The Extra's Advent: My Villainess Fiancée is a Yandere

Years later...

The moon hung high, bathing Regalia City in silver light. Even at midnight, the city pulsed with life—neon signs flickering, laughter spilling from distant alleys. But in the slums, the only thing that moved was the wind.

A bus rumbled to a stop, its doors hissing open. A group of men stepped out, their boots crunching against the dirt-covered pavement.

"Attention!"

A sharp voice cut through the stillness. The speaker, Oliver, surveyed the group with sharp eyes.

"You all know why we are here," he said. "We’re stationed here for the night."

His gaze swept over them before he continued. "I’ve been assigned as today’s guard captain."

The men straightened at his words.

"Our job is simple," Oliver continued. "Check every person thoroughly. No one gets inside unless cleared. If anyone seems suspicious... mark them and keep an eye on them. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" The group responded in unison.

Oliver gave a sharp nod. "Good. Move in."

He took the lead, issuing quiet orders as they disappeared into the ruined barhouse ahead. The group scattered, each heading to their assigned positions. As they moved, masks slipped over their faces. Each mask a symbol, hiding identities beneath cold, empty eyes.

Oliver adjusted his own mask as he strode toward his station—only to spot a familiar figure. A smirk tugged at his lips. "Hey, Dorian."

The man turned, his own mask hanging loosely around his neck.

"You’re late, Oliver," Dorian said. "The auction’s already started."

Oliver frowned. "Wait—already?"

Dorian exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. Seems like they’re spooked by that Ghost."

He jerked his head, motioning for Oliver to follow.

Oliver scoffed. "Cowards. If they’re so scared, why the hell do they keep running this shady business?"

Dorian gave him a sidelong glance. "Because these shady things give us money."

They walked in silence for a moment, the dimly lit corridor stretching before them. "We may be skilled, Oliver," Dorian added, "but at the end of the day, we’re still criminals."

The door creaked open as Oliver and Dorian stepped into the surveillance room. Inside, a man sat slouched in a chair, his face buried in the shadow of his hoodie. He wasn’t watching the security feeds. Instead, his gaze was locked onto the auction screen, where the auctioneer proudly displayed a group of elves, each one shackled with a slave collar.

Oliver barely spared him a glance, assuming he was just monitoring for any irregularities in the auction hall.

Then—

Drop...

Drop...

A faint dripping sound cut through the room. Oliver’s brows furrowed. He turned toward the noise—

And his breath hitched.

A body was nailed to the wall by a sword, blood trickling down in slow, rhythmic drips. The mask on the corpse’s face bore a small circle on the chin, the mark of the surveillance overseer.

Dorian stiffened. Oliver cursed under his breath. Their weapons were drawn in an instant, both of them aiming at the hooded figure in the chair.

But the figure didn’t flinch. She simply stood up slowly, languidly stretching her arms as if waking from a nap.

And then, in a voice laced with amusement, she said, "Let’s begin, shall we?"

Dorian raised his gun, aiming at the hooded figure. "Who are you?! How did you get in here?!" he barked, finger tightening on the trigger.

Oliver’s grip on his sword tightened. But something gnawed at him—an unease deep in his bones. He couldn’t feel this woman’s presence. As if she wasn’t even there.

But before he could act—

"The room is too bright."

The hooded figure’s voice was calm, almost lazy.

Then suddenly, black mist exploded into the room. An unnatural chill crept into the air. The light dimmed—not flickering, but devoured.

Oliver’s vision vanished. His surroundings ceased to exist. A suffocating silence fell.

Dorian stood frozen, his mind racing. This mist... he knew it. Stories of a phantom, a shadow that left behind nothing but blood and silence.

His lips trembled. "G-Ghost..."

The moment the word left his mouth—

"AHHHHHHHHHH!"

A scream, raw and agonized, ripped through the void. Oliver’s scream.

Dorian’s hands trembled as he turned toward the sound. "My hand—MY HAND!" Oliver’s voice cracked with pain.

Dorian snapped his gun up, ready to fire. But he hesitated. I can’t see her... If I shoot, I might hit Oliver.

His instincts screamed at him. Without hesitation, he pressed the distress call—a small button embedded in his collar.

Silence.

The mist shifted. Something moved inside it.

Then—the air turned ice-cold. His body collapsed, his consciousness fading before he even realized what had happened.

The door creaked open. A shadow emerged.

The Ghost stepped out, her sword dripping red. Ahead, Dorian’s unit was charging toward the surveillance room. She tightened her grip.

A fireball shot through the air. She tilted her head—barely dodging it. A swordsman lunged. She didn’t move. She met the attack head-on—but the moment steel clashed against steel, her sword shifted, diverting the strike.

Then—

Slice.

A scream tore through the hall. The attacker’s hand hit the ground. Before the man could react, a second slash. His head rolled.

The mage, seeing how effortlessly the Ghost dispatched a trained fighter, took a cautious step back. His breath hitched. She’s a monster. I have to wait for reinforcements—

He never got the chance. In the blink of an eye, the Ghost was in front of him. A silver arc cut through the air. Slash. The mage’s body fell.

Blood painted the cold floor. The Ghost wiped her blade clean, flicking away the fresh blood. Without a word, she turned. Her footsteps echoed through the dimly lit hall as she advanced—toward the Auction Hall.

The chaos inside had yet to unfold. Unaware. Unprepared.

A sigh escaped her lips. "I just want to sleep."

The distress signal had been sent. At the entrance to the underground auction, a handful of Dorian’s unit remained, gripping their weapons. Others had already gone ahead, expecting a routine issue.

But minutes passed. No one returned. No response. No sound. Nothing.

A soldier clenched his gun tighter, his frustration bubbling over. "What the hell is going on out there?" he muttered.

A voice answered—low, chilling, unfamiliar. "You really want to know?"

The man spun around. Steel flashed in the dim light. A sword slid into his throat. His breath hitched—blood bubbling at his lips.

A whisper brushed against his ear—mocking, cold. "Why not ask your captain up there?"

The light in his eyes faded. His body crumpled. And the Ghost moved on.

"That’s the last one."

She crouched, gripping the wooden handle of a trapdoor hidden in the dirt. With a slow creak, it swung open, revealing a staircase leading underground.

As she descended, her steps were silent—her presence, a shadow. Then she stopped.

Her gaze settled on something ahead. A smirk tugged at her lips. "Looks like I need to find a good spot to watch the fireworks."

Inside the storage room of the auction house, laughter echoed in the dimly lit chamber.

A fat merchant leaned back against a stack of crates, a self-satisfied grin splitting his face. "Who would’ve thought our little lucky find in Fastia Woods would make us this much profit?"

His thinner companion chuckled, shaking his head. "You underestimate the value of elves, my friend. Their worth goes beyond mere gold."

Across the room, a man stood with a spear resting against his shoulder. Unlike the merchants, he wasn’t smiling. He wore a sleeveless shirt, his muscular forearm marked with a sigil.

His voice was curt. "Enough talking. Stay alert."

The merchants stiffened. "Why? What’s wrong, Master Stuard?" one asked.

Stuard’s grip on his spear tightened. "An intruder."

At that single word, the elves shackled in the corner lifted their heads. Hope flickered in their eyes. Maybe someone had come for them.

The door creaked open. A figure stepped inside, cloaked in darkness. The Ghost.

Stuard’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his spear. He moved. Lightning crackled around his feet as he lunged. His spear thrust forward, straight for the Ghost’s chest. A clean hit.

But—an afterimage.

Stuard’s instincts screamed. He spun around, raising his spear just in time—

CLANG!

Steel met steel in a violent clash. Sparks flew. Stuard took a single step back. The Ghost staggered five.

"You’re fast, I’ll give you that," Stuard said, rolling his shoulders. Lightning danced around his body, crackling with power.

The Ghost sighed. "Yawn."

Her fingers tightened around her sword. "Let’s finish this. I’m sleepy."

Stuard’s brows twitched. Mocking me?

Lightning surged around him as he exploded forward, his speed doubling. The Ghost ducked. A wave of black mist unfurled from her body, swallowing the room in darkness.

Stuard’s momentum carried him straight into the mist. A chill crawled down his spine. Something was wrong. I need to get out.

He spun around and ran. But no matter how far he moved, he never reached the edge. His breath quickened. What—?!

Then it hit him. An illusion. His eyes widened. Too late.

SHNK!

His head rolled across the floor. The mist thinned, revealing the Ghost, standing over the lifeless body.

"Even if you were stronger than me... what’s the use if your mind is this weak?"