Path of the Extra

Rubbing his temples, Oscar leaned back in his chair, releasing a tired sigh. Just a moment of rest—that was all he could afford. He hadn’t truly rested in weeks, and especially not today.

As the master of the auction house, Cake, and the host of tonight’s monumental event, everything had to be flawless. Not perfect—flawless. With guests of this caliber in attendance… even the smallest slip could end him.

‘The guests…’

It might have been slightly less of a burden—just a tiny, miserable bit—if a part of the guest list hadn’t been leaked yesterday.

But what was done was done.

Now, a sea of paparazzi surrounded the building like vultures. Most of the attendees had already made their entrance, but—miraculously—none of them seemed to mind the flashing cameras. In fact, they had all walked in proudly, through the front doors no less, showing their faces without a hint of concern.

Oscar exhaled again, longer this time, dragging a hand down his face.

“There are too many important people here today… One wrong move, and I’ll be executed before dessert.”

Running his fingers through his short, fiery orange hair, he glanced down at the guest list sprawled across the desk with a look of pure dread.

“Oliver,” he muttered, “who are we still missing? Just the important ones.”

A sharply dressed young man stepped forward, hair neatly cut, eyes sharp and cold behind thin glasses. He carried himself with the precision of a blade.

“Our guests from the Academy have arrived and been led to their seats,” Oliver began. “As well as the representative from the Highclaw Guild—it’s the Guildmaster himself. The Phoenix Guild’s Guildmaster is present. Representing the Frost Clan is the current heiress. The Nebula Clan is sending their heir. The Guildmasters of both the Rose Guild and the Sun and Moon Guild are inside. Representing the T-t—”

Oliver paused. His voice faltered for the first time.

“Ahem… Representing the Ten Heavenly Churches… will be the Saintess.”

Oscar’s fingers, which had been steadily drumming on the desk, suddenly froze. His eyes snapped up to Oliver’s—who looked equally stunned. Silence fell over the room like a sudden stormcloud.

Both men paled.

“Th-the Saintess?” Oscar stammered.

“G-Gods… I understand what we’re auctioning off is… exceptional, but… Please tell me that’s the end.”

Oliver’s expression was apologetic.

“…It isn’t, my lord.”

Oscar’s heart sank.

“So, the ones who haven’t arrived yet—what about them?” he asked, his voice already brittle.

Oliver didn’t flinch.

“Representing the Dusk Clan, the current heir. Representing the Crimson Clan, the heiress. And… the Prince.”

For a moment, Oscar’s mind went blank. He stared forward, not breathing.

“Th-the Dusk heir!?”

“The Crimson h-heiress?!”

“And the Crimson Prince?!”

His voice cracked with each name.

Then, with trembling hands, he clasped his fingers together and brought them to his mouth like a man praying.

“Oliver.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“…We’re going to be beyond rich.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Oliver’s lips.

“Indeed, my lord.”

*****

All around the auction house, the world pulsed with white. The endless storm of camera flashes lit up the evening like lightning without thunder—blinding, relentless.

Men in black suits pushed against the crowd, their movements sharp and coordinated, keeping the paparazzi from getting too close to the entrance. Most of the reporters were wise enough to keep their distance—those who weren’t… well, the cracks of broken bones had made good examples. No one wanted to end up in a stretcher before the main event even began.

So, for now, no one dared to breach the gates.

Disappointing, perhaps. But they still had their feast.

Every time a car rolled up—whether carrying someone like Caleus Nebula, Saint Freya, or a guildmaster from one of the top guilds—the cameras erupted anew. Like wolves howling under a blood moon, desperate to catch a single frame that could shake the world.

And though the number of arrivals was dwindling, the excitement in the air refused to die. Yes, they had seen the leaked guest list—but that didn’t guarantee attendance. Some names, especially those at the top, were merely rumors.

No one expected the Great Kings to show.

And then… something shifted.

A sleek black SUV glided toward the auction’s main entrance.

A pause.

A spark of tension.

Every vulture turned.

The flash storm ignited once more, as if the world itself had blinked into whiteness, hungry to know who was next.

The driver stepped out—tall, expressionless, clad in a crisp black suit. His eyes hidden behind dark lenses. Without a word, he circled the vehicle and opened one of the rear doors.

The camera shutters… stopped.

Silence.

Breath held.

Then, a hand appeared—delicate, graceful, ivory-pale. The driver offered his arm, and she stepped out into the storm.

She emerged like a flame against the snow.

A gown of deep vermillion, embroidered with gold thread, clung to her silhouette. It flowed to the ground with effortless elegance, a slit running up the side to reveal smooth, milky-white legs that caught the light like porcelain.

Off-the-shoulder sleeves framed her bare collarbones—soft, pale, regal. Crimson chiffon trailed from her upper arms like wisps of fire. Golden pins held part of her dark hair in loose waves, while the rest cascaded freely down her back. Around her neck shimmered a breathtaking necklace of sunlit gold, crowned by a ruby that matched her eyes.

And in that moment of silence, when the crowd seemed to forget how to breathe, a trembling voice finally pierced the air—

“I-It’s… Princess Jasmine Crimson! She’s here!”

The moment they registered who it was, a frenzy ignited. Hundreds of camera shutters clicked at once—so violently and relentlessly that any ordinary person caught in the storm might have gone blind.

Then…

It happened again.

The driver circled the vehicle and opened the opposite door. But this time, he didn’t offer his hand.

The man who stepped out needed none.

He wore a long, tailored coat of deep vermillion—its shade perfectly matched to Princess Jasmine Crimson’s gown. On his chest gleamed rows of medals and insignias, polished to a mirror shine. Golden epaulets rested on his shoulders, adorned with cascading chains and delicate embroidered fabric.

His trousers were black, sharply pressed, tucked into knee-high leather boots that glinted under the sun. A heavy fur-lined black cloak draped over one shoulder, swaying slightly with every movement.

His hair, a dark river, was tied in a ponytail that brushed the back of his neck.

And for a moment… the world went silent.

The camera shutters froze.

The crowd simply stared.

With wide eyes.

With confusion.

With awe.

“W-who is that…?”

“I—I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone like him…”

“No… I think I’ve seen his face somewhere before…?”

“W-wait… don’t tell me that is…!”

The mysterious man strode forward, his steps quiet but purposeful. He approached Princess Jasmine, whose expression was as cold and unreadable as ever—an icy mask of nobility.

And then, he smiled.

Gently. Softly.

He offered his arm.

What happened next was something no paparazzi there would ever forget. Not in this life. Maybe not in the next.

The Crimson Heiress, the ice princess of high society, turned to him… and smiled. A soft, warm, genuine smile. Then, without hesitation, she linked her arm with his.

It wasn’t the sound of camera shutters that followed.

It was realization.

Click.

Not from the lenses.

From their minds.

“T-t-t-that’s… that’s Prince Azriel Crimson!?”

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