The Extra is a Genius!?

Rain tapped softly against the windowpane, tracing thin silver lines down the glass. Noel leaned against the frame, one hand resting on the hilt of Revenant Fang, eyes fixed on the distant treeline where the Thorne barrier shimmered faintly. Night had fallen over the estate, quiet—too quiet.

He exhaled, a faint mist leaving his lips. "Seven days already," he muttered. "And still nothing."

Behind that calm tone, his mind replayed the week like a slow reel.

He'd spent it searching—walking every corridor of the mansion, stepping through the training fields, the underground storage halls, even the servant quarters. He'd checked for mana leaks, corrupted cores, and any sign of intrusion. Nothing. Not a trace.

'If the Thorne family really falls, it won't be from outside,' he thought, eyes narrowing. 'Whatever it is, it's already inside these walls.'

The wind carried the faint scent of rain and earth through the open crack in the window. The night before, he'd overheard the guards gossiping—how Lady Mirelle had barely left her room all week. How she dismissed her servants without warning. How she spoke alone in her chambers.

At first, Noel didn't care. He'd seen noble drama before—jealousy, inheritance disputes, pride. But something about her silence bothered him. It wasn't just anger or shame. It felt… wrong.

He pushed away from the window, closing it quietly. "So much for peace," he said under his breath.

Turning toward his desk, his gaze landed on a few scattered notes—maps of the estate, sketches of mana flows, and fragments of burned parchment he'd found in the west wing. All pointing toward the same conclusion: something in this house was moving beneath the surface.

Noel rubbed his temples, his reflection in the dark glass staring back at him. "Tomorrow's the seventh day," he murmured. "If something's going to happen, it'll be then."

He looked toward the window one last time. Outside, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.

'I can feel it,' he thought. 'The storm's already here.'

Noel's routine became mechanical—wake, observe, analyze, repeat. Every corner of the Thorne estate felt the same as before, yet something beneath it wasn't right.

It wasn't about sounds or whispers; there was no clear sign of disturbance. But his instincts—the same instincts that once saved him from the Sixth Pillar—kept screaming. There was something wrong here. Something hiding in plain sight.

Each time he walked through the western wing—Mirelle's domain—the air felt heavier. Not cold, not cursed. Just... wrong. Like a presence was there, but only when he wasn't looking.

'It's the same feeling,' he thought grimly. 'Like someone's walking around in someone else's skin.'

He studied Mirelle from afar during the family meals and formal gatherings. Her movements, her tone, her eyes—all perfectly normal. Too normal. The kind of normal that came from practice.

She laughed at the right times. Ate just enough. Smiled faintly when Albrecht spoke.

But her eyes… didn't follow people anymore. They followed rooms. Corners. Doorways.

Like she was waiting for something unseen to move.

'She hasn't changed physically. But her behavior has done it, although it is surely because of the selection of the Heir of the house and her two sons have been left out, Sylvette winning, so it could be that but...'

He'd seen it once before—when the Sixth Pillar was just a helper in an orphanage. She looked like someone normal but in reality he was someone using someone else's skin, of course there were also items for this.

Noel scribbled his findings in shorthand across his notebook:

Day 3: No news.

Day 5: The observation continues.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the notes, brow furrowing. 'The novel could have delved deeper into this if it was so important to the world... I wonder why important things sometimes don't show up because they follow a protagonist...'

Outside, thunder rolled faintly again, echoing like a distant heartbeat.

Noel leaned against the edge of his desk, eyes fixed on the rain streaking the windowpane. The storm outside hadn't stopped all day, a steady rhythm that matched the pounding in his head.

He let out a slow breath. "Yesterday…" he murmured.

The memory replayed itself clearly—the echo of footsteps in the corridor, the dim golden lamps flickering against the walls. He had been on his way back to his room after checking the mana barrier when he crossed paths with her.

Lady Mirelle.

She'd stood by the window, draped in her crimson gown, silver jewelry catching faint light. For a moment, she'd looked almost serene—if he hadn't known better.

'Just another evening in hell.'

He remembered stopping out of courtesy. "Lady Mirelle," he had said, tone polite but hollow.

Her gaze slid toward him, full of the same disdain it always carried. "Still playing the role of dutiful son, Noel?"

He didn't rise to the bait. "Someone has to."

That made her smile—a quiet, cruel one. "How noble. You almost sound like a Thorne."

Typical. She always found a way to twist words into knives. Yet as he began to walk past, she had said something that didn't fit her usual venom. Something quieter, more detached—almost like she wasn't speaking to him at all.

"Just one week left."

At the time, Noel had frozen mid-step, half-turning toward her. "What did you say?"

But she hadn't answered. She'd simply walked away, her silhouette vanishing into the hall like smoke.

Now, staring out the window again, Noel's fingers drummed against the glass.

'One week left… until what?'

Back in the present, the storm had thinned into a faint drizzle. The light through Noel's window was gray, soft—the kind of calm that came before movement.

He sat on the edge of his bed, spinning a small iron sphere in his hand—a training weight he used to sharpen reflexes. Absentmindedly, he tossed it up, caught it, tossed it again. The faint clink against his palm filled the quiet room.

His mind wasn't on the sphere.

'One week left.' he thought again, watching it arc through the air.

He remembered what Albrecht had said that morning before leaving for the forest.

"In seven days, the horde comes. Be ready."

Noel exhaled, leaning back slightly. The threads began to connect—the timing, Mirelle's words, the gathering mana across the estate's outer wards. It all lined up too perfectly.

'So that's what she meant. "One week left." The monster wave.'

He tossed the sphere again, higher this time, eyes following its spin.

It came back down. He caught it once, twice, then misjudged the third throw.

Thunk.

The metal ball bounced off his forehead and rolled across the floor.

"Ow…" Noel muttered, rubbing the spot and glaring at the sphere like it had personally betrayed him.