The Extra is a Genius!?

The camp buzzed before dawn.

Metal clanked. Hooves struck soft earth. Barked orders mingled with the rhythm of ropes being tightened and canvas stretched taut.

The Thornes’ hunting grounds had become a military camp overnight—disciplined, orderly, and humming with anticipation.

From his personal tent near the center of the compound, Noel stepped out dressed simply in dark trousers and a tailored gray shirt, the morning breeze tugging gently at the loose ends of his sleeves. Revenant Fang hung comfortably at his side, as always.

He sipped a mug of steaming black tea—bitter and strong—while watching a line of servants brush down the carriages and raise the banners bearing the silver thorns of his house.

"Looks like everyone’s pretending to be competent this morning," he muttered under his breath, watching a servant nearly trip while hoisting a crate.

"Master Noel," a voice called behind him.

It was Serina, his second mother, clad in a long dark robe and flanked by two maids. "Your father requests the family to assemble before the arrival of the guests. We’re to greet them formally."

"Got it."

He set down the cup and began walking toward the front pavilion, where the rest of the Thorne family was already starting to gather.

Lord Albrecht stood like a statue at the head of the group, arms crossed behind his back, flanked by Kael, Damon, Livia, and Sylvette.

As Noel approached, the patriarch’s voice boomed, low and absolute. "Today is not a day to shame this house."

His eyes swept across his children, hard as ever.

"You will speak with grace, act with restraint, and present yourselves as heirs to a house worthy of the name Thorne."

Kael smirked lazily. Damon rolled his shoulders. Livia said nothing, arms crossed. Sylvette looked off toward the tents, expression unreadable.

Noel simply nodded. "Understood."

Lord Albrecht met his eyes for a brief second, then looked away—already onto the next task.

From the distance, the faint thunder of hooves could be heard.

The noble families were arriving.

By mid-morning, the tree-lined path leading into the Thorne-claimed section of the forest had transformed into a parade route.

One by one, carriages adorned with noble crests and fluttering banners rolled into view. Guards clad in polished armor flanked them, and even the horses seemed aware they were carrying royalty. Velvet-lined transports glided over the earth as if the ground itself bent for nobility.

Noel stood with the rest of his family beneath a white pavilion trimmed with silver, erected to receive guests with dignity. His arms were crossed, his expression neutral. The others stood straighter, their posture practiced and stiff.

The first carriage to arrive bore the insignia of House De Nivaria—a silver snowflake pierced by a sword.

From it stepped Lord Edric De Nivaria, tall and rigid, his white-blond hair neatly combed back. He wore a long navy cloak lined with fur, his sharp eyes scanning the Thorne family without visible emotion.

Right behind him was Clara, radiant and dressed in a pale blue coat that matched her eyes. As soon as her feet touched the ground, her gaze darted through the line.

And then—she saw him.

"Noel!"

She broke formation, walking quickly toward him.

Noel blinked. "Clara."

"You’re okay?" she asked, stopping just short of grabbing his arms. "I heard you were in the infirmary for days. We didn’t get to see you after... after everything."

He gave a faint shrug. "Still alive. Guess that counts."

She frowned. "Don’t brush it off like that. We were worried."

He softened just slightly. "...Thanks."

Behind her, Lord Edric cleared his throat.

Clara sighed and turned. "Right, formal greetings."

She gave him a quick wink before retreating to her father’s side, regaining her composure.

Then came House Lestaria.

Their crest—a silver bow drawn across a star—gleamed on the side of a pristine white carriage.

Lady Valeria von Lestaria descended first, regal and poised, her long silver-blonde hair woven into a braid that gleamed in the sunlight. Then, stepping down gracefully, came Elena.

Dressed in a flowing forest-green cloak with silver detailing, she looked every bit the elven noble. Her eyes locked onto Noel the moment she stepped down.

She approached calmly, eyes scanning him from head to toe—not with judgment, but quiet concern.

"I’m glad you recovered," she said softly. "There were... many rumors."

Noel nodded. "Nothing too dramatic. Just needed time."

"Still. I’m glad you’re alright."

He gave her a small nod in return. "You too."

A subtle smile touched her lips before she returned to her family’s side.

More houses followed. Twelve in total.

Each head of household was greeted formally by Lord Albrecht Thorne, who stood like a statue of iron beside the entrance to the main pavilion. The guests were then escorted to the circular meeting hall where the real politics would begin.

Noel didn’t try to stand out. He knew how these things worked. He was present, polite, and strategically forgettable.

His brothers, meanwhile, were all smiles and charm—Kael charming daughters of lesser houses, Damon slapping backs and exchanging smirks with noble sons.

Noel watched it all with a detached kind of amusement.

’Everyone’s playing their part... guess I’ll keep playing mine.’

As the wave of formal greetings began to settle, and the nobles dispersed toward their respective tents or joined the seated gathering beneath the central pavilion, the rigid atmosphere loosened slightly.

Noel, now standing to the side beneath a nearby tree, pulled at the collar of his dark overcoat. The sunlight filtering through the canopy above dappled his face with fleeting shadows. He let out a quiet breath, finally enjoying a moment where no one was trying to impress anyone.

Then he heard footsteps—lighter, quicker, familiar.

"Noel!"

He turned.

Marcus strode toward him, still dressed in traveling gear—practical brown leather over a dark tunic. He wasn’t dressed for ceremony, and he wasn’t part of the initial greetings, either. Servants rarely were.

But the smile on his face was genuine.

"Damn, it’s good to see you."

Noel gave a small nod, eyes narrowing faintly. "Didn’t expect you here so fast."

"We arrived early," Marcus said, stopping beside him. "Lady Clara’s family always likes to be punctual. And formal. Way too formal."

"Tell me about it," Noel muttered under his breath.

Marcus chuckled, then his expression shifted, more serious. "Hey. They told us what you did. What happened during the attack. The professors, the higher-ups—they said your actions helped minimize the damage."

Noel shrugged, deflecting. "I just did what I had to."

"Still," Marcus said, voice steady. "You saved lives. I know you don’t care for the praise, but... thanks. For what you did."

Noel looked away, uncomfortable under the sincerity. "Wasn’t for them."

"I figured," Marcus said with a half-smile. "Doesn’t change the fact that it mattered."

There was a brief pause between them, just long enough for a breeze to sweep by and ruffle the tree branches above.

Then Marcus added, "You joining the welcome dinner tonight?"

Noel shook his head. "Probably not. Too much small talk, not enough food."

Marcus laughed. "Same. I’ll sneak out early if I can."

The main pavilion—an enormous, richly adorned tent near the center of the camp—had been arranged for the gathering of heads of houses. Velvet banners bearing family crests lined the interior. Long oak tables were set with crystal pitchers, fine glassware, and silver dishes, though for now, no food had been served. This was a place for politics first, pleasantries later.

Lord Albrecht Thorne stood near the central table, arms crossed behind his back, speaking in measured tones to a silver-haired woman wearing deep emerald robes—Lady Ilvanna von Lestaria, matriarch of House Lestaria and Elena’s grandmother. Her expression was calm and dignified, though her eyes never stopped analyzing.

To their side, Lord Gaius De Nivaria, tall and broad with a constant air of calculation, engaged in conversation with a younger noblewoman—Lady Virelle of House Marquin, another influential noble house from the eastern provinces.

All around them, nobles mingled, exchanged veiled compliments, and assessed one another with practiced smiles.

Albrecht’s voice remained composed, but firm. "We hope to uphold the standards expected of a host family. The Beastwood is a harsh judge—those unprepared will show their weakness soon enough."

Lady Ilvanna nodded slowly. "And those who survive it will no longer be mere heirs, but proof of legacy."

Gaius interjected with a grin. "Assuming they survive."

A dry chuckle passed among a few nearby nobles. Subtle tension crackled under the formality—each family here vying for power, influence, or at least not to fall behind. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com

Further down the table, Kael and Damon Thorne had found their own group of young nobles to charm and compete with—trading boasts of swordsmanship, magical feats, and previous accomplishments. Kael spoke effortlessly, his charm masking the cold ambition behind every word. Damon laughed loudly, talking of broken training dummies and sparring victories.

They were building alliances.

Noel, meanwhile, was nowhere in sight.

A few nobles asked about him—after all, the boy had made waves after the attack. Albrecht simply answered with a neutral tone, "He’ll be ready."

No one questioned it. Yet.

Noel stood on the outer edge of the noble encampment, arms folded, his expression unreadable. From where he stood, he had a perfect line of sight into the main pavilion. He watched the flow of noble greetings, political maneuvering, and casual arrogance with the same quiet disinterest he’d always held for these kinds of games.

’Same as in the book... masks, smiles, and everyone pretending not to want each other’s throats.’

Kael and Damon were laughing with a few heirs from smaller houses—one of them even tried flexing his bicep like that counted as proof of valor. It made Noel’s eye twitch slightly.

A soft voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Not fond of gatherings?"

He turned. Elena von Lestaria stood just beside him, posture relaxed but regal even in her casual stance. Today, she wore a tailored hunting jacket of silver and white, her hair braided neatly down her back, the silver pendant still at her throat.

"You could say that," Noel replied. "Too much talking"

She smiled faintly. "You haven’t changed much."

"Well, it hasn’t past much time, and something like that cant change me."

They stood in silence for a moment. From the pavilion, laughter rang out as more guests arrived.

Elena tilted her head toward the crowd. "I heard you were hospitalized after the attack. We... didn’t know much else."

"I’m fine," Noel said simply. "Didn’t really want visitors."

"But people were worried," she said softly, not accusing—just honest.

Noel’s eyes flicked to her briefly, then back to the crowd. "I appreciate it. But I prefer to recover quietly."

Elena nodded, as if she expected that answer. "Still... I’m glad you’re alright. You did more than most that night. Some of us owe you for that."

Noel gave a half-shrug. "Wasn’t expecting a thank-you. Just wanted to make sure fewer people died."

A pause.

Then, surprisingly, Elena chuckled. "You know, you’re not very good at accepting gratitude."

"I’m not very good at pretending to be something I’m not."

She smiled, and this time, it reached her eyes. "I wish I could do that to."

The sun had started its descent by the time Noel made his way back to the Thorne encampment. The once-golden light had cooled to amber, casting long shadows across the soft grass and the canvas tents lined like soldiers in formation.

Evening torches had already been lit by the servants, the flames flickering in crystal holders designed to keep the wind out. From the distance, laughter and the muted clink of goblets still echoed from the central pavilion, where most nobles remained to prolong their political dances.

Noel ignored all of it.

He stepped past the sentries guarding the Thorne tent complex, nodded briefly to the one who opened the flap for him, and entered his assigned quarters.

There were no frills, no decorations. Just the essentials: a simple desk, a clean bedroll, a stand for his sword, and a washbasin in the corner.

He shrugged off his coat and let it fall onto the nearby chair. Revenant Fang slid easily into its rack, the blade still clean—though he wasn’t sure how long that would last once the hunt began.

Noel sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on the tent wall as it billowed gently with the breeze.

’Tomorrow they’ll explain the rules. How long we’ll be out there, how the scoring works... all that crap.’

He ran a hand through his hair, loosening the tight comb he’d forced into place that morning.

’Doesn’t matter. I already know how this ends.’

At least—he used to.

But now?

Now he was the unknown.

The variable.

The reason why this story didn’t follow the script anymore.

He lay back on the bed, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling fabric as it shifted gently with the wind.

’Doesn’t matter if the lines are different... I just need to keep reading between them.’

With that thought, his eyes closed.

And the camp outside slowly settled into silence, preparing for the day to come.