The Extra is a Genius!?
Chapter 67: Voices in the Open

Chapter 67: Chapter 67: Voices in the Open

The main auditorium of the academy was rarely full.

Today, it overflowed.

Every seat on the marble steps had been claimed. The nobles filled the front sections, their uniforms pristine, their voices low. The outer rings, higher up and to the flanks, buzzed with students from every House and region. Dozens of professors lined the edges, murmuring among themselves.

The banners of the academy fluttered along the vaulted walls—mana-stitched fabric shimmering in blue and silver.

Noel entered quietly.

He didn’t wear anything special.

"Front row was full," he said with a grin. "Shame."

"Would’ve been a tragedy," Noel muttered as he sat beside him.

They didn’t speak further.

The energy in the room was shifting. Focused with the anticipation before a real fight.

A hush fell as a figure walked onto the stage.

He was tall, composed, dressed in a deep gray professor’s robe with silver trim. His hair was black, neatly combed, and his face held a calm, diplomatic smile.

Professor Lereus.

The new professor.

The one who had taken over Caldus’s old position.

Noel watched him carefully.

’There’s something smelly about you, maybe because I never read about him, he never appeared in the story.’

Lereus raised his hand, and his voice echoed cleanly through the room, projected by a soft mana field.

"Thank you for gathering. As part of the council’s transition process, today we begin the first round of open addresses."

"Each candidate will present their vision for the academy. Their intentions, their priorities, and their answers to what comes next."

He stepped back.

"Let us begin."

And with that, the hall fell silent.

One name was called first.

"Dior of Valor."

The room was still.

Then came footsteps—measured, deliberate, echoing softly across the marble as Dior of Valor stepped onto the stage.

He wore the formal uniform of the academy, trimmed in red and gold, the insignia of House Valor stitched into the collar. His hair was perfectly styled, his expression calm and composed.

He stood at the center, letting the silence carry weight before speaking.

"Prestige," he began, voice smooth and clear, "is not a luxury. It’s a responsibility."

There were no cheers.

No noise.

Just attention.

"For generations, this academy has stood as a pillar—not just of strength, but of structure. It has been the forge where leaders are refined, not through chaos, but through order."

He glanced toward the noble section, careful and calculated, every movement deliberate

"That structure is what allows us to grow. To push limits without losing purpose. To compete without collapsing into noise."

A pause.

"I do not believe tradition should be discarded in the name of vague ideals. I believe it must be honored. Strengthened. Refined."

His tone didn’t rise, but it grew firmer.

"As president, I will ensure this academy remembers what made it great: its discipline. Its values. Its hierarchy."

"Because when the world outside looks at us—they should see excellence."

He bowed his head slightly.

"Thank you."

And just like that, he stepped back.

The noble sections erupted in applause.

The rest of the room remained quieter—processing, watching.

Noel sat motionless.

Expression unreadable.

’Yeah, I don’t like you a bit. You were one of the characters I hated the most.’

The applause began to fade.

Dior stepped aside with a dignified nod, returning to his place near the front row. A few nobles leaned in to whisper congratulations. Some clapped him on the back.

Noel didn’t move.

Just stared at the empty podium.

Then exhaled, slow and quiet.

’That wasn’t a speech—it was more like, ’Look at me, I’m a powerful noble... no, wait, a damn prince.’ Though I guess that applies to me too, huh? Except I don’t follow Dior. I’m the exception’

Roberto leaned in slightly, whispering.

"What do you think?"

Noel didn’t look away.

"He’s good. Too good. Knows exactly what to say and how to say it—sharp tongue, polished charm. I bet even the nobles who claim to support equality started second-guessing themselves by the end of it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, sounds like a king pretending to be a class rep."

Roberto snorted.

"So... still not your vote, I guess."

Noel gave a short, dry smile.

"Not unless I fall into a coma and someone votes for me."

He leaned back in his seat.

Watching and waiting.

Because now came the real test.

Lereus stepped forward again.

And spoke a single name.

"Seraphina of Valor."

The silence returned.

Then came the sound of calm, deliberate footsteps.

Seraphina of Valor stepped onto the stage—alone.

She wore the standard formal uniform, tailored with subtle silver trim. No visible weapons, no sigil beyond the one etched softly at her shoulder.

And yet, the room leaned in.

She didn’t wait for the silence to deepen.

She began.

"The academy was built on strength. No one questions that."

Her voice was calm. Even.

Not demanding attention—commanding it.

"But strength without direction is just force. And force without compassion becomes tyranny."

A pause.

One breath.

"We stand at a crossroads."

"Where the future of this academy—and what it means—will be shaped by those who lead it next."

She stepped forward slightly.

"I don’t come here to undo the past. I come to improve the future."

"We don’t need to abandon our roots to grow. We need to clear the weeds choking the new branches."

’Damn that was poetic.’

Some heads turned at that.

Others nodded.

Her tone never shifted.

But her words hit harder than any volume ever could.

"The student council should protect opportunity, not privilege. It should lead, not dictate."

"And no student—no matter where they come from—should ever feel less than because of something they can’t control."

One final breath.

Then:

"That’s the academy I want to build."

"And if you want that too—then walk with me."

She stepped back.

The room was silent for a beat longer than Dior’s.

Then came the applause.

It started from the sides. The back. The upper rows.

And it spread.

The applause didn’t shake the room like Dior’s had.

It settled in.

Like a quiet truth too heavy to ignore.

Dior sat perfectly still.

Back straight.

Hands folded.

Jaw locked.

His eyes followed Seraphina as she left the podium—no rush, no smile, no reaction to the crowd.

He leaned slightly toward one of his aides.

"Start organizing meetings with second-years. Quietly."

The aide nodded, already scribbling.

Meanwhile, Seraphina stepped down from the stage and walked with measured steps toward the waiting row near the council.

Elyra was already there.

No words passed at first.

Then, just as Seraphina sat down, Elyra leaned closer.

Not too close. Just enough to be heard.

"You shifted the room, It means you did a good work on there."

Seraphina didn’t respond immediately.

Her eyes were on the students still applauding. Some confused. Some moved. Some... ready.

Then she replied, quiet and certain.

"One breath at a time, one by one."

Elyra allowed herself the briefest of smiles.

Dior didn’t look back.

But he could feel it.

He was no longer the only force in the room.

’Fuck. I underestimated you big sis, you will see one day. I will be the one on the throne and I will send you married to some ugly fat pig so you will suffer and I will never see you again.’

The applause faded slowly, like waves losing strength at the shore.

Students began murmuring again. Some still clapped. Others just sat, quiet, thoughtful.

Noel didn’t move.

From his seat high on the left wing, he’d seen everything.

Dior’s perfection.

Seraphina’s presence.

And the reaction that followed.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

"She sent a message." he muttered under his breath.

Roberto, next to him, raised an eyebrow.

"You think she won this round?"

Noel didn’t answer right away.

His eyes were fixed on Dior—still sitting straight, still smiling, but with that stiffness he’d seen a hundred times before in other men who were losing ground.

Then Noel looked toward the shadows at the far end of the hall.

Lereus was still. Watching. Not a word, not a twitch—too still, like he was waiting for something.

"Something smells wrong," Noel said quietly. "Dior’s losing grip. And when people like him start losing in the open..."

He stood up, adjusting his coat.

"...they start doing things in the dark."

Roberto blinked.

"Should we worry?"

Noel didn’t look back.

"We should pay attention."

The room fell quiet.

Outside, the wind pressed against the windows, soft but constant—like a warning knocking at the edge of their world.

Noel tightened the glove on his right hand, eyes distant.

"With people like Dior, after what we saw today, you can bet he won’t just sit back and do nothing."

Roberto exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment settling in.

"Think he’ll do something reckless?"

Noel paused at the door.

"Not think," he murmured. "Know."

Then he stepped out into the hall, boots echoing with purpose.

Because when power slips through gilded fingers... someone always bleeds to get it back.