Don't Want to Be Ordinary Even Though I'm an Extra Character

-Arkan Lawrence-

Yes, I decided on a surname. This wasn't a choice I made lightly. After the previous banquet, several people asked about my family name, but I never provided one—not because I was hiding it, but because I never had one.

In this era, a surname carries significant weight. For a society reminiscent of medieval Europe, a surname denotes status, identity, or noble lineage.

As a commoner, it made sense that I had none. But now, as I began carving out a position for myself, with influence slowly growing, it felt necessary to adopt one.

Why Lawrence?

Two simple reasons. First, it sounded cool. Second, it held meaning. Derived from Latin, Lawrence means "man from Laurentum" or "the bright and shining one." Fitting, don't you think?

"No, I'm not vain at all," I thought sarcastically to myself, suppressing a smirk. "Besides, branding is important—especially for the alcohol label I'll eventually create."

But enough about me. At the moment, I was traveling alongside Rainer toward the village Marquis Arleon had mentioned. We rode steadily, keeping a consistent pace.

The journey, if taken leisurely, would take five days. If pushed, perhaps three. But the path to this village was anything but easy.

The trail grew steeper as we advanced, leading us toward hilly terrain. It was narrow, with a sheer drop on one side and a looming rock wall on the other. A single misplaced step could mean a swift plummet to a brutal end.

I glanced at Rainer, who remained calm and composed despite the perilous path. His confidence in these situations was something to admire. Meanwhile, I was far from comfortable, every muscle taut as I fought to maintain balance atop the saddle.

"This wasn't in the novel," I muttered under my breath.

"What?" Rainer shot me a curious look, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing," I replied quickly, forcing a grin. "Just talking to myself."

He shook his head lightly, as though resigned to my odd remarks.

This journey was a test of both physical and mental endurance. With each step our horses took, I couldn't shake the unease brewing within me about what awaited us at the village—plague, curses, a dark mage… and the growing abomination beneath.

Taking a deep breath, I sought to steady my nerves. "Five days. We'll reach the village soon enough, and I have to be prepared for whatever lies ahead."

Rainer continued onward, his steady demeanor unwavering. And me? I could only hope the name Lawrence would shine brightly enough to pull me through.

-Third-Person Perspective-

As Arkan and Rainer pressed forward, the trail shifted into darker, quieter terrain. Towering trees surrounded them, their dense foliage casting shadowy silhouettes that cloaked the path in a near-impenetrable gloom.

From afar, a pair of sharp, gleaming eyes observed them—a great horned owl, perched silently among the branches.

But this was no ordinary owl.

It was a familiar, an extension of a dark mage's will, controlled entirely by a sorceress hidden far beneath the earth in a natural cavern.

Within the depths of that cavern, the dark mage sat atop a stone resembling a rough-hewn throne, surrounded by ancient tomes, flickering candles, and walls etched with arcane symbols. Her slender fingers hovered over a large bowl of still water, its surface rippling faintly, reflecting the vision seen through the owl's eyes.

A thin smile stretched across her lips, cruel and cunning. Her face glowed faintly in the candlelight, her expression that of a predator savoring the discovery of its prey.

"Well, well," she rasped, her voice dry but edged with malevolent glee. "It seems I've found a golden goose..."

Her gaze remained fixed on the image in the water—Rainer's unwavering stride beside Arkan's determined figure. The reflection shimmered, light rippling as though alive.

Instead of continuing her watch, the sorceress rose from her stone seat, her black robes swaying with each graceful step. She turned and strode toward a massive chamber.

Faint red light pulsed from within like the slow, rhythmic throb of a beating heart, casting grotesque shadows across the walls.

At the chamber's center stood a colossal cocoon, its surface pulsating with a deep crimson glow. Each pulse sent shivers along the cavern walls, amplifying the chamber's already eerie aura.

The sorceress stopped a few steps away from the cocoon, her sharp eyes glistening with a twisted sense of pride.

"My child..." she whispered, her voice laden with emotion—a chilling mixture of reverence, devotion, and madness. "Soon… soon you will complete your evolution. The nourishment you need will come. So be patient."

She raised a slender hand and placed it lightly on the cocoon's surface. It radiated warmth and life, its slow thrum pulsating beneath her palm like the breath of a sleeping giant.

"Look at you now," she murmured, voice brimming with awe. "From a wretched insect to something exalted, something greater. No longer bound by fear or frailty. You will become perfection itself."

The cocoon's pulses quickened, almost as if responding to her words. Within its translucent shell, the vague outline of a titanic centipede could be seen—a hulking beast whose numerous legs shifted slightly, its body undulating in preparation.

"Evolution," the sorceress intoned reverently, the word falling from her lips like a prayer. "This is your ultimate form. This is our true purpose—to leave behind humanity's weakness and transcend into something far beyond."

She stepped back, lowering her hand, her crooked smile curving wider. To her, this creature was not merely a tool—it was her legacy. Her child.

"Soon," she whispered as she turned, her robe trailing behind her. "Soon they will come. And you will feast upon everything they bring."

With calculated steps, she left the chamber, ascending a rough-hewn stone staircase that spiraled upward. The oppressive darkness of the cavern gradually gave way to a much different space above.

Here, the atmosphere changed entirely. Wooden walls, simple furnishings, and the soft fragrance of dried flowers permeated the room—an almost jarring contrast to the horror lurking below.

The dark mage moved to a large mirror, pausing momentarily to regard her reflection. Then, with deliberate care, she began transforming her appearance.

The black robes fell to the floor, replaced by clean, modest white attire. Her unkempt hair was smoothed, her face touched up to exude warmth and youthfulness.

By the time her preparation was complete, she no longer looked like a harbinger of doom. She was a young woman with a sweet smile and an air of innocence: Clara Winfield.

A soft knock broke the room's silence.

"Clara? Are you still awake at this hour?" a young man's voice called from outside, tinged with concern.

Clara flinched briefly, then approached the door with careful steps, opening it with feigned hesitation. "Oh... Sorry! I got carried away reading."

Her soft-spoken words and gentle demeanor masked the twisted intentions within her. Beneath her mask of kindness, another smile began to form deep in her mind.

Clara Winfield.

The first heroine... and the first villainess.