The Extra's Rise - Chapter 442

Chapter 442: Crimson Dancer (5)
After the whole situation—which ended with Ren practically swearing a blood oath that he was, in fact, still interested in women, thank you very much—we finally reached the fifth course of dinner. I say we, but really, I barely touched courses two through four. A tactical blunder, really.

The others were still talking. Or, in Ava’s case, stirring the conversation like a pot she had no intention of eating from.

“Personally,” Ava said as she sliced through a piece of synth-scallop, “I think the real scandal is that Seol-ah didn’t reject a single dance invitation last year.”

Seol-ah, composed as ever, paused only long enough to say, “I accept invitations. I don’t promise enjoyment.”

Ian choked on laughter. Ren muttered something about manners. Lucifer just smiled.

And I was thinking.

Because Alyssara’s dance hadn’t left me. Not really. It lingered like a half-formed headache just behind the eyes. That sort of performance didn’t happen by accident. And it didn’t happen without a cost.

Then, ping—a familiar mana thread tapped my consciousness.

‘Arthur,’ Lucifer’s voice said in my mind. We both had fine mana control, enough for mental speech that didn’t leak out into magical feedback or nosebleeds. Useful for quiet diplomacy. Or awkward questions.

‘What is it?’ I replied, taking a bite of my fish and pretending nothing was happening.

‘Alyssara,’ he said. ‘She’s the Advisor of the Southern Sea Sun Palace. And she danced for us. What is going on between you and her?’

Of course he noticed. Lucifer noticed everything. I’d let my mask slip for just a second, and he’d caught it.

‘She reminded me of someone’, I admitted.

‘A dangerous someone?’ he asked.

‘Someone was once important to me,’ I said. ‘Once.’

‘Then be careful,’ he replied, ‘because that dance had effects. Even without mana. I saw half a dozen students with flushed faces, some barely breathing. That was one performance. Imagine what she could do with intent.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘We’ll keep an eye on her.’

And then, the music began.

The subtle shift of atmosphere hit immediately—soft violins backed by a hum of mana-infused resonance. The kind of music that meant one thing: the first dance of the welcome banquet was about to begin.

And now came the part I’d expected.

The game.

Every banquet, the four girls—Cecilia, Rachel, Seraphina, and Rose—played their little game of silent warfare. A strategic clash fought with glances, foot taps, and seating positions. The prize? The first dance with me.

It wasn’t officially declared, of course. That would be undignified. But I’d been around them long enough to recognize the signs. And I was just turning my head, curious who’d claimed the win this time—

“Arthur Nightingale,” came a calm, lilting voice.

Alyssara Velcroix stood before our table, poised with diplomatic grace. She was smiling—not broadly, but precisely. Like every angle of her face had been calculated for effect.

Across the table, Ren froze mid-drink. Ian looked like he was about to start choking again. Ava’s eyebrows rose with interest. Even Seol-ah tilted her head ever so slightly. Lucifer, for his part, wore the same thoughtful expression he used when a duel was brewing and he was pretending not to notice.

“Would you grant me the first dance?” Alyssara asked, her voice smooth as mana-glass. “As Advisor of the Southern Sea Sun Palace, I believe it would serve as a gesture of unity between us and the outside world.”

It was clean. Politely worded. Unassailable.

And it was a trap.

The kind you could only spring at a public event with half the diplomatic channels in the world watching. Say no, and I’d insult the Southern Sea delegation. Say yes, and I’d ruin the little balance the four girls maintained—an opening move in a very different kind of war.

I didn’t even need to look back. I could feel the temperature change behind me. Four sets of eyes, each uniquely trained to kill in a different way, now zeroed in on the back of my skull.

I stood up.

“Of course,” I said, because that was what I had to say.

Alyssara offered her hand, and I took it. The silence was heavy, ceremonial. The crowd watched us move to the dance floor like it was a prelude to something important.

And I knew one thing, as her fingers curled lightly into mine and the violins began to rise:

This was going to cost me.

And I had no idea how much.

The dance floor cleared for us, other potential dancers retreating to the perimeter with practiced deference. This was more than a dance—it was a statement, a ceremonial opening that would be analyzed, discussed, and likely recorded in diplomatic archives.

Alyssara’s hand rested in mine with deliberate lightness, neither yielding nor imposing. Up close, her fragrance was subtle but distinctive—something like midnight flowers and ozone, the scent of a storm about to break.

“You dance, I assume?” she asked as we took position. Not a genuine question—a formality.

“Adequately,” I replied, matching her polite neutrality.

The chamber orchestra shifted into the opening measures of a traditional Eastern waltz, modified for modern sensibilities. Three beats, a pattern as ancient as formal diplomacy itself.

We began to move.

Alyssara was, predictably, flawless. Her steps precise, her turns executed with liquid grace. This was different from her performance earlier—restrained, formal, appropriate for a diplomatic first dance.

“You carry tension in your shoulders, Arthur Nightingale,” she observed softly, her cyan-green eyes studying me with clinical interest. “One might think you’re uncomfortable.”

“One might think many things,” I countered, keeping my expression pleasant.

“Indeed.” A smile touched her lips, not reaching her eyes. “Perceptions are fascinating, aren’t they? So easily managed, so rarely accurate.”

We turned, and I caught a glimpse of our audience. The four girls were watching with expressions ranging from diplomatic frost (Serpahina) to barely concealed murderous intent (Rachel). Lucifer’s gaze followed us thoughtfully, while Lord Daedric observed from the high table with unreadable interest.

“Your companions seem displeased,” Alyssara noted, following my gaze.

“They’ll survive.”

“The question is, will you?” Her tone remained light, conversational, but something in it sharpened. “Four remarkable young women, each laying claim. That must be… complicated.”

“Life often is,” I replied evenly, guiding her through a turn.

“Diplomacy in answer,” she acknowledged. “You’ve been well trained.”

The music shifted subtly—still a waltz, but the melody changed, morphing into something both unfamiliar and hauntingly recognizable. The tempo adjusted, slowing ever so slightly.

And then Alyssara changed.

It was so subtle that no observer would notice. But beneath my hand, her posture shifted. The formal distance between us closed by millimeters. Her steps altered—still a waltz, but with a different emphasis, a unique pattern of weight shifts and pauses.

Ice slipped down my spine as recognition dawned.

This wasn’t just any variation. This was Emma’s dance.

The private pattern we’d created together, a personal language of movement that had been ours alone. Every small peculiarity—the slight extension at the end of the third beat, the way she would momentarily yield before a turn, the characteristic tilt of her head during the suspension—it was all there, executed with impossible precision.

My step faltered, nearly imperceptible, but she caught it. Her eyes met mine, and I saw it—knowledge, certainty, and something like triumph.

“Problem?” she asked, voice honey-smooth.

My mind raced. This couldn’t be coincidence. Even perfect observation couldn’t capture this level of detail—these weren’t just dance steps but personal idiosyncrasies, private moments no one else had ever seen.

Yet here they were, replicated perfectly by someone who couldn’t possibly know them.

I forced myself back into the rhythm, matching her movements with mechanical precision while my thoughts spun in freefall. “You’re full of surprises.”

“Everyone has their talents,” she replied, her fingers adjusting against mine in another gesture so familiar it burned. “Mine just happen to be particularly… versatile.”

The music continued its treacherous path, leading us through a ghost dance—Emma’s dance—as other couples joined the floor around us. To them, we were simply executing an elegant waltz. Only I could see the phantom superimposed over reality, the past bleeding into the present with surgical precision.

“How?” The question escaped before I could contain it, quiet enough that only she could hear.

Alyssara’s smile deepened, satisfaction glimmering in her eyes. “Perhaps we’ve met before, in another context. Or perhaps some things transcend the boundaries we assume are fixed.”

The final measures approached. Her hand tightened fractionally on mine, another gesture from the past, another knife to the memory.

The music ended. We paused in the formal closing position, her eyes holding mine for one beat longer than protocol required. Then she stepped back, offering the customary closing curtsy.

I bowed in response, the movement automatic while my mind raced through implications, possibilities, dangers.

Without another word, she turned and glided away, pink hair shimmering under the chandeliers as she returned to her place beside Lord Daedric. Not a single glance back, no acknowledgment of what had just transpired—the perfect diplomatic exit.

I stood frozen for a heartbeat too long before turning back toward my table. The four girls were already moving in my direction, their expressions promising conversations ranging from interrogation to inquisition.

But all I could hear was the thundering of my own heartbeat, pounding against my ribs like it was trying to escape.