The Extra is a Genius!?-Chapter 188: The Worth of a Fang

The tavern section of the Drunken Hammer was buzzing with quiet tension. A round wooden table in the corner hosted five players — four cloaked strangers with beads of sweat on their brows, and one grinning dwarf casually swirling a silver mug of spiced ale.

Balthor.

Noel leaned against a polished stone pillar near the entrance, arms crossed, watching the game unfold. The flicker of magical sigils danced in the air between the players, illuminating a floating set of runic cards. The game was the same as last time, magical poker.

One of the strangers cursed as his mana slipped and his cards collapsed into ash. Another slammed the table and growled. Balthor, meanwhile, laughed heartily.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," the dwarf said, collecting a small pile of glowing gold chips. "You play like farmers who just touched mana for the first time."

Noel raised an eyebrow and walked toward the table. "You should be nicer to newbies. You’re going to scare off half your customers like this."

Balthor turned his head, and upon seeing Noel, his grin widened. "Heh. You might be right, boy. Might be right."

But one of the players, a burly man with jagged teeth and narrow eyes, stood up with a scowl. "The hell you sayin’, brat? This table ain’t yours."

Before Noel could answer, Balthor slammed his mug down with surprising force. A pulse of mana rippled outward, silencing the room for a brief moment.

"Sit down, Orem," Balthor said, his tone heavy and final. "He’s not just some brat. He’s an invited guest. That means you show respect — or I show you the door."

The man grumbled, "Tch," and slowly sat back down, avoiding Noel’s gaze.

Noel said nothing, only smiled slightly. He appreciated how quickly Balthor put the man in his place.

The last few hands of the game moved swiftly. One by one, the remaining challengers folded, their mana drained, their faces pale. Balthor finished his drink in one gulp and stood up, brushing off his apron.

"Well, boys, pleasure as always," he said with a mocking bow. "You’re welcome to try again next week... once your wallets recover."

He turned to Noel and smirked. "Now then, I believe we had a deal, didn’t we?"

Balthor led Noel to the back of the tavern, pushing open a hidden door behind a stack of empty barrels. They stepped into a narrow corridor that soon opened into a spacious, dimly lit chamber: the real Drunken Hammer.

Shelves overflowed with trinkets, glowing orbs floated lazily in the air, scrolls were stacked in every corner, and various weapons hung from reinforced walls. The place smelled of iron, oil, and mana dust.

"This never changes," Noel muttered, taking in the chaotic wonder of the shop.

Balthor chuckled and made his way behind the main counter. "Alright, let’s see what you’ve got, boy."

Noel reached into his dimensional pouch and placed two sharp, jagged fangs on the counter. The cold air around them intensified as soon as they touched the wood—remnants of the creature’s natural aura.

"Ice wyvern baby fangs," Noel said casually.

Balthor’s eyes widened. "By the Forge... You really brought them."

"Told you I would," Noel replied. "Though I had some help."

"Well, these are worth a hell of a lot more than the sleep bombs I gave you," Balthor admitted, inspecting the fangs closely. "Strong structure, good density, and imbued with natural elemental properties. I like it."

"So... can I pick something from the store?"

Balthor stroked his beard. "You get a credit—100 gold’s worth."

"Tch. Stingy bastard. You know these are worth at least triple."

"Fine, 150. But don’t push your luck, kid."

"That’s more like it."

Balthor grinned. "I’ll take these to the forge and run a proper scan. You browse around—see if anything catches your eye."

With that, the dwarf disappeared through the metal door behind the counter.

Noel turned to face the chaotic store. ’Alright... let’s find something that’ll help take down a damn Pillar.’

Noel moved slowly through the aisles of the true Drunken Hammer, eyes sharp as he passed shelves filled with weapons, potions, and magical oddities. The air smelled of oil, dust, and faint ozone—mana-infused artifacts buzzing softly around him.

He wasn’t looking for brute force.

The Fifth Pillar wasn’t a fighter. He didn’t need to be. He was the type who let others fight for him—manipulator, strategist, snake. Someone like that would never face Noel head-on. He’d set traps. He’d use others. Maybe even lie in wait with something more insidious.

What Noel needed was an edge—something rare, tactical.

He passed over enchanted blades and enchanted rings, a pair of boots labeled "Speed III – Explodes after 1 hour", and a sealed crystal skull radiating dark energy. None of it felt right.

Noel’s eyes roamed the cluttered maze of magical gear, enchanted trinkets, and old tomes. The lighting was uneven, drifting between warm glows and sudden flickers—probably intentional to deter thieves. He passed by racks of enchanted boots, smoke bombs, scrolls sealed in wax, and even what looked like a boxed mimic snarling quietly to itself.

But then, something pulled at him.

Not physically—but a tug, a weight in the air. Subtle, but distinct.

Noel turned and saw it: a sleek, compact object encased in dark red velvet within a cracked display case.

It was a metallic armband, pitch black with a deep purple core embedded at its center. Something about it screamed dangerous, but also... reliable.

He reached out.

As his fingers brushed the glass, the system lit up:

[Item Identified]

Name: Omen Coil

Type: Artifact – Accessory

Grade: Rare

Description: A forged relic designed to protect against mental interference and enhance cognitive reflexes. Originally used by assassins and information brokers.

Trait: Mindlock – Grants resistance to mind-control, illusions, and fear-based magic.

Noel’s expression sharpened.

"This... this might be it."

It wasn’t the kind of item you used to overpower an enemy with brute strength. No. It was subtle. Smart.

Perfect for someone like Balthor’s younger brother—the kind who didn’t fight, but controlled situations with leverage, trickery, and manipulation.

A defense against manipulation—and a weapon of calculated timing.

Noel clenched his fist.

"Exactly what I need."

He glanced toward the smithing room door. "Let’s hope this isn’t too far over budget..."

Balthor returned from the forge, wiping sweat from his brow with a singed cloth. In one hand, he held a rough sketch of the wyvern fang measurements, and in the other, a tankard that smelled suspiciously strong.

"Well," he grunted, eyeing Noel, "found something?"

Noel pointed to the black armband inside the dusty display case.

"That one."

Balthor blinked, followed by a low whistle.

"The hell is that thing doing here...? Thought I sold it years ago."

He shuffled over, opened the case, and picked up the Omen Coil, turning it between his fingers with visible confusion.

"You sure about this? It doesn’t explode, doesn’t shine, doesn’t scream ’I’m powerful’ like those flashy kids love. Feels like picking a rusty dagger in a room full of swords."

"I’m sure," Noel said. "It’s not about looking strong. It’s about being ready."

Balthor gave him a long, appraising look... and then shrugged.

"Fine. You’re weird, but smart. Take it. I’ll mark it down for 90 gold." He tossed the coil to Noel, who caught it mid-air. "Still got some budget left. Pick another trinket before I change my mind."

Noel looked around once more, but nothing stood out. Until—

He noticed something behind a cluttered shelf: a pair of faint pink earrings, shaped like delicate blossoms, glowing ever so slightly. Not exactly his style. But they reminded him of someone.

He picked them up.

[Item Identified]

Name: Whisperbuds

Type: Accessory – Earrings

Grade: Uncommon

Description: Fashioned for ceremonial gifts, these enhance the wearer’s base agility and stamina by a small percentage. Popular among healers and support mages for training.

Noel smirked faintly.

’She’ll probably roll her eyes... but still.’

He thought of Charlotte’s soft pink hair, the way she grumbled whenever he annoyed her—and how she’d been the one to lead him through the Holy Capital.

’Suppose she never got a gift from a friend. I’ll give it to her during the city tour. It’s the least I can do... after using her for my own excuse.’

He nodded to Balthor.

"I’ll take these too."

Balthor grinned wide.

"Going soft on me, kid?"

"Not at all. Just being practical."

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