The Extra Who Shouldn't Exist novel Chapter 50

Chapter 50: Chapter 50 : End of the Entrance exam (2)

In the dense thickets of the eastern part of the deserted isle, four human candidates crouched beneath the thick canopy of leaves. Their breathing was ragged, their clothes torn and stained from surviving the brutal first day of the Zenith Academy entrance exam. Despite the danger surrounding them, their voices remained hushed.

"Did you see him heading that way?"

"Yeah. Silver hair, blue eyes. He went east."

The group of four human candidates stood in a loose circle, whispering among themselves. Their breath fogged in the slightly chill morning air, though the humidity of the jungle around them made their clothes cling uncomfortably to their backs.

Despite the chaos of the ongoing Zenith Academy entrance exam, their current mission had nothing to do with earning points.

Their expressions were tense, their eyes darting around as they made sure no one was listening.

"Princess Charlotte gave us direct orders," one of them, a sharp-chinned boy with cropped red hair, muttered. "We find him, we inform her. Not a word to anyone else."

"No mistakes this time," said another. "She made it clear—no one interferes."

Unfortunately for them, someone was listening.

Unbeknownst to the quartet, a faint shimmer in the air behind a tree slowly condensed into the shape of a person—an observer cloaked in subtle magic, eyes glittering with interest as he absorbed every word.

They were just wrapping up their discussion when the air shifted.

A shadow moved.

A figure blocked the sunlight breaking through the canopy.

"Oh no," one of the candidates whispered, his voice trembling.

They turned.

And their hearts nearly stopped.

Standing casually in their path, one hand on his hip and the other resting lazily on the pommel of his sheathed sword, was none other than Alden von Crestvale.

Recognizing him instantly, their hearts nearly stopped. Dressed in sleek combat attire marked with the Crestvale sigil—a stylized serpent coiling around a silver sword—Alden’s expression was one of amused disdain. His hair gleamed under the broken rays of sunlight, and his smirk was the stuff of noble nightmares.

The Heir to House Crestvale.

The golden boy of the Crestvale Duchy.

Famous for his arrogance, his unmatched sword skills, his smug superiority complex... and his tendency to speak only to those he deemed worth his time.

Rumors about Alden were many: how he won tournaments from a young age, cleared his first dungeon at twelve, and once told a marquess’ son to shut up because he didn’t like his voice.

And now, he was standing here, before them, radiating the kind of energy that made you question your self-worth.

His narrowed gaze swept across the group, piercing and cold. Under that stare, all four of them immediately began examining their boots with renewed interest, not daring to meet his eyes.

Then he spoke.

His voice was smooth, deep, and annoyingly smug.

"I heard what you said," Alden said, brushing a leaf off his shoulder as if the entire forest was beneath him. "Now, unless you four want to experience a level of pain previously reserved for medieval torture devices, you’d better tell me where that silver-haired candidate went."

All four flinched.

Sweat pooled at their temples.

The red-haired one gulped.

After a brief silence, one of them—a wiry boy with the beginnings of a nobleman’s goatee—stepped forward.

He bowed. "Lord Crestvale. An honor."

The others followed suit.

"We... we mean no disrespect, truly. It’s just... we’re followers of Princess Charlotte. And we were given explicit orders. We’re to report his location directly to the Princess. No one else."

A beat passed.

Alden’s lips curled.

Then he laughed.

It wasn’t a cheerful laugh.

It was the kind of laugh that echoed through the forest, unsettling birds and sending a squirrel scrambling up a tree.

Then, abruptly, the air changed. The laughter cut off.

And Alden stepped forward.

His tone was sharp. "Do you know the only reason you’re still standing here?"

The group leaned back instinctively.

Alden’s grin turned predatory. "It’s because of her. If it weren’t for Charlotte, you’d be in a healing pod right now with negative points."

They gulped.

"But," Alden continued, placing a hand on his chest dramatically, "I’m a reasonable guy. I understand people. I empathize. So how about you tell me nicely... before I stop being understanding."

There was a pause.

Then a collective thought ran through their minds:

"This guy? Understanding? HA!"

The irony of those words wasn’t lost on anyone. Alden Crestvale, understanding? That was like saying a dragon was cuddly.

They wanted to laugh.

Slap him.

Scream into the abyss.

Because they knew—knew!—that Alden von Crestvale was many things: smug, powerful, a top-tier duelist, handsome enough to make bards write songs. But understanding?

Absolutely not.

They’d all attended enough noble banquets to hear the rumors. One of them had even witnessed Alden dismiss a noble for having a "funny face."

But the alternative? Refusing him?

Elimination. Pain. Shame. And all of their effort surviving for this long after enduring everything on this accursed island would go down the drain.

So, with trembling voices and heavy hearts, they answered.

"He was heading to the Eastwood Waterfalls, my lord. Eastern side of the island."

A grin spread across Alden’s face.

A terrifying grin.

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