The Nameless Extra: I Proofread This World

After Rosalin’s match, whatever polite illusion had once veiled this session as a joint training exercise dissolved completely. Whatever civility remained now rang hollow, trampled by the boots of Class A.

The matches that followed could no longer be mistaken for lessons. Each round unfolded with a kind of cold inevitability, less like competition and more like a ritualistic display of power.

If this stage had once been designed as a platform for mutual growth, then Class A had redrawn its purpose entirely, turning it into a tribunal of dominance where mercy held no jurisdiction.

Seventh matches in total, including Rosalin’s match.

Seventh trios of Class E scholars marched forward, walking into something they could not win. And waiting for them, stood the next carefully chosen blade from Class A.

There were no bows exchanged before battle.

No encouragement passed from one side to another.

Only Delila’s detached voice, echoing across the arena. But the silence before each match was dense and pressurized.

Later, the second match was over before any of the Class E scholars could finish their chants.

Then, the third match saw a sheet of flame drawn like a curtain across the ground. It swept forward scorchingly, forcing the Class E trio to scatter backward and leap from the platform altogether.

Some laughter that followed was sharp and cruel in its delight.

Then came the fourth match.

This time, the opponent was no mage but a brawler—an unarmed specialist. There were no incantations or dramatic gestures. Only his fists. The three scholars from Class E for that match never had a chance to breathe, let alone respond.

They were dismantled, their bodies folded in on themselves from sheer pain. When the medics came, the scholars were lifted and carried off the stage like broken tools.

By the time the seventh match concluded, the gallery reserved for Class E had fallen into a pure silence.

The flicker of awe that had briefly ignited during Rosalin’s match, born from a rare sense of respect, had long since been extinguished, smothered by the merciless grind of one-sided combat.

"We really are no match for them..."

Some of the scholars muttered quietly.

Ruvian watched his classmates more closely than he watched the matches themselves.

The results, after all, no longer surprised him.

He saw how the earlier energy in their eyes had begun to fade, replaced by disorientation. Uncertainty clung deeply to their expressions like fog.

’This is to be expected.’

Ruvian did not blame them.

They were not protagonists destined for greatness.

They were just extras conscripted into a tale that had never intended to remember their names.

Every one of them had been placed here with intention meant to be forgotten.

And yet, Ruvian felt no compulsion to accept that truth as final.

’It’s still too early to give up.’

’One chance is all it needs to ignite them again.’

His gaze lingered on the stage just for a moment before shifting to the woman who had conducted this entire scheme.

Delila had remained silent through each match, offering no commentary.

After every result, she simply gave a single nod.

But Ruvian had seen the flicker behind her eyes, the satisfaction barely concealed beneath her practiced restraint.

She must have believed she had done her part... played her role as instructed by those above her.

"Ahem."

Ruvian turned his head.

"So, are we really going to proceed with the plan?" The girl faced him calmly, long navy hair swaying behind her.

Shaking his head, the man with an auburn ponytail sighed, twirling a finger near his temple.

"I don’t think you have to question that, Noelle... Ruvian has clearly lost his mind."

"Trust me, it will work. I’ve been practising it for quite some time now. And not blindly either, I had proper guidance." Ruvian didn’t look particularly concerned as he spoke.

Both Noelle and Griffer looked at each other.

"I mean, it’s not like we don’t trust you, man, but... are you really planning to test a new spell during this fight? You could seriously get hurt." His fingers drummed lightly along the spear shaft.

"I think Griffer has a point here."

"There’s no need for you to worry. I’ve already taken that into account." Ruvian calmly replied.

"Hah!? Don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not worried about you."

’This dumbass, I wasn’t emphasising on that.’

Ruvian shook his head and sighed. "Anyway, let’s give it a shot."

"Sure, sure... whatever. I also have things to try too, you haven’t seen my magic, right? Then, I’ll show it here and now." Griffer proudly said.

Spinning her twin blades idly, Noelle nodded in agreement.

"I’m ready to show you guys mine, as well."

In the next moment, as Delila’s voice rang out across the arena, Ruvian let his hand fall from his sleeve at last.

The smooth leather of his glove brushed softly against the dark fabric of his combat attire.

"Now, we will proceed to the eighth and the final match," Delila announced, her voice slicing cleanly through the stagnant hush.

"Ruvian Castelor, Noelle Sorcalor, and Griffer Noktz of Class E, please step forward."

She let their names linger in the air as though daring someone to laugh.

But instead...

Ruvian’s name rippled through the upper rows almost immediately.

Whispers spread in hushed waves, slithering from mouth to mouth.

The boy who had questioned authority, who had challenged Delila previously, was finally stepping onto the stage.

All eyes followed him now with a different kind of attention.

Ruvian moved first.

Every step suggested a complete lack of hesitation.

To his left, Griffer followed at a slower pace. His frame was broader, heavier, his footsteps resonating faintly through the platform beneath them.

Griffer did not bother to smile at all. The expression on his face was enough to make it clear that fear had not taken root in him.

Later, Noelle followed from behind.

She moved gracefully, barely stirring the air as she advanced behind them. Her twin daggers, curved and gleaming with a subtle edge, hung easily from her fingers.

Her stance was light, almost delicate. The look in her magenta eyes was calm, as there was no fear in them.

And then came Ardyn Renhart.

He emerged onto the platform with a poise polished into the bone through years of careful grooming and entitlement.

His posture radiated confidence, but it was the kind that needed no proving.

The light caught in his gold-dusted hair, and his broadsword rested against his back.

In one fluid motion, he drew it.

The blade moved as though it weighed nothing, sliding free with ease. He did not even bother to look at his opponents.

The contrast between the two sides could not have been more stark. It was a clash of what each side had come to represent in the eyes of the watching crowd.

On one end stood a trio bound not by natural synergy, but makeshift from desperate pragmatism.

There was no illusion of perfection in the way they stood. Only resolve, and the slow-burning strength that comes from refusing to fold.

And across from them, alone and unbothered, stood a boy who had never needed to struggle for the light to find him.

From here on, this will be the final match of today’s joint training session.

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[Chapter 73: The Stage of Losing]