The Extra's Rise-Chapter 312: Inter-Academy Festival (4)

Rachel and Seraphina were still delicately arguing, if one could call a cold war with flowery words and passive-aggressive smiles an argument. Meanwhile, Elara stood quietly beside me, her violet eyes flicking between the Saintess and the princess of Mount Hua like someone watching two cats hiss at each other on a velvet cushion.

Then her gaze met mine, and her mouth formed a soft little "O"—the international symbol for 'ah, I see what kind of mess this is'. She raised her hand to cover her lips in a gesture halfway between amusement and polite alarm.

"Well," she said gently, "it seems you're… busy, Arthur. I'll go now."

She drifted past me like a particularly well-mannered breeze.

"Finally," Rachel muttered, the words not even pretending to be charitable. "I wondered how long she'd cling to you."

"She wasn't clinging, Rach," I said as diplomatically as possible while staring at the Saintess who was now pouting like she'd just been told Christmas was cancelled.

"Too much," Seraphina murmured, folding her arms in judgement. Both girls turned to me, their stares boring into my soul like I was a particularly confusing tax form.

And then, like a rom-com missile with lipstick guidance, Cecilia arrived.

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"Arthur~" she cooed, weaving her arms around my right arm like it was her personal property—and also possibly her emotional support limb. "I missed you."

"Behave yourself," Rachel snapped, eyes narrowing.

"Hah?" Cecilia's tone sharpened like a stilettos heel, "Why am I hearing that from you, oh horny Saintess?"

Rachel and Cecilia locked eyes, the air between them practically crackling with passive-aggressive divinity.

Then Seraphina, subtle as a snowfall, slid her hand into the mix. She took my other arm and gently tugged, pulling me slightly toward her with a grace so serene it was suspicious.

"Arthur," she leaned in, her breath brushing my ear like she was auditioning for the role of Temptation Incarnate. Her voice was soft, warm and dangerously sweet—like sugar laced with moonlight.

"We have Tactical Simulation together," she murmured, her fingers lacing with mine. Delicate. Elegant. Impossibly sure.

"We do," I nodded, mostly because my brain had short-circuited somewhere between 'Arthur' and 'ear whispering.'

Her lips curled up, not a smirk nor a grin, but something far more lethal—a quiet, self-assured smile. "I want you all to myself."

My lungs decided now was a good time to forget how to function. Her scent—cool, like snow and silver tea—wrapped around me as I tried to remember what oxygen was for.

Then, from beyond the swarm of beauty and spiritual intimidation, a hand reached out with something small and blessedly normal.

"Arthur, have this," Rose said.

A cup.

Liquid.

Sanity.

I took it gratefully and drank.

"What is it?" Rachel asked, blinking as her attention finally slid off Cecilia's face like a cat realising the laser pointer had vanished.

"Apple cider," I replied.

"Thanks, Rose."

She just smiled.

At least one of them was content with saving my life instead of claiming it.

Across the hall, my eyes snagged on something—someone—sharper than most things ought to be. Like a nail sticking out of a polished floorboard, except this nail could cut through solid myth.

A group of students stood at ease, wrapped in the prestigious colours of Starcrest Academy. They had that casual elegance only people raised on cultivation manuals and family legacies could possess. But even in that lot, three figures stood apart—like punctuation marks in an otherwise average sentence.

The first was Aria Gu, fire-child of the Gu family, whose flames were apparently passed down like family heirlooms and stomach ulcers. Her aura flickered around her, warm and impatient, the kind of person who probably thought "let's burn it down" was a reasonable opening argument in a debate.

Next to her was Ava Peng, fists clenched loosely, as though even gravity wasn't entirely sure it wanted to challenge her. The Peng family were second only to the Kagu family in unarmed combat, and Ava looked like she could shatter a wall or a philosophical argument with equal ease.

And then there was Seol-ah Moyong.

She didn't stand out.

She pressed in.

Her presence wasn't loud or showy. It was heavy—like standing too close to the edge of a mountain cliff and realising the wind's gone quiet. Her hair spilled like ink down her back, smooth and deliberate. Her golden eyes shimmered, not like stars, but like coins dropped into a wishing well—deep, bright, and far too ancient for comfort.

The Moyong family's sword arts were legendary, and Seol-ah was their prodigy. No—prodigy implied she might one day be great. She already was. The world had her marked as future number two after Jack was revealed to be the Third Calamity, a statement so ludicrously specific it carried the weight of prophecy. Because number one? That was Lucifer Windward. Of course.

Readers of Saga of the Divine Swordsman had dubbed her the "female Lucifer" for a reason. She was cold steel in a room full of glowing embers. Fair, unfair—it didn't matter. She was going to carve her way through the ranks with a smile on her face and a sword in her hand.

And I… might have been staring.

"You're looking at another girl," Cecilia's voice chimed sweetly beside me, like a songbird holding a kitchen knife.

I blinked.

Rachel was on my other side, smiling.

Smiling.

Except her eyes weren't smiling. They were studying me the way an assassin studies the fastest route to the spine.

"I was just… observing talent," I said quickly, adjusting my collar like it might shield me from divine retribution.

Rachel's smile deepened in the way that implied several spiritual wars had been declared simultaneously.

Yes.

I may have, once again, professionally and catastrophically messed up.

______________________________________________________________________________

The air in the headmaster's office was unusually still, which was remarkable given that the room had just tried to rip itself into a dozen glittering dimensions under Eva's will. Now, all of that was gone—like a storm that had politely cleaned up after itself.

"I'm surprised to see you ask for an invitation so shamelessly," Eva said, her voice smooth as ice and twice as cold. Her navy-blue hair was pinned in an immaculate coil, every strand declaring war against disorder. Her violet eyes, however, were anything but composed. They gleamed like stars about to go supernova.

Across from her, hands in his pockets, stood Magnus Draykar, the Martial King himself. Looking like he'd just wandered in from a stroll and hadn't noticed the magical apocalypse that had tried to occur around him.

"How long has it been again?" Eva asked, tone arid enough to parch a desert.

"Eleven years, I believe," Magnus replied with a smile that could outshine a smug sun. "You were the first one who lost to me, after all."

"I was," Eva said, her voice flatter than a politician's promise. Then her eyes narrowed, and the temperature of the room plummeted. "But really, what brings the Martial King to my office? Seeking nostalgia? Or just checking if your legacy still matters?"

There was a sound—no, a sensation—like reality holding its breath.

Then space fractured, quietly.

Light spilled out of nowhere and everywhere at once. Lances of Purelight, thousands of them, hovered mid-air, poised like they were waiting for someone to flinch. They didn't buzz or hum. That would have been too dramatic. They simply existed—impossibly precise, as if the universe had decided that this man needed to be politely annihilated.

Magnus didn't blink. Didn't budge. He just stood there, arms still lazily at his sides, as though surrounded by death was his usual Thursday afternoon.

"You always were a bit theatrical," he said mildly. "Still, as expected from the world's strongest light mage. You are... formidable."

Eva didn't answer. Her eyes were still calculating angles.

"But," Magnus added with a tilt of his head, "you haven't improved."

The words were casual. Almost kind. Like telling someone their shoelace was untied—except in this case, the shoelace was her entire career.

Eva's brow twitched.

"You think that just because I couldn't beat you back then," she said slowly, "and you've gotten stronger while I—"

"Haven't," Magnus interrupted gently. "Not really. Not in the way that matters."

Eva exhaled sharply, and with it, the light dissolved. The Purelight lances vanished, as though they had simply changed their minds about existence.

"I just needed to vent," she muttered.

"I do recommend yoga," Magnus offered. "Or a punching bag. Maybe a moon to kick."

Eva rolled her eyes.

Magnus took a few leisurely steps forward, his expression softening. "But no, I'm not here to flex. I'm here to observe."

"Observe what?"

"The future," he said. "I've watched enough battles on screens, read enough reports written by the dull. This time, I want to see them with my own eyes. The talent. The ones who'll stand at the summit when we're gone."

Eva gave him a long look, as if weighing whether he meant it or just liked the sound of his own voice.

Then, finally, she sat back in her chair and waved one hand dismissively. "Fine. Stay. Just don't break anyone."

"No promises," Magnus smiled. "But I'll try to be civil."

"That would be new," Eva muttered, already regretting everything.