I CHOSE to be a VILLAIN, not a THIRD-RATE EXTRA!!
Chapter 187 - 187: Welcome Party (5)

"Senior," a voice rang out from within the circle. "If it's about the rules, we already received the official rulebook from the Academy."

It was James—direct, polite, but clearly skeptical.

The Third Year turned his gaze toward him with an amused glint in his eye, the kind one might reserve for a child asking why the sky is blue.

"Haha! Sharp mind, Junior," he said with a grin. "But you see… those rules belong to the Academy. The ones I'm talking about—these rules—belong to the Dormitory."

His smile widened, but the cold undertone in his voice left little room for misunderstanding. "They were made by those who walked these halls before you. By your Seniors. And here… they matter just as much, if not more."

The atmosphere shifted instantly.

The First Years' expressions darkened—nobody spoke, but the silence said everything.

They weren't foolish. It was clear now: this wasn't some quirky welcome ritual. It was an assertion of power.

Coercion, neatly wrapped in tradition.

From her position beyond the circle, Valencia watched it unfold, unmoving.

She stood just outside the ring of students, her presence unnoticed by most, like a ghost at the edge of a storm.

'So it begins again the play of the Prince', she thought bitterly. 'And still, I do nothing. I couldn't protect my own year… so what right do I have to interfere for theirs?'

Her fingers clenched around the fabric of her robe—but she remained silent.

Then, someone stepped forward.

Leon.

He moved through the group with quiet confidence, his gaze fixed on the Third Year at the center. When he spoke, his voice was calm, clear, and unafraid.

"Senior," he said, "why should we follow rules in the Academy that weren't made by the Academy?"

The Third Year stared at Leon for a long moment.

Then— "HAHAHA!"

Laughter erupted from his mouth, loud and theatrical.

Behind him, the other Third Years joined in, their chuckles rolling through the courtyard like thunder. But the sound wasn't joyful—it was sharp, biting, and rehearsed.

"As expected of the Hero!" one of them sneered.

"The Hero is quite brave," another chimed in with mock admiration.

"Heroism at its peak—just look at that Stare of Honor! I am touched."

Their voices overlapped, each comment dripping with sarcasm, as if Leon had just delivered the punchline to a joke he didn't understand.

Leon stood frozen, his fists clenched at his sides. He looked from face to face, and for a heartbeat, he thought maybe they were just laughing.

But then he saw their eyes.

Not a single one of them was smiling where it mattered. Behind every laugh was a gaze sharp enough to cut—dozens of eyes fixed solely on him, calculating, cold, unblinking.

Predators, circling the one fool who'd dared bark at the pack.

He tried to speak again, to push forward with his challenge—but the words caught in his throat.

The oppressive weight of mana hung in the air, subtle but undeniable. Every single one of these Third Years stood at minimum C-Rank.

Most were stronger. B-Rank. A few at the peak of it. And here he was… a First Year.

One wrong move and—

"Now, now," said the lead Third Year, stepping forward again with a grin that did nothing to warm the air. "Hero, you're making me look like a villain here."

"This might seem like we're forcing you," the lead Third Year said smoothly, still smiling. "But don't think you're alone in this."

He gestured with a casual flick of the hand toward the silent ring behind the First Years.

"Even the Second Years follow the Dormitory rules. So ask yourselves—are you really that different?"

A wave of unease rippled through the crowd as every First Year instinctively turned their heads.

The Second Years stood still.

Not one of them spoke. Not one challenged the words. Their silence was absolute—complicit.

And in that silence, the message was clear:

This is how it works here.

Elara's eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening.

'So that's what you've been doing in your two years at the Academy, Brother' she thought but she was not much surprised.

Near her, Isolde's gaze scanned the circle, sharp and analytical. 'This isn't a Welcome Party. It's a stage to a show of dominance.'

Elira, more distant, closed her eyes briefly. 'Humans never change no matter the place', she thought coldly.

And then—

A stir in the crowd.

Varnok stepped forward.

The towering figure of the First Year lumbered calmly through the circle, and even among the crowd of older, ranked warriors, his presence hit—a physical thing that bent the attention of every Third Year toward him.

Conversations fell quiet.

Postures stiffened.

The lead Third Year's eyes flicked upward.

Varnok was taller. Broader. Built like a fortress that decided to walk.

"What are the rules?" Varnok asked, his voice deep and unflinching.

The kind of voice that didn't ask out of fear or deference, but simple intent.

Varnok was a barbarian and among the Barbarians, it was known: Only the strong have the right to dictate to the weak.

The lead Third Year tilted his head, mildly surprised, then smiled and stepped closer—patting Varnok's massive shoulder.

"You're a smart one, Junior," he said. "Straight to the point. I like that."

He turned slightly, projecting his voice to the rest of the crowd. "Now, the first rule—and arguably the most important—is something we call the 'Protection Fee.'"

He gestured, and from among the group of Third Years, one student stepped forward.

"Each First Year," the Third Year continued, "must pay a modest fee of just 500 credits."

The student now standing at the front was tall, composed, with a calculating gaze and the smooth demeanor of someone who knew how to handle money.

"Meet Henry, he will be the one collecting the credits" said the speaker with a grin.

Henry was the Student Council Treasurer. And the one responsible for registering Adlet, into the Academy.

The lead Third Year continued, his tone suddenly more casual. "Before we move to the next rule, I'll kindly explain what 'Protection Fee' really means—"

But before he could finish the sentence, a Second Year quickly approached from behind. He leaned in, whispering something urgently into the Third Year's ear.

The effect was immediate.

The Third Year's eyes narrowed slightly. His posture stiffened—not visibly, not to the untrained eye, but enough for those watching closely to sense a shift.

The Third Year glared at the group of First Years gathered in the compound. Turning his sharp gaze to Henry, he commanded, "Henry, do a head count of the First Years."

Henry, clutching his ID card in hand, had been ready to collect credits from the First Years. However, the unexpected order left him momentarily confused.

Nevertheless, he complied without question, quickly scanning the group. It didn't take him long to finish.

"47, 48, 49... 49?" he muttered, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"There are 49 First Years here," Henry announced, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

The Third Year's voice rose with frustration as he exclaimed, "How are there 49 students when there should be 50 in the Aether Class?" His piercing eyes swept over the First Years.

"Who among you is missing?" he demanded, his tone sharp and unyielding.

The First Years exchanged nervous glances, murmuring among themselves. The tension was palpable until a calm yet firm voice emerged from the middle of the group.

"It's Adlet," said Lilia, her tone resolute. She didn't even need to look around to know who was absent.

The hushed murmur of the First Years spread like wildfire, their voices overlapping in growing certainty.

"Oh, it's him." "It's obviously Adlet." "Yeah! Who else could it be?"

Their whispers swelled into a quiet consensus, leaving the leading Third Year standing at the center of the commotion, utterly perplexed.

He blinked, looking from one First Year to another, as if they had all suddenly started speaking in code.

'Who the hell is Adlet? And why do they all sound like it was a obvious outcome?'

Leon furrowed his brow, his thoughts racing. 'He really does know everything… That's why he left that message.'

Gideon, standing just a few steps away, remained still, his expression unreadable.' Anytime now', he thought, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal the message.

Elara, leaning against the cold stone pillar, observed the scene with narrowed eyes. 'I thought his behavior was limited to class alone… but he really doesn't care about anyone', she thought, her lips pressing into a thin line.

The realization settled uneasily in her mind—Adlet's indifference wasn't just an act. It was a lifestyle choice.

Henry flinched at the mention of Adlet's name, his breath hitching for just a moment.

No matter how much time passed, he couldn't shake the memory of that First Year—the one with those unnerving, red-piercing eyes.

The mere thought of him sent a chill down his spine.

"It's better to forget about someone who isn't here," Henry said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "Let's focus on the present students." His gaze flickered toward the one in charge, hoping to steer the conversation away from the unsettling topic.

But the Third Year wasn't so easily swayed. Instead of acknowledging Henry's words, he turned sharply to Leon, his expression scrutinizing.

"Weren't you the one delivering invitations to the First Years?" he asked, his tone edged with suspicion. "Don't tell me you forgot to deliver the message to this Adlet."

Leon opened his mouth, ready to respond, but before he could utter a word, Gideon stepped forward, his stance firm and unwavering.

"No! Senior, you're misunderstanding the situation," Gideon interjected, his voice carrying an excitement that silenced the murmuring First Years.

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