The Extra is a Hero?-Chapter 258: THE BROKEN NOBLE
Chapter 253: The Broken Noble
The shouts of the crowd were a distant, furious tide. They crashed against the hovering platform, demanding action, demanding a spectacle. They wanted a duel, not a mugging.
Eric William lay sprawled on the cold adamantite, his pristine noble uniform ripped, his armor plating chipped. The white-hot light of his mana was reduced to a sputtering candle. He tasted blood and the dust of his own shattered pride.
He looked up at his opponents.
Jaren Falk, the Imperial Martial Artist, didn’t move. He stood like a statue carved from granite, radiating an aura of impenetrable, disciplined Qi. He had yet to use a single major spell or even break a sweat.
Rowan Halford, the Duelist, circled Eric slowly, his rapier dancing with a silent, hypnotic energy. Rowan hadn’t launched an attack meant to kill, only to dismantle and humiliate.
"Get up, noble," Rowan called out, his voice sharp and mocking. "Did the pampered Arcadian life leave you so fragile? I hear your teammates call yourselves the ’Skyfall Heroes.’ You look more like a fallen sparrow."
Eric grit his teeth, the insult searing worse than the internal ache from Falk’s strike. He desperately tried to pull mana into his broken arm to cast a healing cantrip, but the pain made his concentration waver.
He didn’t just need to win. He needed to prove Michael wrong. He needed to prove Arthur right. He was supposed to be better. He was a William.
He looked back at his partner.
Michael Wilson stood fifty feet away, near the edge of the platform, arms crossed. The very picture of indifference. He looked like he was waiting for a bus.
"Get involved, you useless commoner!" Eric screamed, spitting blood onto the stone. "Use your gravity trick! Distract them! I am giving you a direct order as your superior!"
Michael didn’t uncross his arms. He didn’t move his feet.
"You said you didn’t need me, Eric," Michael’s voice was calm, cutting through the stadium’s noise. "You said you’d handle the offense."
"This is not offense!" Eric cried out, frustration overriding his pain. "This is suppression! They are overpowering my defense!"
"They are punishing your arrogance," Michael countered, his eyes analyzing the energy signatures of the Imperial duo. "You tried to fight two B-Ranks specializing in anti-mage warfare using an S-Rank ego."
Falk and Halford exchanged glances. The partner was doing a better job of breaking the noble than they were.
"Your Light spells are high-mana, high-viscosity," Michael continued, projecting his voice just loud enough for the four people on the platform to hear. "Falk uses Qi strikes that are non-magical, bypassing your mana-shield entirely. Halford’s rapier vibrates at a frequency that disrupts crystal barriers. You chose the one team in the entire tournament genetically engineered to counter you."
Eric stared at Michael, his breath ragged. "Shut up! I will—"
He shoved himself onto one knee, trying to channel a blinding Solar Flare. It was his signature move, massive and devastating.
"No, you won’t," Falk said, appearing instantly beside him with a Flash Step.
Falk didn’t use a fist this time. He simply extended two fingers, pressing them lightly against Eric’s forehead.
The Solar Flare sputtered and died.
Eric’s vision swam. He felt a deep, piercing throb behind his eyes as Falk’s targeted Qi strike shut down his frontal mana-node.
"You can’t even hold a spell," Falk stated, pulling his hand back with contempt. "You are finished, Arcadian."
Halford stepped in, rapier raised for the final, neutralizing strike.
Eric closed his eyes. He saw the cold steel reflected on his inner eyelids. He was going to lose. He was going to be publicly shamed on the world stage, and the commoner had stood there and watched it happen.
This is it. The end of my reputation.
Just as the rapier tip moved past the threshold of speed, Falk took one micro-step back.
"Wait, Rowan," Falk said quietly.
Halford paused, rapier inches from Eric’s throat. "Why?"
Falk’s eyes, normally placid and focused, were fixed on Michael.
Michael had finally uncrossed his arms. He took a deep breath.
"You have been disarmed, Eric," Michael said, his voice flat. "You have been humiliated. You are bleeding. You are one blow away from being disqualified."
He paused, letting the silence draw out.
"Now, are you done playing hero, Eric? Or do you want to win?"
Eric’s throat bobbed. He couldn’t speak. He just stared into the depths of Michael’s glasses, which reflected the glare of the arena lights like two cold, unfeeling lenses.
I want to win. The thought was a desperate, ugly prayer inside his mind.
Michael nodded slowly, as if he had heard the silent plea.
"Good," Michael said.
The world tilted.
Not physically. But for Eric, the air in the arena suddenly seemed to compress. The stadium noise vanished, replaced by a strange, high-pitched ringing that seemed to originate not from the outside, but from the depths of his own skull.
His vision focused entirely on Michael. The commoner’s figure blurred for a microsecond.
Then, Eric felt a sensation he had never experienced. It was the distinct feeling of a cold, foreign will slotting itself into his nervous system. Like a puppet master installing a string.
He saw the Martial Artist, Falk, shift his weight, preparing to rush.
Eric’s mind registered: Danger. Too fast. Retreat.
But then, the ringing in his skull intensified, and a single, crystalline command dropped into the void where his panic should have been. It wasn’t spoken out loud. It was installed.
"Duck."
Eric’s body moved. Not because he consciously willed it, but because the command was overriding the panic signals. He dropped flat, hitting the stone.
Falk’s charging palm strike whistled harmlessly over his head, the force of the compressed air flattening the hair on Eric’s scalp.
Falk froze. He had expected the noble to cower, not to execute a textbook low-evasion maneuver.
The crowd, which had been booing Michael, gasped in unison.
Rowan Halford seized the opening created by Falk’s momentary pause. The duelist launched a low thrust aimed at Eric’s back, intending to pin him.
Eric’s mind screamed: I can’t see it!
"Step Right. Now."
Eric’s right leg moved. He rolled half a meter to the side. Rowan’s rapier struck the cold stone where his spine had been, throwing up a shower of sparks.
Eric’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against the adamantine. He hadn’t seen the attack. He hadn’t willed the move. His leg had moved on its own, with a precision born of pure calculation.
What is happening to me?
"Analysis complete," Michael said from across the platform. He might as well have been speaking through a headset. "Falk is focused on disabling your core. Halford is relying on rapid close-range hits. They are fighting as two singles, not a pair. Exploit the gap."
"Thrust. At his center mass. Light Lance. Weakest viable spell."
Eric’s hand rose. He hadn’t even thought about a spell, but the mana gathered instantly, cleanly, without the pain he had felt seconds ago. He cast the smallest, fastest projectile he knew—a simple [Light Lance].
He didn’t aim for Falk, who was already retreating to reposition. He aimed for Rowan, who was standing over him, momentarily exposed after the missed thrust.
The Light Lance was fast, precise, and aimed directly for the loose joint in Rowan’s shoulder guard.
Rowan, the seasoned Duelist, reacted instantly, bringing his rapier up to parry.
CLANG.
The magic bolt struck the steel. It didn’t pierce the weapon, but the kinetic recoil—combined with the vibration magic in the sword—was enough.
Rowan’s hand flew open. His signature rapier spun into the air, landing ten meters away with a ringing sound.
The crowd erupted. They didn’t understand the nuance. They just saw the arrogant noble, battered and on the ground, disarm the formidable duelist with a quick counter.
"He used the rebound!" shouted a commentator. "An unexpected display of tactical defense from William!"
Eric scrambled backward, finally finding his feet. He looked down at his hands, then at his chest. He was moving, breathing, and the pain in his head had subsided, leaving only the residue of that cold, powerful intrusion.
He looked across the platform.
Michael was still standing there, arms crossed once more, his expression utterly bored. He looked like he had just given the world’s most complicated driving lesson.
"Your opponent is disarmed," Michael stated. "Falk will cover him. Halford will try to retrieve the weapon. You have a three-second window. Maximize it."
"Three steps forward. Right diagonal. Maximum charge. NOW."
The command was absolute. Eric didn’t hesitate. He launched himself forward, not toward Falk, but toward the rapier.
Falk reacted immediately, knowing Eric was suddenly dangerous. He roared, channeling his entire focus into a powerful, ground-shaking [Earth Shatter Palm].
"You will not breach my defense!" Falk bellowed, throwing the attack.
Eric ignored it. His body followed the strange, silent instructions. He was moving faster than he had ever moved in his life. He didn’t see Falk’s attack as a massive, lethal strike.
The voice in his head dissected it: Large AOE. High Mana cost. Slow recovery. Aim for the periphery.
"Jump! Left diagonal! Five meters! Roll!"
Eric leaped over the initial shockwave, his feet barely clipping the edge of the attack’s perimeter. He rolled as soon as he hit the ground, snatching the rapier with his good hand.
He didn’t need the rapier. He needed the leverage.
He pivoted in the roll, channeling a massive burst of light magic into the recovered weapon. The rapier, designed to channel vibration, overloaded, turning into a massive, concentrated beam of light.
[Spell: Mana Overload – Purge]
He fired the white-hot light beam toward the recovering Falk, who was still trying to bring his arms up from the Earth Shatter recovery animation.
Falk had no time to use his Qi defense. He was forced to throw up a desperate, high-mana shield to avoid incineration.
WHOOSH.
The shield held, but the force of the blast sent Falk tumbling back, skidding off the edge of the platform.
Falk used a last-second burst of Qi to propel himself back up, but the impact had staggered him.
The platform was silent for a breath.
Eric stood alone, rapier smoking, his chest heaving. He had won. He had single-handedly, brutally beaten the two Imperial aces.
Rowan was still recovering from the disarm. Falk was limping, having taken severe kinetic damage.
Eric raised the rapier—not in triumph, but in a shaky, uncertain gesture.
He had won.
But as the roar of the crowd finally hit him, Eric William didn’t feel triumphant. He felt violated.
He looked down at his trembling hand. He knew, with absolute certainty, that the mind, the will, and the skill that had won the last twenty seconds were not his own.
He slowly turned his head to look at Michael.
Michael smiled, a tiny, almost invisible upturn of the lips.
"See?" Michael said, his voice flat and tired. "All you had to do was listen."
(To be Continued)
