I'm an Extra, so What?-Chapter 88: Fighter Selection Trial (2)

"You asked for it!"

The young woman activated her skill—

[Burst Step]

A blast of explosive energy surged into her legs, igniting her muscles with raw, compressed force.

In the blink of an eye, she launched forward.

With each beat of her heart, her speed climbed, her frame becoming a blur as she closed the distance between them with frightening intensity.

But Charlotte was ready.

Just as the woman raised her sword overhead for a strike—

Charlotte's body twisted smoothly. "Miss!"

With a swift flick of her wrist, she slammed the back of her hand into the hilt.

The woman gasped. "What the—!?"

Thrown off balance, she stumbled backward a few steps, her grip faltering as she quickly regained control of her weapon.

Charlotte didn't follow up right away.

Instead, she started hopping lightly from foot to foot, keeping her stance fluid and loose, adrenaline flooding her system.

Her breathing stayed steady, her heartbeat calm.

'Worst case scenario, I use a skill… but for now, I need to be conservative,' Charlotte thought, eyes narrowing in focus.

Her attention was razor-sharp—

Locked entirely on the woman's arms, shoulders, and sword.

The slightest twitch could reveal the next attack.

And then it came.

"[Accelerated Assault]!" the woman called out.

The skill activated instantly.

Her pupils dilated.

Her breathing deepened.

Every movement grew sharper.

She entered a hyper-focused state—

Her swordplay became faster, tighter, and exponentially more dangerous.

She unleashed a flurry of slashes, each one faster than the last.

"…" But Charlotte danced around them.

With practiced instinct and sharp reflexes, she sidestepped and weaved, her movements minimal but effective.

Each time, her hand darted out and struck the sword's hilt—

Not enough to disarm, but enough to disrupt, sending each slash slightly off course.

"Damn!" The woman began to falter, her feet slipping, her rhythm unraveling.

Yet even Charlotte knew this couldn't last forever.

The barrage was growing heavier, her wrists beginning to feel the weight of each impact.

One strike finally broke through—

[Ding! You took damage! HP: 13 / 14!]

Scraping across Charlotte's arm, tearing a strip of her sleeve and drawing a thin red line of blood across her skin.

Her expression didn't change.

In that moment, she made her move.

With a low sweep, she kicked the woman's legs out from beneath her, sending her crashing down onto her backside with a grunt of surprise.

Before the woman could react—

Charlotte stepped forward and struck again—smacking the sword from her grasp.

The weapon clattered across the stone and landed a few feet away with a heavy thud.

"Shit!" The woman's eyes flicked toward it, then back forward.

She scrambled to her feet, fists raised now in a defensive stance, breath sharp and uneven.

Charlotte didn't wait.

She lunged forward and threw a straight punch.

It landed against the woman's forearms with a solid thunk.

Another punch—

Blocked.

And another.

Each time, the woman absorbed the blows, her guard holding fast.

Until one slipped through.

Charlotte's fist slammed into her opponent's stomach.

"Gah—!"

Saliva flew from the woman's lips as her eyes widened in shock.

Her arms dropped for just a second.

That was all Charlotte needed.

Her next punch drove straight into the woman's nose with brutal force.

Blood erupted, the sound of bone cracking faint but unmistakable.

The woman staggered, both hands flying to her face—

Too late.

Charlotte's final blow was an uppercut.

It lifted the woman off her feet.

For a moment, she hung suspended in the air before crashing backward to the ground.

She didn't get up.

Unconscious, blood trickling from her nose and mouth, she lay sprawled—

Defeated.

Charlotte exhaled softly and cracked her knuckles.

"Well… That was kind of fun, I guess."

On the other side of town—

Arthur stood calmly in the center of a broken courtyard, surrounded by a half-circle of armed men.

Each of them wore the same smug expression, their laughter echoing off the cracked stone walls.

"Are you sure you're here to fight?"

"Looks like you're just here to be a punching bag."

"Is that a practice sword, or are you just really bad at picking weapons?"

"C'mon, did your arms get too tired? Or are you just scared?"

The taunts came like arrows—pointless, but ceaseless.

Nike stood a short distance away, watching with growing concern.

She glanced at her childhood friend.

'Why isn't he saying anything? This cold version of him… it's terrifying.'

"…" Arthur's expression didn't change.

His rapier was lowered at his side.

Then, as the last joke was tossed into the air, he finally spoke:

"Are you done talking?"

His voice was quiet. Flat. Emotionless.

And yet—

It was a death sentence.

One of the men snorted and stepped forward. "Alright, we'll kick your ass now—"

Crack!

Before the man could finish—

Arthur moved.

In a blur of speed and precision—

Arthur's foot slammed into the man's stomach with the full weight of his body behind it.

The man's eyes bulged as he was launched backward, crashing into a pile of crates and coughing blood.

The group froze.

"What the—?!"

But Arthur was already in motion.

His rapier danced—thin, fast, and merciless.

He closed the gap with the next man, his blade slashing across a thigh with surgical precision.

"Ahhh!" The man screamed, crumpling as he clutched his bleeding leg, his sword forgotten.

"Shit, get him!" one of the others yelled, finally snapping out of the daze.

They raised their blades in panic, spreading out, trying to box him in.

"Die, fucker!"

The closest man lunged forward in desperation.

Arthur didn't even glance at him.

He stepped to the side and swung his rapier backward.

The blade sang through the air and met flesh.

Shunk!

The man screamed.

His sword hit the ground first—

Followed by his severed hand.

Blood spurted in violent bursts as he dropped to his knees, clutching the stump.

"What the fuck! My hand! My—!"

But there was no time for pity.

Panic swept through the rest of the group.

They activated their skills in frantic succession:

[Last Stand]

[Stand Behind Me]

[Warding Grip]

Protective auras flared to life—golden, blue, red. fгeewebnovёl.com

But Arthur didn't slow down.

He walked toward them—not rushed.

Nike watched, frozen in place, eyes wide.

'Why is his personality shifting so much? First he was just, then suddenly lustful… and now he's cold? What in the world is going on?'