An Extra’s Rise in an Eroge

"Druids, huh?" I murmured, intrigued. A fascinating race indeed.

Why fascinating, you ask? Because they belong to the spirit race yet possess physical bodies. Not only that, but they can switch seamlessly between their spirit state and physical form at will. A rare and mysterious trait.

My thoughts lingered on the implications of their presence. The plot is already shifting—my existence here is altering the flow of events. Druids weren't supposed to appear until much later in the story. And yet, here they are, before the academy has even begun.

So much for relying on my game knowledge, I sighed inwardly, trailing behind Edward as we approached the garden. "Let's see what brings them here," I said, my curiosity getting the better of me.

Eleanor, trailing behind, looked excited. "This is turning out to be a much better day than I expected!"

"Only you would say that, Eleanor," Edward muttered, shaking his head with a faint smirk as we made our way toward the garden.

Edward gave her a sidelong glance, smirking faintly. "Only you would say that, Eleanor."

The garden loomed closer, its entrance marked by ornate gates covered in creeping vines. I could hear faint voices beyond, a mix of calm and commanding tones, and I knew this meeting would be anything but ordinary. The wings of the butterfly have begun to flap—let's see what storm it stirs.

As we stepped into the garden, the scene was mesmerizing yet tense. The area was filled with stunning figures—elves.

Yes, beautiful men and women. And no, I didn't say it wrong. The male elves were more beautiful than most human women. Each had flowing blonde hair, long, pointed ears, and slim, almost feminine.

As we advanced toward the central area, a group of elves blocked our path, their alert gazes fixed on Edward. One of them, with an air of superiority, raised his bow and pointed an arrow at Edward.

"Who are you, human?" the elf sneered, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Did no one inform you that the esteemed princess of Everveil is in an audience here? Leave at once, whoever you are!" His nose tilted up as if he were addressing lesser beings.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

Oh, boy. This elf just stepped into a disaster, I thought, suppressing a smirk. Clueless and cocky? Pointing an arrow at a prince in front of Ronald Crest? He's in for a rude awakening.

Ronald Crest, standing just behind Edward, was the captain of the Imperial Knights. He was a Grandmaster spearman, a master swordsman, and a man known for his unwavering loyalty to the imperial family. Threatening a member of the royal bloodline was akin to stepping on his reverse scale—the one thing he could never tolerate.

The moment the arrow aimed at Edward, Ronald moved. There was no hesitation. His sword flashed in the sunlight, faster than most eyes could follow, and the elf's hand holding the bow was severed in one clean slash.

The arrogant elf stumbled back, clutching his bleeding wrist, his face twisting in disbelief and pain.

"ARRRGHHHH!" he screamed, the sound tearing through the stunned silence as blood spurted like a crimson fountain.

"Kyaaah!" "Kyaaah!" Two high-pitched screams erupted beside me.

Alicia and Eleanor clung to me, their heads pressed tightly against my chest as if hiding from the gruesome sight before them. I instinctively wrapped my arms around them, shielding them from the bloody spectacle.

Around us, the remaining elves sprang into action, their bows drawn and arrows aimed directly at us. The atmosphere turned suffocating as tension thickened in the air.

Ronald, unfazed, exuded a murderous intent so oppressive it felt almost tangible. The sheer weight of his killing intent was enough to make some of the elves falter; a few even collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

Aura radiated off Ronald's sword as he took his stance, his eyes locked onto the elves with a promise of further violence.

It was a stalemate.

The elves, trembling but unwilling to stand down, strained their bowstrings to the limit, while Ronald stood poised to strike at the first movement. The severed elf was still wailing on the ground, his cries the only sound in the tense standoff.

Suddenly, a melodious voice broke through the chaos.

"What's happening here?"

The voice carried authority yet was soft, and soothing.

From deeper within the garden, three mesmerizing figures appeared, moving swiftly toward us.

The first was a young elf woman with flowing golden-blonde hair that shimmered in the sunlight. Her sapphire-blue eyes glimmered with a mix of concern and command.

Beside her walked another elf, similar in beauty but more mature and regal. Her intricately braided hair and noble bearing radiated elegance.

The third figure was strikingly different—a young druid whose wild green curls tumbled freely down her back. Her piercing emerald eyes seemed to glow with energy, and her attire—or lack thereof—consisted of vines and leaves that wrapped artfully around her figure, leaving much of her skin exposed.

As their eyes fell on the injured elf, the mature-looking elf woman hurried to him. She knelt beside him, cradling his face gently. "Son, what happened? Who did this to you?"

Her calm facade cracked as her gaze shifted to his severed hand lying on the ground, blood staining the grass. A flicker of panic crossed her face.

She picked up the severed hand, her voice steady despite her trembling hands. "Lesley, can you treat this?"

The druid, the one with the emerald-green hair, stepped forward. "I'll do my best," she said softly.

With that, the elf woman held the severed hand in place while Lesley hovered her palms over the wound. She began chanting some incantation, her voice carrying a strange power. A vibrant green light burst from her hands, surrounding the wound. Under the glow, the severed hand began to reattach, the flesh knitting together seamlessly.

In mere moments, the elf's hand was restored as if nothing had happened.

Everyone stood frozen, watching in awe. None of us interrupted—partly out of respect, but mostly because we were stunned that the elegant woman, who looked no older than her early twenties, was the mother of a grown elf.

The young elf girl broke the silence, her tone sharp. "Brother, it's healed now. Can you stop screaming like a baby? It's getting annoying."

"Nyra, don't be so harsh on your cousin," the other elf woman said gently. "He just had his hand severed."

"And now it's fixed," Nyra shot back with a roll of her eyes. "Stop babying him, Aunt Thalia. He's an adult."

Thalia sighed, brushing off Nyra's comment as she turned back to her son. "Now, my dear, tell your mother who did this to you. Mom will make sure they pay for it."

Nyra scoffed. "I'm betting it was his fault in the first place."

Ignoring her, the arrogant elf scowled and pointed a trembling finger at Ron. "It was him!"