The Extra is a Genius!?

The midday sun filtered through thin clouds, casting golden light over the grand pavilion set at the center of the camp. The main tent—larger and more luxurious than the rest—had been rearranged to accommodate the gathering of all noble families. Velvet banners bearing each family crest hung from the tall poles that formed the circular structure, and the scent of polished wood and expensive parchment lingered in the air.

One by one, the heads of noble houses entered the tent, accompanied by their heirs. Lords, ladies, and future successors took their assigned seats, all arranged according to their family’s prestige. Quiet murmurs filled the space—whispers of alliances, rivalries, and expectations.

The Thorne family sat close to the front, as tradition demanded from the host family. Lord Albrecht Thorne stood at the center of the room, arms behind his back, dressed in a deep black coat lined with crimson and gold.

His gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on each house. The air quieted.

"I thank you all for answering the call," he began, his voice firm and crisp. "As is tradition, we host this year’s Hunt to honor strength, discipline, and legacy."

Noel stood at his father’s right, hands clasped behind his back. He said nothing, his eyes drifting across the sea of heirs seated before them. Familiar faces stood out—Elena von Lestaria, calm and proud; Clara De Nivaria, seated next to her older brother; others he didn’t recognize, each evaluating the competition silently.

From the sidelines, armed guards stood like statues, observing but not intervening.

Lord Albrecht continued:

"This event is not simply a competition. It is an assessment—of the future. Your performance will speak louder than any noble name you carry. Houses have risen and fallen on less."

He paused again.

"Tomorrow, the Hunt begins."

The words settled into the crowd like a thunderclap.

’Here we go,’ Noel thought, shoulders tightening slightly.

Beside him, Kael leaned back in his seat with a faint smirk. Damon, further down, crossed his arms with a scoff, as if the speech bored him.

Across the way, Elena sat with perfect posture, her expression unreadable. But her eyes met Noel’s for the briefest of seconds.

Just long enough for him to wonder what she was thinking.

As the air in the pavilion settled, a silver-haired woman stood. Her presence commanded immediate attention—Lady Erielle von Lestaria, matriarch of House Lestaria. Regal and composed, her voice rang clear and deliberate.

"Each house may field up to three participants. The goal is simple in structure, but demanding in execution: hunt within the designated perimeter and accumulate points over the course of seven days."

Gasps rippled through some of the younger heirs.

She continued, unmoved.

"You will be on your own. No external assistance. No supply drops. You must secure your own food, water, and shelter during the duration of the hunt. This is not merely a contest of strength—but of endurance and survival."

Several heirs glanced nervously at one another.

Then, rising from the opposite end of the table, Lord Darius De Nivaria added:

"Monsters have been carefully selected. All are of the Novice Core Rank, aligned to your current level. However, their internal threat tier varies."

He raised three fingers.

"Common – 1 point.

Rare – 3 points.

Elite – 10 points."

This time, the room went completely silent.

"Participants will wear a mana-linked armband," said Lady Mirelle Thorne, her tone icy as ever. "Should your life be in imminent danger, it will activate a shielding spell and extract you from the field. But—"

She allowed the silence to linger.

"That also means disqualification."

"You may strategize as you like. Betrayal, sabotage, do whatever you need to win."

That last word landed like a stone.

Every heir straightened in their seat.

Noel remained still, lips tight in thought.

’Seven days of chaos. No help. Everyone is competing. Some are waiting to backstab you the second you slip. Sounds like my kind of party.’

Back in his assigned tent, Noel sat on the edge of a travel cot, gaze fixed on the blade resting across his knees.

Revenant Fang. Polished. Silent. Ready.

Noel’s thumb brushed along the edge of the scabbard.

"So, anything goes, huh?"

"Sabotage, backstabbing, baiting your enemies into Elite beast dens—hell, I’d probably give points for creativity."

He let out a low breath, adjusting the strap that held his sheath across his back. The blade would ride at a slight angle—quick draw ready. Just how he liked it.

He’d memorized what he could from the maps.

The designated hunting zone covered several kilometers of dense forest. Judging by the terrain they’d passed to get here, Noel expected massive trees, uneven ground, and plenty of natural water sources—if you knew where to look.

And he planned to.

"First thing—go deep. Get far away from everyone else while they’re still figuring out how to piss without getting jumped."

He stood, testing the balance of the sword on his back.

The rules allowed no food. No water. No tools. Just one weapon.

Noel cracked his neck.

"Fine by me. All I need is this blade and a couple of quiet days to stack points while the rest run around like headless chickens."

He knelt by the corner of the tent and pulled open a small travel pouch. Inside were some wrapped bandages, flint for fire-starting, and a single crystal core meant to recharge mana recovery slowly over time.

It was basic survival gear—nothing game-breaking. But it would do.

"There’ll be a few water sources. There has to be. No way they’d drop noble kids into the wild without that."

"Unless they’re feeling especially bold this year."

A smirk tugged at his mouth.

"Damn. I’m actually looking forward to this."

He slid his sword into its harness, stepped outside, and looked toward the treeline.

The distant wind rustled the leaves. The scent of moss and bark was thick on the air. Somewhere, a beast let out a distant howl.

The competition would begin at dawn.

And Noel?

He planned to vanish before most of them even packed their shit.

Under the canvas shade of their family’s pavilion, Marcus sat cross-legged on the ground, tightening the straps on his leather bracers.

Across from him, Clara de Nivaria adjusted the fastenings of her hunting coat, her dark hair tied in a practical braid and her blue eyes focused as she checked her equipment.

"Everything ready?" Marcus asked, glancing up. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

"Almost," Clara replied, tugging at her boots. "Not that it matters if we’re not smart about it."

Marcus gave a half-smile. "So we’re doing this together, then?"

Clara looked at him like the answer was obvious.

"Of course. We’ve trained together since before the academy. We know each other’s tempo."

She paused. "We just need one more."

Marcus blinked. "One more?"

"Elena. She’s the top student in theory and holds her own in practicals. With her, we’d cover every angle."

Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. "Not sure she’s the team-up type..."

A few minutes later, the two of them approached Elena von Lestaria, who was tightening the grip on her twin shortblades. Her posture was elegant but tense—focused.

"Hey, Elena," Marcus greeted. "We were wondering—"

"No," Elena said immediately, not even looking up.

Clara raised a brow. "You don’t even know what we’re asking."

"You want to form a team. I’m flattered. But I can’t."

She finally looked at them, her voice even. "I have to come out on top."

Marcus frowned. "You don’t have to prove anything—"

"Yes, I do."

Elena turned away. "Good luck out there. Just... don’t get in my way."

The conversation left a subtle tension between them as she walked off, heading toward the equipment tent alone.

Clara sighed. "I guess it’s just us two, then."

Marcus hesitated. "Not necessarily."

He turned his eyes across the camp, where a lone figure stood near the treeline, adjusting a black sword over his shoulder.

Noel.

"You want him?" Clara asked, arms folded. "He’s... unpredictable."

Marcus grinned faintly. "Exactly. That’s what we need."

Marcus crossed the clearing with Clara at his side, making his way toward the treeline where Noel stood alone. His black sword, Revenant Fang, rested casually on his back, and his eyes were fixed on the dense woods ahead—calculating, distant.

He didn’t turn around when they approached.

"Noel," Marcus called out.

A beat. Then Noel finally glanced over his shoulder.

"You two look like you’re about to ask something I’ll regret hearing."

Clara folded her arms. "We want to team up. The rules allow it. With you, we’d have a better shot at dealing with anything unexpected."

Noel turned fully now, his expression unreadable.

"You want me in your hunting party?"

Marcus nodded once. "Yeah. You’re fast. Sharp. And, well... you’re not afraid to do what needs to be done."

Noel stared at him for a moment, then let out a quiet snort.

"Tempting. But I’ll pass."

Clara frowned. "Why?"

"Because I already have a plan," Noel said, voice low and resolute. "And it doesn’t involve sticking together with anyone."

Marcus blinked. "You’re going solo?"

"That’s right. I work better alone." He shifted the strap of his sword across his shoulder. "Less noise and fewer surprises, you see."

Clara’s frown deepened. "Wow. That’s a charming way of saying ’no thanks.’"

Noel shrugged. "Didn’t say I was here to make friends."

Marcus exhaled slowly. "Still the same old Noel, huh?"

A brief silence followed.

"Good luck," Marcus said at last, extending a hand.

Noel looked at it. Then, after a short pause, shook it firmly.

"You too."

Clara gave him a nod that was half irritation, half reluctant respect.

As the two turned to walk away, Noel returned his gaze to the treeline.

’Solo’s the only way I’ll stay ahead of this damn story...’