The Extra is a Hero?-Chapter 240: THE TWELVE ACADEMIES

Chapter 235: The Twelve Academies

​The rooms assigned to the Arcadia team in the Athlete’s Village were exactly what I expected from Dwarven hospitality: functional, sturdy, and completely devoid of comfort.

​My room was a cube of polished gray stone. The bed wasn’t a mattress on a frame; it was a slab of smooth granite covered with a thick pelt of some unfortunate northern beast. The pillow was a leather sack filled with wool that felt suspiciously like steel wool.

​"It’s... rustic," Leon said, standing in the doorway of my room. He had already unpacked, his gear arranged with military precision.

​"It’s a bunker," I corrected, tossing my bag onto the stone slab. "The Dwarves don’t believe in soft furniture. They think it makes the spine weak."

​I walked to the window—a circular porthole of thick glass reinforced with iron bars. Outside, the view wasn’t of a garden or a courtyard, but of the sprawling, glowing industrial district of the Ironhold below. We were situated on one of the upper terraces, which gave us a strategic view, but the constant hum of the city vibrating through the floor was inescapable.

​"Arthur called a meeting in the mess hall in twenty minutes," Leon said, leaning against the doorframe. "He wants us to size up the competition."

​"The competition is already sizing us up," I replied, gesturing to the window.

​Across the central plaza of the Athlete’s Village, I could see other banners flying from the balconies of the adjacent stone blocks.

​To the east, the crimson and gold of the Solaris Blade Academy.

To the north, the deep azure and silver of the Sanctum of High Magi.

And occupying the highest tower, overlooking everyone else, was the pristine white and platinum of the Imperial Institute.

​"This isn’t just a tournament, Leon," I said, turning back to him. "It’s a geopolitical summit with swords. Every academy here represents a nation or a major power bloc. They aren’t just students. They are ambassadors."

​Leon grinned, that trademark protagonist confidence shining through. "Then we better make a good impression."

​The Great Hall of the Athlete’s Village was a cavernous space carved directly into the mountain. The ceiling was lost in shadows, supported by pillars thick enough to hold up a castle. Long stone tables were arranged in rows, laden with food that smelled rich, earthy, and heavy.

​Roasted boars, mountains of root vegetables, tankards of ale (watered down for the students, presumably), and bread that looked dense enough to be used as masonry bricks.

​As the Arcadia team entered, the ambient noise of the hall dipped noticeably.

​Arthur Pendragon led us, his posture impeccable. He walked as if he owned the mountain, his cape flowing behind him. Varkas and Gareth flanked him like bodyguards, while we First Years trailed behind in a loose formation.

​"Stick together," Arthur murmured without turning his head. "Find a table. Do not engage unless spoken to."

​We claimed a table near the center. The wood of the bench was hard, and the utensils were heavy iron.

​"This spoon weighs two pounds," Maria whispered, lifting her soup spoon with a frown.

​"Builds wrist strength," Gareth grunted, already tearing into a leg of roast mutton.

​As we settled in, I took the opportunity to scan the room. My Quantum Analysis Mind was itching to activate, but I kept it dormant. Using scanning skills openly in a room full of high-level mages and sensors was a good way to get a headache—or a duel request.

​Instead, I used my eyes and my knowledge of the novel.

​"Over there," Elara Vance said softly, nudging my elbow. She was sitting beside me, picking at a salad that looked mostly like moss and mushrooms. "That’s the Sanctum."

​I followed her gaze.

​The table to our left was occupied by students in flowing robes of blue silk, embroidered with arcane runes that actually shifted and moved on the fabric. They didn’t sit on the benches; most of them were hovering a few inches above the wood, utilizing low-level levitation spells just to avoid touching the "common" furniture.

​They were eating with floating silver utensils, their hands clean, their expressions bored.

​"The Sanctum of High Magi," I muttered. "Based in the Floating City of Arcanum. They believe physical combat is barbaric."

​"They look like they smell nice, though," Aiden commented, sniffing the air. "Like lavender and... ozone?"

​"They’re arrogant," Elara corrected, her eyes narrowing. "Wind magic is about freedom. Their magic is about control. My cousin Kaelen told me about the mages he met during the exchange program. Said they wouldn’t even look him in the eye because he carried a dagger."

​I glanced at Elara. She was a Second Year, a Wind Mage like her cousin Kaelen, but where Kaelen was timid and shy, Elara was sharp and kinetic. She had short, wind-swept brown hair and eyes that were constantly moving.

​"Kaelen is doing well," I said, deciding to throw her a bone. "He stood his ground on Sky Island."

​Elara smiled, a genuine, brief expression. "I heard. He wrote to me. Said you helped him not pass out from fear. Thanks for that, Wilson. The Vance family has enough cowards; we needed someone to remind Kaelen he has a spine."

​"He found it himself," I said. "I just pointed it out."

​Before Elara could respond, a hush fell over the far end of the hall.

​The doors swung open, and the Imperial Institute entered.

​If Arcadia was the Academy of Heroes, the Imperial Institute was the Academy of Rulers. They were the school of the central Human Empire, funded directly by the Emperor. Every student there was high nobility, royalty, or a generational genius.

​They wore uniforms of white military pressed cloth with platinum epaulets. They didn’t walk; they marched. Perfect synchronization. Perfect discipline.

​Leading them was a tall young man with hair as black as ink and eyes like cold steel. He didn’t look at anyone. He walked straight to the reserved table on the dais—the one slightly higher than the rest.

​"That’s Cassius Void," Leon whispered, his voice tightening. "The ’Spear of the Empire’."

​In the novel, Cassius was a major antagonist for the tournament arc. A man who believed that strength was a birthright, and that commoners playing hero was an insult to the natural order.

​But it wasn’t Cassius who caught my attention. It was the group trailing him.

​A group of nobles from the Institute broke off and walked past our table. One of them, a blonde youth with a sneer etched into his features, slowed down as he passed Eric William.

​Eric froze. He was holding his goblet, but his hand was trembling slightly.

​The blonde youth stopped. He looked Eric up and down, then let out a short, derisive laugh.

​"I didn’t believe it," the youth said, his voice carrying in the silent hall. "I heard the rumors, but I didn’t think the House of William had fallen this low."

​Eric set the goblet down. "Hello, Lucas."

​"Don’t ’Hello’ me, cousin," Lucas William spat. He flicked a speck of imaginary dust off his pristine white sleeve. "To think a scion of our bloodline is sitting at a table with... adventurers. Mercenaries. Commoners."

​He glanced at Jax, then at me, his eyes filled with unmasked disgust.

​"You rejected the Institute for this?" Lucas gestured to the Arcadia team. "Look at them. They smell of sweat and desperation. You are an embarrassment to the family name, Eric."

​The table went deadly quiet.

​Arthur slowly placed his knife down. The sound was like a gunshot in the silence.

​But before Arthur could speak, Eric stood up.

​His face was pale, but his eyes were burning. This was the sub-plot I remembered. Eric William, the third son, the one who ran away to Arcadia to escape the suffocating pressure of his family.

​"I am at Arcadia," Eric said, his voice shaking but gaining strength, "because at Arcadia, rank is earned, not inherited."

​Lucas laughed. It was a cruel, sharp sound. "Earned? Please. You’re playing soldier with children. When the real fighting starts, try not to die too quickly. It would be tedious to explain to Father why we had to bury you in the mud."

​Lucas turned his back on him, dismissing him as if he were a servant. "Come. The air here is stale."

​The Imperial students walked away, leaving Eric standing there, his fists clenched at his sides.

​"Sit down, Eric," Varkas said gently, his gruff voice surprisingly soft.

​Eric sank back onto the bench. He looked like he was about to shatter.

​"He’s right," Eric whispered, looking at his plate. "They... they are monsters. The Institute... their average mana density is nearly Rank B. We are..."

​"We are going to crush them," Leon interrupted.

​Eric looked up. Leon wasn’t angry. He was smiling. A fierce, predatory smile.

​"They look down on us," Leon said, grabbing a piece of bread and tearing it in half. "Good. That means they won’t see the punch coming."

​"Eat your food, William," Arthur commanded from the head of the table. "Fuel your body. Your cousin talks too much. In the arena, talking doesn’t stop a blade."

​The tension at the table didn’t dissipate, but it shifted. It went from humiliation to resolve. Eric took a deep breath, picked up his fork, and stabbed a potato with unnecessary force.

​I watched the scene unfold, taking a sip of the watered-down ale.

​Textbook, I thought. The underdog narrative is set.

​But my eyes drifted back to the Sanctum of High Magi table.

​While the Imperial Institute was posturing, the Mages were watching. Specifically, a girl with silver hair and a veil covering the lower half of her face.

​Velia Ancrose.

​She wasn’t looking at Arthur. She wasn’t looking at Leon.

​She was looking at the empty space beside Gareth—the shadow cast by the pillar.

​And for a split second, her eyes met mine.

​I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. Not fear. Recognition.

​She knew. Or she suspected.

​The Sanctum of High Magi wasn’t just here to compete. They were the keepers of arcane secrets. If anyone could sense the anomaly in my mana—or the Void Vault—it would be them.

​I broke eye contact, turning back to Elara.

​"So," I said casually, keeping my voice low. "The wind here feels heavy. How does that affect aerial maneuvers?"

​Elara looked grateful for the distraction. "It’s terrible. The air resistance is higher. I have to push thirty percent more mana just to maintain lift. Why?"

​"Just curious," I said. "I might need some aerial support during the team battles. If I can modify your gear to reduce drag... would you be interested?"

​Elara’s eyebrows shot up. "You’re a smith?"

​"I dabble," I said, cutting a piece of meat. "I’m planning to visit the local smithing district tonight. Need to pick up some materials."

​"Tonight?" Elara lowered her voice. "Curfew is in two hours. Arthur will skin you alive."

​"Arthur doesn’t need to know," I winked. "Besides, I need to see what the Dwarves are working with. Call it... tactical reconnaissance."

​Elara studied me for a moment, then smirked. "You’re weird, Wilson. For a First Year, you act like you’ve been doing this for a decade."

​"You have no idea," I murmured.

​As the dinner wound down, the atmosphere in the hall remained charged. The lines were drawn.

​The Imperial Institute ruled from the high ground.

The Sanctum of High Magi observed from their mystical detachment.

The Solaris Blade Academy barked at the gates.

And Arcadia? We were the wild cards. The ones with something to prove.

​I finished my meal, feeling the heavy food settle in my stomach like a rock. It was good fuel. I would need it.

​Tonight, I wasn’t Michael Wilson, the student.

​Tonight, I had to be "The Extra" who knew where the bodies were buried.

​I checked my pocket watch.

​19:00 Hours.

​The suns of the outside world didn’t matter here. In the Ironhold, time was measured by the shift whistle.

​And the night shift was just beginning.

​I stood up. "I’m going to head back to the room. Stomach feels a bit... heavy."

​"Weak," Gareth teased, though he was smiling.

​"Rest up," Arthur said, not looking up from a map he had spread out on the table.

​I walked out of the hall, feeling the eyes of the other academies on my back. Let them look. Let them think I was the weak link.

​I exited the Athlete’s Village and slipped into the shadows of the corridor leading to the dorms. But I didn’t go to my room.

​I activated [Stealth].

​My form blurred, merging with the gray stone of the walls.

​I slipped past the drowsy guard at the side gate—a younger dwarf who was more interested in his pipe than his post—and stepped out into the city night.

​The Ironhold at night was even louder than during the day. The fires of the foundries burned brighter against the dark rock of the cavern ceiling.

​I pulled my hood up.

​Destination: The District of Hammers.

Objective: Find a forge. Confirm the Nether Iron source.

And maybe, just maybe, meet a King.

​(To be continued)