A Background Character's Path to Power-Chapter 53: Shadow Blade Waltz

[4:49]

The timer burned in the corner of my vision, a relentless countdown to the blessing’s end.

Around me, the ballroom was a nightmare painting brought to life.

Darkness clung to every corner, thick and suffocating, broken only by the eerie crimson glow of hundreds of eyes—students and teachers alike, their pupils dilated, their irises bleeding into the sclera like ink in water.

They moved in jerky, unnatural motions, some whispering to phantoms, others clawing at their own skin. A first-year girl giggled as she dragged her nails down her cheeks, leaving red trails. A burly third-year boy slammed his fists into the wall over and over, knuckles splitting, his laughter guttural.

Zombies? No.

This was worse.

They were puppets—strings pulled by their own deepest fears, their most venomous regrets. The air reeked of sweat, iron, and something fouler: the scent of unraveling minds.

My grip tightened around the Bell of Still Voices, its metallic surface cool against my palm.

I didn’t have time to question how it worked—Zephyr’s instructions had been sparse, but the weight of the scenario’s penalty (permanent mental damage or death) was more than enough motivation.

I took a single step forward—

And moved like lightning.

The first group was easy. A cluster of first-years, their faces twisted in terror, swinging at empty air. I dashed past, ringing the bell once—a clear, resonant chime that cut through the dissonance.

Ding.

Their bodies went slack mid-swing, collapsing like marionettes with cut strings. I barely caught two before they hit the ground, but the rest tumbled into a heap.

This won’t work.

Too slow. Too inefficient.

I scanned the hall—dozens more were still trapped, and the timer was merciless. Then, an idea clicked.

Pile them.

The next group—a trio of second-years—went down with another chime. This time, I didn’t bother catching them. A controlled shove sent them sprawling onto the growing mound of unconscious students near the wall. Not elegant, but it saved precious seconds.

The bell’s effect was stronger than I’d thought. A single ring near a group could purify three or four at once, while those deeper in their illusions needed direct exposure.

Then came the first real hurdle—a professor.

A burly man with a Resonator’s aura, his fists wreathed in crackling energy, was smashing the floor in a blind rage. The tiles beneath him were already shattered, and he showed no signs of stopping.

Blink.

I appeared behind him, the bell already swinging toward his ear—

Ding.

His fist halted mid-swing. The energy flickered out. For a heartbeat, he swayed, then crumpled. I barely managed to steer his fall toward an overturned table instead of the jagged debris.

One down.

The next was worse—a woman with fire dancing along her fingertips, laughing hysterically as she scorched the air. She was too unpredictable to approach head-on.

Blink → Interception Step.

I phased behind her, ringing the bell mid-motion.

Ding.

The flames died instantly. She slumped, and I barely yanked her clear of her own embers before she collapsed.

Huff...

Echo of Life pulsed as I moved, giving me snapshots of the hall’s state:

- Livia and Emilia and many more—already free, huddled near the stage, uncunsious.

- The chubby poet—curled under a table, snoring peacefully, a half-eaten tart still clutched in his hand.

- Livia and Zephyr’s classmates—some stirring, others still trapped.

But the worst were the injured. A girl clutching a bleeding arm, a boy with a broken nose, etc—casualties of the illusions or their own panicked thrashing.

I couldn’t stop for them yet. And I probably couldn’t help that much.

Priorities first.

[Timer: 0:39]

I was mid-sprint when Echo of Life flared—a presence lunging from my blind spot.

Instinct took over. I sidestepped, pivoting on my heel, and drove my foot into the attacker’s ribs.

Thud.

The attacker hit the ground with a grunt, his polished facade shattered. His eyes were still crimson, his teeth bared in a snarl.

Leroy?

But, he didn’t look that different from before. Is it a villian’s trait?

Swoosh!

The bell rang once by his ear.

Ding.

His glare faded. He slumped, joining the pile.

[Timer: 0:36]

"!"

Then—Foresight screamed.

A shadow moved at the edge of my vision. Fast. Too fast.

I Blinked three meters to the right, twisting mid-air to face the threat—

And froze.

Aeron?

But he’s not the easygoing, charming protagonist I knew.

This version of him was different.

His jet-black hair framed a face twisted into a demonic grin, his eyes burning with crimson light like embers in the dark, just like in those comics.

A sword—no, a monstrosity of jagged black metal and blood-red aura—rested in his grip, pulsing like a living thing.

What the hell?!

My mind raced through possibilities:

- Evil Alter Ego? Classic protagonist trope—repressed darkness taking over.

- Possession? External force hijacking his body.

- Cursed Weapon? That sword looks exactly like one.

Before I could settle on a theory, Aeron moved.

No warning. No hesitation.

One moment he stood there, grinning. The next—

SHING!

The black sword carved through the space where my neck had been. I barely leaned back in time, feeling the cursed edge graze my skin like a razor’s kiss.

Too close.

I dodged, putting some distance between us, but Aeron was already adjusting—no, predicting my movement. His footwork was flawless, his strikes flowing like water, each swing a masterpiece of lethal precision.

Of course.

This wasn’t just some mindless berserker.

This was Aeron at his peak—no hesitation, no mercy, no restraint. The protagonist of "My Sword Skills Are OP But My Love Life Is a Disaster", unleashed.

And I was his target.

Damn my luck.

Swoosh-!

I swung the bell as he lunged again.

Ding.

The chime echoed, clear and pure—

But Aeron didn’t even flinch.

Instead, his grin widened, the red in his eyes flaring brighter.

The bell doesn’t work on him?!

Of course not.

Whatever was controlling him wasn’t some shallow illusion. It was more powerful and darker—some foreign will layered on top of his own.

And worse, that sword—it was reacting. Its red aura pulsed violently with each ring of the bell, like it hated the sound, like it wanted to erase the bell and the one who was ringit it.

Oh, great. The bell and I pissed them off.

Swoosh-!

Damn, at least let me thi-!

Swoosh-!

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