The Extra is a Genius!? Chapter 5: The Capital and the Quiet

Under a sky shrouded in dreary gray, the road extended without end.

Noel perched on the carriage seat, the reins hanging loosely in his grip. The horses advanced at a consistent trot, their hooves tapping out a steady beat on the compacted ground. Chilly morning fog enveloped the bordering trees, dense and unyielding, as though it hesitated to dissolve.

A basket rested next to him.

Bread bundled up. Meat cut into slices. Fruit preserved by drying. A canteen brimming with water.

All of it ignored.

He had prepared it meticulously prior to departing the site the day before. Supplies befitting the elite. The sort reserved for nobility. The variety he had once yearned to possess.

Yet whenever his gaze fell upon the provisions, nausea surged upward in his throat.

His gut twisted at the recollection.

Earth drenched in blood. Flesh ripped apart. Eyes staring blankly in demise.

The stench of metal and decay lingered in his nostrils, persistent despite his frantic efforts to wash it off.

He fixed his stare ahead, teeth grinding together.

'You killed them. You had to. But that doesn't mean it didn't happen.'

His grip intensified on the reins.

The horses remained indifferent. The path showed no concern.

Silence dragged onward, kilometer by kilometer.

And Noel uttered not a syllable.

Not toward the surroundings.

Not inward to his own thoughts.

It was shortly after noon when the canopy of trees started to sparse out.

The woodland receded, unveiling broad, sweeping hills. From the peak of the upcoming rise, Noel at last glimpsed it.

Valeria.

His breath hitched abruptly.

The empire's heart sprawled across the skyline like a dream plucked from myth. Its white stone walls towered imposingly and intact, surpassing the height of any fortress from his past existence or this one. Distant golden pinnacles shimmered, stabbing through the clouds as if sewing the heavens.

Vast banners in rich red and royal gold draped from the turrets—each bearing the imperial phoenix emblem, wings unfurled in perpetual blaze.

From this vantage, the metropolis pulsed with vitality. Constant activity. Wisps of smoke rising from far-off hearths. Numerous wagons snaking up the slopes. Enchanted airships drifting over commerce zones. Luminous symbols flickering on towers and summits.

It exceeded his recollections.

Surpassed the novel's depictions.

Outshone any illustration.

'When I read about Valeria... I envisioned grandeur. But this?'

It overshadowed the written word.

It eclipsed it.

He straightened his cloak, now mostly purged of blood marks yet still threadbare, and lightly urged the horses onward.

The path bent toward the massive barrier, and Noel remained quiet, the breeze caressing his features.

Trailing him—quietude and fatality.

Before him—society, sorcery, and peril clad in opulent attire.

Upon arriving at the city entrance, the queue extended almost a hundred meters along the route.

Traders with overloaded carts. Cultivators bearing boxes of plants and produce. Wanderers afoot, some adorned with arcane amulets denoting their adventurer status. Aristocrats in lavish vehicles. Several hired fighters clutching permits.

All stood in anticipation.

At the portal, soldiers in gleaming silver plate operated with precise coordination—reviewing papers, invoking simple scanning incantations, examining loads.

Noel reined in the wagon, halting after a group of vendors.

He eyed the queue.

He could have endured the delay.

He nearly chose to.

Then the emblem concealed in his pouch came to mind.

A coiled parchment. Wax-sealed. Intact.

House Thorne's power rendered in script and seal.

He let out a breath. Retrieved it. Unfurled it slightly to reveal the red stamp and insignia.

He lifted it high.

It required mere moments.

A sentry straightened abruptly, gaze expanding.

Another warrior neared from the flank, his armor shining with the royal insignia. He offered a rigid salute.

"My apologies, my lord. No need to queue. Follow me this way."

Noel paused briefly—but inclined his head.

He steered the wagon aside from the main path, skirting the full throng. Heads swiveled as he went by—some intrigued, others jealous. A handful merely fatigued.

Each glance weighed on him.

His jaw locked.

'You skipped the line. Because you were able.'

He averted his eyes from the masses.

'And they observed. Because they weren't.'

The portals swung wide for him, an impossibility from his former life.

And he despised the simplicity of it.

As soon as Noel crossed the threshold, the realm burst into vivid hues and clamor.

Valeria thrummed with energy.

The avenues broadened expansively, laid with radiant white rock inscribed with subtle runes that throbbed just below—directing flow, regulating warmth, perhaps beyond. Suspended crystal lanterns hovered above like gentle constellations, illuminated despite the gloomy heavens.

Structures climbed skyward on both flanks, adorned with gilded edges and mystical panes. Certain ones featured verandas with levitating tiers, where elites chatted suspended aloft, beverages grasped.

Bazaar booths hummed with vigor. Vendors bellowed in no fewer than four tongues. Sellers offered charmed adornments, warming mantles, volumes that conversed. Aromas of herbs wafted—rosemary, cinnamon, saffron.

A youngster dashed by the wagon pursuing an orb of drifting luminescence. A sorcerer trailed behind, chuckling.

Mystical creatures paced alongside sentries in burnished mail—from ether hounds to armored pachyderms bearing ebon tusks. One edifice displayed a dragon skull over its portal, arcane inscriptions glowing upon its teeth.

Noel stayed mute.

Remained unblinking.

He simply observed, allowing the din, vibrancy, and motion to seep within.

It overwhelmed. Excessively swift. Excessively flawless.

Nevertheless—

It existed truly.

'Those late nights poring over pages by lamplight, picturing this locale... I fell far short.'

His hands flexed on the reins.

For an instant, solely an instant—

He pushed aside the gore.

As he ventured further into Valeria's core, the urban landscape transformed.

Elite quarters supplanted commercial plazas. Stone paths yielded to marble. The atmosphere grew purer—rarer, nearly—infused with an ancient, arcane essence.

And then, at the metropolis's distant edge, past a boulevard shaded by foliage and a rippling ether shield, he beheld it.

The Academy.

It ascended like a bastion fused with a temple—venerable spires twisting upward, argent glyphs carved across every facade. Enormous barriers encircled the full enclave, isolated from the broader settlement. Even locals of Valeria required clearance to enter.

A portal grander than any traversed awaited, hewn from ebony and aureate metal. A radiant insignia floated overhead: a pentagram entwined in fire and plumage.

The insignia of the Imperial Academy of Vaelterra.

As the wagon neared, the mark throbbed once—acknowledging the emblem in his papers.

The portals parted.

Noel uttered nothing. He merely gazed.

It transcended mere education.

It formed a metropolis inside the metropolis.

Spires and courts, aerial verdure plots, pathways arching between edifices like celestial spans. Scores of pupils traversed the premises—some striding, others soaring on mystic platters or mounted on ether mounts.

The arcane saturation struck him like a surge.

This exceeded a training ground.

This forged the forthcoming sovereigns, conquerors, divinities, and fiends.

Noel released a slow, faint exhale.

'So here it commences.'

The wagon eased to a halt shortly within the academy portals.

Ere Noel dismounted, a call rang from beneath.

"Lord Noel Thorne?"

He peered over the side.

A youth waited there, scarcely past his early twenties. Lanky, neatly attired, clad in a fitted academy garb—slate-gray trimmed in gold. A sleek badge shone upon his torso, bearing the logistics mark.

"Yes," Noel replied, descending.

The fellow inclined politely, then rose with a rehearsed grin.

"Welcome to the Imperial Academy. I am Gareth Wren, your designated escort. I'll manage your introduction today."

Noel offered a sharp nod. "I'm fine."

Gareth faltered, briefly unsettled by the directness.

"Of course," he responded swiftly. "I'll convey the carriage to your allotted quarters. You're assigned to Class A."

Noel arched a brow. "Aptitude-based?"

"Yes," Gareth affirmed, seizing the reins. "Not pedigree. Solely premier assessed essences and gifts enter A-rank."

Noel remained silent, though the detail lodged like ice in his core.

He hadn't even been tested, and they still ranked him highest.

What would occur when he revealed his abilities?

He pivoted, permitting Gareth to handle the steeds, and strode parallel to the wagon en route to the lodging area.

The Class A lodging spire loomed at the academy's perimeter, set somewhat distant from other constructions.

It wasn't merely a structure—it declared status.

Burnished rock, arches veined in silver, expansive verandas gazing over the urban expanse. Mystic lanterns illuminated the approach in broad daylight, and the ingress was warded by twin rigid effigies of cowled wizards, blades bared—motionless, luminous, and hardly ornamental.

As Gareth braked the wagon, Noel advanced, scanning the spire's glyphs as they flickered softly on the masonry. Wards, he observed. Likely fatal.

"This shall serve as your dwelling throughout your Class A tenure," Gareth stated, alighting and unlatching the entry. "Note that quarters divide by prowess, not ancestry."

Noel nodded curtly. "Makes sense."

They jointly emptied the wagon.

Gareth extended toward the knotted pack of garments—the stained ones.

He froze. Forehead furrowing.

"...Should I inquire?"

"No," Noel stated plainly, handing over the parcel. "Just clean them. Discreetly."

Gareth lingered a beat excessively. Then assented. "Of course."

The dormitory chamber sprawled generously—arched roof, ebony timber flooring, a canopied bed with plush slate drapes, and a secluded lavatory past a crystalline partition. Arcane illumination adjusted subtly to his motions. A writing table bore a hide-covered valise already positioned.

"That case holds your initiation materials," Gareth clarified. "Layout of grounds, timetable of lessons, ether protocol entry, and lodging rules. Should you require aid, the reception functions around the clock."

Noel circled the space once. Halted at the pane. Gazed below.

All lay serene.

Impeccable.

"Thank you," he uttered.

Gareth dipped briefly. "Welcome to the Academy, Lord Thorne."

And then he departed—bearing the gore-tainted token of Noel's prior three days.

Vapor swirled at the tub's brim, ascending in languid coils into the calm atmosphere.

Noel lounged with elbows propped on the edge, torso scarcely emerging from the steaming liquid. The basin was vast—resembling a modest pond—fashioned from stone laced with ebony, infused to sustain ideal warmth.

His lids drooped halfway.

His respiration, unusually, flowed evenly.

He sensed the soreness in his limbs still. The muted pulse of lingering contusions. The gash along his flank had sealed scarcely, aided by a restorative ointment from the chamber's hidden stores.

Yet nothing stung like the quiet.

It was a hush that didn't crowd—it lingered. Attentive. Observing.

He tilted his head against the sleek rock.

For the initial occasion since awakening here, he ceased fleeing.

Ceased clashing.

Ceased feigning.

Merely... motionless.

His gaze wandered to the vault above, where a tender glow throbbed like a pulse from an embedded ether gem.

'Not yet,' he cautioned inwardly, tone scarcely audible.

And softer still:

'Soon.'

He shut his eyes.

Allowed the bath to bear the burden.

And, for the first instance in three days, Noel slumbered.