horsemen? Seriously? That's…"

The man cut him off with a grim look.

"See the old guy over there? He's Famine

.

The little girl? Conquest

.

That big guy? War

.

And the one with the long black hair… he's Death

.

"

The man's gaze was drawn to the four like a moth to a flame. He studied each one, the titles fitting all too well. But when his eyes fell on the one called Death, a chill ran down his spine.

He continued eating, his movements calm, almost mechanical.

Until a pair of wide, terrified eyes locked with his.

Azriel's crimson gaze, half-hidden by his bangs, met the newcomer's for the briefest moment.

The man froze, his blood running cold.

And then Azriel looked away, returning to his meal as if nothing had happened.

The man's voice trembled.

"D-Death..."

The others stiffened at the name, their voices dropping even lower.

"Yeah. That one's… unsettling. And the craziest part? He's only 15 years old."

"Fifteen?" the man repeated, his voice rising in shock.

The table hushed him with sharp glares. "Keep your voice down," someone hissed.

He turned back to Death, disbelief etched across his face.

Fifteen? What kind of life creates someone like that?

The man beside him spoke again, his tone shifting to something almost reverent.

"You know, War wasn't always part of New Eden. At first, he refused. But then… they say he fought Death in the coliseum."

The man froze.

"What happened?"

The other's voice dropped further.

"A deathmatch. Rumor is, they tied. A tie

.

That never happens. Death supposedly took on five at once, killed them all, and spared War. Said his 'time hadn't come yet.' The fight was so brutal they destroyed the coliseum. Both of them were missing limbs by the end but didn't stop until they physically couldn't continue."

The man stared at the group, his face pale. Stories of each Horseman unfolded around him. The more he heard, the more his stomach churned. He finally understood why the doctors didn't make them fight anymore.

If the Horsemen were unleashed on the rest of them, there would be no one left.

Azriel's lips curved into the faintest of smirks.

'Another one bites the dust.'

The rumors were ridiculous, exaggerated, but they served their purpose. They kept people entertained in this hellhole.

"Death, smiling? That's a rare sight," came a light, teasing voice.

Azriel's gaze shifted to the girl across from him—Subject 101, Conquest. Her brown eyes sparkled with mischief.

Azriel sighed.

"Conquest, keep your voice down. You'll start something unnecessary again."

Conquest giggled, a soft, melodic sound that only made things worse.

The room fell into an uneasy silence. All eyes were now on their table, filled with shock and a touch of awe.

Azriel sighed inwardly, his smirk fading.

'Dammit...'