Extra's Path To No Harem

In the late evening, long after the sun had dipped below the horizon, Anna—the student council president—walked back toward her dormitory with light, unhurried steps.

"Hehe… it's the first time I've ever seen him flustered."

The memory made her smile again.

Louis—always so calm, so composed—had looked genuinely startled when she suddenly appeared. The way his expression stiffened had been almost refreshing. She hadn't planned on teasing him at first; she'd only stopped by on a whim, curious to see his face after so long.

But once she noticed that reaction…

Well, she couldn't resist.

"He's changed," Anna murmured softly.

Before, Louis had carried himself with a certain casual ease, almost indifferent to the world around him. But now, when she saw him again after some time apart, there was something different about him. A quiet maturity. A sharper presence, as if he'd been tempered by effort rather than time.

"I heard he's been training hard lately…"

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the brief moment earlier—his posture, the strength in his arms when he moved. Compared to before, he definitely looked more solid.

"His body's improved too, hasn't it?" she muttered.

Realizing her cheeks had grown warm, Anna quickly fanned her face with one hand, trying to cool herself down.

"…Why am I even reacting like this?"

She let out a small, embarrassed laugh. She wasn't some inexperienced schoolgirl. Getting flustered over something so trivial was ridiculous.

Still, the image lingered.

Once again, Louis had handled the incident during the practical exam flawlessly—clean, decisive, and without drawing unnecessary attention to himself.

As expected of him.

Anna's lips curved into a faint, thoughtful smile as she continued toward her dormitory, the quiet of the night wrapping gently around her.

After the initial surprise wore off, Anna's first thought was a quiet, almost amused realization.

That's Louis for you.

No matter how hard he tried to keep his head down, something so valuable could never stay hidden forever. A good sword would always reveal its edge eventually—and Louis was exactly that.

As he continued to prove himself, Anna felt something she had long kept buried begin to stir again. A familiar warmth, restrained but persistent. She was careful not to let it show. Anyone could tell that Louis disliked attention; he wasn't someone who thrived under praise or spotlight.

Not flashy, not loud—yet solid. Rugged. Sharper and stronger than anyone realized.

If she wanted to get closer to him, she couldn't rush. She'd have to meet him on his terms.

So for now, she chose patience, tucking her feelings away and resolving to approach him slowly, carefully.

Finally… an opportunity.

Despite everything—despite him saving her twice—Anna had never properly thanked Louis. The thought had lingered in the back of her mind, leaving behind a small but persistent sense of regret.

And now, at last, she had a chance to make it right.

This time, she would express all the gratitude she hadn't been able to put into words before.

"I hope Louis likes it," she murmured softly.

A quiet smile curved her lips as she imagined the look on his face when he received it—a rare, unguarded smile that only appeared when he was genuinely pleased.

Just thinking about it made her heart beat a little faster.

---

Somewhere deep underground, in a prison where damp air clung to the stone walls—

Thud.

Another body hit the floor.

"Gugh… kuh…!"

The guard collapsed, clutching his throat as blood seeped between his fingers. His groans echoed weakly through the corridor before dissolving into silence. Around him, the bodies of his former comrades lay scattered, already cold, their lifeless eyes staring into nothingness.

"…"

An old man stood among them, watching without the slightest change in expression.

His gaze drifted slowly across the scene—the corpses, the pooling blood, the shattered stillness—yet there was no satisfaction, no remorse. Only mild disappointment.

"Hm… so this wasn't the place either."

He clicked his tongue softly and ran a hand through his snow-white hair, now faintly stained red at the tips.

"Tsk, tsk. Young people these days are far too fragile," he muttered, shaking his head. "To think they'd collapse so easily against a mere old man."

It was a shameless complaint—spoken by the very man who had slaughtered them.

The air was thick with the metallic stench of blood, heavy enough to make breathing difficult. Yet he stood there comfortably, as if this carnage were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Turning away from the bodies, the old man adjusted his coat and began walking deeper into the prison's shadows, his footsteps echoing calmly through the darkness—

As though this had all been part of an ordinary routine.

Sniff. Sniff.

After lingering in the damp air for a while, the old man finally caught the scent he was looking for. With a crooked grin, he followed it until he found a narrow staircase spiraling deeper underground. Without hesitation, he descended.

"Ah-ha. So this is where you were hiding."

At the very bottom of the prison, buried in shadows, he found her.

Clarisse.

She was barely alive.

A deep, unhealed wound gaped in her chest, dried blood staining her clothes. Her eyes stared blankly into nothingness, devoid of focus or will. Whatever resistance she once had had long since been crushed by relentless torture. She was breathing—but only just.

"Tsk, tsk… completely broken."

The old man clicked his tongue softly.

She must have been beautiful once. Youth always was—fragile, fleeting. Seeing her reduced to this pitiful state almost inspired a twisted sense of pity.

If she had died outright, at least she would've been spared this fate.

But then again…

It was precisely because she hadn't died that he was here.

The old man stepped closer and gently placed his hand atop Clarisse's head. Instantly, a murky, oppressive energy spilled out from his palm, wrapping around them both like a suffocating fog.

Clarisse didn't react.

Her mind was already too shattered to resist.

He plunged into her consciousness, rummaging through fragmented memories—pain, screams, darkness—discarding them one by one with impatience.

Then—

"Hm."

His lips curled upward.

"Fortunately… the memories are still intact."

Among the chaos, a single scene stood out clearly.

A female student with pink hair.

An overwhelming surge of power pouring out from her—and at the same time, something enormous rising from the ground, as if answering her call.

The moment the image formed, the old man's eyes gleamed.

"I've finally found it."

For so long, he had searched. Countless failures. Endless dead ends.

And now—at last—he had his answer.

The power of the devil.

The old man slowly withdrew his hand, his smile deepening as he stood alone in the darkness. His eyes shone with unrestrained madness as he committed the girl's face to memory.

"So it's you…"

Somewhere above, unaware of the gaze that had just fallen upon her, the owner of that power continued living her ordinary life.

But that peace would not last much longer.