The Extra is a Genius!?

The convoy had been on the road for hours.

The air grew colder as they climbed into higher terrain, the forest thickening on either side. Moss-covered rocks dotted the ground like scattered teeth, and mist began to settle low across the roots of gnarled trees. The path was narrowing, more winding than before, but the carriages pressed on without delay.

Noel rested his chin against his knuckles, watching the canopy pass overhead through the small carriage window. It was a strange feeling, leaving the Thorne estate not for school, but for something entirely new. Different from the scripted life of the academy.

Here, the stage was wilder. Less predictable.

’This is where it begins. The next scenario.’

’The Beast Hunt.’

In the novel, it had been a tense arc filled with alliances, betrayals, and quiet power plays between noble houses. Elena von Lestaria’s house had secured victory, and Marcus had risen in status by placing second with Clara’s support.

And now?

And Noel was a new piece on the board.

He leaned back. ’So far, nothing’s changed too drastically. No major deviations... yet.’

But the thought didn’t comfort him. If anything, it made him more wary. Too quiet always meant something was about to break.

Up front, the driver called a halt, and the convoy slowed.

"We’ll stop here for the midday break!" the call echoed from rider to rider.

The carriages began to pull into a clearing beside the road, wide enough to set up a temporary rest point. Servants moved efficiently, unpacking food and water, while guards kept their hands near their hilts.

Noel stepped out onto the packed dirt, stretching his back with a quiet grunt. Behind him, Kael was already out, fixing his gloves. Damon came last, muttering something under his breath and rubbing his neck.

Not far off, the rest of the family’s carriages were pulling in. He could see Sylvette stepping out with slow grace, Livia behind her with a noble tilt to her chin, and both of their mothers not far behind.

Noel’s gaze drifted from them to the treeline. The woods stretched out in every direction — tall, silent, and waiting.

’Beastwood, huh.’

’Let’s see what you’ve got.’

While most of the others gathered near the supply wagons or sat at makeshift tables prepared by servants, Noel veered off slightly toward the edge of the clearing. He needed space.

And fresh air.

He crouched near a large tree, brushing his fingers against the earth. It was soft — recent rain, maybe — and the forest scent was sharp with pine and moss. A few birds chirped somewhere overhead, but otherwise, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

He stood, brushing off his hands, and turned just as a familiar voice cut through the clearing.

"Sneaking off already, little brother?"

Noel didn’t even need to look. That mocking lilt could only belong to Kael.

He turned his head slightly, watching both Kael and Damon stroll toward him with matching grins. They kept their distance, but not by much — just enough to make it seem like a casual chat and not what it really was.

A test. A flex of dominance.

"You know, most nobles mingle during family events," Damon added, stretching his arms behind his head. "You sitting out here by yourself kind of ruins the image."

"I’m not here to pose for paintings," Noel said without turning, his tone flat. "Let me know when there’s something worth doing."

Kael chuckled. "Spoken like a man who thinks too highly of himself. Those little duels back home really inflated your ego, huh?"

Noel’s gaze sharpened, just briefly.

"You mean the ones where I beat three of your men in a row?"

Damon took a step forward, fists tightening slightly. But Kael held out a hand to stop him, smirking all the while.

"Relax. It’s not time yet."

Noel narrowed his eyes. "Time for what?"

But Kael didn’t answer. He simply turned, clapping his brother on the back.

"Come on. We’re not wasting energy on him now. Save it for the real event."

Noel watched them go, jaw clenched.

He knew that tone. That look.

Something was coming.

And whatever it was, they were planning it together.

Still, he didn’t follow. He just looked toward the dark tree line again, eyes narrowing.

’I don’t like it.’

Noel made his way back to the center of the camp, where the supply wagons had been cracked open and servants moved like clockwork. Heavy reinforced crates, barrels of drinking water, sealed weapon containers—everything looked too calculated to be just a "hunt."

A large strategy table had been set up beneath a beige canopy. Around it, a handful of nobles murmured over floating maps etched with glowing runes. Boundaries flickered on the parchment—sectors of the Beastwood, clearly marked for each participating house.

He didn’t step into the conversation, just stood near the edge, letting his eyes sweep across the setup.

Then—

"Thorne."

He turned.

Sylvette was seated on a bench a few paces away, a cup of tea resting between her fingers. Her expression was unreadable, as always—delicate, doll-like features masking something sharp beneath.

"You’re not with the others?" he asked, casually stepping over and sitting across from her.

"Listening to Livia whine about being sold off in marriage? I’d rather eat glass." She sipped her tea. "This spot’s quieter. Less exhausting."

Noel smirked faintly.

"Fair."

She eyed him over the rim of her cup.

"You’re keeping your distance. Even now."

He shrugged.

"Not exactly invited to the family bonding sessions."

"Don’t mistake their silence for indifference," she said, setting the cup down. "They’re watching. Harder than ever."

’I’ve noticed.’

"Just don’t get comfortable. This place?" She glanced around the camp. "It doesn’t forgive mistakes."

Noel leaned back, studying her.

"That supposed to be advice?"

Sylvette’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"It’s supposed to be obvious." A pause. "You want a pat on the head or something?"

He smirked and stood.

"Appreciate the sisterly warmth."

As he turned, her voice came again—flat, cold.

"Don’t trust anyone."

He stopped.

"Even you?"

"Especially me."

A gust of wind swept through the trees, rustling canvas and armor alike.

Noel walked away without a word.

’Weird way to say "good luck," but I’ll take it.’

The sun dipped low, casting the Beastwood in a dark amber hue. Shadows grew longer, stretching like fingers across the moss-covered ground.

Noel stood near the edge of the camp, away from the flickering lanterns and the chatter around the fires.

He had taken off his coat, leaving him in his dark shirt and undershirt, sleeves rolled up. The sword—Revenant Fang—rested across his knees as he sat on a stump, sharpening it in slow, deliberate strokes.

The blade didn’t really need sharpening. It hummed faintly, as if alive, feeding on tension, danger, expectation. But the motion helped clear his head.

Behind him, the camp was alive—soldiers patrolling, servants dousing fires for the night, nobles inside their tents murmuring over strategy or family pride.

He could feel eyes on him from time to time. Some curious. Others... less friendly.

’Let them look.’

A twig snapped behind him. Noel didn’t move.

"Training after hours?"

It was Maren, the head of the Thorne guards. The veteran warrior stepped forward, his arms crossed over his chest, gaze sharp and evaluating.

"Just routine," Noel replied. "Helps me think."

Maren nodded once, walking around the stump to face him fully.

"You’re different than when you left. Quieter. Harder to read."

Noel stopped sharpening.

"Yeah, well. Dying once tends to do that to a guy."

Maren raised an eyebrow.

"Is that a joke?"

"Half of one."

A short silence stretched between them. The breeze picked up again, rustling the leaves in the tall trees beyond.

"We’ll move to the staging area at dawn," Maren finally said. "The other noble houses should arrive by midday. And then—"

"Three days of hunting," Noel finished. "I read the rules."

Maren watched him for a moment. Then—

"Watch your back. Especially with your brothers around."

Noel met his eyes.

"I always do."

And just like that, the man left, boots crunching quietly over the dirt.

Noel exhaled slowly. His gaze lifted toward the darkened sky, where faint stars blinked through cracks in the clouds.

Somewhere in those trees, something was waiting.

And his gut hadn’t stopped twisting since they arrived.

The sky was an inky blue now, dotted with stars that peeked through thin veils of cloud. A chill crept through the trees as night fully settled over the temporary Thorne camp nestled at the forest’s edge.

Despite the hour, the area bustled with activity.

Servants moved like coordinated ants—pitching tents, hammering down enchanted wardstones to mark the perimeter, and hauling crates of supplies off the final wagons. The scent of campfires and oiled leather filled the air.

A few guards patrolled already—some out of duty, others out of sheer nervous energy. The Beastwood loomed only a stone’s throw away, and while they were still outside the designated hunting grounds, its presence was impossible to ignore.

Noel stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, his eyes scanning the construction.

He could count at least fifteen tents already in place—large, reinforced canvas structures spaced in a half-moon pattern around the central clearing. Each one bore the Thorne crest, meant to house members of the main family and select retainers.

Behind them, smaller tents sprouted in neat rows. Those would be for guards, servants, and traveling staff.

There were easily over 150 people, possibly closer to 200 once the other noble houses arrived.

’This is a damn military operation,’ Noel thought, watching as a group of men carried over what looked like magically chilled crates of preserved food. ’Efficient, though. I’ll give them that.’

Torches floated mid-air, enchanted to maintain their position and glow. A barrier of low-saturation mana shimmered faintly at the edge of the woods—basic protection, but good enough to hold off a curious beast or two.

Somewhere near the command tent, Maren barked orders while cross-referencing a long checklist with another officer.

Noel inhaled slowly, letting the cold air settle into his lungs.

He could still feel the day’s training in his arms—dull aches, tight muscles—but it was the good kind of exhaustion. The kind that made him feel real.

He turned toward the campfire circle, where a few younger servants were trading stories and laughing. He didn’t join them.

Instead, he moved toward his own tent—larger than most, but still modest compared to the other main family lodgings.

He pulled back the flap, stepped inside, and let the canvas fall shut behind him.

’Tomorrow,’ he thought, unbuckling his sword. ’Tomorrow the guests arrive. Let’s hope no one’s stupid enough to make things interesting early.’

He extinguished the small lamp inside, lay down fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling of fabric.

Tonight, the forest watched them.

Tomorrow, it would test them.