I AM EXTRA IN A SHONEN MANGA

The tide lay low that evening, sucking back from the reefs and leaving behind jagged spines that glittered in the dying light like shattered glass. They cut sharp shapes against the horizon, black teeth in a gray mouth, glistening with salt as the last whispers of sunlight scattered across their surfaces. The sea itself seemed subdued, restless waves lapping the shoals not with fury but with exhaustion, as though it too had spent its strength in the battle.

All through Pearlbay, the scent of smoke lingered. The villagers had burned driftwood and salted kelp for the mourning fires, and though many flames had now guttered into smoldering coils, the acrid tang clung to the air. It mixed with brine, blood, and broken coral, weaving a perfume of grief that could not be ignored.

Children pressed shells to their lips, whispering prayers into them before setting them adrift on the current. The shells bobbed across the water like pale ghosts, carrying murmured names to the sea. Mothers held their children tighter, and fathers bowed their heads as they built makeshift shelters from broken planks and netting.

Pearlbay had not yet found the strength to breathe again. Its people stood on the edge of mourning, trying to stitch together life in the shadow of loss. And yet, already, the rhythm of trade intruded.

From the northern road, Merran Duskail arrived.

He stepped into the village square as though he owned the stones beneath his boots. His ledger, bound in worn leather and pressed against his ribs, never left his side. His boots were spotless despite the mud sucking at the ground, as though the dirt itself refused him. His smile thin, polite, sharpened by habit rested on his lips like the practiced tilt of a blade.

But it was his eyes that unsettled most. They roved over the gathered crowd with a gleam too quick, too calculating, as if he counted pearls in their tears rather than recognizing grief.

Elder Neria was the first to turn toward him.

The years had curved her spine, but her presence was unbroken. Her silver hair caught the pearl-light spilling from the shrine flames, and her staff driftwood polished by storms remained steady in her hand. The weight of history seemed carved into her frame, yet she carried it as one carries armor, not burden.

Her voice, when it came, was low and edged with steel. "Merran."

The merchant paused, hand pressed briefly against his chest as though in reverence. "Elder Neria. My deepest condolences for the lives lost. Had I returned sooner, I would have offered my hand in aid." His tone, carefully measured, bore the smoothness of someone used to selling sympathy. And then, almost too swiftly, he added: "But I am here now, as always, to bring what Pearlbay needs. Salt. Grain. Cloth. Whatever coin can still buy."

The villagers stiffened. Their shoulders hunched, breaths caught. Trade was survival, yes but the wound was too fresh. Merran's words fell on them like salt poured into an open cut.

Elder Neria's gaze narrowed, pearl-light flickering in her pupils. "Even in mourning, the sea does not pause. Neither does commerce. I know this truth well. But do not mistake grief for blindness, Merran. Your timing… is curious."

Merran bowed his head slightly, but his taut smile twitched. "Curious, perhaps. Opportunistic, never. I only wish to serve Pearlbay, Elder."

From the shrine steps, two young voices whispered.

Toren nudged his friend with a scowl. "That man's eyes look like he's hiding fish guts under his coat."

Lys snorted, but his grin faltered when Merran's gaze cut toward them, quick and sharp as a hook. "Shh. Or he'll sell us to the gulls."

Neria tapped her staff against the cobblestones, the sound echoing like a wave striking hollow rock. Her voice carried through the square, firm as tide and storm alike. "Then let us see if your aid is true. Pearlbay has lost warriors, kin, guardians. Bring your wares tomorrow. Tonight, you will light candles with us and honor the dead."

For a heartbeat, the merchant froze. His smile cracked, and the ledger under his arm seemed to grow heavier. He bowed, quick and shallow, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of irritation. "Of course, Elder. As you command."

He turned, shoulders stiff, and as he did the pearl-light from the shrine caught the corner of his ledger. Ceyla, half-hidden among the shadows near the reef wall, caught sight of strange marks scrawled between the neat columns of numbers. Not prices. Not weights. Not names of goods. Codes.

Her eyes narrowed. Her hand brushed the hilt of her blade, though she did not draw it. Not yet.

As the fires burned low, smoke drifted like a veil into the horizon. Villagers huddled against the chill, their voices weary and fragmented. Some carried planks, some gathered ropes, and some simply sat, staring into the dark as though expecting another monster to rise from the sea. Children clung to skirts, their tears dry but their eyes wide, as though nightmares still clung to them in daylight.

Khael stood apart at the edge of the square. His armor was cracked, dented, salt-stained. The dragon-sigil carved into its breastplate pulsed faintly beneath the damage, as though his very heartbeat was etched into metal. He watched the tide as though it might speak to him, its restless lap against the shore a language only he could understand.

Kaen approached. His shoulders were stiff, ash smudged along his cheek, his fists coiled as though he still fought shadows. For a long moment, he stood beside Khael in silence. Only the tide spoke between them.

Finally, Kaen's voice came low, raw. "Back there… when you said 'we slay it, not seal it'… you sounded like you knew all along what had to be done."

Khael's eyes did not shift. His tone was calm, distant, like the sea itself. "I did not know. I only believed. And belief, Kaen, can be sharper than any blade."

Kaen scoffed, bitterness scraping his throat. "Belief doesn't stop a monster's claws."

Khael turned, his expression softening into something rare. The faintest curve touched his lips. "No. But you did. You, Juno, Ceyla, Rael. Three years of training—every strike, every scar—it was not wasted. It was proof. You carry more than fire, Kaen. You carry resolve."

Kaen blinked, caught unprepared. His chest tightened, pride knotted with unease. (He… he trusts me? Even after I nearly lost it out there?) He looked away quickly, muttering under his breath. "Don't put me on a pedestal, Khael. I'm not you."

Khael's answer was soft, steady as the tide. "You don't need to be me. The world already has a dragon knight. What it needs… is Kaen."

For a heartbeat, Kaen's throat closed. No words came. Only a sharp nod, clipped and silent, betrayed the storm twisting inside him.

Across the square, Juno knelt among the wounded. His knuckles were bruised raw from the gates, but his hands moved with surprising gentleness, binding a fisher's torn leg with strips of cloth.

Beside him, Lira leaned forward, channeling faint streams of light from her palms into a child's broken arm. The glow was fragile, flickering as though her Shinrei had been drained to embers, yet she did not falter.

"You're safe now," she whispered, brushing sweat-damp hair from the girl's brow.

The child's mother clutched her sleeve, eyes swollen from tears. "Thank you. Without you… without all of you…" Her voice broke, and she pulled her daughter close.

Juno exhaled, his jaw tightening as he looked toward the horizon. (This village lost too many. Even if we won… did we truly protect them?)

Lira seemed to hear the thought, her voice quiet but steady. "We did what we could. Now we help them stand again."

Juno glanced at her, searching her face, and finally gave a single nod. For the first time since the battle ended, his features softened.

Elder Neria raised her staff once more, her voice calling survivors to gather for the rite of remembrance. The villagers drifted toward the shrine, carrying candles, murmuring names of the lost.

Merran lingered at the edge of the crowd. His ledger was closed now, his smile thinner, his eyes sharper than grief should allow. He watched them, calculating, as though even mourning had value to be weighed and traded.

And in the shadow of the cliffs, unseen by all but the restless gulls, Veyra the hermit crouched. Her pale eyes glimmered in the dark like twin knives. Her lips parted, whispering into the wind.

"The sea bleeds… and still they do not see the rot beneath."

To be continue