The Extra is a Genius!?-Chapter 124: Under Thin Ice

The words hung in the air.

"We need to discuss a very serious problem."

King Alveron IV’s voice was low, measured—but beneath it simmered something colder than the sea below. His crimson eyes locked onto Deyrion Neral across the table, unblinking.

The King of Velmora leaned back slightly, hands resting calmly on the arms of his seat. His expression remained unreadable—black horns gleaming faintly in the dim light.

"Speak, Alveron IV," Deyrion said smoothly. "I will listen."

Alveron’s fingers drummed once against the hilt of the sword before him—a subtle, deliberate gesture.

Then he spoke.

"A demon operated freely within my lands. Within the walls of my academy. And beyond." His gaze sharpened. "Kaelith Drosen, or his public identity Profesor Lereus."

Deyrion’s eyes narrowed a fraction. He said nothing.

Alveron continued.

"He killed innocent civilians in the Capital Valon. He took students—children—from within our strongest wards. And he nearly destroyed a pillar of our kingdom’s future."

The words echoed in the chamber.

Deyrion remained composed.

"And you think Velmora was involved," he said softly. No question—an observation.

Alveron leaned forward slightly.

"I think a being of such power, able to bypass defenses meant to deter even your kind, did not act without knowledge of them. Or without help." His tone turned pointed. "And you rule the kingdom from which such beings come."

A beat of silence.

Then Deyrion spoke—voice smooth as polished stone.

"Velmora has no interest in sabotaging the peace we fought to preserve," he said evenly. "Nor do I take lightly the lives lost in your capital. If you think me foolish enough to provoke war when we still pay for the crimes of my father—then perhaps you underestimate the weight of that history."

His crimson gaze met Alveron’s, unwavering.

"Kaelith Drosen’s actions serve neither my interests nor those of my realm. And I will not defend them."

The air in the chamber grew colder still.

But Deyrion remained perfectly still—unflinching beneath the weight of Alveron’s glare.

The silence stretched long between them.

Then, with a slow breath, Alveron leaned back in his seat. His fingers left the hilt of the embedded sword, folding instead over his chest.

"Whether you speak truth or craft it well, Deyrion... we can’t afford to ignore this."

Deyrion inclined his head slightly. "Then we agree on something."

"The demon operated with precision. He knew the academy—its structure, its schedules, its layout—not because he guessed, but because he was part of it. He infiltrated as a professor. Built a public identity. That was trusted and respected."

He paused, letting the weight of the next words settle.

"He spent ten years teaching at the Ivory Tower, just to construct a credible profile... to gain the credentials he needed to slip past our gates and walk freely inside our walls."

"Agreed," Deyrion said. "Which is why Velmora is willing to cooperate."

That made Alveron raise an eyebrow.

"Cooperate?"

Deyrion’s tone didn’t waver. "I will open access to all records we have on Kaelith Drosen and any associated movements in the borderlands. My intelligence networks will share relevant findings—provided, of course, that this remains within the bounds of the Accord."

Alveron’s eyes narrowed.

"And what do you ask in return?"

"Only that we are treated as partners in this matter, not suspects."

A long pause.

Then Alveron rose slowly to his feet.

"Very well. But know this—I won’t rely on the goodwill of shadows. I’ll conduct my own investigation. Personally."

For a long moment, neither king spoke.

The sea below churned in unseen silence, its distant roar swallowed by the ancient wards that held the chamber aloft.

Between them, the four swords remained embedded in the table—still. Heavy with meaning.

Alveron’s gaze flicked to the steel before him.

Symbols of peace.

Of a fragile line neither could afford to cross.

Across the table, Deyrion rose to his feet in a slow, graceful motion. His crimson eyes lingered on the blades for a moment longer than necessary.

Then he spoke—voice quiet, but edged with meaning.

"Let us hope none of us finds reason to draw those blades."

Alveron’s jaw tightened. He gave no reply—only a curt nod.

But as Deyrion turned, the thought came unbidden:

’I hope the same... I truly do. May those swords remain where they are—forever.’

Their feet finally touched level ground.

Noel staggered as he took the first true step off the icy slope—boots sinking into damp earth rather than frozen stone.

Selene followed close behind, wrapped still in his cloak, her steps unsteady but determined. Both of them bore the same exhaustion—etched into their movements, their eyes.

Noel exhaled hard, sweat chilling against his skin.

In his vision, a new prompt flickered to life:

[New Mission: Treat the disease and save Elyra’s mother.Time remaining: 4 days.]

His breath caught.

’Shit. Shit... I’m running out of time. Please—don’t let this get worse.’

He pushed forward.

They moved through a thin mist that clung to the forest floor—its tendrils coiling between trees and old stone markers. The mountain loomed behind them now, a silent giant. Ahead, the faint outline of the outer watchpost began to take shape through the fog.

Noel narrowed his eyes.

He recognized the structure.

The same one where Selene had slipped through unseen on their ascent—and where he had used his writ to pass unchallenged.

But something was different this time.

As they approached, the fog parted just enough to reveal a figure standing atop the wall.

A tall figure, cloaked in silence and authority, stood with commanding presence atop the wall.

Lady Vaelora von Iskandar.

Her gaze locked onto the two shadows emerging from the mist—first Noel, moving with steady purpose despite his limp, and just behind him, her daughter, visibly drained, half-supported by his presence.

Lady Vaelora’s eyes narrowed.

Without hesitation, she raised a hand—an unspoken signal.

Around the walls, figures stirred. Soldiers moved quickly, positioning themselves to intercept them.

Noel slowed his steps, instincts flaring.

’Please—don’t let this get worse. Why I had to think of that? This fucking cliche novel.’

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