The Extra's Rise - Chapter 531

Chapter 531: Shadow (2)
Arthur didn’t understand. Of course he didn’t.

That thought settled into my mind like a stone in still water, heavy and immovable as I retreated to my room. It wasn’t his fault, not really. Blaming Arthur for being exceptional was like blaming the sun for shining—it was simply his nature.

He’d always been special. Gifted, brilliant, and frustratingly humble about it all. As a child, he was the boy teachers would point to during parent conferences, saying “Be more like him,” and I would think desperately, “If I could, I would.” But those words never left my throat. Because even when he was collecting gold stars and awards and recognition from every corner of the academy, he remained genuinely kind. That made it worse somehow.

He’d reached Silver-rank at fifteen and entered Class 1-A of Mythos Academy as if the world had been waiting for him all along. The most insufferable part wasn’t his success—it was that he never acted superior about it. He wasn’t arrogant or condescending. He was simply, maddeningly perfect.

Then everything escalated beyond normal bounds. He grew stronger, more intelligent, increasingly influential. The kind of influential where celebrities became friends visiting him at home. And many of them harbored genuine feelings for him. That was obvious to anyone who paid attention.

He defeated Lucifer Windward in single combat—Lucifer Windward, the crown prince of the Northern Continent and widely regarded as the most talented of his generation. This wasn’t just any victory, but a duel for the Rank 1 position at Mythos Academy, the most prestigious institution in the world at the time. Arthur’s response to this historic achievement? He continued improving, as if progress was inevitable rather than extraordinary.

The truly maddening aspect was that he earned every bit of it. He didn’t coast on natural ability alone. He trained relentlessly, bled for his victories, suffered defeats and rose again stronger. This made resentment impossible, because you couldn’t dismiss his accomplishments as mere luck or favoritism.

So where did that leave me?

I had managed admission to Slatemark Academy, which was genuinely prestigious and had become the premier institution after Mythos’s fall. I had harbored hopes—not grandiose dreams, but reasonable expectations. Perhaps I could reach Rank 50, maybe even 40 if circumstances aligned favorably.

I had assumed that being Arthur Nightingale’s sister carried some significance. Surely our shared bloodline meant something. My brother was courting multiple princesses and a marquis’s daughter, displayed talent that historians would remember, and maintained perfect composure under pressure. The universe owed me some small portion of that legacy.

But the universe, it seemed, operated on a merit-based system that cared nothing for family connections.

Slatemark Academy was a proving ground disguised as a school. My classmates were phenomenal talents—young people who had been immersed in magical theory since childhood, who commanded multiple elements with casual ease, who treated advanced techniques as basic exercises. They moved through the curriculum like it was designed specifically for them.

I applied myself completely. I studied every available resource, practiced until exhaustion, sought additional instruction whenever possible. But all that effort barely maintained my position. Every small advancement required enormous struggle, and just when I thought I might achieve stability, another transfer student would arrive from across the continent, armed with superior training and natural gifts, effortlessly surpassing months of my progress.

Arthur’s greatest setback had been placing second in a single competition.

He had never faced expulsion threats or concerned meetings with advisors who suggested alternative career paths. No one ever whispered about his unsuitability for combat roles or hinted that he might find fulfillment in support positions. His path consisted of one triumph building upon another, an unbroken chain of achievement that seemed almost divinely ordained.

He couldn’t comprehend what it felt like to strain constantly just to remain mediocre. To watch others accomplish effortlessly what took me everything I had to attempt poorly. To live with the constant awareness that no amount of determination could overcome the fundamental limitations I had been born with.

In his world, hard work led to success. Dedication yielded results. The correlation between effort and achievement was clear and reliable. He had never experienced the crushing realization that sometimes, no matter how much you want something or how hard you work for it, you simply aren’t capable of reaching it.

He didn’t understand what it meant to love someone whose very existence highlighted your own inadequacy. To be proud of their accomplishments while simultaneously being reminded of your own limitations. To want desperately to share in their world while knowing you would never truly belong there.

Every conversation we had about improvement or training carried an implicit assumption that I possessed untapped potential waiting to be unlocked. He spoke as if my struggles were temporary obstacles rather than fundamental constraints. His encouragement, though well-intentioned, only emphasized the vast gulf between his reality and mine.

I loved my brother. I was proud of his achievements and grateful for his concern. But his success cast a shadow that made my own efforts seem insignificant by comparison. He blazed across the sky like a comet, brilliant and impossible to ignore, while I remained earthbound, looking up and wondering what it might feel like to fly.

The worst part was knowing that he genuinely wanted to help. If there had been some magical solution, some technique or resource that could elevate me to his level, he would have provided it without hesitation. But the gap between us wasn’t something that could be bridged through external assistance. It was written into the very fabric of who we were.

He inhabited a world where extraordinary was ordinary, where breaking through limitations was expected, where the impossible became merely challenging. I lived in a world where ordinary was an achievement, where maintaining my position required constant struggle, where dreams had to be carefully measured against reality.

Arthur didn’t understand, and perhaps that was for the best. Some kinds of understanding came only through experience, and I wouldn’t wish this particular experience on him. His inability to comprehend my limitations was itself a testament to how fundamentally different our paths had always been.

The distance between us wasn’t measured in rank or achievement, but in the basic assumptions we made about what was possible. For him, the question was how high he could climb. For me, it was whether I could avoid falling any further.

And in the quiet of my room, surrounded by textbooks and practice materials that represented so much effort for so little progress, I had to accept that some questions didn’t have satisfying answers. Some struggles didn’t lead to triumphant conclusions. Sometimes, the most you could hope for was the strength to continue trying, even when you knew the odds were stacked against you.

Arthur would never understand that kind of quiet desperation, and I was grateful he didn’t have to.