Transmigrating as an Extra, But the Heroine Has Regressed?!-Chapter 327: I am not weak!

Professor Grender Voss headed straight for his office.

He did not slow.

He did not greet anyone.

His mind was already racing, replaying what he had witnessed again and again—the ice chamber, the frozen boy, the unnatural calm breathing beneath layers of solid frost.

(This needs to be reported.)

Grender pushed open the heavy oak door to his office and shut it behind him with a decisive thud.

The room was dim, lit only by the pale blue glow of rune-lamps embedded in the walls.

Shelves packed with ancient tomes and sealed scrolls lined the room, each humming faintly with dormant mana.

He moved directly to his desk.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, he tossed a small messaging talisman onto the surface.

The crystalline object spun once, then steadied, glowing faintly as runes activated.

Grender placed two fingers atop it.

"We need to discuss," he said curtly.

The talisman pulsed.

No name was spoken.

Whoever was on the other end would understand the urgency.

Grender leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest.

His eyes narrowed as fragments of memory surfaced—Kael’s mana signature, thin yet stubborn; the way the ice had not rejected him; the subtle alteration in his hair color.

(A natural affinity? No... it was forced.)

That made it far more dangerous.

Meanwhile—

Kael reached his dormitory building.

He didn’t look back.

The ice chamber had not merely tested his body—it had rewritten the boundaries of his endurance.

The dormitory door closed behind him with a soft click.

The sound cut off the world.

Kael leaned briefly against the door, exhaling through his nose. His reflection stared back at him from the polished metal in the hallway—paler than before, eyes sharper, hair still faintly tinged with icy blue under the lantern light.

"...Still alive," he muttered.

He pushed himself away from the door and walked toward his room.

At the academy entrance—

The guards straightened as several animal-drawn carriages rolled through the main gates.

The beasts pulling them were large, horned creatures with scaled hides—clearly not native to Arcadia’s region.

Several students disembarked.

They wore different uniforms.

Some were dark crimson with gold trim.

Others were black layered with silver insignias.

Their boots hit the stone ground without ceremony.

Alongside them stood several teachers, their auras sharp and unrestrained, openly radiating confidence and disdain.

"Welcome to Arcadia Academy," one of the guards said politely, bowing slightly. "Please follow the—"

No one replied.

One of the visiting students laughed, tossing a half-eaten food wrapper to the ground.

"Huh... weirdo academy," he muttered loudly.

The guards stiffened.

Second-year and third-year students nearby turned to look, expressions darkening.

Another visitor stretched lazily, cracking his neck. "So this is the place everyone hypes up? Doesn’t look like much."

A third tossed an empty container aside without care. It skidded across the academy grounds and came to rest near a training marker.

A third-year student clenched his fist.

"...The audacity."

A second-year girl whispered sharply, "Do they think this is some roadside inn?"

The visitors walked forward without permission, laughing among themselves, their teachers not correcting them—if anything, watching with mild amusement.

Back in the dormitory— 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚

Kael sat on his bed, staring at the sword lying beside him.

It was exactly where he’d left it.

He reached out and rested his hand on the hilt. A faint chill spread across his palm—not painful, but familiar.

"...You stayed," he murmured.

He did not draw it.

Instead, he lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling.

Images flashed through his mind uninvited—Ethan’s grin, the impact of boots, Elysia collapsing beside him, the way the night had swallowed their screams.

His jaw tightened.

(I won’t forget.)

Elsewhere, footsteps echoed rapidly through the academy corridors.

Professor Sylvia was already moving toward the administrative wing, her expression composed but her eyes betraying a trace of unease. The events of the morning still weighed heavily on her mind.

Nine hours.

(Nine hours in the ice chamber...)

She stopped briefly near a window overlooking the courtyard.

Below, she saw the unfamiliar uniforms.

Her brows furrowed.

"So they’ve arrived already..."

She turned sharply and continued onward.

At Grender Voss’s office—

The messaging talisman pulsed again.

A low, distorted voice emerged from it. "You don’t call unless it matters."

Grender exhaled slowly. "A first-year entered the ice chamber unsupervised. Remained inside for nine hours."

A pause.

"...Nine?"

"Yes."

Another pause—longer this time.

"And?"

"He survived."

Silence.

Grender’s gaze hardened. "Not only that. His mana adapted. The ice did not reject him. It... accepted him."

"...Name."

"Kael."

The talisman’s glow intensified briefly.

"...Interesting."

Grender clenched his fist. "That’s not the word I’d use."

Outside, the visiting students continued to make their presence known.

One of them bumped intentionally into a second-year Arcadia student, smirking. "Watch it."

"You bumped into me," the Arcadia student replied coldly.

The visitor leaned in. "And what are you going to do about it?"

Several Arcadia students stepped forward.

The air grew tense.

Mana stirred.

Somewhere above, a bell chimed softly—an omen unnoticed by most.

In his dorm room—

Kael closed his eyes.

His breathing steadied.

The cold within him no longer felt hostile.

It felt... familiar.

Like something waiting.

Far away, unseen by most—

Dark clouds gathered slowly over the academy spires.

Kael shut the door of the training room behind him, the dull echo spreading through the wide, empty space.

The room smelled of iron, old sweat, and dust—familiar, grounding.

"The next thing is five hours of training in the training room..." Kael muttered under his breath, adjusting his grip on the sword resting against his shoulder.

"Going on those study tours is a waste of time."

The sword was heavy.

Heavier than it used to feel.

Not because its weight had changed—but because his body had.

Every step sent a dull ache through his legs.

His shoulders burned faintly from yesterday. His ribs still protested when he inhaled too deeply.

The cold he had endured in the ice chamber hadn’t fully left him; it lingered deep in his bones like a reminder.

"Good."

Pain meant he was still alive.

He walked to the center of the training room and planted his feet firmly on the ground.

The stone floor was smooth from years of use, marked with scratches from countless battles and practice sessions.

This place didn’t care who you were. It only responded to effort.

Kael slowly drew the sword from its sheath.

The metal sang softly as it cleared the scabbard.

He exhaled.

Then swung.

—SWOOSH—

The blade cut through the air in a wide arc. His arms trembled slightly at the end of the motion, but he didn’t stop. He adjusted his stance, remembering the posture drilled into him over and over again.

Straight back.

Firm grip.

Eyes forward.

He swung again.

Then again.

And again.

Each swing was slower than yesterday. Rougher. Less elegant. But each one carried more intent.

His breathing grew heavier.

Sweat began to form at his temples.

The ache in his shoulders sharpened, but he welcomed it. He stepped forward, pivoted, and slashed diagonally, then reversed the motion into a backhand strike.

"Focus," he whispered to himself.

He moved across the room, dragging the sword slightly before lifting it again.

He leaped forward, landing hard, then rolled to the side and came up with the blade raised. His footwork was clumsy at first, but repetition smoothed it out.

Jump.

Land.

Swing.

Turn.

He ran to the far end of the room, boots pounding against the stone, then abruptly stopped and kicked at an imaginary opponent.

The kick sent a jolt up his leg, but he followed it immediately with a downward slash.

His heart pounded.

His lungs burned.

Still, he didn’t stop.

Kael dropped the sword for a moment and clenched his fists.

Then the boxing began.

Punch.

Punch.

Elbow.

Step back.

Punch again.

His fists struck the air again and again, each movement driven by raw force rather than technique.

His knuckles stung, but he imagined faces—Ethan’s smirk, the third-years’ laughter, the weight of boots pressing him into the ground.

He growled softly.

His punches became faster.

Harder.

His shoulders screamed in protest, his arms growing heavy, but he forced them to keep moving.

When his legs began to shake, he ran.

Around the room.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

By the fifth lap, his breath came out ragged. By the tenth, his vision blurred slightly at the edges.

He stumbled once, caught himself, and kept going.

"Don’t stop," he muttered between breaths.

He jumped again, barely clearing the ground this time, and landed awkwardly. Pain flared in his ankle, sharp and bright.

He didn’t sit down.

He didn’t curse.

He simply adjusted his footing and continued.

Time blurred.

Minutes stretched into hours.

Sweat soaked through his uniform. His hair clung to his forehead. His hands trembled each time he lifted the sword again, but he kept lifting it.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Somewhere far away, the academy bell rang faintly.

At the same time—

In the Orwen class, the rest of the first-year students sat in neat rows, listening as Professor Orwen paced slowly across the front of the room.

"Mana," Orwen said calmly, tapping the board with his staff, "is not just power. It is control. Those who rush it will collapse. Those who fear it will stagnate."

A few students nodded, scribbling notes.

Others whispered quietly to each other.

Cecelia sat near the window, gaze drifting briefly outside before she forced herself to focus again. Something felt... off. Kael’s seat was empty again.