The Extra is a Genius!? Chapter 1 A Cruel but Beautiful Life

The sharp tang of disinfectant hung heavily in the atmosphere, wrapping around him tightly. Devices hummed quietly nearby—steady, pulsing, uncaring. A subdued heart monitor displayed green waves, every thump a defiant signal of his lingering presence.

Noel remained motionless.

The bed groaned faintly as he inhaled. His frame weighed like iron—heavy bones, empty limbs, flesh taut over his diminished form. Faint daylight seeped past the sheer drapes, casting the blank space in chilly, washed-out tones.

'This spot reeks of the end,' he mused wryly.

His gaze, formerly keen emerald, now faded by fatigue, traced the overhead. Small fissures lingered by the lamp. He'd tallied them countless times already. They stayed put. Not like the chaos in his existence.

The timepiece on the wall taunted him.

'What even counts as living?'

'A nonstop trip in a junk vehicle without stops?'

'Or a grand prank where the twist is: "Death comes regardless"?'

A weak snicker escaped him, more scrape than mirth. Speaking—or even pondering—carried extra burden lately.

He was twenty-two.

Twenty-fucking-two.

Already succumbing to deadly cancer.

'So much for having "loads of time," right?'

Memories surfaced in quick bursts. His cramped, cluttered flat. Volumes stacked haphazardly. The icy screen light from late-night sessions. Days lost to devouring fantasy tales and dissecting flaws with exacting detail. That served as his escape. Imagined worlds beat the real one. Purer. Truer.

The actual world ignored your cleverness. It dismissed fair play. It simply... hammered on.

He adjusted a fraction, agony sparking across his spine like noise.

'Can't even handle basics without it feeling like an endurance race. Lame.'

The drip from the IV echoed endlessly, annoying. It evoked slow drip torment.

He forced a gulp. His tongue held a metallic bite.

'Nobody warns you how damn awful the dying process is.'

Quiet settled back in.

No guests. No kin. No sobs.

And that suited him. He despised phonies. No distant relative needed to arrive with blooms and forced pity. He'd severed ties long back. Intentionally.

Yet... even he wasn't immune to the pinch of isolation.

He shut his lids. The gadget whirs provided solace. Along with the chill seeping further into his core.

'Perhaps I won't stir tomorrow,' he pondered.

'Could be the finest thing this place ever hands out.'

The entrance swung ajar with a gentle nudge, shattering the hush like a murmur in a sanctuary. Steps came next—soft, cautious. A known pattern. Dawn duties.

"Good morning, Noel," rang a tone overly lively for such surroundings.

He skipped glancing over.

Her once more—the caregiver with the weary grin and radiant speech. Approaching thirty, perhaps. Auburn tail, subtle bags beneath her gaze, fingers quivering faintly as she tweaked the fluid pouch. Her name escaped him always.

He lacked interest.

"How are we feeling today?" she inquired, tone soft while reviewing his records.

Noel's mouth quirked.

"Like a decaying produce, thanks."

A pause hung awkwardly.

She offered a courteous chuckle, driven by routine over joy, then resumed monitoring signs. "Well, your readings remain stable. That's positive."

"Sure. Stable as I spiral downward. Cheers to modern medicine."

She ignored that remark. Wise choice.

He angled his head a touch, catching her outline in the dawn glow. Her attire spotless, stance measured. Her stare dodged his. Many avoided it. He embodied proof that youth could perish too. Nobody welcomed that truth.

"No need to fake it, you know," he grumbled.

She met his eyes, puzzled. "Fake what?"

"That you actually care. The cheerful, wide-awake caregiver routine. You've got plenty more folks to check. Just finish your circuit and drop the motivational crap."

Her mouth opened—then closed. Her chin firmed.

"I do care," she replied softly.

Noel snorted. "Yeah. And I'm the damn Pope."

She stayed silent thereafter. Wrapped up the display updates, inspected the tube. Movements quicker now.

He gazed outward, at random.

'Why waste effort?'

'You don't soothe the deceased. You inter them.'

"Try to rest some," she stated at last, heading out.

He lingered until the panel latched.

Then, briefly, a spark ignited within.

Remorse? Possibly.

She merely performed her role. Perhaps she did feel concern, her style.

'Damn,' he reflected. 'She likely weeps in her vehicle on breaks. And I'm the rude ingrate.'

But the emotion faded swiftly.

He sealed his eyes once more.

Solitary.

Immobile.

Ever.

The clinic bureau stood hushed. Excessively so.

Dulled cream partitions. Hung credentials. A compact pane that sealed shut. All pristine, medical, and utterly cream.

Noel perched opposite the physician, limbs folded. He loathed this space. It resembled awaiting a panel's decision—save he knew his sentence already.

The healer—a fellow past fifty, thinning hair, specs ill-suited—clasped his fingers on the surface and coughed lightly.

"Noel," he started, "I'll cut to the chase."

'Great,' Noel mused. 'Straight talk. Unusual type.'

"You're at stage four with spreading malignancy. It's reached your lungs, liver, and backbone."

The area held steady.

His sight stayed clear.

No sharp intake. No cinematic fade.

Merely... quiet.

Followed by chuckles.

Noel chortled. Harsh, sour, brief.

"You for real?"

The healer inclined his head, uneasy. "I wish otherwise."

"Holy hell," Noel whispered, reclining. "I figured lung collapse or similar nonsense. This hits different."

"We could start intense therapy," the healer suggested mildly. "Chemo. Beams. It won't heal, but could extend days."

"Extend for what? More shows and croaking mid-vomit over peaceful rest?"

The healer held back.

Naturally.

This wasn't dialogue—mere protocol. A caution prior to the end.

Noel eyed the top. Flawless here.

"What's the timeline?" he queried eventually.

"If therapy works... perhaps twelve months. None? Half a year. Or shorter."

He blew a soft note. "Better ditch the fitness sub then."

The healer skipped humor.

Noel rose. Legs empty yet supportive. He pivoted to exit, halted at threshold.

"Doc."

"Yes?"

"Appreciate the honesty."

The healer showed a fatigued grin. "No problem."

Noel departed, fists pocketed.

No weeping.

No reaches out.

No skyward yells.

Just sparked a smoke beyond the structure—despite quitting ages past—and observed vapors twist under a heaven too vivid azure for his tidings.

'So that's the deal?'

'Screw you, destiny.'

The breeze offered no reply.

The daylight had moved.

Golden warmth oozed through the fabric, tinting the chamber in honeyed shades. Particles danced in beams like lost comets.

Noel stirred gradually, achingly, toward the pane. His cushion dipped beneath his skull. Arm lifting proved tough, yet he drew the fabric aside for a glimpse.

Hardly scenic.

A lot for vehicles. A far-off sapling. Heavens seeming occupied elsewhere.

Yet preferable to blank barriers.

His torso heaved in faint rhythms.

'Round two,' he considered.

Such noons stirred excess reflection. Ache too mild for diversion, gaps too vast amid tones.

His stare fixed on the glass, the strip of blue visible.

'What defines existence truly?'

Answer unlikely.

'A endless exam sans guide? Penalty for forgotten wrongs?'

The query coiled within, beyond jest.

A tale from age seventeen recalled. Epic fantasy of blades, beasts, doom. He'd adored and despised it. Finale shattered him.

The realm perished in blaze.

No saviors. No dawn. Mere hush.

He'd railed against the writer online, firing lengthy tirades on "squandered promise" and "lazy despair." But today? Insight dawned sharper.

'Endings come. Tales conclude. Souls shatter. True delusion: believing escape possible.'

He noted a fowl perch afar on branch.

Small. Futile.

Stunning.

His gullet clenched abruptly.

'Damn.'

His vision stung faintly.

'Why must this dumb realm shine so at my exit?'

Hues sharpened. Breeze purified. As if cosmos withheld finest for finale, to toy with him.

And succeeded.

For despite his resentment—despite loathing crowds and their phony beams—he cherished elements.

Stories enthralled him. Downpours, lame quips, triumph at witching hour with greasy snacks nearby.

Life itself he valued.

Unjust or not.

Painful or not.

'This existence... harsh. Yet owned.'

And that lent beauty somehow.

The space dimmed now.

Not lights—they buzzed softly overhead—but another shade. One slipping via time's gaps, lodging in marrow.

Noel scarce moved.

Even digit flex mimicked hauling weights submerged. Throat parched. Lungs labored like worn fans, rasping per draw. Beeps continued, pace lagged. Vacant.

Timepiece jeered anew.

'Hanging on,' he figured.

'For real? Not even timely in passing?'

He permitted lids to drop.

Chill deepened. Internal, not ambient.

A freeze below surface. Weaving chest like numbness.

He recognized it.

Last lap.

Breath snagged—a keen snag, then ease.

Not terror. Precisely.

No radiant path. No hymns. No grand epiphany.

Simply... form quitting. Subtly. Sans drama.

'So here we are?'

He anticipated sorrow.

Awaited tidal dread. Or torment. Or grief.

Yet no spectacle. No heroic reel. No life's highlights blazing.

Simply calm.

An odd serenity. Neutral. Neither hot nor icy.

Blank. Void.

Like cliffside poise, peering mist.

Digits jerked. Thrice? No, once, twice.

Then ceased.

'No farewells for me.'

Hush.

No ache.

No noise.

No tint.

Just ebony—profound, total, infinite.

Not eyelid dark, but denser. Weighted. Universe-crushing.

Noel drifted therein.

Or not. No form sense. No air. No pulse. No heat.

Merely mind.

'That all?'

His tone resounded in emptiness, sans mouth or hearing.

'No blaze. No feathers. No golden doors. Not infernal blaze. Total rip-off.'

Hush squeezed.

Briefly, nullity. Beyond calm or alarm.

Pure void.

Then—

A flicker.

A tug, abrupt and fierce, akin to surfacing from depths.

And then—

Air.

Noel gulped.

Spine bowed faintly as wind slammed lungs like frost. Lids snapped wide.

No hospital now.

Rocky barriers. Tall arches. A bobbing, azure lamp hovered, casting gentle arcane light. Plush drapes. Etched table, fancy cabinet, bed overly opulent for him.

All scents fresh. Overly so.

Like varnish and herbs. Plus another—mana. Word instinctive, though unknown before. It hovered, charged.

Gradually, unsteadily, he uprighted.

Form altered... Not merely mended.

Fresher.

Sturdier.

Downward glance—palms unfamiliar. Not gaunt, scarred.

'...What in hell?'

Utterance rougher than foreseen. Phrases strange on tongue.

Room resurveyed.

Shelves crammed one side, ancient volumes packed. Hearth dormant opposite bedding. All yelled elite. Arcane. Fabled.

No Earth.

Couldn't be.

Noel gulped, whispered low.

"Where the fuck... am I?"