The Extra's Rise - Chapter 23

Chapter 23: Freshman Ball (3) Chapter 23: Freshman Ball (3) “Mhm,” Cecilia murmured, her crimson eyes gleaming with a mischief that never truly left them-like embers perpetually waiting for the right moment to ignite into flame.

Her fingers rested lightly on my arm, their warmth belying the calculated coolness of her expression.

“Let’s have a real talk after this dance is over, yeah?” I nodded cautiously, unsure if that was a request or a demand.

With Cecilia, the line between suggestion and imperial decree was deliberately, dangerously blurred-a game she’d likely been playing since before she could walk.

The problem with dealing with Cecilia was that she was the literal princess of the empire I was in.

I couldn’t just say no to her or avoid her without consequences.

That was basically me driving off the edge of a cliff as Cecilia could use her influence to crush me to nothing.

As the waltz continued, the orchestra playing with the precise, soulless perfection expected at Academy functions, she finally dialed down the teasing, settling into the graceful rhythm of the dance without any more unnecessary provocations.

When the final soft notes of the music drifted into silence, we separated with perfectly rehearsed elegance, offering each other the customary polite nod that meant absolutely nothing in the elaborate social choreography of the nobility.

Then, without hesitation, she took my arm again-because of course she did-leading me toward the balcony overlooking the Academy grounds.

Her touch was light but insistent, brooking no argument while maintaining the façade of casual companionship.

Several pairs of eyes tracked our movement across the ballroom, calculating, speculating, mentally adjusting the complex web of Academy politics to account for this public association.

Outside, the air was cool and crisp, untouched by the pollution that had once choked the skies of my previous world.

It carried the faint scent of night-blooming flowers from the gardens below, mixed with the subtle tang of ozone that always accompanied gatherings of powerful mages.

The night stretched wide above us, a flawless expanse of deep indigo, scattered with stars so sharp and bright they felt almost unreal, like diamonds scattered across velvet.

Below, the vast artificial forest next to Ophelia Hall rustled in the wind, its towering trees swaying like silent sentinels under the glow of the full moon.

Their leaves whispered secrets in a language older than the Academy itself, casting intricate shadow patterns across the manicured lawns and stone pathways.

Cecilia leaned forward against the railing, her gaze flickering between me and the expansive world beyond.

The moonlight caught in her golden hair, creating a halo effect that somehow made her look both more ethereal and more dangerous-a reminder that beauty and peril often came hand in hand, especially in this world.

I exhaled, deciding to cut through the pretense.

“Alright, what did you want to talk about, princess?” She smiled, tilting her head toward me, an expression that was never just an expression but a carefully calculated act of amusement, curiosity, and something just slightly dangerous-like watching a cat play with a mouse while deciding whether or not to kill it.

“You want to ask me something right?

Ask.” She tapped one perfectly manicured nail against the stone railing, the soft clicking sound oddly hypnotic in the quiet night.

“Alright,” I said, choosing my battlefield carefully.

“Tell me what’s between you and Rose.” The question hung in the air between us, delicate and potentially explosive.

I watched her face for any reaction, any crack in the perfect royal mask.

At that, Cecilia tilted her head slightly, her smile widening just a little-not enough to be reassuring, but just enough to be unsettling, like watching a snake adjust its coils before striking.

“Oh, Rose Springshaper?” she hummed, as if she’d just been reminded of some vaguely interesting memory, some minor curiosity barely worth recalling.

Her tone made the name sound smaller somehow, reduced to a footnote in her personal history.

“Like me, she was a disciple of the Tower of Magic when we were younger.

Before either of us came to Mythos.” She traced an idle pattern on the stone with her finger, a rune perhaps, or simply a meaningless design to occupy her hands while her mind calculated her next words.

I stiffened slightly at that.

Of course she was.

The revelation shouldn’t have surprised me-Rose’s talent with paradox manipulation suggested formal training at one of the continent’s most prestigious magical institutions-but the confirmation of their shared history added layers of complexity to their current animosity.

“Of course,” Cecilia continued, her tone deceptively light, like spun sugar concealing razor blades, “I am a Slatemark.

My talent is way above hers, especially with my Mind aspect Gift.

The instructors recognized it immediately.” Her words carried the casual cruelty of someone stating an objective truth rather than delivering an insult.

She flicked a strand of golden hair over her shoulder, the movement effortless, calculated to draw attention to the perfect line of her neck, the aristocratic angle of her jaw-physical reminders of the bloodline that gave her both power and protection.

“The little girl could never keep up.

No matter how hard she tried, how many hours she spent in the practice chambers, how many tomes she memorized.” A hint of something darker flashed in Cecilia’s eyes-not quite satisfaction, but something adjacent to it.

“It must have been…

difficult for her.” Something about the way she said it made my stomach twist.

The implications floated beneath her words like shadows beneath ice, visible but distorted, their true shape impossible to discern.

“Trust me, I never hurt her,” she added, waving a hand dismissively, as if dispelling an unspoken accusation.

“She hurt herself.

Pushed too hard.

Reached for things beyond her grasp.” Her smile turned contemplative.

“Ambition without limits is its own kind of poison, don’t you think?” I exhaled slowly, my fingers curling slightly against the railing.

The cool stone grounded me, providing a counterpoint to the heated suspicion rising within.

“Hurt herself,” I repeated, my voice carefully even, giving nothing away while offering her the opportunity to elaborate.

Cecilia just smiled, the expression neither confirming nor denying, simply acknowledging that she understood the game we were playing.

Her crimson eyes reflected the moonlight, turning them momentarily to pools of blood.

I let out a breath.

“Alright.” Sometimes, knowing when to retreat was as important as knowing when to advance.

“Good boy,” she murmured, her voice a perfect balance of amusement and condescension, as if I were a particularly clever pet that had performed an unexpected trick.

I shivered instinctively, a reaction I couldn’t quite suppress.

Something primal recognized the danger even as my rational mind maintained its composure.

In the world of apex predators, sometimes the best strategy was simply to avoid drawing attention.

Before I could react further, a new voice cut through the air, sharp as a blade and twice as pointed.

“Cecilia.

Arthur.” Rachel stepped onto the balcony, her golden hair catching the moonlight, her sharp sapphire gaze locking onto Cecilia like a heat-seeking missile.

She wore her formal Academy uniform with the additional silver sash denoting her Saintess status, the fabric seeming to glow with an inner light that matched the subtle aura of purification that always surrounded her.

Cecilia, predictably, looked delighted at this new development, like a child who had just been given an unexpected gift.

The slight widening of her smile suggested she’d been hoping for this interruption all along.

“Are you jealous, Rachel?” she teased, eyes glinting with mischief, voice dripping with mock sympathy.

“Did you think I was stealing your precious Arthur away for some nefarious purpose?” She placed a hand over her heart in exaggerated innocence.

Rachel sighed loudly, the sound burdened with the weight of a thousand past confrontations, as if she were the only adult in a room full of misbehaving children.

“Of course not,” she said, folding her arms across her chest, the picture of righteous indignation.

“I’m just worried about him, because someone like you is here.” Her emphasis on ‘someone like you’ carried volumes of unspoken history and judgement.

Cecilia placed a hand on her chest, mock-wounded, her expression a masterclass in affected hurt.

“How cruel, Rachel.

And here I thought we were friends.” The last word dripped with irony.

“How cute,” Rachel shot back, already done with this conversation, her patience visibly wearing thin.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, a warning that went beyond words.

Cecilia grinned, clearly enjoying the tension she’d created, the power she held in keeping both of us slightly off-balance.

Rachel turned to me, deliberately shifting her attention as if Cecilia had already ceased to matter.

“Come back inside, Arthur.

The next dance is starting, and I believe you promised me a waltz.” Her tone was firm, expectant, as if she knew I’d follow her-a command disguised as a request.

And she was right.

Because if I stayed any longer, I was pretty sure Cecilia would ask for something even worse than information about Rose-something that would cost more than just words or time.

‘As expected, the only way to deal with Cecilia is to use Rachel,’ I thought, grateful for the rescue even as I recognized the irony of trading one manipulative situation for another.

But at least Rachel’s manipulations were predictable, almost comforting in their familiarity compared to the shark-infested waters of Cecilia’s games.

I offered Cecilia a polite bow-just deep enough to avoid offense, not deep enough to suggest actual deference.

“Thank you for the dance, Princess.

It was…

educational.” ________________________________________________________________________ “Why are you doing this, Cecilia?” Rachel’s voice was calm-too calm-as she stood on the balcony, her arms crossed, watching the other girl closely.

The music from inside had changed to something slower, more melancholic, providing an apt soundtrack to their confrontation.

Cecilia tilted her head, the picture of innocent curiosity, though nothing about the princess had ever been truly innocent.

“Doing what?” she asked, her tone so light it could have floated away on the breeze, her fingers idly playing with a strand of golden hair.

“Playing with Arthur.” Rachel’s eyes narrowed, cutting through the pretense with surgical precision.

“Sure, he’s a fast learner, but is he really that interesting compared to your usual…

entertainments?” The pause suggested a history of other ‘games’ Rachel had witnessed.

Cecilia shrugged elegantly, as if the question didn’t particularly concern her, her shoulders rising and falling in a motion as practiced as everything else about her.

“Not really.” She examined her nails, a dismissive gesture that spoke volumes.

“He’s just another Academy student.

Talented, certainly.

Unusual, perhaps.

But hardly unique.” Rachel’s scowl deepened, the expression at odds with her usual serene Saintess demeanor.

“Then what are you doing?” Cecilia smirked, leaning ever so slightly against the railing, the posture of someone completely at ease despite the tension crackling between them.

“Instincts.” The word hung in the air, deceptively simple yet loaded with meaning that few would understand.

Rachel’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture shifted-a subtle tightening, a microscopic adjustment that revealed her recognition of what Cecilia was implying.

‘Instincts.’ Coming from anyone else, it would have been a throwaway excuse.

But coming from Cecilia Slatemark, it meant something entirely different.

Because, like Rachel herself, Cecilia was special.

Not in the “born with talent” way that permeated Mythos Academy.

Not even in the “prodigy of her generation” way that applied to students like Jin or Ren.

Cecilia was an anomaly.

A witch.

More specifically, someone who could become an archwitch-a being of singular, terrifying potential, whose very existence bent the fabric of reality around them.

Witches weren’t evil.

They were just… different.

An existence as rare and unnatural as draconic humans, touched by powers that defied conventional understanding of mana and manipulation.

And Cecilia?

She was still awakening.

Just like Rachel was.

Which meant there were things about her that even she didn’t fully understand yet.

Desires and impulses that came from somewhere beyond conscious thought, instincts that whispered from the depths of awakening power.

Rachel watched her, something unreadable flickering behind her sapphire eyes-recognition, perhaps, or wariness, or both.

The shared understanding of what it meant to harbor something ancient and powerful within a human shell.

Cecilia, for her part, looked completely unconcerned, gazing out from the balcony at the moonlit grounds below, as if the conversation barely registered on her scale of importance.

“Anyway,” she said lightly, stretching her arms over her head with feline grace, the movement deliberately drawing attention to the perfect lines of her body, “he’s useful to me for now.” Rachel’s jaw tightened slightly, the only visible indication of her displeasure.

“Useful?” The word contained multitudes-question, accusation, warning.

Cecilia nodded, turning to her with a lazy smile, her crimson eyes gleaming with something sharp and unreadable in the moonlight.

“Yeah.

Just a tool.

Nothing else.” She examined Rachel’s face, watching for reaction with the detached interest of a scientist observing an experiment.

“Something to occupy my attention until something more interesting comes along.” Rachel’s breath hitched for just a second, a momentary break in her composure.

Cecilia’s smirk widened, like a predator noting a weakness.

“It’s the same for you, isn’t it?” she added smoothly, voice silken with false sympathy.

Rachel’s lips parted slightly, but before she could respond, Cecilia continued, voice syrupy and sweet with manufactured concern.

“You even admitted you’re using him,” she pointed out, her perfect memory recalling conversations from weeks ago.

“To avoid being with Lucifer.” She emphasized the name slightly, knowing its effect.

Rachel went completely still, as if the mere mention of Lucifer had frozen her in place.

Not a muscle moved, not an eyelash flickered-the stillness of prey trying to avoid detection.

Cecilia watched her, eyes half-lidded, her smirk shifting into something closer to amusement.

The cruel satisfaction of having struck a nerve was evident in the slight upturn of her lips, the gleam in her crimson eyes.

And then, with a mocking little hum, she turned, casually strolling back inside, her gown shimmering in the moonlight, leaving Rachel alone on the balcony with her thoughts and the weight of unspoken truths.

Rachel exhaled, steady and slow, staring out at the endless stretch of stars overhead.

Her fingers gripped the stone railing, knuckles whitening slightly with pressure.

‘That girl is dangerous.’ More than most people realized.

More, perhaps, than Cecilia herself fully comprehended.

“Seraphina.” Rachel turned as the half-elf stepped onto the balcony, her movement so silent it seemed almost supernatural.

Seraphina’s silver hair caught the moonlight like strands of woven ice, creating an ethereal halo around her delicate features.

Her Academy uniform, modified slightly to accommodate elven sensibilities, hung perfectly on her slender frame.

Seraphina acknowledged her with a single nod-nothing more, nothing less.

Her economy of movement and expression was legendary even in a school filled with remarkable individuals.

Rachel studied her, mind turning.

The third princess had appeared like a phantom, materializing precisely when unwanted emotions threatened to surface-timing too perfect to be coincidental.

‘Princess of Mount Hua.’ A girl just as quiet and detached as Jin, someone who drifted through conversations rather than engaging in them.

Unlike Cecilia, who was all sharp words and tangled amusement, or Ian, who carried himself with effortless warmth, Seraphina existed in her own quiet world, untouched by the noise of others.

Her ice-blue eyes observed everything while revealing nothing, windows to a soul that seemed perpetually distant.

Rachel sighed, suddenly exhausted by the night’s games and revelations.

‘Why is Class A so difficult?’ She turned, about to leave- And then- “I never thought the Saintess would stoop down to using someone.” The words fell like stones into still water, creating ripples that couldn’t be ignored.

Rachel froze mid-step.

Her gaze flicked back to Seraphina, who stood still as stone, her expression unreadable, her arms folded neatly in front of her.

The half-elf’s posture suggested neither judgment nor sympathy-merely observation, as detached as a scholar noting an interesting phenomenon.

Rachel’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“It’s more complicated than that.” The words sounded hollow even to her own ears, a justification too weak to withstand scrutiny.

Seraphina’s ice-blue eyes remained steady, unwavering, seeing too much and revealing too little.

“If you say so.” Her voice was calm, indifferent, utterly detached from the weight of her own words.

And yet- “But in the end,” she continued, each word measured and precise, “you’re just running away, aren’t you?” The question hung in the air between them, impossible to dismiss, impossible to answer.

Rachel’s fingers curled slightly at her sides, nails pressing into palms, the small pain a welcome distraction from the larger one Seraphina’s words had inflicted.

Seraphina held her gaze for a moment longer, her expression unchanged.

Then, as if the conversation had already ceased to matter, she turned, walking back inside without waiting for an answer, her steps as silent as her arrival had been.

Rachel stood there alone, the cold wind brushing against her skin, staring out at the night sky where countless stars glittered with indifferent beauty.

She didn’t have an answer anyway.

Or perhaps, more accurately, she had one but lacked the courage to face it-a failing that felt all the more damning for someone hailed as a Saintess.

The truth was, Seraphina was right.

She was running.

Had been running since the moment Lucifer’s gaze had lingered too long, since the weight of expectation had become too heavy to bear.