The Extra is a Genius!?
Chapter 61: Mimicry

Chapter 61: Chapter 61: Mimicry

The sky above Varn’s Hollow hung heavy with clouds—dark and motionless, like slabs of stone pressed together. There was no moonlight, no stars, only a sickly haze that dulled even the soft glow of the mana-lights clinging to the cliffside moss.

The wind didn’t whistle. It growled.

It funneled through narrow gaps between stone ridges, tugging at Noel’s cloak with dry, dusty hands. The air stank of wet earth, mana residue, and the faint copper sting of dried blood.

He stood at the bottom of a narrow gorge—twenty meters across, maybe five deep, with slanted walls that climbed up like jagged teeth. One of the more isolated spots in the Hollow. No monsters here tonight. Just rock, dust, and the smell of old violence.

Perfect.

Noel stepped out of his cloak, letting it fall over a flat slab of stone behind him. He rolled his shoulders once, then twice, loosening the stiffness in his spine.

The cold bit into him immediately, wrapping around his skin like a warning. He didn’t care.

His shirt clung to his back from the earlier trek. His gloves were still damp with sweat. He wiped his palms down his thighs, then reached behind him and unhooked the sword.

Revenant Fang.

The blade was still. Dull steel, plain hilt, no ornament. But it buzzed faintly against his skin—a resonance, not a sound. Like it knew what he was about to do. Like it had been waiting.

He stepped forward.

The stone beneath his boots was uneven—cracks webbed outward from old impacts, scorched black from fire magic that had burned here weeks ago. His own magic. His own fights.

The terrain bore his marks.

He turned the sword once in his hand.

The hilt settled into his grip like it belonged there. Heavy, but balanced. Familiar.

Then it appeared.

There was no noise, no shimmer, no flash. Just stillness.

Just there—the shadow.

It stood ten meters away, at the far end of the gorge. Humanoid, faceless, barely visible unless you knew how to look for it. Its edges bled into the air like smoke that refused to rise.

It didn’t move.

Noel lowered into a stance.

Left foot forward. Knees slightly bent. Blade tilted across his body.

His breathing slowed.

The wind howled again through the gorge, catching loose dirt and lifting it into brief spirals around his feet.

He narrowed his eyes.

"Alright. Let’s go."

The wind pulled back for a moment.

Silence settled like a warning.

Then the shadow moved.

Noel’s eyes locked on its shape. The motion was clean—inhumanly smooth. It shifted its footing with absolute balance, drew an invisible blade in one fluid motion, pivoted on its heel, and unleashed a full-body arc that ended in a reverse step.

There was no wasted movement. No flair.

Just efficiency.

Noel lowered his stance.

"Alright, fucker. Let’s see what you want from me."

He inhaled once, raised Revenant Fang, and tried to replicate the motion.

Step.

Twist.

Cut.

And he over-rotated.

The blade dragged slightly behind his pivot, his back foot slipped, and the impact point of the imaginary strike was too high.

He gritted his teeth and reset.

The shadow stood again, perfectly still, as if watching.

"Yeah, yeah. I get it. You’re better."

"Congrats. Now show me again."

The shadow moved.

Same sequence.

Same speed.

Noel’s eyes tracked it.

He went again.

Closer, but still wrong. His weight shifted too early, and the momentum threw off the trajectory.

He cursed under his breath.

"This would be easier if you fucking spoke."

The shadow turned its faceless head toward him.

Not aggressively.

Not mockingly.

Just... watching.

Like it was waiting for him to understand something he hadn’t yet.

Noel exhaled sharply.

Sweat ran down his back.

He reset his stance again, jaw clenched.

"Fine. Don’t talk. Just keep showing me."

The wind picked up once more, stirring grit and old ash across the stone.

And the shadow moved again.

ust clung to Noel’s boots.

Sweat clung to everything else.

He had repeated the motion sixteen times.

Each time, the same result.

Wrong.

Too wide on the first step. Too stiff on the pivot. Too much tension in the grip. His footwork was solid—by normal standards. His control was good—by academy standards.

But this?

This was different.

"Fuck this stance."

He exhaled through his nose, hard.

Reset.

Tried again.

He slashed, turned—momentum broke early, blade dipped too low.

His heel scraped the rock. Sparks flew. He stumbled two steps backward, sword still in hand.

"Motherfucker."

The shadow didn’t move.

It just stood there.

Still.

Watching.

Noel raised the blade and pointed it toward the figure.

"What, not even a nod? A twitch? Something?"

Nothing.

The wind filled the gap where a voice might’ve gone.

Noel dropped the sword point to the ground and hunched forward, hands on his knees, chest rising and falling.

"It’s not just form. You’re hiding something in the way you move."

"What is it? Timing, pressure, rhythm maybe? I don’t know I can’t see it shit."

He looked up again.

The shadow shifted. Same motion.

Exactly the same.

Like a fucking playback loop that didn’t care how many times he failed.

Noel’s hands trembled slightly.

Not from fear.

From effort.

"Practice makes perfect or so they said in my old world."

He took a breath.

Then stepped back into stance.

Again.

Noel lowered into the stance again.

Slower this time.

His breath evened out. His grip adjusted—lighter. His knees sank just a bit more into the rock, giving him the foundation he’d been missing.

’Stop forcing it. Let the blade pull.’

The shadow moved again.

Same clean pivot. Same arc. The way the feet shifted—the rhythm—it wasn’t muscle memory. It was instinct born from repetition beyond reason.

Noel watched.

And moved.

Step.

Shift.

Pull.

He rotated cleanly.

Just once.

The blade followed the movement with a fluid curve, slicing through the air in a way it hadn’t before.

No catch. No stumble. No overcorrection.

It wasn’t the whole form.

But it was one clean part.

He froze.

Blinking.

Then looked down at his stance. His position. The way the blade hovered.

Perfect balance.

And for a second, just a second—

He stared at his own arms like he didn’t recognize them.

"Holy shit."

The shadow didn’t react.

It simply reset.

Noel didn’t care.

He grinned—wide. Breathless. Half laughing to himself.

"Did you fucking see that?"

He pointed the sword at the shadow again.

"I got it. You saw it. Don’t even try to pretend."

Still, the shadow just stood there.

Silent.

Distant.

But Noel didn’t need validation.

Not this time.

He was grinning like a madman, chest still rising and falling with adrenaline.

"One step, asshole. I’ll take it."

"You’re not unbreakable. I’ll tear your rhythm apart one fucking frame at a time."

He slid back into position again.

No hesitation.

No complaint.

Just fire in his veins.

The shadow moved again.

No rest.

No pause.

No acknowledgment of progress.

Just a new sequence.

It shifted weight to its back foot, rotated the upper body in a tight coil, then unleashed a diagonal slash that ended in a spinning step behind an invisible target.

Faster and more compact.

Complex footwork layered into subtle shifts of momentum.

Noel’s grin vanished—but only for a second.

"Oh, fuck off."

He planted his feet and tried to mirror it.

First step: too heavy.

Second: slipped the angle.

The turn—off balance. The slash, too wide.

He nearly dropped the sword.

He cursed, caught himself, and exhaled through clenched teeth.

"Alright. Let’s dance, then."

He reset.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each time just a little better. One inch cleaner. One correction tighter. His breathing turned harsh, steam trailing from his skin under the cold night air.

Sweat dripped from his chin, hitting the cracked stone below.

His hands trembled, but he gripped tighter.

"You’re not winning this, shadow. I’ll carve every step into my bones if I have to."

He stepped, twisted, slashed—

Not perfect.

Not even close.

But he was closing the gap.

And for once, the Hollow felt like it was listening.

Then, he noticed the light.

Faint.

Pale blue at first, then pink-orange, bleeding slowly across the edge of the ridge above.

The sun was rising.

"Shit."

Noel swore under his breath, wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, and sheathed Revenant Fang.

The shadow didn’t vanish immediately.

It just stood still again—as if watching him leave.

He looked back once.

"Save it for tomorrow."

Then he ran.

Boots pounding over stone and grit, cloak snapping behind him as the light crept down the cliffs.

He didn’t stop to rest.

Didn’t look back again.

The academy gates waited.

So did the next day.

The academy towers came into view just as the sun breached the horizon.

Noel ran along the eastern corridor wall, breathing hard, heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum. His boots scraped over stone, cloak trailing behind him like a banner of failure.

He glanced up—8:41 a.m.

Shit.

Class started in less than twenty minutes.

His muscles screamed.

His shirt clung to him like a second skin soaked in effort and frost.

He turned the final corner toward the dormitory wing—his door just meters away—

And crashed into someone.

Hard.

Both of them stumbled.

Noel cursed and caught himself, one hand on the wall.

The other person had barely moved.

When he looked up, breath caught in his throat.

Long, pale pink hair. Sharp posture. Icy eyes locked on his face like a blade.

Seraphina of Valor.

She looked at him—expression unreadable, voice as smooth as steel.

"...You should watch where you’re going."

Noel straightened immediately, his back tense.

"Yeah. Sorry."

He didn’t wait for permission to move.

Didn’t try to explain.

Didn’t ask questions.

He stepped past her with urgency.

"Can’t be late."

Seraphina didn’t stop him.

She just turned slightly, watching him go.

His cloak was torn at the bottom. His hair damp with sweat. His steps unsteady from exhaustion.

But his eyes hadn’t flinched.

Not once.

She lingered in place for a second longer, then continued down the corridor, her boots silent on the stone.

Noel slammed the door to his room shut behind him.

He had eighteen minutes.

No time to think.

No time to breathe.

Just enough time to wash his face, change his shirt, and pretend he hadn’t just spent the night being destroyed by a ghost.