The Extra is a Genius!?
Chapter 71: The Warning

Chapter 71: Chapter 71: The Warning

Noel’s mornings had a rhythm.

Up before most of the academy.

He didn’t eat breakfast, didn’t get distracted, just went straight to do his routine.

Same old routine

The training yard behind the east wing was always quiet at dawn—just how he liked it. The wind carried a faint chill, sharp enough to keep the mind alert. The grass was slick with dew, and the wooden training dummies lined the wall like silent observers.

Today, he trained without his sword.

Instead, he stood in front of one of the battered targets, his coat folded neatly on the bench behind him. His breath was calm. His right hand extended.

Mana gathered across his knuckles, slow and steady.

A new spell launched.

"Glacialis."

A spike of jagged ice shot forward, sharp and clean, piercing through the straw torso of the dummy and pinning a splintered piece of wood to the wall behind it.

The air hissed with cold.

He exhaled once. Focused.

Raised his hand again.

"Glacialis."

The next shard split off into two branches mid-air, one striking the shoulder, the other tearing a line down the chest.

’Good dispersion but still slow on the trigger.’

He stepped back, wiped sweat from his brow, and rolled his shoulders.

That’s when he saw them.

Two students.

Standing near the edge of the yard, half-shrouded by the wall.

He hadn’t heard them arrive.

He always heard people arrive.

Their uniforms marked them as second-years. Nobles. Faces he recognized but never paid much attention to—until now.

They weren’t watching him like spectators.

They were waiting.

Noel didn’t change his expression. Didn’t slow his movements.

He picked up his coat. Slipped it on. Straightened the cuffs, steady and precise.

Then began walking across the yard, as if his training was finished for the morning.

The two stepped in.

"Thorne," one said, too quickly.

"Can we talk?"

Noel stopped a few feet away, hands still in his pockets.

His voice was calm. Empty.

"I’m busy."

"It’ll just take a second."

"Then make it fast."

They exchanged a glance.

Then, without a word, one of them nodded to the other—and both stepped closer, flanking him.

Noel glanced at his surroundings. The yard was empty. No staff this early. No students, not even Selene and she always trained here everyday. He was alone.

Of course.

’Oh, come on... What is this, a novel full of clichés?’

Just then, from the open hallway, two more shadows stepped out.

Moving into position.

’I take it back. But yeah, these bastards didn’t come here to talk.’

They flanked him now. Poorly.

Their positioning was sloppy—too wide, too eager, leaving openings everywhere.

’What a shit ambush, seriously.’

He let out a breath through his nose.

Slid his left hand behind his back, brushing the hidden mana-reactive cloth sewn into his coat.

Ice began to pool into his palm—slow, controlled.

’You picked the wrong guy on the wrong morning. I’ve got a hundred things in my head from yesterday, and this? This is not the timing you wanted.’

His fingers twitched.

’Lucky you. I need to blow off some steam. And you idiots are perfect for it.’

They moved first.

Predictable.

Too eager.

The moment the fourth one stepped into place behind him, one of the front attackers raised his hand, mana flaring in his palm.

"Ventaris!"

A burst of compressed wind shot toward Noel’s chest.

Noel shifted slightly to the left, letting the gust graze his shoulder.

Before he could respond, the second one followed up.

"Ignis Fractum!"

Fire licked forward in a sharp arc, spinning in the shape of jagged shards. Noel raised his hand and swept it sideways.

"Glacialis."

A curved wall of frost exploded between them, catching the flames and extinguishing them mid-air with a hiss that echoed through the empty yard.

The wall cracked but held.

Smoke swirled. Mana crackled.

’So that’s how we’re playing it.’

From behind, the third launched a spell straight at his back.

"Concussus!"

A sonic force. Designed to disorient.

Noel dropped low, letting it fly overhead—too wide, too slow.

He turned mid-crouch and muttered:

"Frigus."

His foot touched the ground.

A thin sheen of ice spread instantly across the stone, catching the fourth attacker mid-step. The boy slipped hard, slamming into the dirt with a grunt and skidding into one of the training poles.

Noel didn’t attack further.

Didn’t need to.

The other three regrouped, circling him tighter.

Breathing hard. Sweating.

And Noel?

Still calm.

Still untouched.

He let his mana pulse again.

Not aggressively—just enough to show he was still loaded.

’Oi, they are shit, I mean they’re amateurs.’

’And I already fought for my life sometimes, they never had to fight to stay alive.’

One of them grit his teeth.

"You’re just hiding behind tricks!"

"Better than hiding behind daddy’s last name," Noel said, flat.

Another spell came.

"Flammae Lancea!"

A concentrated spear of fire—straight for the chest.

This time, Noel didn’t dodge.

He planted both feet and whispered:

"Crystallum."

A shield of hexagonal ice plates snapped into place in front of him.

The fire struck—shattered against the barrier.

When the smoke cleared, Noel was still there.

Standing unmoved by the attacks.

The air was cold now. Sharp with magic. Bitter with tension.

He looked at the last one standing properly.

"Are we done?"

One of the others groaned on the ground, clutching his ribs. Another crawled backward, trying to stand.

Noel stepped forward once.

That was enough.

The fourth one turned and ran.

’Didn’t even get to use fire. Shame on you guys, it’s not even worth for training.’

Noel exhaled once and let the frost in his veins settle.

But he’d made it clear:

He wasn’t someone they could corner.

The moment the last noble hit the ground, the air snapped.

A soft pulse of blue light surged overhead—the containment array activating.

Dozens of glyphs shimmered across the courtyard arches, spreading like veins of light. The system had registered excessive mana usage and spell collisions inside the academy grounds.

Seconds later—

Footsteps.

Sharp and fast.

And then came the voice.

"Step back from them, Mr. Thorne."

Noel turned slightly, shoulders loose but eyes sharp.

Lereus stood just beyond the edge of the frost-laced courtyard, flanked by two assistants wearing suppression gloves and emergency scroll belts.

His robes were immaculate, untouched by haste. His hands were folded behind his back, and his expression—calm. Controlled.

’How the fuck are you here this early?’

Didn’t speak.

The air between them was still thick with mana.

One of the assistants hesitated.

Lereus took another step forward.

"Three students were injured. One fled before we could arrive, multiple spells cast within a restricted zone."

His gaze lingered on Noel.

"You will explain yourself to the Headmaster. Now."

Noel gave a dry, humorless shrug.

"I’m always happy to talk."

One of the nobles on the ground groaned.

Lereus glanced down once, then back up.

But not at Noel’s eyes.

At his mana.

At the thin trail of ice still steaming off his gloves.

His voice didn’t change, but his posture sharpened slightly.

"Follow me. Now."

Noel did.

’I knew you smelled fishy, dear new profesor, still I don’t know why.’

He knew this professor was more than he claimed to be.

And that made the meeting with the Headmaster feel... almost secondary.

The infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic herbs and mana balm—clean, sharp, and oddly comforting.

Noel stepped inside, the door clicking softly behind him.

The room was quiet. Only one other student lay on a cot at the far end, eyes closed, arms wrapped in cooling wraps that shimmered faintly with healing runes.

Behind the central counter stood the nurse—a woman past middle age, with short silver hair pulled into a neat twist and eyes that had seen more injuries than most professors had seen spellbooks.

Scribbling something on a scroll, then said:

"It’s been a while, Mr. Thorne."

Noel raised an eyebrow. "Not long enough, apparently."

She looked up, scanned him briefly.

"But I see you’ve brought me some work today."

He stepped closer, unbuttoning his left sleeve to show a faint scorch mark along his forearm.

"I’m fine," he said flatly. "But I have to get checked anyway."

The nurse rolled her eyes.

"Academy protocol. Can’t let our little prodigies walk around with internal bleeding or mana feedback, now can we?"

Noel sat on the edge of a padded bench, letting her inspect his arms and temples with a slow, practiced hand.

She pressed a rune against his wrist and waited for the result.

"You’re not lying. I see."

She turned away to prepare a small salve.

"Still..." she muttered, applying the cold balm to a spot near his elbow, "...three in one go? That’s efficiency."

"Four, but one fled, I’m an overachiever."

She chuckled once, handing him a cloth to wipe the rest of the residue.

"Try not to make it a habit, Mr. Thorne."

"Don’t worry, I don’t like problems Miss."

And just like that, he stood again.

Back straight.

Jaw set.

Ready for whatever the Headmaster had to say.

The Headmaster’s office was quiet.

The walls were lined with shelves filled not with trophies, but with artifacts: scrolls sealed in crystal tubes, weapons dulled by time, pieces of history that hummed with forgotten mana.

Noel stood in front of the desk, hands behind his back.

Nicolas Von Aldros sat with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His eyes were sharp, thoughtful, but unreadable—like a man used to playing chess across lifetimes.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then finally:

"You were attacked by four students."

"Correct." Noel’s voice was flat.

"You responded with elemental magic inside academy grounds. In an unsanctioned area."

"Also correct."

Nicolas leaned back.

"Tell me what happened."

Noel gave a clear, concise report. No excuses—just the facts. The ambush, the spells, the retaliation... and the last one fleeing the scene.

When he finished, Nicolas was quiet again.

Then he spoke.

"I believe you."

Noel raised an eyebrow.

"I... appreciated."

"Truth doesn’t always need emotion to validate it," Nicolas said.

"And I’ve seen the records of those four. They’re aligned with Dior. Opportunistic you maybe say, reckless?"

Noel exhaled.

"So I’m cleared, then?"

A pause.

Then:

"No."

Noel’s eyes narrowed.

"Excuse me?"

Nicolas stood slowly and walked toward the window, hands behind his back.

"There are rules, Mr. Thorne. Magic use within the inner campus is regulated for a reason. Even if it’s self-defense, you still created enough impact to activate the emergency wards."

"What was I supposed to do? Let them roast me?"

Nicolas didn’t turn.

"No. You did what was necessary. And I don’t fault you for it."

He turned now, eyes calm.

"But the academy is not just about fairness."

Noel’s jaw tightened.

"So what’s the punishment?"

Nicolas returned to his desk.

"Effective immediately, you’re removed from the S-Class dormitory."

Noel took one breath.

"You’re joking."

"I am not."

"That’s a fucking reward for them."

Nicolas didn’t flinch.

"And yet, it’s already decided."

"You’re punishing the guy who got jumped because the others have better PR?"

"I’m preserving stability, Mr. Thorne."

Noel clenched his fists.

But said nothing.

Just nodded once.

His jaw was locked, the tension crawling down his arms like frozen iron.

Then, calmly Nicolas said:

"You didn’t seem surprised when I mentioned you was in the S-Class."

Noel said.

"I knew I was selected before the official list was released."

The Headmaster’s eyes narrowed slightly, not suspicious—curious.

"How?"

Noel met his gaze without flinching.

"I don’t owe you an explanation, do I?"

He smirked bitterly.

"Besides, I’m not on the list anymore. Doesn’t matter, right?"

Nicolas didn’t press.

"Alright."

Noel turned halfway, but stopped again.

His voice dropped lower.

Colder.

"You know that if Dior wins..."

Pause.

"...the academy will change."

Nicolas’s expression didn’t shift. He folded his hands again on the desk.

"Yes."

"The academy has changed many times since I became Headmaster."

A flicker of something passed through his tone—memory, maybe.

"And yet, it has always preserved its prestige."

Noel snorted.

"How old are you, anyway?"

"Old enough." Nicolas gave a rare, almost faint smile.

"Old enough to say I’ve seen change do good. And just as often, harm."

Noel stared at him for a beat.

Then said:

"This one won’t just be bad. If the Student Council presidency ends up in the wrong hands, the change won’t be a reform. It’ll rot the prestige that you like."

Nicolas tilted his head slightly.

"Do you know something?"

Noel paused.

Eyes sharp.

Then answered, honestly:

"No. This time... it’s just my gut."

Nicolas didn’t reply.

And Noel didn’t wait.

He turned and left the room with the same heavy silence he’d brought in.

The hallway was quiet.

Too quiet.

As he turned the corner near the main stairwell, he saw them.

The four students.

His attackers.

One with a wrapped wrist, another limping slightly. But upright. Walking. Talking in hushed tones.

When they saw him, they went silent.

Then smirked.

Not in mockery.

Not in victory.

In recognition.

The kind of smile that said we got away with it.

Noel didn’t say a word.

Didn’t even slow down.

But in his head—

"You thought you could scare me. I hope you remember how that ended."

He kept walking.

But the war had already begun.

And with this blow, he could lose it.

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