The Extra Who Shouldn't Exist novel Chapter 71

Chapter 71: 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.

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

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