An Extra’s Rise in an Eroge

A collective gasp rippled through the observation chamber as the magical feed crackled back to life. The crystal screens shimmered with static for a moment before stabilizing, and what they revealed left the room in stunned silence.

The once-vibrant grassland within the hunting grounds was now unrecognizable. A frozen wasteland stretched outward from a single figure at its heart, the ground fractured into jagged sheets of ice, twisted corpses of beasts embedded like grotesque sculptures within. Frigid mist still coiled low across the battlefield, carried by the harsh, rasping wind. And there, at the epicenter, stood Arthur—calm, collected, as if the destruction around him was nothing more than a casual inconvenience.

But why were everyone shocked. Everyone in the academy already knew of Arthur's strength; whispers of his ability circulated constantly, building his reputation long before this. What sent the observers reeling was something else entirely.

Because the actual monitoring team—those assigned to track and report on the exam—were no longer at their stations. Their bodies lay sprawled across the floor, unconscious, chests rising faintly but unmoving. The control chamber was no longer run by professors.

Instead, a group of masked figures had taken their place. Their faces hidden, their intent clear. One leaned casually against the crystal console, gloved fingers tapping rhythmically against the edge, while another stood guard at the chamber doors. Off to the side, the so-called "coffee delivery boy" from earlier no longer bothered with his disguise—he adjusted his mask with an air of ease, as though this infiltration was routine.

"What in the hell was that?" one of the masked men finally muttered, his voice tight with barely contained unease. He jabbed a finger at the glowing feed, where Arthur was now brushing ice from his shoulders like he'd merely gone for a walk in the cold. "You're telling me that… that is a first-year student?"

Another scoffed, though his tone was brittle. "First-year, my ass. That wasn't beginner magic. That was the display of a five-star mage." His words came out in a rasp, disbelief bleeding into every syllable. "Did you see the control? He froze an entire section of the grounds, neutralized multiple third and fourth-tier monsters in seconds—and then shattered them with a snap. That kind of efficiency… that kind of devastation…" His voice trailed off as though the thought itself was heresy.

A heavier silence fell, broken only when the one at the console spoke, voice sharp with authority. "He's a threat to our plans. Mark my words—if we allow him to grow unchecked, he'll ruin everything. We can't have that."

The leader's tone left no room for argument.

"Understood." One of the men straightened and left immediately, no hesitation in his steps. "I'll collect every detail on him. The assault team will be notified."

The others exchanged wary glances.

"He's dangerous."

"More than dangerous. He's unpredictable."

"A wildcard."

The leader's eyes lingered on the screen, watching Arthur's figure shrink into the mist as he moved deeper into the hunting grounds. His lips curled beneath the mask, not in amusement but in calculation.

"Yes… a wildcard. And that makes him far more dangerous than we anticipated."

The game had only just begun. But already, Arthur had become the axis upon which everything threatened to turn.

And for the hidden players pulling strings in the shadows, that was unacceptable.

Nyra crouched low on the frost-slick branch, her form blending seamlessly with the snow-dusted bark. Her bow was steady in her hands, posture taut but effortless, her emerald eyes gleaming like a predator's as she tracked movement below.

A pack of feral wolves slunk through the undergrowth, their fur bristling, their fangs flashing in the pale light. They were gaunt, desperate things, driven mad by hunger. Their growls rolled low, guttural and ugly, vibrating through the silence of the winter woods.

Nyra's lips curved in the faintest smirk. Too easy.

She nocked an arrow in one fluid motion. Wind magic curled at her fingertips, subtle and refined, wrapping around the shaft like an invisible serpent. The air itself seemed to bend toward her, waiting for release.

Thwip.

The arrow tore through the night and buried itself in the throat of the lead wolf. The beast crumpled instantly, its death cry cut short in a wet gurgle. The rest of the pack yelped, scattering in panic.

Nyra was already on the move, springing lightly along the branches, bow drawn once more. Hunting, striking, moving—it was second nature to her.

Then the earth shuddered.

The snow beneath the wolves erupted as a guttural roar split the clearing. A massive troll lumbered out from the treeline, its matted hair dripping with filth, its rancid breath steaming in the frozen air. Twice the height of any man, its pale skin glistened with thick frost, scars crisscrossing its bulk.

Nyra narrowed her eyes. Not fear. Not hesitation. Just cold assessment.

"Well," she murmured, smirking as she raised her bow, "another easy point."

She drew, this time pouring raw wind magic into the arrow. The shaft shimmered, vibrating with contained force, and when she loosed, it streaked through the air like a shard of white lightning.

The arrow speared into the troll's eye. The beast howled, stumbling, clutching at its face with meaty hands.

Nyra's bowstring was already taut again. Calm, precise. She aimed for the kill shot—

"Flare Cyclone!"

The voice cut across the night, followed instantly by a roaring blaze. A whirlwind of fire surged past her position, so close the heat licked her cheek and made her ears twitch back in instinct.

The inferno coiled like a living thing, devouring snow and air alike as it slammed into the wounded troll. Flames twisted into a spinning cyclone, tearing at the creature's flesh while the wind within shredded its hide from the inside out.

The troll shrieked, staggering wildly, before collapsing into the snow with an earth-shaking thud. Its massive form twitched once, twice, and then lay still, its charred flesh hissing in the cold air.

Nyra's jaw tightened. Her fingers clenched around her bow.

"That—" she hissed, lowering her weapon with a sharp snap, "was my kill."

Irritation prickled her skin like needles. She extended her hand and summoned water magic, a rushing wave surging forth and dousing the lingering fire. Steam hissed and curled upward in thick clouds, shrouding the clearing. The acrid smell of burned flesh clung to the mist.

The troll's body was nothing but a blackened husk.

Her kill. Stolen.

Her silver hair whipped about her as she whirled toward the treeline, voice ringing clear and furious.

"Who the hell was that?!" Nyra snarled, her words sharp as steel. "Which bastard dares to steal my prey?!"

Her bow remained in her grip, taut, ready. She dropped from the branch, landing in the snow with barely a sound, her boots sinking slightly into the frost. Every motion was fluid, lethal, a predator denied its rightful strike.

"Come out, you rat!" she shouted, emerald eyes gleaming with fury. "Don't think I won't put an arrow straight through your skull!"