The Extra is a Hero?-Chapter 232: THE WEIGHT OF GLORY

Chapter 228: The Weight of Glory

The Academy didn’t feel like a school anymore. It felt like a temple built to worship the living.

A week had passed since the Celestial Wind touched down in Arcadia, and the fervor hadn’t died down. If anything, it had metastasized.

The "Skyfall Incident," as the media had dubbed it, was the only thing anyone talked about.

The footage of Leon Lionheart’s white flame, of Eric William’s shield of light, and of the students holding the line against the Void had been played on loop across every crystal screen in the kingdom.

Walking through the main corridor on a Monday morning was no longer a simple commute; it was an obstacle course of adoration.

"It’s him! That’s Aiden Stromfang! The one who rode the lightning wolf!"

"Look! Lyra Braveheart! She looks even more elegant in person!"

First-year students from other classes, second-years who hadn’t made the cut for the trip, and even senior staff stopped to stare as the members of the "Top 10" walked by.

I leaned against a pillar near the entrance of the Supreme Hall, watching the circus.

Leon was currently surrounded by a gaggle of third-year girls, accepting a bouquet of mana-flowers with a flustered, humble smile.

He looked exhausted by the attention, but his posture was straighter, his aura more settled. The breakthrough he’d achieved on the island—the White Flame—had solidified his foundation. He wasn’t just a prodigy anymore; he was a veteran.

Eric William stood nearby, flanked by his usual entourage. He wasn’t signing autographs.

He was simply existing, letting the waves of admiration wash over him with the stoic arrogance of a statue. He had saved civilians on camera. He had played the part of the noble protector perfectly. His approval ratings in the noble courts were skyrocketing.

And me?

I adjusted my collar, pulling my hood up slightly.

To the public, I was a background character. A lucky survivor. The guy Eric William had "saved."

To the initiated—my team, the instructors, and the few Council members paying attention—I was the Anomaly.

But to my bank account, I was a god.

I tapped the screen of my phone, hidden in my pocket.

[Aegis Holdings - Weekly Report]

[Net Revenue: +450%]

[Dawn Guild Recruitment: +200 Members]

[Market Share (Rolune Sector): Dominant]

The auction had changed everything. By flooding the market with high-grade Tower loot while the Iron Syndicate was strangled by debt, we had effectively seized control of the mid-tier resource economy in the industrial capital.

I wasn’t just rich. I was wealthy. I had enough liquidity to buy a small country, or at least a very large private island.

But the message that made me smile wasn’t about money. It was from my mother..

[Mom: Michael! Your father... he did it! The new cores you sent... he broke through last night! He’s B+ Rank! His grey hair is gone, honey! He looks twenty years younger! He’s crying in the kitchen right now saying he’s going to buy you a castle. We are so proud.]

I felt a genuine warmth bloom in my chest, melting a fraction of the icy calculation that usually resided there.

In the original game, my father—Samar’s father—never broke past C-Rank. He died of mana poisoning in his fifties, a broken, tired man trying to keep a failing guild afloat..

Now? He was B+. He was revitalized. He was a powerhouse in his own right.

"Change the plot," I whispered to myself. "Save the extras."

"Talking to yourself, Wilson?"

I looked up. Seraphina Croft stood there, her arms crossed, her uniform immaculate. She didn’t look at me with disdain anymore. She looked at me with the weary, knowing look of a co-conspirator.

"Just counting my blessings," I said. "Enjoying the fame?"

"I hate it," she muttered, glaring at a group of students pointing at her. "They don’t know what happened. They think we just... waved our wands and won. They didn’t see the blood. They didn’t see the strategy."

"Let them keep their illusions," I said, pushing off the pillar. "Illusions are profitable. Besides, vacation is over."

The bell chimed—a deep, resonant gong that signaled the start of the new term.

We walked into the lecture hall.

The atmosphere inside was electric. The survivors of Sky Island sat in the front rows, a silent, separated caste. The other students looked at us with a mix of envy and awe.

The door slammed open.

Instructor Evelyn Whitehound strode in.

She wasn’t wearing her usual teaching robes. She was wearing a formal military dress uniform, black with gold piping, a cape of red velvet trailing behind her.

The room went instantly silent.

She walked to the podium, her heels clicking like gunshots on the stone floor. She didn’t smile. She didn’t congratulate us.

She simply placed a heavy, iron gauntlet on the lectern.

"You have survived Sky Island," Evelyn began, her voice cool and sharp. "You have been lauded by the press. You have been praised by the King. You have been called heroes."

She paused, her eyes sweeping over Leon, Eric, and the rest of us.

"Forget it."

The students blinked.

"That was survival," Evelyn said. "It was messy. It was desperate. And frankly, it was luck. If Councilor Vane hadn’t arrived, you would all be ash."

She tapped the iron gauntlet.

"The real world does not care about your luck. It cares about your strength. And now, it is time to prove it on the world stage."

Behind her, the massive blackboard shimmered and dissolved, replaced by a holographic projection of a map.

It wasn’t a map of Arcadia.

It was a map of the Northern Continent. Specifically, a rugged, mountainous region dominated by massive, subterranean cities and towering industrial smokestacks.

[The Kingdom of Nidavellir – The Ironhold]

"The Dwarf Kingdom," Leon whispered, recognizing the geography.

"Every three years," Evelyn announced, "the twelve Great Academies of the world gather for a competition. A crucible to determine the hierarchy of the next generation. A proxy war fought by the youth to settle international disputes, resource allocations, and dungeon rights."

The hologram shifted, showing a massive, colosseum-like structure built into the side of a volcano, surrounded by cheering crowds of thousands.

"The Grand Convergence Tournament."

A murmur ran through the class. Everyone knew the name. It was the Olympics, the World Cup, and a gladiatorial death-match rolled into one.

"This year," Evelyn continued, "The Ironhold is hosting. The Dwarves are the wealthiest nation on the planet. They have poured trillions of Ren into this event. The prizes are legendary weapons forged by Master Smiths. The exposure is global. Tourism is expected to be in the millions."

She leaned forward.

"Arcadia Hunter Academy is currently ranked Second."

The room stiffened. Second. To the elites of this school, second was just a polite word for ’first loser.’

"Three years ago, we lost to the Imperial Institute of Dragoon," Evelyn said, her voice dripping with distaste. "This year, we take back the Crown."

"Who goes?" Eric William asked, sitting up straighter. "The Top 10 teams?"

"No," Evelyn said.

She held up a finger.

"Twelve."

Silence.

"Twelve students," she clarified. "Not teams. Individuals. The official roster for the Academy Representative Team consists of twelve slots. Ten active members. Two substitutes."

She looked directly at Eric, then at Leon.

"And here is the catch. The Tournament is open to the Junior Division. That means First Years... and Second Years."

The atmosphere in the room shifted from excitement to tension.

Second Years.

Our seniors. The ones who had been training for a full year longer than us. The ones who were currently clearing C-Rank dungeons as part of their curriculum.

"The Second Years are strong," Evelyn admitted. "But your class... the ’Golden Generation’... you have real combat experience. You have faced SS-Rank threats. The Headmaster has decided that the selection will be entirely meritocratic."

She smiled, a thin, predatory expression.

"Next week, the Selection Trials begin. You will not be fighting each other. You will be fighting the Second Years for those twelve spots."

"Who is the Captain?" Magnus Daven asked, his voice rough. "If it’s mixed, who leads?"

Evelyn’s smile widened.

"The Captain of the Representative Team has already been chosen by the Student Council and the Faculty."

The hologram changed again.

It displayed a portrait of a young man.

He had sharp, angular features, eyes like chips of flint, and hair the color of dried blood.

He wore the Academy uniform, but on his shoulder sat the insignia of a three-star General of the Student Body.

He held a massive greatsword in one hand, resting it casually on his shoulder as if it weighed nothing.

[Team Captain: Arthur Pendragon]

[Rank: 2nd Year, Class S]

[Affinity: Gravity / Sword]

"Arthur Pendragon," Leon breathed. "The ’King of the Second Year’."

"He is currently a peak C+ Rank," Evelyn said.

"Bordering on B-Rank. He has cleared the 40th Floor of the Tower solo. He is the strongest student currently enrolled in this Academy."

I stared at the image.

Arthur Pendragon. A descendant of the original Hero King, though a distant, branch-family relation.

In the game, he was a mid-boss during the Tournament Arc—a rival who refused to accept Leon’s potential because of his obsession with bloodline purity.

He was strong. Ridiculously strong. And he hated first-years.

"He will lead the team," Evelyn said. "Your job is to impress him enough to let you on the bus.

There are twelve seats. He takes one. That leaves eleven."

She looked at the class of fifty students.

"The Second Years want those spots. They have seniority. They have pride. And they are angry that the media is talking about you and not them."

She picked up the gauntlet from the podium.

"The vacation is over, cadets. You conquered the sky? Good. Now, try to conquer the mountain."

"Class dismissed."

(To be continued)