I'm an Extra, so What?
Chapter 89 - 89: Fighter Selection Trial (3)

The three men who had arrogantly believed they were prepared for battle quickly discovered just how wrong they were.

Without warning, Arthur activated [Air Escape], his figure vanishing from their sight in the blink of an eye, leaving only a fleeting gust of displaced air behind him.

Before they could so much as utter a word, he reappeared behind them—silent, composed, and deadly.

His body surged with raw energy as he called upon [Lesser Strength Boost].

A wave of strength rippled through his muscles, enhancing his speed and power. His grip tightened on the hilt of his rapier.

And then—he moved.

With the precision of a master swordsman and the efficiency of an executioner—

Arthur swung his blade in three rapid, fluid motions.

The rapier cleaved through flesh and bone effortlessly.

Time seemed to slow as each of their arms was severed in one seamless blur of steel.

There was a sharp, wet sound—like meat being cleaved from bone—followed by the sickening thud of dismembered limbs hitting the ground.

Blood erupted in violent sprays, staining the ground beneath them and splattering their faces with red.

Their weapons clattered to the floor beside the fallen arms, useless now.

All three dropped to their knees in disbelief and agony.

One man screamed until his throat was raw, while another simply stared at the gushing wound, too shocked to make a sound.

The third slumped over without a word, unconscious, before he hit the ground.

Tears welled in the eyes of the remaining two as they desperately tried to stop the bleeding, panic overtaking their bravado.

Arthur, meanwhile, stood unfazed.

He calmly cleaned the crimson from his face and sleeves with his hand, then slid his rapier back into its sheath as if this was nothing more than routine.

Without sparing the men another glance, he turned and began walking away, leaving behind a trail of blood and mangled bodies.

'I'm not safe around him,' Nike thought, fear slowly winding itself around her heart.

'I need to get away… before it's too late.'

She turned to leave, her footsteps hesitant.

But then a certain voice cut through the silence like a blade:

"Aren't you coming?"

Nike turned around slowly.

Arthur had stopped walking and was now facing her.

His expression was unreadable, his hand casually motioning for her to follow.

"We still have more people to take care of," he said flatly.

His tone was calm—but there was a weight behind his words.

A quiet threat, whether intended or not.

"…" Nike swallowed hard. She couldn't find the courage to speak.

Instead, she gave a stiff nod, her head bowed low, and trailed behind him without another word.

'Just hold on a little longer…' she told herself.

'Once this is over, I'll convince him to return to the village. Maybe… maybe the old Arthur is still in there.'

But deep down, she really wasn't sure anymore.

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ

Surrounded by a small field of unconscious bodies, Charlotte casually twirled her greatsword in one hand with a playful smirk.

The weight of the blade seemed nonexistent to her, as if it were no more than a toy.

She was in the zone—completely immersed in a flow state where movement was instinct, and battle was just another dance.

No one could match her.

Every opponent so far had fallen without presenting any real challenge, and it was starting to get boring.

That's when she heard the screaming.

Tilting her head, her expression perked up with interest.

'Something exciting, perhaps?'

She started walking in the direction of the noise, her boots crunching over broken weapons.

As she approached the source of the commotion, her pace slowed slightly—and what greeted her was, in her own words:

"Oh my. What happened here?"

She said it aloud in a mildly amused tone, though her golden eyes scanned the blood-soaked ground and mutilated bodies with little concern.

Limbs lay severed on the dirt like discarded branches.

Blood painted the ground red.

It was gruesome—but not to Charlotte.

To her, it was a bit messy, at best.

One of the injured men—tears streaming down his face and clutching what remained of his arm—saw her and immediately cried out in desperation.

"Your Highness! You must seek justice for us! Arthur Atlas took things way too far—he cut off our arms!"

Another chimed in, voice breaking, "Please, Second Princess! Please get us justice!"

The others who were still conscious echoed similar pleas, their trembling hands stained red as they tried to stop the bleeding.

Their gazes were full of hope—as if she were some angel of vengeance come to answer their cries.

Charlotte rolled her eyes.

She stepped forward and placed her greatsword down, using it like a resting staff, as she leaned on it with a sigh.

Her posture was relaxed, almost lazy.

"I understand," she said, feigning a gentle smile.

"I'll get you your justice."

But her voice betrayed a thin veil of disinterest, one that most of the wounded were too overwhelmed to notice.

In truth, she couldn't have cared less.

'Justice? Really? Stop being babies. Arms grow back.'

Of course, they didn't.

But that was beside the point.

Charlotte knew full well that every injured student, regardless of severity, would receive full healing from the academy's top-tier Healers.

At worst, it would be a few hours of agony and some minor trauma.

Nothing permanent.

Nothing that mattered.

Still, Charlotte had an image to maintain.

As the Second Princess of the Empire, she had to play the role of a noble protector, someone who stood for righteousness—even if she was dying of boredom inside.

Hearing her promise, the injured men lit up with relief and gratitude.

Even in their pain, they managed to thank her profusely, some even crying again—not from injury, but from joy.

She gave them a lazy wave.

"Well then. I'm off."

Lifting her greatsword and resting it across her shoulder, Charlotte turned around and began walking.

Where was she going?

She didn't know.

Something interesting had to be happening soon—because if she had to pretend to care for much longer, she might just start cutting people herself.

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