The Extra Who Shouldn't Exist-Chapter 71 : Chaos in the cafeteria (1)

[ 30 Minutes Ago – Alex’s POV]

"N-No way! I’m not getting involved in beating up some noble! That’s suicidal! If the disciplinary committee found out." Draven almost shrieked, backing away, waving his arms frantically.

I leaned in with an eerie grin stretching across my face, eyes gleaming like a predator spotting prey.

"Are you sure about that? Because if you run now, a certain dwarven prince’s dear father may receive an anonymous message—detailing everything about a certain hacker who hacked the arcane forge’s system.

You know, that incident which could get him exiled."

Draven froze. His entire body stiffened as sweat poured like a waterfall down his neck.

"Y-You monster, again with that threat" he whispered.

"No, no. I’m just a friend of justice," I said, still maybe grinning like a madman.

He shivered. "Fine! Okay, okay! Just wipe that hideous smile off your face, you ugly bastard!"

Immediately, I brightened like a child getting candy. "That’s the spirit! You’ve saved that dwarf again! Let’s get to work, my loyal co-conspirator."

Draven sighed, already regretting his life choices.

"So," I said, pulling out the sleek, a ring from my pocket, "this prototype you made for me—it’s based on your inviso-tech, right?"

He nodded. "Yeah. But don’t expect miracles. This thing can only last for twenty minutes. You’ll be invisible, and your presence will be slightly obscured—but only for that long. Once the timer’s up, it’s lights out."

"That’s more than enough," I said, slipping the ring into his finger. "I’ve got the perfect skill to match it."

I activated my skill, ’Veil of Faint Steps’, which dimmed my presence even more.

Draven, surprised, said, "Whoa, that’s certainly a useful skill. I could use something like that too. But that’s not the point right now!"

Draven tilted his head. "What’s the plan that you’re so confident about?"

I turned, scanning the cafeteria, eyes locking on a table toward the center-left. It was slightly elevated, giving it the illusion of a mini-stage.

There he was—Lorenzo D’Vaire, lounging like he owned the world, surrounded by his noble entourage. His laughter was irritating, even from this distance.

But I wasn’t focused on him.

No.

Sitting a few tables down, basking in admiration, was Carl Dimitri. A second-year from a powerful marquis house, with bulging muscles barely contained by his uniform.

Beside him sat his girlfriend—Mira Hart—a second-year beauty with crimson red hair cascading like a waterfall, her amber eyes twinkling with mischief, and skin so flawless it made skincare commercials look like frauds.

"If Lorenzo’s the king of the second-tier bullies," I said, pointing subtly, "Carl’s the crown prince of upper-year bastards."

Draven’s jaw dropped as I whispered the plan into his ear.

"Y-You are not going to do what I think you’re gonna do, right?! That’s insane!"

"That’s why it’ll work," I said with a wink.

Draven groaned. "If I die, I’m going to haunt you."

"You’d make a terrible ghost."

---

[Third Person POV ]

From birth, Lorenzo had been blessed—talent, wealth, status, everything seemed within arm’s reach. People praised him endlessly, showering him with compliments, calling him a genius, a prodigy, a future legend. He began to believe it himself. To him, the world was a stage where he was the star, and everyone else merely background characters.

But reality struck—hard.

It happened the day he met true prodigies like Ethan Williams and Alden Crestvale.

In front of them, he was nothing more than an afterthought. The very people who once sang his praises now flocked around Ethan and Alden. Their eyes sparkled for someone else. Their admiration, their attention, their reverence—all stolen.

They didn’t even glance at him anymore.

That day, something inside Lorenzo broke.

Humiliation. Envy. Helplessness.

He developed a deep-rooted inferiority complex, one he tried to bury beneath pride and cruelty.

If he couldn’t surpass those stronger than him, then he would dominate those weaker. If he couldn’t stand beside the sun, he’d become a nightmare for the weak.

He began to treat others like tools—harassing his maids, torturing people—especially commoners. In his eyes, they were born beneath his feet, their only worth being how well they could serve or entertain him. He clung to his superiority like a lifeline.

Commoners. Extras.

So when Alex Dragonheart—a commoner—began to rise, Lorenzo refused to believe it.

It was impossible.

A commoner? Outranking me? Someone who was born to serve?

He laughed it off at first, calling it a fluke.

And when he heard Alex’s speech at the orientation—the dam broke.

What... did he just say?

A commoner—calling him a waste? Inferior?

His nails dug into his palm as Alex’s words echoed in the hall.

How dare he... That arrogant mongrel!

I’ll remind him of his place. I’ll tear down that smug look and crush whatever pride he has left.

He spiraled into denial, unable to accept that someone he deemed inferior could surpass him. His pride, already fragile, shattered completely.

For the first time in his life, Lorenzo was forced to face the truth: talent and wealth alone weren’t enough.

And the one he looked down on... was now standing at a height he could barely see.

---

Now Lorenzo, seated at his table in the center- with his underlings—Reggie, Felix, and Marcel—beamed with smug satisfaction. Henry had done a wonderful job. That arrogant commoner Alex must be washing himself somewhere.

His underlings praised him, giggling like hyenas around a carcass.

"Lord Lorenzo, you really showed him his place."

"Yeah! He won’t dare act arrogant again."

"Commoners should remember where they belong."

As their food arrived—sticky, spicy noodles known as Devil’s Embrace—a strange thing happened.

One of the bowls of noodles on their table—the one right in front of his left-hand crony—began to rise.

It didn’t tip. It didn’t jiggle. It floated, levitating with an ominous wobble. Thick noodles dangled from the sides like tentacles. A garlic-slick strand slapped the table edge as the bowl twisted midair.

A few of the boys froze mid-laugh.

"Uh... guys?" one of them said, pointing.

Another leaned back instinctively, eyes wide. "Is it... flying?"

Before they could do anything else, the bowl launched itself like a torpedo.

It spiraled through the air across the cafeteria—a blur of ceramic, steam, and dangling noodle strands—headed toward a table that practically radiated prestige.

At that table sat Carl Dimitri, heir of House Dimitri—one of the most aggressive noble families in Avaloria—and his girlfriend, Mira Hart, the picture of elegance.

With Amber eyes and perfectly braided red hair, Mira was sipping her tea, not even acknowledging the peasant chaos happening across the hall.

The bowl launched across the cafeteria and landed directly on Mira Hart.

She didn’t get the chance to finish her sip.

The bowl of noodles slammed straight atop of her head.

Sticky strands splattered across her face, draping over her head like garlic-scented seaweed. The oily broth burst against her front, staining her perfectly tailored uniform.

A clump of chopped scallions and one stray mushroom stuck dramatically to her cheek.

Carl blinked.

His pristine uniform was splattered too—less so, but enough to leave a mark. Enough to insult.

For several seconds, no one moved.

Mira slowly lifted her head, her face blank except for the noodle stuck to her lip.

Then came the sound—a soft drip of broth hitting the floor.

The sticky noodles clung to her hair, face, and uniform. Steam hissed upward as sauce dripped like lava.

Carl blinked again.

Then Mira turned slowly to him.

"Carl... am I still beautiful?" she asked sweetly.

Carl’s face was turning redder than the sauce on her.

"You’re radiant, Mira," he replied softly, voice trembling.

Then she said, "Then you know what to do with the one who did this."

Carl simply nodded.

Then he looked up.

He followed the trajectory from where the noodles had come flying.

Across the cafeteria, he spotted Lorenzo. The same noodles were on his table that his friends had also ordered. The angle. The trajectory.

It was all he needed.

Carl stood.

His friends—Brutus, Maximus, Ian, and Tucker—rose behind him.

Everyone nearby froze.

"Did you throw that?" Carl asked Lorenzo, voice calm, cold.

Lorenzo started sweating bullets.

"L-Lord Carl, I swear it wasn’t—"

Then his arm moved.

Almost like possessed, he grabbed a pie and launched it.

SMACK!

Right onto Carl’s face.

"...No... no... no..." Lorenzo whispered in horror.

Even Carl’s friends were stunned.

Carl slowly wiped the cream from his face using a pristine handkerchief.

Mira giggled at that, saying, "He’s got guts, I’ll give him that. Ruined my beautiful hair, though."

"You alright, sweetheart? The pie got on your hair, didn’t it?"

"I am," she whispered. "But make sure he remembers this moment forever."

Lorenzo paled.

"You’re the son of Count Magna, right?" Carl asked.

Lorenzo nodded vigorously.

"Good. That means you’ll survive this. Probably."

And one more thing—"You know... after Alicia became student council president, I stopped bullying and oppressing people weaker than me."

Lorenzo blinked.

Wait... that sounded... good?

Carl folded the handkerchief neatly. "She said it was ’immature,’ ’inappropriate,’ and a stain on our house’s honor.’ So I behaved." He smiled, but it was not a kind smile.

Lorenzo started to grin—this is great, this is good, I might live—

Mira giggled again. "Darling, you forgot to mention that she beat your ass black and blue. That’s why you stopped."

Even Carl’s friends stifled a laugh.

Carl glared at them and they stopped.

Turning to Mira, he said, "You don’t need to mind the small details, Mira. And you know I’m trying to be scary here, so please don’t make me remember that again—it still gives me goosebumps."

Mira laughed again.

Carl took a step forward, turning toward Lorenzo again.

"But you," he said, voice soft and dangerous, "just made me remember why I enjoyed it."

Lorenzo’s breath hitched. His grin fell off his face like a bad mask. He tried to shrink into his chair, hands splayed out in front of him.

"P-Please, Lord Carl, it was an accident—my hand moved on its own! I swear on my family’s honor, on my dog’s life, on my—!"

Carl raised a hand. Silence.

He leaned down ever so slightly, until his eyes met Lorenzo’s trembling ones. His voice was a whisper now, just loud enough for the crowd to hear.

"So make sure..." he said, brushing a fleck of pastry off Lorenzo’s collar, "...to entertain me from now on."

The smile he gave then was not one that belonged on a student’s face.

It was the kind that belonged to a predator who had just been reminded of the thrill of the hunt.

He turned to his gang. "Boys, teach these juniors some manners."

His crew grinned like wolves let off leash.

"Time to stretch our muscles."

"Been too long."

"Poor kids."

Lorenzo stood, heart pounding. "Run!"

His crew bolted. Lorenzo prepared his skill—Fleet-Footed Retreat.

Then a voice whispered in his ear.

"Let me show you how bullying is really done."

He spun. No one.

BAM!

Carl appeared like a ghost, landing three blazing punches—abdomen, chest, jaw.

Lorenzo’s body flew, crashing into a table—

Right onto the table of Ethan, Charlotte, Alden, Seraphina, and a very confused Henry... who fainted.

---

Meanwhile, at the far end of the grand hall, Lorenzo’s so-called noble friends—Felix Greaves, Reggie Montere, and Marcel Finch—were no longer lounging comfortably at their table. Their faces had gone pale, panic overtaking their earlier arrogance.

"Carl’s men are closing in..." Reggie whispered, watching the black-uniformed underlings move like wolves through the crowd.

"We need to get out of here. Now," Felix said, his voice sharp with fear. "If we stay, we’re done."

"There’s no exit—we’re surrounded!" Marcel gestured wildly, his breath growing rapid.

For a moment, they froze. Then, desperation took over.

Marcel reached down and hurled a platter of roasted vegetables at Carl’s men.

"Distract them!"

The others followed suit. Chicken legs, bowls of soup, and rolls of bread were thrown in frantic succession. The dishes crashed and splattered across the floor, some narrowly missing their intended targets.

Carl’s underlings—Brutus, Vince, and Fang—dodged with ease, their eyes cold and calculating. Brutus raised an eyebrow. Vince let out a disappointed scoff. Fang gave a crooked smile, cracking his knuckles like a predator toying with prey.

But the thrown food didn’t disappear harmlessly.

Instead, it landed on the table of a group of senior students who had nothing to do with the conflict.

One of them, a tall and broad-shouldered third-year, stood slowly. Mashed potatoes dripped down the front of his uniform. His tray, now knocked over, lay ruined.

He looked down, then up. His eyes narrowed. "Who threw that?"

Marcel tried to speak, but the damage was already done.

A mug of stew was hurled in retaliation. It smashed into the nobles’ table, coating Reggie in thick broth.

In seconds, more students stood up, shouting across tables. Accusations flew faster than the food.

And then—chaos erupted.

The cafeteria transformed into a warzone.

Plates crashed. Chairs toppled. Screams echoed from every corner. Some students jumped onto tables to escape the chaos—others joined in, flinging whatever they could find like battlefield weapons.

"Are you insane?! This was my only clean uniform!"

"Don’t throw that—wait, no! Not the curry!"

"I swear to the gods, if that hits me—!"

One student was tackled while trying to crawl beneath a table, only for another to slip in spilled juice and fall flat on their back. Someone was crying. Someone was laughing. It was no longer just a food fight—it was anarchy.

Amid this battlefield of food and betrayal...

Alex and Draven observed calmly.

"This is art," Alex whispered.

He handed Draven a pie.

"What? You want me to eat this in this madness?!" Draven asked.

Alex grinned. "No. Don’t you want revenge for this morning?"

He pointed.

Alden.

Draven grinned. "You’re insane."

"You wound me. I’m just giving you closure."

"Wish I could throw this at your face," Draven muttered under his breath.

Alex raised a brow. "Did you say something?"

Draven sweat. "N-No."

He turned.

Alden looked up.

SMACK!

Pie to the face.

Alex followed up with a slice of pizza—straight onto Charlotte.

"Why her?!" Draven asked.

Alex smirked. "You don’t need to know that."

Draven wiped his face—then suddenly froze as he realized the 20 minutes were almost up. He checked his watch.

His face became serious.

"Alex! 20 seconds left before the suit stops working! If they see you here thrwoing that pizza—"

Alex’s eyes widened.

"Oh... crap."

--------

A/N:-

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