The Extra is a Genius!? Chapter 4: Wolves in Silk

The early morning breeze carried a fresh chill, laced with moisture from the dew and a subtle aroma of pine from the woods to the east.

Noel positioned himself on the front steps of the estate, clad in a navy-blue noble's jacket edged with silver and a spotless white shirt underneath. His boots shone with polish. For once, his hair was properly groomed. The sword rested firmly at his left hip, its dark sheath catching the first rays of sunlight.

Looming behind him was the grand manor—imposing and chilly, resembling a tribute to standards he had no hope of fulfilling.

At the base of the stairs, the carriage stood ready. Its black wood gleamed, accented by silver. Two horses as dark as night shifted restlessly on the cobblestones.

The household staff lined up by the entrance, their faces blank.

Then, the family emerged.

Lord Albrecht headed the group. Unyielding. Imposing. Attired in a somber high-necked coat bearing the family emblem on his shoulder. He regarded Noel like one inspecting a sculpture—for any flaws.

His wives trailed after him.

Lady Mirelle donned flowing violet silk and a slim, enigmatic smile.

“You’re really setting off by yourself?” she inquired, her tone sleek as polished glass. “Such courage.”

Lady Serina moved to her side, her face gentler yet equally empty.

“Keep yourself safe, dear. It’d be awful if anything... occurred.”

Noel dipped his head a bit.

“I’ll try my hardest to let you down.”

Mirelle’s smile faltered slightly. Serina’s eyes fluttered once.

Next came the siblings, showing varying degrees of apathy.

Kael flashed a languid, intentional grin. “Don’t shame the family. Or get yourself killed.”

Damon let out a laugh. “Likely both.”

Livia scarcely noticed him.

Sylvette offered a casual flick of her hand.

To the whole group, Noel uttered one word. “Farewell.”

No affection. No malice. Merely closure.

Lord Albrecht advanced. His steely gray eyes locked onto Noel’s.

“You shall uphold the honor of House Thorne. Behave as such.”

Noel nodded. “Naturally, Father.”

No response.

Only a subtle tilt of the head.

With that, the family head pivoted and reentered the manor. The others trailed silently, akin to predators retreating to their lair.

Noel remained solitary atop the steps.

He then spun around, his footsteps resounding on the stone, and made his way down to the awaiting carriage—silently, as if approaching a turning point rather than an endpoint.

Right before the carriage, Noel halted before the large mirror fixed near the manor’s outer gate—a last touch of noble extravagance prior to entering the wider world.

The dawn glow outlined him flawlessly.

He resembled a portrait.

The navy-blue jacket fitted his build ideally. The white shirt below was immaculate, its collar rigid, buttons shining. His golden hair, a touch disheveled, gleamed under the sun like premium fabric. The sword on his belt lent just the right weight to the scene—restraint without showiness.

Like a royal from a tale where he played no part.

He gazed for an extended moment.

Then he snorted softly.

“If I’d possessed this appearance in my previous existence,” he whispered, “perhaps I wouldn’t have passed away alone.”

A brief, wry smirk played on his lips.

He moved from the mirror, the momentary lapse in composure vanishing into detached calm.

Without a backward glance, Noel entered the carriage and closed the door.

The vehicle proceeded smoothly along the gravel drive, its wheels grinding over rocks and earth while the Thorne estate receded in the distance.

Seated solo, arms folded, Noel observed the scenery through the narrow window with half-closed eyes as trees streaked by. Majestic oaks bordered the path, their foliage shimmering in bursts of green and yellow under the morning light. Birds sang from above. A gentle wind blew. The heavens stretched clear.

Tranquility reigned.

An oddly serene tranquility.

Excessively serene.

He reclined against the cushion, his fingers drumming lightly on the sword’s hilt at his side. Soulbound, the system had labeled it. Neither magical nor mythical—yet linked. Developing.

‘Let’s discover if that was mere embellishment,’ he pondered.

The initial day unfolded uneventfully.

No highwaymen. No feral creatures. No arcane disturbances. Only the coachman—a fellow in his forties, mute and attentive—and the endless highway.

Noel passed the hours in reflection.

On the novel.

On Marcus and his companions.

On their ignorance of impending events.

And on his own unforeseen presence now entangled in the narrative.

But not indefinitely.

Not immediately.

He dared not shift elements prematurely. A single misstep, a flap of wings too forceful, and the plot might shatter unpredictably.

‘Remain unseen,’ he cautioned himself.

He consumed lightly from the provisions stored in the carriage. Rested when the sun sank and the vehicle veered off for the evening.

No fire. No conversation.

Merely a sleeping mat, secured entry, and steel within reach.

He dozed alertly.

In precaution.

Day two mirrored the start.

Stillness.

Clouds now veiled the sky, a muted gray shroud eclipsing the dawn. The route wound softly amid modest rises and dense woodland clusters that intensified mile by mile.

Noel surveyed it all with squinted gaze.

A sense of unease lingered.

The carriage jolted mildly as it deviated from the primary thoroughfare onto a slimmer trail—scantier stones, more soil. Denser foliage.

Overly dense foliage.

He shifted ahead, rapping once on the partition wood dividing him from the driver.

“This deviates from the direct path to Valeria,” he stated evenly.

Silence greeted him.

He rapped harder.

“Where exactly are we?”

The carriage pressed on.

Noel’s stare intensified.

He grasped the handle, swung the door wide, and leaped out in stride, touching down on the earth with a gentle thud. His boots skidded a touch on the rough terrain, yet he steadied swiftly, palm gripping his sword.

The carriage advanced several paces before stopping.

The driver dismounted leisurely, purposefully.

His eyes avoided Noel’s.

Noel advanced, partially withdrawing his sword in a fluid draw. The metallic sheen flashed briefly.

The edge paused inches from the man’s jaw.

“Speak.”

The driver quivered. “I—I apologize...”

Noel’s hold remained firm. “Insufficient.”

“Th—they’ve captured my kin,” the man stammered, voice cracking. “They threatened to end them if I skipped this route. I never—mercy, I never intended this!”

Noel’s gaze stayed hard.

Yet his mind whirled.

‘Hired blades. Or graver threats. They anticipated the path. The timing. This was orchestrated.’

And suddenly—

snap.

Twigs cracked in his rear.

He whirled—

Shadows emerged from the woods. Ten in number.

Shadowy robes. Weapons bared. Masks concealing all save their gazes.

Encircling him flawlessly.

Silence prevailed.

Noel exhaled wearily.

“Naturally.”

He retreated a pace, assuming a crouched guard. The sword now fully drawn, sparkling dimly.

The killers advanced.

Ten against one.

No sorcery.

No aid.

Solely steel and reflex.

Noel acted without delay.

He twisted rapidly, dipping low—barely evading the blade targeted at his throat.

Metal gleamed.

He countered instinctively, his edge slicing the foe’s midsection. A piercing cry. Crimson splashed the ground. One felled.

The remainder charged.

Ten altogether. Surrounding. Synced.

Noel withdrew, sword raised, respiration even.

‘Overwhelming numbers.’

No opportunity for mana. Even if he could wield it adeptly now.

Yet the form recalled.

The prior Noel—the isolated trainee shunned by kin—had ingrained each technique into his frame. Blade patterns. Evasions. Blocks.

This flesh didn’t falter.

Noel evaded a sweeping blow, smashed the hilt into a covered windpipe, then spun and plunged his sword into another’s flank.

He pivoted—intercepted a lance against his blade’s side, redirected it, then barreled his shoulder into the assailant, toppling him.

They reformed swiftly.

Encircling anew. Bearing down. Compelling his motion.

His inhales grew keen. Measured. Still, fatigue crept into his limbs.

His swings lagged.

A blade nicked his side. A boot drove him reeling.

He dispatched one more.

Yet difficulty mounted.

Blood trickled from his limb. Sight dimmed peripherally.

They pressed once more.

Quicker.

He sought air—but his torso constricted. Sinews quaked. Thighs seared.

Excessive foes.

Overly swift.

Then—

It struck.

A sharp click echoed in his mind’s depths. Icy and vivid.

[Trait Activated: Revenant Fang]

[Clarity Enhanced – Combat Focus Increased]

[Status Update: Adaptive Evolution Triggered]

Time decelerated.

Not truly—but within his perception.

Abruptly, he perceived everything.

Each enemy’s position.

The origin of the impending assault.

Their balance, posture, vulnerabilities—

All revealed, as if a battle strategy board expanded in the fray.

No deliberation.

Pure action.

Sword sweeping neatly across a bared neck. Rotating. Blocking. Weaving past a pair, felling a trio. Blood arced in curves, staining the soil with each strike.

Gasping heavily now. Lacerated. Vision stinging.

He pierced the ninth in the back.

Sole survivor.

The last killer lunged with a frenzied yell.

Noel crouched, dodged, and cut once—precise.

The figure crumpled.

Noel stumbled, heaving, soaked in gore mostly alien to him.

His weapon quivered in his clasp.

Sight wavered.

Yet survival endured.

The glade hushed.

Ten corpses sprawled amid Noel, the turf drenched scarlet below. His breaths came ragged, body throbbing with each beat.

He lingered central, bloodied, tunic ripped, flank oozing—yet breathing.

The driver, still bowed behind the carriage, gaped in terror-wide eyes.

Noel faced him gradually, face inscrutable. Icy. Intent.

He returned his sword to its sheath.

“Rise.”

The man lurched upright, quaking.

“You—you slaughtered them every one...”

Noel offered no reply.

He strode to the chief’s remains—the initial mover, the silent commander of the trap. The one equipped with superior arms and superior footwear.

Noel knelt by the body and grasped the dagger lodged in its torso. He cleansed it.

Then—sans ritual—he severed the head.

A single, crisp blow.

It thudded onto the earth dully.

The driver recoiled sharply.

Noel rose anew, gripping the head by the locks. Crimson flowed from the ragged stump.

He neared the driver and let it fall before him.

“This is for the two noble ladies of House Thorne,” he declared, tone glacial. “Present it. Anonymously. Silently. They’ll grasp its import fully.”

The driver bobbed his head in haste.

“And this—” Noel delved into his jacket and produced a wax-sealed missive, imprinted solely with the family sigil. “Hand it to my father.”

The man accepted it with shaky grasp.

“What... what shall I say to him?”

Noel’s tone softened marginally. Deliberate.

“Inform him I survive. It was a snare. And I refuse to let this blemish our house’s reputation.”

The driver stared, astonished.

“You—you’re shielding them?”

Noel held his look.

“I’m safeguarding the house.”

He averted.

“Your task is clear. Succeed at it.”

The driver gathered the head, bundled it in fabric, and swung onto a steed, bolting away oppositely.

Noel observed his vanishing into the underbrush.

The blood adhered to his form.

Clingy. Heated. Oppressive.

Noel glanced at his navy-blue jacket, now destroyed—torn, gashed, saturated scarlet. His white shirt fared worse. Permeated. Rended along the edge of a shallow cut.

He inhaled deeply and stripped it layer by layer.

His flesh glistened with perspiration and gore. Partly his, largely foreign.

The odor assaulted suddenly—metallic tang, soil, and more. Mortality.

He pivoted from the cadavers, retched—

And heaved.

Sourness splattered the woodland earth.

His hands shook as he braced on his thighs, hawking, inhaling via gritted jaws.

‘Merely the aftermath,’ he assured inwardly.

‘Their lives or mine.’

Still, the visions persisted.

The terror in one man’s stare. The instant dread at the finish. The blade’s resistance against skeleton.

His debut slaying.

Tenfold.

Genuine or illusory, it struck as profoundly authentic.

He rose gradually, cleaned his lips, and compelled motion.

Toward the remains. Toward the duty.

He located an assassin bearing relatively unsoiled attire—gray traveler’s mantle, supple hide protection, simple tunic and breeches. Practical. Robust. Unsullied.

He donned it hastily, agony spiking in his wound per gesture.

Next, he bundled his stained noble garb and stowed it in an extra bag from the carriage.

‘Far too costly to discard,’ he mused dully. ‘Pure extravagance otherwise.’

He secured the sword once more and mounted the coachman’s perch.

The leashes felt alien in his palms—eerily placid post carnage.

He snapped them.

The horses stirred forward.

Returning to the highway. Heading to the academy.

The woods enveloped him afresh.

And Noel Thorne—the overlooked side character—vanished beneath a veil of crimson and quiet.

Yet now, an inner shift had occurred.

Irrevocable.