The Extra is a Hero?-Chapter 265: TOP 10
Chapter 260: TOP 10
The showers in the Arcadia locker room were running cold, but nobody complained.
The steam rising from the stalls wasn’t just water vapor; it was the shedding of adrenaline, shame, and the clinging stench of necromantic mud.
When the team emerged, dressed in fresh, dry uniforms, the mood had shifted.
The nervous energy of the semifinals was gone, replaced by a razor-sharp, grim focus.
They had walked through the mud and come out as executioners. They weren’t just students anymore; they were a unit under a tyrant’s command.
Michael Wilson sat on the bench, his legs crossed, reviewing a holographic display. He looked as if he were checking the weather, not preparing for the most important battle of their lives.
"The Finals," Michael said, his voice cutting through the silence of the room. "The judges have finished resetting the arena. The terrain is flat. Standard reinforced stone. No gimmicks, no environmental hazards."
"A pure duel," Arthur Pendragon noted, adjusting his gauntlets. "Good. I tired of the muck."
"The format is the ’Duel of Kings’," Michael continued, swiping the hologram so the team could see.
"Five one-on-one matches. The first team to secure three victories claims the Championship. Once a fighter steps in, they stay until they win or lose. No tagging out."
The door to the locker room hissed open. A tournament official, looking pale and avoiding eye contact with Michael, stepped in. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎
"Arcadia Academy," the official squeaked. "The Committee requires your roster submission for the Finals. You have five minutes."
Michael nodded dismissively. The official scrambled away.
"Who are we fighting?" Leon Lionheart asked. He was sitting in the corner, polishing his golden sword. His eyes were harder now, the naive idealism fractured by the reality of the last match.
"Dragonspire Martial Academy," Michael said.
A heavy silence fell over the room.
Dragonspire. The school of the Draconian Lineage. They weren’t mages in the traditional sense. They were biological weapons—humans with dormant dragon blood, specializing in body enhancement, flame auras, and scales that could shatter steel.
"They are physical monsters," Eric William muttered, rubbing his shoulder. "If we get hit, we break."
"Then don’t get hit," Michael said simply. He stood up and walked to the whiteboard. "Here are the matchups. I have calculated the highest probability of victory based on your current psychological and physical states."
He wrote the names in black marker.
1. Aiden Stromfang vs. Raxion
2. Arthur Pendragon vs. Rygar
3. Leon Lionheart vs. Chen Wu
4. Michael Wilson vs. Renzo
Reserve: Eric William
Aiden stared at the board. "I’m... I’m first?"
"Your father, Scark Stromfang, is in the VIP box," Michael said, not looking back. "He thinks you are weak. He thinks you hide behind Eric’s shield. This is the first match. The energy will be highest. Raxion is a Claw Fighter—pure aggression. You need to meet that aggression with speed."
Michael turned to Aiden, his blue eyes cold behind the lenses.
"If you want to be the Wolf King, Aiden, you have to kill the prey yourself. No shield. No backup."
Aiden swallowed hard, his hands trembling slightly, then curling into fists. "I’ll do it."
"Arthur," Michael continued. "Rygar is their captain. He uses a Flame Aura that burns oxygen in a twenty-meter radius. He suffocates his opponents."
Arthur scoffed. "Fire needs air. I will crush the air itself."
"Leon," Michael moved to the third name. "Chen Wu. He is a ’Guest Fighter’ from the Eastern Continent. A monk. He doesn’t use weapons. He uses internal vibration arts. Armor is useless against him."
Leon looked up. "Why me?"
"Because he fights with spirit," Michael said. "And your spirit is the only thing currently holding your broken sword technique together. If you fight him with technique, you will lose. You have to fight him with will."
"And you..." Leon looked at the fourth slot.
"Renzo," Michael said the name slowly.
He tapped the marker against the board.
"Renzo is the variable."
The VIP Stand
The atmosphere in the Royal Box was suffocating. The air conditioning was humming, but the tension made the air feel thick and hot.
King Elandor sat in the center, a goblet of nectar in his hand. To his right sat Denish William, looking sour. To his left, a man who looked more like a bear than a human—Scark Stromfang, the Patriarch of the Northern Wolves.
Scark was massive, wearing a fur-lined coat over a modern suit. His eyes were yellow, predatory, and currently fixed on the empty arena.
"So," Scark rumbled, his voice like grinding gravel. "The boy puts my son first. A gambit."
"He is throwing the weak ones out to tire the enemy," Denish William sneered. "Standard tactic. He’s saving the Pendragon and himself for the cleanup."
"Deiman," Scark turned to the Frostheart Patriarch. "Your daughter was useful in the last round. Brutal. I liked it."
Deiman Frostheart swirled his wine, smiling thinly. "Efficiency is a Frostheart trait, Scark. Though, I believe young Michael Wilson is the one pulling the strings."
"Wilson," Scark grunted. "The commoner. The one they call ’Monarch’. A grandiose title for a boy with no bloodline."
"Watch him," King Elandor said softly.
The three powerful Patriarchs turned to the King.
"Watch him closely," Elandor repeated. "He does not move like a student. He moves like a veteran of a war that hasn’t happened yet."
Down below, the massive gates of the arena began to rumble open.
The Arena
The roar of the crowd was a physical force. One hundred thousand people, screaming for blood. The finals of the Inter-Academy Tournament were the Super Bowl and the Gladiator Games combined.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" The announcer’s voice boomed, amplified by wind magic. "THE MOMENT OF TRUTH! THE DUEL OF KINGS!"
From the West Gate, the Dragonspire team emerged.
They were terrifying. They didn’t wear robes or standard uniforms. They wore heavy martial arts gis with reinforced leather padding.
Leading them was Rygar, a mountain of a young man with red scales visible on his neck and forearms. His hair was a burning crimson. Beside him was Raxion, leaner, twitching with manic energy, his fingernails elongated into jagged, black talons.
But Michael wasn’t looking at them.
He was looking at the student in the back.
Renzo.
Renzo was small compared to his teammates. He wore a hooded cowl that shadowed his face. He walked with a limp, a shuffling gait that made him seem weak, almost fragile.
But to Michael’s eyes, he was a blazing sun of wrongness.
[Skill Activated: Quantum Analysis Mind]
[Target: Renzo (Surname Redacted)]
[Scanning...]
The data stream flooded Michael’s vision. Usually, the system would return stats—Strength, Mana Capacity, Agility.
This time, the text was glitching.
[Error: Mana Signature Inconsistent.]
[Warning: Foreign Biological Material Detected.]
[Warning: Spatial Distortion Detected around the Subject’s Chest Cavity.]
Michael narrowed his eyes. The mana wasn’t flowing through Renzo’s circuits. It was sitting inside him, dense and oily, like sludge in a clogged pipe. It felt... hungry.
The Cult, Michael thought, his pulse remaining steady despite the realization. They didn’t just give him an artifact like Velia. They turned him into a vessel.
Renzo stopped walking. Slowly, he lifted his head. Under the hood, a pair of eyes met Michael’s across the hundred-meter expanse of the arena.
They weren’t human eyes. The pupils were horizontal, like a goat’s, but the sclera was entirely black.
Renzo smiled. It was a wide, stretching smile that revealed too many teeth. He mouthed something.
Michael read the lips perfectly.
"The General sends his regards."
Michael felt a cold spike in his gut. The General. The leader of the Cult of the Void.
So, this is the assassination attempt, Michael deduced. They aren’t trying to win the tournament. They are trying to cause a massacre on live television.
"Michael?" Arthur whispered, noticing Michael’s stillness. "What is it?"
"Change of plans," Michael said, his voice dropping to a whisper that only his team could hear.
"What?" Aiden asked, bouncing on his heels.
"No changes to the order," Michael corrected quickly. "But listen to me. If the barrier flickers, if the mana in the air tastes like ash... run."
"Run?" Leon blinked. "We are in the finals. We cannot run."
"If I give the order, you run," Michael said, gripping Leon’s shoulder with bruising force. "You grab Eric, you grab Aiden, and you get behind Arthur. Do you understand?"
The team looked at him. They had seen Michael confident, arrogant, cold, and calculating. They had never seen him... concerned.
"Understood," Arthur said solemnly.
"Good." Michael released Leon. He adjusted his glasses, hiding the blue glow of his analysis skill. "Aiden. Go."
"MATCH ONE!" The announcer bellowed. "THE STORM WOLF OF ARCADIA VS. THE TEARER OF DRAGONSPIRE!"
Aiden Stromfang stepped onto the pristine white stone of the arena. He took a deep breath, the air tasting of ozone as he began to channel his lightning.
Across from him, Raxion rolled his neck. Crack. Crack.
"Fresh meat," Raxion hissed, extending his claws. They grew another three inches, glistening with a metallic sheen.
In the VIP box, Scark Stromfang leaned forward, his hands clasping together.
"Show me, boy," the Wolf Patriarch grumbled. "Show me you are not a sheep."
Michael crossed his arms, leaning back against the barrier wall. He kept one eye on Aiden, but his primary focus remained locked on the hooded figure on the Dragonspire bench.
You want to turn this arena into a graveyard, Michael thought, his hand brushing the hilt of Draken hidden beneath his coat. Fine. But you forgot one thing.
I am the one who digs the graves.
(End of Chapter 260)
