The Extra is a Hero?-Chapter 257: THE DRAW OF FATE
(Stage 2: Division Wars)
Chapter 252: The Draw of Fate
The hangover from the Gold Medal win lasted exactly twelve hours.
By 08:00 the next morning, the euphoria was dead. The confetti had been swept away by wind-mages, the alcohol had been metabolized (or purged) by the healers, and the Bio-Dome had undergone a terrifying transformation.
The lush biomes of the Labyrinth—the desert, the jungle, the ruins—were gone. The entire arena floor had been flattened and paved with cold, grey adamantite.
Rising from the center of this barren plain was a structure that looked like a jagged tooth aimed at the sky.
[Stage 2 Arena: The Tower of Duels]
It was a vertical colosseum. A series of floating platforms spiraling upward around a central pillar, each one a different size, each one devoid of cover. There were no trees to hide behind here. No vents to crawl through. Just you, your opponent, and a drop that would turn you into paste if your gravity spells failed.
"Welcome, students, to the Division Wars!"
Headmaster Ironfoot’s voice boomed over the magical amplifiers, shaking the dust off the stadium seats. He stood on the central podium, flanked by the other eleven Academy heads. He looked less like an educator and more like an executioner who enjoyed his job a little too much.
"Yesterday, you proved you could survive the environment," the dwarf grumbled. "You proved you could work as a team. You proved you could... innovate."
His eyes flickered toward the Arcadia section. Toward me.
I didn’t blink. I just adjusted my glasses and leaned back in my seat. Stare all you want, short stack. I didn’t break the rules; I just bent the physics engine.
"But a hero cannot always choose his battlefield," Ironfoot continued, raising a massive, calloused hand. "And more importantly, a hero cannot always choose his allies."
A ripple of unease went through the gathered students.
"In the field, you will work with mercenaries, local guards, or rivals from other guilds. You must adapt. You must sync. You must win, regardless of who stands beside you."
The air above the arena shimmered. A massive holographic lottery wheel appeared, burning with blue mana.
[Format: 2v2 Knockout Tournament]
[Pairing Method: Random Lottery]
"Random?" Arthur Pendragon frowned, crossing his arms. "That is... inefficient. Synergy requires years of practice."
"That’s the point," I muttered. "They want to see who cracks under pressure."
The lottery wheel began to spin.
The tension in the Arcadia box was thick enough to cut with a knife.
We had ten students remaining. Five pairs. The best outcome would be keeping our established formations—Arthur with Leon, me with Varkas or Seraphina. The worst outcome...
[Pairing 1: Leon Lionheart & Ira Moonflare]
Leon blinked. He looked over at the Sanctum of High Magic’s seating area, where a small, terrified-looking girl in oversized robes squeaked and hid behind her staff.
"Ira Moonflare," Leon mused. "Support mage. specialize in lunar barriers and healing. Zero offensive capability."
"She’s a liability," Eric William sneered from the back row. Eric was a high-noble, a Light Mage with an ego that shone brighter than his spells. "You’ll be babysitting the whole match, Leon."
"I see it differently," Leon said, a gentle smile touching his lips. "It means I don’t have to worry about holding back my flames. I just have to protect her."
Classic Leon.
[Pairing 2: Arthur Pendragon & Seraphina Croft]
Arthur nodded once, satisfied. "Acceptable. Seraphina provides range and reconnaissance. I provide the vanguard. We will dominate."
Seraphina let out a breath she’d been holding. "Thank the gods. I didn’t want to get stuck with a berserker from the Titanborn Academy."
The names kept cycling. One by one, our classmates were paired off. Some got lucky; others looked like they were about to be sick.
Then, the wheel slowed for the final Arcadia pair.
My name appeared first.
[Michael Wilson]
"Please give me Varkas," I whispered. "Or even a random extra. I’m not picky. Just someone who listens."
The second name clicked into place.
[& Eric William]
Silence.
Absolute, heavy silence descended on the Arcadia box.
I slowly turned my head.
Eric William was staring at the screen, his face draining of color, then rapidly filling with a flushed, violent red.
Eric hated me. It wasn’t just a dislike; it was a fundamental, ideological hatred. He was a noble of the Gilded Circle. I was a "commoner" who had somehow usurped the spotlight, embarrassed the elites, and acted like I owned the place. To him, I was a stain on the Academy’s prestige.
"No," Eric said, his voice trembling.
He stood up, kicking his chair back.
"NO!"
He marched to the edge of the balcony and shouted down at the Judges.
"I object! This is a mistake! There’s been a glitch in the algorithm!"
Headmaster Ironfoot looked up, his expression unamused. "Sit down, boy."
"I will not!" Eric pointed a shaking finger at me. "You expect me—a scion of the William House—to fight alongside him? He’s a C-Rank nobody! He relies on tricks and garbage items! He has no honor, no lineage, and no mana capacity!"
I sighed and opened a packet of mana-jerky. Here we go.
"He is dead weight!" Eric screamed, his composure shattering. "I demand a redraw! Put me with Arthur! Or Leon! Or anyone who actually belongs in this tournament!"
The entire stadium was watching now. Cameras were zoomed in on Eric’s tantrum. It was humiliating, but not for me.
Ironfoot’s voice dropped an octave. It wasn’t loud, but it resonated in our chests like a bass drum.
"Mr. William. Are you questioning the integrity of the Grand Era judges?"
"I am questioning your sanity!" Eric snarled. "I refuse to partner with a commoner!"
Zip.
I closed the jerky packet.
"Eric," I said calmly. "You’re drooling. It’s unseemly."
"Shut up!" He spun on me, light condensing in his palm. "Don’t speak to me, trash! You think you’re clever because you crawled through a sewer? You’re going to get us killed in a real fight!"
"Enough," Arthur’s voice cut through the noise. The King of Knights didn’t shout, but his tone brooked no argument. "The draw is final, Eric. Do not disgrace Arcadia further."
"Disgrace?" Eric laughed hysterically. "The disgrace is sitting right there eating dried meat!"
Ironfoot raised his hand. For a second, I thought he was going to disqualify Eric. Instead, the dwarf smiled. It was a cruel, toothy smile.
"Objection overruled," Ironfoot announced. "However, since Mr. William is so confident in his own superiority, and so concerned about his partner’s incompetence... we shall test them first."
The massive screen behind the Judges flickered.
[Match 1]
[Michael Wilson & Eric William (Arcadia)]
[VS]
[Jaren Falk & Rowan Halford (Imperial Institute)]
My eyes narrowed behind my glasses.
The Imperial Institute. The military academy. They didn’t produce mages; they produced living weapons.
Jaren Falk: Rank B Martial Artist. specialized in Qi manipulation and internal destruction strikes. He didn’t hit you with magic; he hit you with physics-defying punches that bypassed armor.
Rowan Halford: Rank B+ Duelist. A speed-type sword user.
They were close-range specialists. Aggressive. Disciplined.
And we were... well, we were a disaster.
Eric stared at the names. His face paled. He knew who they were.
"Imperial..." he whispered. Then he glared at me with renewed venom. "If we lose this... if you drag me down... I will kill you myself, Wilson."
I stood up, brushing crumbs off my uniform.
"If you spend as much energy fighting them as you do whining," I said, walking past him toward the lift, "we might actually survive."
The Preparation Room
The air in the waiting room was sterile and cold.
Eric was pacing back and forth, muttering to himself. He was psyching himself up. Or maybe he was having a breakdown. It was hard to tell.
"I don’t need him," Eric muttered, checking the mana crystals on his gloves. "I can handle Falk. I just need to keep distance. Light Ray has a faster cast time than his closing speed. If I zone him..."
He looked at me. I was leaning against the wall, checking the straps on my boots.
"Listen to me, Wilson," Eric snapped. "Here is the plan. You stay back. Way back. Put up a shield if you can manage that much without passing out. Do not engage. Do not try to be a hero. I will handle the offense."
"Falk uses Flash Step," I noted casually. "He can close a twenty-meter gap in 1.2 seconds. Your Light Ray takes 1.5 seconds to charge."
"I have the Prism Guard!" Eric retorted. "It blinds attackers. He won’t be able to target me."
"Falk fights blindfolded during training," I countered. "He tracks by mana signature and heartbeat. Blinding him just makes him angry."
Eric slammed his fist into a locker. "Why do you always have to be a know-it-all? Just shut up and stay out of my way! I am a noble of the William line! I don’t need tactical advice from a scholarship student!"
I shrugged. "Suit yourself."
[Warning: Teammate synergy is at -50%.]
[Predicted Outcome: Defeat (98%)]
I dismissed the notification.
"Five minutes!" the referee called from the doorway.
I walked to the weapon rack. My gear was subtle. A pair of combat gloves reinforced with Moon-Silver weave (thanks to the goblin), my standard gravity boots, and a few pouches of catalyzed dust.
I looked at Eric. He was vibrating with nervous energy. He wasn’t scared of losing; he was scared of losing with me. He was scared that his worldview—that nobles were inherently superior—was about to be challenged.
He wanted to prove he could win 1v2. He wanted to prove I was unnecessary.
Let him try, I thought. Sometimes, you have to let the dog touch the hot stove so it learns what ’hot’ means.
The Arena Floor
The platform for our duel was a circular disc of stone, floating fifty meters above the ground. There were no rails.
Opposite us stood the Imperial team.
Jaren Falk was a wall of muscle in a sleeveless gi. His hands were wrapped in black tape. He stood perfectly still, breathing in a slow, rhythmic cycle.
Rowan Halford was leaner, holding a rapier that hummed with vibration magic.
"Begin!" the referee shouted, then immediately jumped off the platform onto a hovering disc to get out of the way.
"Light, obey me!" Eric screamed instantly.
He didn’t wait. He didn’t assess. He just launched himself forward, hands glowing with blinding white light.
[Spell: Photon Barrage]
Dozens of bolts of light shot toward the Imperial students. It was a flashy, high-mana opener. Impressive to look at.
Jaren Falk didn’t even flinch.
He took one step forward. Just one.
"Soft," Falk grunted.
He punched the air.
BOOM.
A shockwave of condensed Qi erupted from his fist. It wasn’t magic; it was pure kinetic force. The air pressure shattered Eric’s light bolts instantly, scattering them like harmless sparks.
Rowan, the duelist, moved through the distortion. He was a blur.
Eric’s eyes widened. "Prism Guard!"
A wall of refracted light sprang up around him.
Rowan didn’t stab the shield. He slid under it.
Slash.
"Argh!" Eric screamed as a thin line of red appeared on his thigh. He stumbled back, his concentration breaking. The shield flickered.
Jaren Falk was already there.
He moved with terrifying weight, like a boulder rolling downhill. He stepped inside Eric’s guard, grabbed Eric’s outstretched arm, and twisted.
CRACK.
"You rely too much on your eyes," Falk said calmly, delivering a palm strike to Eric’s chest.
It wasn’t a hard hit visually, but Eric gagged. The internal energy bypassed his mana-skin and rattled his lungs.
Eric went flying, skidding across the stone platform. He stopped inches from the edge, gasping for air, clutching his chest.
"Is that it?" Rowan asked, flicking blood off his rapier. "I thought Arcadia was the Gold Medalist team."
Eric tried to stand. His legs were shaking. He looked up, wild-eyed, searching for help.
He looked at me.
I was standing exactly where I had started. My arms were crossed. I hadn’t cast a single spell.
The crowd began to murmur. Then, the booing started.
"He’s abandoning his teammate!"
"Coward!"
"Do something, Wilson!"
I ignored them. I looked straight at Eric, who was bleeding, humiliated, and terrified.
"Help... me..." Eric wheezed, blood dripping from his lip.
I took a slow step forward.
"Why?" I asked, my voice cutting through the noise of the arena. "You said you didn’t need a commoner. You said I was baggage."
Jaren Falk frowned, looking between us. "Internal strife? Pathetic."
I kept my eyes on Eric.
"Are you done playing hero, Eric?" I asked coldly. "Are you done pretending your bloodline makes you invincible? Or do you want to win?"
Eric stared at me. The arrogance was gone, beaten out of him by a single palm strike. In his eyes, I saw the only thing that mattered to a survivor: desperation.
"I..." Eric gritted his teeth. "I want to win."
I smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.
"Good," I said, my eyes flashing with a faint, imperceptible blue light as I activated [Fenra’s Eye].
"Then stop thinking," I commanded. "And listen to the voice in your head."
(To be Continued)
