The Extra's Rise-Chapter 311: Inter-Academy Festival (3)

Jack's eyes on Elara were the sort of thing that made you wonder if punching a Duke's son could be reclassified as community service.

I didn't like it.

'Disgusting,' I thought.

But I didn't move. Not yet. I just watched him, because the thing about someone who hides behind smiles is that they always forget—their eyes still tell the truth.

And right now, Jack's eyes were brimming with that old familiar arrogance. The kind that usually ends up being outlived by a brick wall or karma on a deadline. It wasn't just confidence—it was the absolute certainty of someone who thought the world had been gift-wrapped specifically for them, complete with a bow made of everyone else's compliance.

"Well," Jack said, cocking his head like someone performing the idea of civility, "since we don't share any events, I suppose we'll only find out at the finale, won't we?"

"We will," I nodded, my tone so even it could have been used to level shelves.

"And you, Arthur Nightingale, you're the one to beat," Jack continued, his smile widening just enough to show a hint of teeth. A predator's smile, one that never quite reached his eyes. "Rank 1 of the most prestigious academy in the world. Ready to give up the crown?"

I chuckled. Slowly. Because if you're going to laugh at someone, do it like you're already picturing their defeat. Like you've seen the ending and found it mildly amusing. "Try me."

That was when a voice cut through the tension like a well-aimed ice cube down the back of your shirt.

"You two seem to be forgetting about me."

Lucifer walked over, hands in his pockets, face relaxed but eyes sharp—like a man who could smile while calculating trajectories for ten different kinds of victory. His Windward lineage was evident in the perfect posture that seemed to require absolutely no effort, the kind that made tailors weep with gratitude.

"I want the crown too," he said with that perfectly measured Windward calm, "and I don't plan on losing."

Jack's eyes narrowed as all three of us stood there, a triangle of tension and ambition and an unhealthy amount of testosterone. If someone had taken a photo of us just then, they could have sold it to textbooks as a definition of "rivals with unresolved issues." Or perhaps as a visual aid for "male ego density reaching critical mass."

"Well," Jack sighed, as though we'd just inconvenienced him by breathing the same air, "this got annoying."

And with a flick of his coat and one last sideways glance at Elara—because of course he had to do that—he turned and strolled away like a man who thought retreat was a tactical choice. Each step was carefully measured, a performance of dismissal meant for an audience he assumed was always watching.

Lucifer looked at me.

"Different events," he said, holding out his hand. "But I want you at the finale."

I met his gaze and saw it. That spark in his verdant eyes. Not pride. Not mockery.

Respect.

He wanted a fair fight. A real one. Me at my best.

For once, I wanted the same.

I wasn't here to outmaneuver them, to trick them into a win.

Not this time.

I wanted to beat them with nothing but strength.

"I'll be there," I said, gripping his hand, "Try and keep up."

Lucifer nodded once and walked off, coat swaying behind him like he had rehearsed the movement in front of a mirror. Twice. His presence lingered even after he left, like expensive cologne or the memory of a perfect musical note.

"Wow," Elara said, her voice light but not without a touch of amusement, "to think you'd have such fearsome rivals. Lucifer Windward and... Jack Blazespout."

The slight pause before Jack's name spoke volumes—a library of disdain compressed into a quarter-second of hesitation.

"Are you close with him?" I asked.

She scratched her cheek like she was trying to erase the memory. A delicate gesture that somehow conveyed years of accumulated irritation. "Not really. We used to see each other a lot when we were younger—he's a duke's son, I'm an archduke's daughter. You know how those things go. Endless balls, garden parties, and formal dinners where children are expected to behave like miniature adults while the real adults behave like overgrown children."

Her lips quirked into a rueful smile. "But we never really clicked. He was always focused on something other than actually having a conversation. Always looking over your shoulder for someone more important to talk to. And... well, he doesn't really have friends. Not real ones, anyway."

I pointed, somewhat obviously, toward the small crowd orbiting Jack like moons around a particularly smug planet. A solar system where every celestial body existed solely to reflect his light.

"Doesn't look like someone who lacks friends."

Elara tilted her head, smiling faintly. "Those aren't friends. Those are admirers. Collectors of proximity. Jack doesn't collect people, he acquires them. Like trophies or rare coins. And most don't notice until it's far too late." She studied the group with the clinical detachment of a biologist observing an unusual species. "By then, they're either dependent on his approval or too invested to walk away."

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She didn't say it with spite. More like someone commenting on the weather—a bit grim, mildly unpredictable, but not unexpected.

I glanced toward the cluster again, my eyes catching on a tall figure standing just behind Jack. Tobias. Son of a Marquis. A White-ranker with a talent that could hold its own against anyone in Class 2-A. Not flashy, but dependable. The kind of person who could tear down a wall while others argued about the door.

'And there he is,' I thought, 'A gifted genius playing second fiddle to a monster with a smile.'

Elara was also White-rank, but unlike Tobias, she was a pure support mage. Her buffs and barriers were strong enough to compare with Rachel's—perhaps even surpass them in certain circumstances. Her shields could withstand artillery strikes, and her enhancement spells could make even a novice fighter move like a master. Her attack spells, however, wouldn't exactly be breaking headlines. Not unless someone counted "mildly inconvenient light show" as an attack.

"Anyway," Elara said, brushing some hair behind her ear, "it's been nice talking to you. You're... more easygoing than Jack. Though that's not really saying much."

"Thanks," I smiled. And I meant it. Being around Elara was like slipping into a warm bath—comforting, steady, and unlikely to try and stab you during dinner. She reminded me of Rachel back when things were simpler—before the affection turned into obsession, and the obsession started threatening to write me into a romantic psychological thriller with a questionable third act.

Then, just as I was about to say something further, I felt a soft weight on my back.

A very familiar one.

"Rach?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder.

Rachel was latched onto me like a Saintess-shaped backpack, her arms tight around my torso and her golden hair spilling over my shoulder like a waterfall of spun sunshine. Her grip had the determined strength of someone who had spent considerable time thinking about optimal clinging techniques.

"No more," she mumbled, her voice muffled into my spine, like I was a particularly chatty pillow.

Elara blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and polite concern. The expression of someone watching an unexpected plot twist in what they thought was a straightforward conversation.

And then, from my left—because fate enjoys comedic timing and has a particular fondness for the rule of three—I felt the faintest tickle of honey-scented perfume and a voice like cool silk whisper against my ear.

"I believe what she means," Seraphina said, "is stop seducing."

I turned, only to find her trying to pry Rachel off me with the sort of refined effort that somehow still looked like a diplomatic performance. No raised voices. No hair-pulling. Just the gentle insistence of a quiet war waged with poise. Centuries of royal breeding had apparently perfected the art of conflict resolution that looked, to outside observers, like a cordial ballet.

'I don't know how princesses do this,' I thought. Even when they were fighting over you, they managed to make it look like a royal waltz. A choreographed disagreement where every movement was precise, every word calibrated, and the daggers remained firmly metaphorical and ornately decorated.

I stood there, caught between one girl hugging me like a life-sized teddy bear, another attempting a noble intervention with the grace of someone disarming a bomb while wearing formal evening wear, and Elara watching the whole scene like someone who'd just accidentally tuned into a reality show on fast-forward.

The festival grounds stretched around us, buzzing with students from academies across the continent. Banners fluttered, enchanted lanterns hovered, and approximately seventy-six different varieties of street food perfumed the air with competing aromas. Somewhere, a brass band was enthusiastically murdering what might have once been classical music before it met their particular interpretation.

And here we were, creating our own little drama in the middle of it all.

Welcome to the Inter-Academy Festival. Apparently, my fanbase had a dress code. And a remarkably poor sense of timing.