The Extra is a Genius!?-Chapter 53: No Rest for the Ruthless

The lecture hall was warm.

Noel sat near the back, head propped on one hand, eyes half-lidded as Professor Lereus droned on about defensive mana structures in post-casting delay. The man’s voice was steady, clear... and hopelessly monotonous.

The candlelight from the side wall flickered just enough to blur the words on the board. It was enough.

Noel blinked slowly once... then again... and the next thing he knew, his head dipped forward.

Thunk.

A spark of mana exploded on the edge of his desk.

He jolted up instinctively—just in time to see a chalk shard fizzling into ash near his hand. A few students turned to glance at him. One or two snickered under their breath.

Professor Lereus didn’t stop talking, but he raised an eyebrow in Noel’s direction as he gestured lazily with his hand.

"Try not to die of boredom, Mister Thorne."

Noel straightened his back, feigning alertness.

"Yes, sir."

His voice was calm. Neutral.

Inside, though, he was screaming.

’Falling asleep in theory... nice. This is going well.’

He scribbled a meaningless line on his notes just to look busy, then went back to pretending he cared about shielding techniques.

Tonight, he’d be dodging claws and ripping flesh.

But for now, he was trapped under chalk and candlelight.

Later that day, the class transitioned into a practical lesson—Advanced Spell Weaving, previously handled by the late Caldus.

Now, it belonged to Professor Lereus.

He looked too polished. Hair neat. Movements clean. Robes perfectly pressed, no crest. His eyes—icy blue and just wrong—felt more like surveillance crystals than anything human.

Noel clocked the man’s presence the moment he entered.

’They are fast looking for replacements.’

He walked like nothing was off. Face blank. Inside, his mind was already tearing through possibilities.

The students were assigned individual dummies to practice enhanced mana constructs. It was busywork dressed as refinement.

Roberto stepped up beside him, fixing the bracer on his wrist.

"You good, man? You look like shit."

Noel didn’t glance at him.

"Thanks. I moisturize."

"Seriously though," Roberto muttered, voice low. "You look worse than when you got poisoned during Physical Conditioning."

"That was different. At least then I didn’t have to listen to mana theory while dying."

Roberto chuckled. "Well, if you drop dead here, I’m not dragging your body anywhere."

"You’d drop it halfway through the hall and pretend you never saw me."

"Damn right I would."

Noel extended his bracer and cast a simple mana stream toward the dummy.

It collapsed midway. Mana twisted, misaligned, and sparked into useless light.

’Neat. Can’t even hold a basic channel now.’

From across the hall, Lereus turned ever so slightly, watching with an unreadable expression.

Roberto leaned in. "Hey... seriously. You okay?"

"I’m peachy," Noel replied. "Running on spite, coffee, and three hours of disappointment. Living the dream."

Roberto blinked. "That was poetic."

"I try."

The session ended twenty minutes later, with most students cleaning up their conductors and stretching out sore hands.

Professor Lereus stood near the center of the room, offering occasional feedback as students approached him for comments or questions. His tone was even, his words clear—polished, professional.

But Noel noticed something.

Lereus smiled a little more when it was Marcus.

When it was Elena.

When it was Clara.

Even Garron, after detonating his dummy with raw force, got a nod and a dry joke.

Noel? Nothing. Not even a glance.

He sat on the bench near the corner, adjusting the bracer on his wrist and watching them all with half-lidded eyes.

’Right. Play nice with the shiny ones.’

He didn’t feel overlooked.

He preferred it that way.

Noel locked the door behind him and walked straight to the corner where he kept his gear.

He didn’t need much.

Just enough to kill something and make it back before sunrise.

He laid the basics on the bed—one small bag, a rolled cloak, field knife, a pair of short mana-dampening gloves, two minor restoratives.

No food. No shelter gear.

He wasn’t staying out.

’In and out. Fast.’

He checked the straps on his boots, reinforced the padding under his coat, and slipped the folded map into his inner pocket. He had every turn memorized.

He couldn’t afford to miss class.

Not now.

Not when eyes were already starting to drift toward him again.

If he was late, someone would notice.

If he looked too clean, someone would ask.

If he looked too hurt, someone would talk.

He reached for Revenant Fang, the hilt cool under his palm, and gave it one slow turn in his hand before sliding it across his back.

He checked the clock on the wall.

Four hours until dawn.

’Ten kill. Maybe twenty.’

’Then back before anyone knows I was gone.’

He threw on his cloak and slipped out the window without a sound.

The academy grounds were silent, wrapped in a deep, polished kind of quiet—the kind meant to feel safe.

Noel moved like a shadow through the garden rows, across the empty courtyard, and up the outer wall of the library.

He climbed efficiently, hands finding the grooves in stone like he’d done it a dozen times.

He didn’t stop to admire the view.

He vaulted the last section of roof, crossed the slope at a crouch, and reached the crest of the outer wall in seconds.

Above him: only stars.

Below him: open city, veiled in haze and lamplight.

He jumped.

Landed clean.

Then disappeared into the woods behind the academy’s perimeter like he was part of them.

No alarms.

No footsteps.

Just fading warmth on cold stone.

The tunnels beneath Valon no longer felt like a maze.

Noel moved through them with the calm precision of someone who had already walked the route in his head a hundred times. He passed junctions, turned corners, ducked under collapsed beams, and slid beneath a broken sewer grate without missing a beat.

No interruptions. No voices. Just the soft sound of his boots over stone and the hum of mana-pulsed silence.

It took him forty minutes to reach the far exit—a rusted maintenance shaft wedged behind an abandoned warehouse near the city’s outer ring.

He pushed the hatch open and emerged into the night.

No moon. Just stars, and the faint breath of wind through trees that didn’t belong to any groomed district of the capital.

He walked another twenty minutes through undergrowth and forgotten forest paths, his pace steady, careful, quiet.

Then he saw it.

Varn’s Hollow.

Not a gorge, as the name suggested—but a jagged expanse of mountainous rock and fractured terrain, half-covered in mist. Spikes of dark stone jutted upward like the ribs of something ancient and long buried. The air felt different here—thicker, like something was pressing against the back of his teeth.

He crouched behind a sharp ridge and scanned the area below.

A few broken trees.

Scratch marks on stone.

And mana in the air.

Feral. Raw.

Exactly what he needed.

"Let’s get started."