The Extra is a Hero?-Chapter 261: THE SHADOW MATCH
Chapter 256: The Shadow Match
The roar of fifty thousand spectators was deafening, a tidal wave of sound that shook the very foundations of the Arena of Gods.
Above, in the sunlight, Leon Lionheart was waving to the adoring masses, the
"Shield of the Generation" basking in the glory of his hard-won victory.
But fifty meters below the cheering crowds, in the subterranean labyrinth of service tunnels and mana conduits, there was only silence.
The air down here was stale, smelling of ozone, recycled dust, and high-voltage magic.
The walls were lined with thick cables pulsing with blue light—the arteries of the arena, feeding the massive barriers and holographic projectors above.
A lone figure moved through the gloom.
He wore the grey jumpsuit of the arena maintenance crew, a cap pulled low over his eyes, and a heavy toolbox in his hand.
His ID badge identified him as "Staff #402," but the way he moved silent, efficient, placing his feet with the rolling gait of an assassin—betrayed him.
He wasn’t here to fix a leak.
He reached a heavy blast door marked
[SECTOR 7: BARRIER GENERATOR - RESTRICTED].
The man didn’t swipe a card. He placed his gloved hand on the electronic lock. A faint, crimson light glowed from beneath his glove.
Hiss.
The lock didn’t unlock; it dissolved. The metal turned to grey sludge, dripping onto the floor. The man pushed the door open and slipped inside.
The room was dominated by a massive, spinning turbine of crystal and adamantite. It hummed with a deep, bone-rattling bass—the generator sustaining the protective dome over the arena.
The intruder smiled. It was a cold, fanatical expression.
He opened his toolbox. Inside, nestled in shock-absorbent foam, was not a wrench, but a device that looked like a jagged lump of obsidian wrapped in copper wire. It pulsed with a sickening, chaotic rhythm that seemed to fight against the steady hum of the generator.
"For the New Dawn," the man whispered.
He reached out to attach the device to the main mana-feed.
Skree.
A sound echoed from the ventilation shaft above him. It wasn’t the sound of metal settling. It was the sound of claws on steel.
The intruder froze. He whipped around, a dagger appearing in his hand as if by magic.
"Who’s there?"
Silence.
Then, the shadows in the corner of the room seemed to stretch. They elongated, detaching themselves from the wall, pooling on the floor before rising up into a small, draconic shape.
A pair of glowing purple eyes stared at him.
The intruder’s eyes widened. "A shadow beast? Here?"
He slashed at the creature. The dagger passed harmlessly through smoke. The Wyrmling—Nox—hissed, a sound like tearing parchment, and darted between his legs.
"Damn pest!" The man spun, aiming a kick, but his foot caught only air.
"I wouldn’t worry about the lizard," a voice spoke from the doorway. "You should worry about the owner."
The intruder stiffened. He turned slowly.
Michael Wilson was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He looked bored. He was wearing his academy uniform, looking completely out of place in the industrial grimness of the generator room.
"You’re not maintenance," the intruder growled, shifting his stance. "Student. Leave. Now. Or you die."
Michael pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"You’re using a Harmonic Disruptor, Model 4," Michael said, nodding at the device in the toolbox. "Modified with Demon Realm alchemy. Nasty piece of work. If you attach that to the generator, it won’t just shut down the barrier. It will invert the frequency."
Michael took a step forward, his voice devoid of fear.
"Instead of keeping attacks in, the barrier will crush everyone inside. Fifty thousand people turned to paste in about three seconds."
The intruder’s face twisted. "You know too much."
"I read a lot," Michael deadpanned.
-----------------
The intruder moved. He was fast—faster than an E-Rank student should be able to track. He was a D-Rank Assassin, infused with demonic energy. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, the dagger aiming for Michael’s throat.
Clang.
The dagger stopped inches from Michael’s jugular.
It hadn’t hit a shield. It had hit Michael’s hand.
Michael had caught the blade. His hand was wrapped in a dense, invisible layer of Aura, hardening his skin to the density of steel.
"Wha—"
"Too wide," Michael criticized. "You telegraphed the strike with your shoulder drop. Amateur."
Michael didn’t let go of the blade. He twisted his wrist.
CRACK.
The metal dagger shattered. Before the assassin could process the loss of his weapon, Michael’s other hand moved. It was a blur.
A palm strike to the solar plexus.
THUD.
The assassin’s eyes bugged out. The air was forcibly ejected from his lungs. He folded like a lawn chair.
Michael didn’t stop. He grabbed the man by the back of his neck and slammed him face-first into the metal floor.
BANG.
"Stay down," Michael commanded.
Nox chirped happily from the top of the generator, tail wagging as if cheering for his master.
Michael placed a knee on the assassin’s spine, pinning him. He reached down and grabbed the man’s hair, pulling his head back.
"Now," Michael said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register. "Let’s skip the part where you tell me you’ll never talk, and I break your fingers until you do. Who sent you? Is this the only device?"
The assassin wheezed, blood bubbling from his lip. He glared at Michael with pure, unadulterated hate.
"The... King..." he rasped. "The Crimson King... sees... all..."
Michael’s eyes narrowed. "Demon Cult. Obviously. But why now? Why the qualifiers?"
"You... cannot stop... the Stage..." The man grinned, his teeth stained red. "The Royal... Stage..."
Suddenly, the man’s body seized.
Michael felt the muscles under his knee turn rigid as stone. The veins in the assassin’s neck turned black, bulging as if pumping sludge instead of blood.
"Kill switch," Michael cursed.
He immediately released the man and jumped back, shielding his face.
Squelch.
It wasn’t an explosion, but an internal liquefaction. The assassin’s heart simply burst. The man went limp, dead before his face hit the floor.
"Sloppy," Michael muttered, dusting off his uniform. "Remote mana-detonation. They were watching him."
He looked up at the security camera in the corner. The red light was blinking.
Michael stared directly into the lens. He didn’t hide. He adjusted his glasses, letting the glare obscure his eyes, and gave a small, mocking wave. Then, he pointed a finger at the camera and slashed it across his throat.
Message sent.
He turned his attention back to the corpse.
"Nox, search him."
The Wyrmling descended, sniffing the body. It nudged a pocket on the jumpsuit.
Michael reached in, using a handkerchief to avoid touching the blood. He pulled out a folded piece of paper.
It was a map of the arena.
The map was detailed, showing the layout of the stands, the exits, and the VIP sections.
But it wasn’t the student waiting areas that were marked. It wasn’t the main concourse.
A thick, red circle—drawn in what looked disturbingly like dried blood—was etched around the Royal Box.
Next to the circle, a time was scrawled: 14:00 - Stage 3 Start.
"Stage 3," Michael whispered, his mind racing.
He looked at the device in the toolbox again. The Harmonic Disruptor.
"They weren’t going to detonate this during the student matches," Michael realized, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. "This device... it creates a frequency lock. It prevents teleportation."
He looked back at the map.
"They aren’t trying to kill the audience. They’re trying to trap the leaders."
The Royal Box contained the Headmasters of the Twelve Academies. It contained the Generals of the Human Alliance. It contained the pillars of humanity’s defense against the demons.
"If they kill the students, it’s a tragedy," Michael murmured. "If they kill the Headmasters... it’s a decapitation strike. The chain of command collapses."
He checked his watch. It was 13:45.
Fifteen minutes until Stage 3 was announced.
"Nox," Michael said, his voice urgent. "Eat the device."
The Wyrmling looked at the jagged rock and copper wire skeptically.
"Do it. Shadow dimension storage. Just don’t digest it."
Nox opened its mouth impossibly wide, and the shadows swallowed the device whole.
Michael stood up. He grabbed the map and the shattered remains of the dagger.
"We have to go."
The Surface
Michael emerged from the maintenance access door just as the announcer’s voice boomed across the stadium.
[ATTENTION PLEASE!]
[STAGE 2 IS CONCLUDED!]
The crowd cheered, though many were confused. The tournament was supposed to go on longer. Why stop now?
[DUE TO THE OVERWHELMING SKILL DISPLAYED...] The announcer continued, clearly reading from a new script handed to him by the judges. [THE JUDGES HAVE DECIDED TO ACCELERATE THE FINALS!]
Michael walked through the tunnel toward the student waiting area. He saw the other winners gathered there.
Leon Lionheart was being patted on the back by his friends.
Eric William was sitting alone, looking pale.
Arthur Pendragon was polishing his sword, looking pensive.
Michael walked straight to Arthur.
"We have a problem," Michael said, keeping his voice low so the cameras wouldn’t pick it up.
Arthur looked up. He saw the dirt on Michael’s uniform, the faint scent of ozone and blood that clung to him. 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂
"What did you do?" Arthur asked.
"I took out the trash," Michael replied. He slipped the blood-stained map into Arthur’s hand. "Look at this. Don’t react."
Arthur unfolded the paper. His eyes scanned the red circle around the Royal Box. His knuckles turned white.
"Is this real?"
"The corpse downstairs says yes," Michael said. "They have a jammer. Or they had one. I neutralized the primary, but there might be secondaries. They want to lock the VIPs in and slaughter them."
"We must tell the Headmasters," Arthur said, starting to stand.
"No time," Michael stopped him. "And if we go up there, we spook the cultists. If they have a dead-man switch, they might blow the stands."
"Then what do we do?"
[PREPARE FOR STAGE 3!] The announcer roared.
The holographic floor of the arena began to shift. The flat dueling platforms sank away. In their place, a massive, complex terrain began to rise.
Ruins. Castles. Trenches.
[STAGE 3: THE TEAM ROYAL WAR!]
[OBJECTIVE: CAPTURE THE FLAG!]
The crowd went wild. It was a massive team battle.
"We play the game," Michael said, watching the terrain form. "But we change the rules."
He looked at Leon, then at the Royal Box high above.
"The Cult thinks they’re the hunters," Michael adjusted his glasses, a cold light reflecting off the lenses. "But they just locked themselves in a cage with us."
He turned to Arthur.
"Get Leon. Get the strongest fighters. We aren’t playing Capture the Flag anymore."
"What are we playing?" Arthur asked.
Michael smiled, but it wasn’t a nice smile. It was the smile of the author who was about to rewrite the ending of a tragedy.
"We’re playing King of the Hill. And we’re going to kill anyone who tries to climb up."
High Above – The Royal Box
Headmaster Ironfoot watched the students gathering below.
"An accelerated format?" he grumbled to General Vance. "Whose idea was this?"
"The Committee," Vance replied, looking at his datapad. "They said the ratings would spike with a mass melee."
Behind them, a server poured wine into crystal glasses. The server’s eyes were blank, devoid of emotion. He tapped a small device in his pocket.
Signal sent. Initiate Stage 3 protocols.
The heavy blast doors of the Royal Box hissed shut, locking automatically.
"What was that?" Ironfoot asked, turning around.
"Security protocol, sir," the server said smoothly. "For your protection."
Ironfoot frowned. He didn’t remember authorizing a lockdown.
Down in the arena, Michael Wilson looked up. He saw the blast doors close.
The trap was sprung.
"Showtime," Michael whispered.
(End of Phase 3, Stage 2)
(Next: Phase 3, Stage 3: The Royal War begins)
(To be Continued)
