I CHOSE to be a VILLAIN, not a THIRD-RATE EXTRA!!
Chapter 190 - 190: Gift(1)

The heavy, thunderous knocking shattered the tense silence that had settled over the compound.

The sound echoed off the surrounding dorm buildings, bouncing through the air like a challenge.

Every head instinctively tilted upward, eyes fixed on the fourth floor balcony.

The First Years held their breath, eager to witness how Adlet would respond. Meanwhile, the Second and Third Years watched with sharp interest, eager to finally meet this mysterious troublemaker.

But to everyone's growing frustration and surprise—there was no answer. No footsteps, no door opening, not even a whisper.

Unfazed, the Third Year continued pounding on the door, his voice growing louder and more impatient with every attempt.

"Adlet, come out!"

"Adlet, I know you're in there, so come out!"

"We seniors want to give you a special welcome!"

The compound was filled with the heavy rhythm of knocks and the charged silence of anticipation, but the door remained stubbornly shut.

It was already 12:30 A.M.—well past the nonexistent curfew, especially for a First Year.

At that hour, no one had any reason to be out wandering.

Naturally, the Third Years assumed the simplest explanation: Adlet was inside, barricaded in his room, hiding after throwing out his bold declarations like firecrackers at a funeral.

The Third Year who had been pounding on the door finally stepped back, jaw tight with frustration.

He walked toward the handrail of the open-air corridor and looked down over the compound, where dozens of eyes—First, Second, and Third Years alike—were fixed on him.

Drawing in a breath, he flared his aura and let it coat his voice.

"He's not opening the gate!" he called out, the words booming across the silent courtyard.

From below, the leading Third Year didn't hesitate. "What are you waiting for, then?" he barked, voice sharp with authority. "Break the gate and drag him out!"

A ripple went through the watching crowd, tension curling in the air.

'I wonder what you'll do now, Adlet,' thought Roan, his brow creasing, torn between anxiety and reluctant admiration.

'Boundless arrogance will only end in doom,' Alina thought coldly, arms folded.

'I wonder if you've got another trump card tucked away... or if this is where your bravado finally collapses,' mused Elara, eyes gleaming with a mix of curiosity and calculation.

Adlet had stirred the hornet's nest—and from the way the air crackled with unresolved fury, it was clear: inside the First Year class, only enemies existed not allies.

The Third Year standing outside Adlet's door narrowed his eyes, frustration finally giving way to action.

With a sharp breath, he channeled his aura down into his leg. Muscles tensed, energy crackled along his limbs, and he shifted into a stance that promised force—force enough to reduce the door to splinters.

And then, he kicked.

The moment his foot made contact with the door, the wood shimmered—just for an instant—before a glowing brown magic circle flared to life where the impact landed.

The symbol pulsed, then spread like ripples across the surface, until a second, deeper blue circle formed within it, lightning flickering across its edges like an angry halo.

There was no time to react.

A thunderous crack split the air as a bolt of lightning surged out of the blue circle, slamming into his leg and instantly arcing up through his body.

Sparks danced across his uniform, licking his skin, snapping at his hair.

"AAARRGGGHHHHHH!"

His scream rang through the compound like a siren, cutting through the still night as every student below looked up in alarm.

Blue sparks flickered along the handrail, illuminating his twitching figure as he staggered backward, body convulsing under the surge of magical electricity.

'Does he have a Thunder Attribute?' Althea wondered, her eyes locked on the glowing sparks still crackling at the balcony above.

'He's done it now', thought Mira, her lips pressing into a tight line.

'This is exactly what they deserve', Zog mused coldly, arms crossed, a flicker of satisfaction dancing in his eyes.

"So this was the 'gift' he was mumbling about," Gideon said aloud, almost to himself, as he watched the lingering trails of lightning snake along the balcony rail, mingling with the hoarse cries of the electrocuted Third Year.

The moment he spoke, every head turned toward him. Tension spiked again.

The leading Third Year moved in a flash, seizing Gideon by the collar and yanking him forward, eyes blazing with fury.

"Tell me clearly—what is this gift you're talking about?!"

Gideon met his gaze, surprisingly composed despite the iron grip. "I don't know," he said truthfully, his tone calm but cautious.

"He'd already slammed the door shut by then. I only heard him mumbling something about a 'gift'… that's all. I don't know anything else."

Meanwhile, back on the fourth floor, the Third Year who had dared to kick the door was still twitching, his body intermittently spasming as electric arcs crawled along his limbs like serpents of raw power.

The lightning magic had come without warning—so fast, so sharp, he hadn't even had time to activate his aura for defense.

Now, through gritted teeth and jerking limbs, he struggled to muster control over his aura, attempting to disperse the residual charge surging through his system. But the damage was already done.

A trap. A brutal, merciless trap—set by a First Year.

Though the lightning hadn't lasted long—his body, after all, had been honed through years of intense Academy training—his elemental resistance had held.

And the moment he regained control over his aura, he directed it inward, forcefully dispelling the residual magic still coursing through his veins.

His muscles steadied.

The sparks faded.

But his pride had been scorched far more than his body.

Eyes burning with fury, the Third Year turned his glare back to the door.

No hesitation this time. His entire right leg became enveloped in a dense sheath of aura, swirling and pulsing with aggressive energy.

He wasn't just aiming to knock the door open—he was ready to blow it off its hinges.

His leg drew back.

And just as he began to launch the strike—

"Now, what is going on over here in the middle of the night?"

The voice was old—measured, composed and a bit excited yet carrying a weight that silenced everything around it. It echoed behind him like the sudden toll of a deep bell.

The Third Year froze mid-motion.

Not because he had chosen to stop—but because his body refused to move.

The air itself had thickened, heavy with dense mana, as if the very atmosphere had taken hold of his limbs.

His raised leg hung motionless in the air, suspended mid-kick, and his breathing faltered. Aura or not, his body was completely frozen.

The old voice had echoed through the entire compound like a sudden drop in temperature—quiet, yet impossible to ignore.

All eyes instinctively turned upward, and that's when they saw him.

An old man was sitting casually on the handrail of the fourth-floor corridor, legs dangling over the edge as if he'd been there all along.

But no one had seen him arrive.

Not a single soul had noticed his presence until the moment his voice had rung out—and now, it was impossible to look away.

The Third Year, still frozen mid-kick, strained his neck and turned his head slowly.

The moment his eyes landed on the figure perched above him, his blood ran cold.

Sweat beaded across his forehead as he stammered, "T-T-Teacher Frederick..."

The name alone sent a ripple through the courtyard. Whispers broke out below.

Some First Years stiffened. Even several Third Years unconsciously stepped back.

But the unfortunate student in front of Adlet's door wasn't done digging his own grave.

"This… this isn't what it looks like," he said quickly, voice shaky, words tumbling over themselves. "I—I can explain!"

"Go on, explain," Frederick replied calmly, his tone unreadable—neither angry nor amused, simply expectant.

"I was… just… just knocking! Yes—knocking," the Third Year blurted out, panic taking full control now. His voice wavered like a leaf in a storm.

It was a terrible lie, but in that moment, it was the only thing his fear-clouded brain could summon.

After all, of all the teachers at the Academy, he had managed to run headfirst into the worst possible one.

Frederick was a name that carried weight across the Academy halls—a weight that even the Fourth Years treaded carefully around.

He wasn't feared for outbursts or cruelty. No, it was far simpler—and far more terrifying.

Frederick was mad. Brutally so.

Whether student or teacher, noble or commoner—he made no exceptions, and he never held back.

"If you're going to lie," Frederick said, voice calm but sharp as a blade, "at least make it sound like the truth."

He sighed, long and disappointed, shaking his head ever so slightly—like a parent tired of a child's nonsense.

That small gesture was worse than a yell. It carried no anger, only judgment.

And that was the moment the Third Year finally realized:

I am doomed.

"Just what kind of rotten days has the Academy fallen into," Frederick muttered, his voice cutting through the tension like a cold gust of wind, "when even the senior students of the prestigious Aether Class are trying to rob their juniors—and worse, doing it in plain sight, under the stars, as if it were some stage play."

He turned his head slowly, his gaze sweeping down toward the compound below, eyes sharp and unblinking.

The weight of his presence settled like a cloak over every student gathered—heavy, suffocating, impossible to ignore.

"Teacher Frederick! It's a big misunderstanding!" the leader of the Third Years called out quickly, stepping forward with both hands raised in defense.

"We were just… organizing a Welcome Party for our juniors!"