The Extra's Rise

Arthur sat in the chair like a man awaiting trial, except the judge was smiling at him like a shark with tenure. The headmaster's office smelled faintly of cinnamon and administrative disapproval, a curious blend that somehow amplified the sensation of being in profound trouble.

Across from him, Headmaster Eva Lopez had her hands folded in front of her, her violet eyes gleaming with that specific light reserved for paperwork disasters and students who somehow survived things they absolutely shouldn't have. The late afternoon sun filtering through her office windows cast her silvery hair in a halo that did nothing to soften the predatory curve of her smile.

"Arthur," she said, voice sweet enough to cause cavities, "I just need to know one little thing."

Arthur blinked. "Yes?" He attempted to look appropriately contrite, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the fact that he was still wearing his field uniform, complete with scorch marks and what appeared to be miasma-tinged dust.

"Why is it," she began, tapping one perfectly manicured nail against her desk with metronomic precision, "that every time—every single time—you go somewhere, something explodes, implodes, or starts a small war?"

He opened his mouth. She raised a hand, the gesture reminiscent of someone halting an advancing army.

"No, wait. I'm not finished. Because this time, this time, you've managed to get the Pope of the Savage Communion to personally stroll onto a battlefield, nearly flatten one of the Western continent's Immortal-rank marshals, and then leave because of you." She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing to violet slits. "Arthur. Arthur. Do you know what this means?"

"I... did well?" Arthur offered, somewhat hopefully, straightening in his chair as if good posture might somehow mitigate the enormity of what had happened.

Eva stood up and began pacing, the sort of pacing that meant someone was either going to start a war or request a transfer to a nice quiet farming moon. Her heels clicked against the polished floor with the rhythmic intensity of a countdown sequence. "Do well? Do well? You covered a disaster of your own making with heroism! It's like watching someone set a building on fire and then receive a medal for rescuing everyone inside!"

"That's not fair," Arthur protested, indignation temporarily overriding his self-preservation instincts. "It wasn't my mess. Vorgath just showed up! I don't control the movements of Popes!"

"Yes! Where you were!" She threw her hands up, a gesture that encompassed both Arthur and the apparent cosmic joke that was his existence. "Of all the places in all the continents, he just happened to materialize exactly where you were standing!"

"Coincidence!" Arthur insisted, though even to his own ears the word sounded hollow.

"Arthur, when you sneeze, three guilds go bankrupt and a dragon comes out of retirement! Coincidences don't orbit you like moons—they crash into you at terminal velocity!"

Arthur leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, a defensive posture that did little to hide the stubborn set of his jaw. "Look, I did save Marshal Meilyn. That counts for something, right?"

"Yes, and now the entire Western Front thinks you're some kind of prodigal war god sent from the heavens to smite miasmic heretics with good hair and teenage angst." She pinched the bridge of her nose, a gesture that seemed to be restraining an impressive arsenal of profanity. "Do you have any idea how complicated this makes diplomacy? The other academies are already sending inquiries. The Southern Continent wants a formal explanation. I have seventeen messages from various military commands asking if you're available for 'strategic consultation,' which is bureaucrat-speak for 'can we borrow your walking catastrophe for a while?'"

"But it wasn't my fault," Arthur said, holding firm, though a traitorous part of his mind whispered that trouble did seem to find him with uncanny precision.

Eva sighed, rubbing her temples like she was trying to massage out a full-scale war. The gesture softened her momentarily, revealing the genuine concern beneath her exasperation. "You're not a student, Arthur. You're a seasonal event. You're what happens when the universe decides the status quo has gotten too comfortable." She sat back down, looking at him with an expression that said she would love to strangle him but unfortunately needed him alive for several international agreements.

"I suppose next you'll tell me the Pope offered you tea."

Arthur blinked. "No. Just a duel."

Eva closed her eyes. "Of course. Of course he did." She took a deep breath, as if physically inhaling patience. "Because a simple 'I'll kill you later' would be too straightforward for an eldritch horror with anger management issues and an axe the size of a small country."

"An eight-year oath," Arthur said, with the calm composure of someone who had just agreed to a friendly match of chess and not a duel with a mass-murdering fire god. "In eight years, Vorgath and I will fight, as per the mana and miasma oath we made."

Eva slumped into her chair with all the grace of a queen resigning from her throne. "Ugh," she muttered into her hands. "Of course. Of course he made an oath. What's next, tea and scones with a Demon Lord? Perhaps a friendly game of cards with the Bone Witch of the Northern Wastes?"

She looked at Arthur, who looked entirely too pleased with himself for someone who had essentially provoked one of the world's most terrifying warlords into putting him on a magical hit list with a countdown timer. The boy had a gift for turning catastrophe into opportunity that would be admirable if it wasn't so terrifying.

"Well," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose, "as ridiculous as this all is, I suppose it was a good idea on your part. Eight years is a significant buffer. If anyone can surpass Vorgath in eight years, it's you." She paused, her expression shifting to something more calculating. "Or so the betting pool currently says."

Arthur brightened. "Speaking of which," he said, in a tone that should have come with a contractual warning, "I'd like a reward."

Eva blinked at him, momentarily struck speechless. "A reward?"

He nodded solemnly, as if requesting compensation for completing a particularly difficult homework assignment rather than surviving an encounter with an apocalyptic entity. "Yes. I was placed in unfair danger due to the Academy's arrangements. This situation could have been avoided if proper security protocols had been in place or if the frontier had better intelligence networks. Also, I've essentially secured eight years of peace for the Western Continent. That's worth something, isn't it?"

Eva's teeth audibly clenched. "Unfair danger? Arthur, this is a combat academy, not a tea party in a panic room. The brochure literally says 'Preparing tomorrow's leaders for a dangerous world.' It doesn't specify that the dangerous world won't occasionally include encounters with ancient evils."

"Still," Arthur shrugged, the picture of reasonable entitlement. "I was very nearly chopped in half by the Axe King. That's got to be worth at least a new training facility. Or some rare resources. Perhaps access to the restricted section of the library?"

Eva stared at him like she was deciding between giving him what he wanted or launching him into low orbit. "You're very lucky you're cute," she muttered.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"Nothing!" she snapped, spinning around to glare at a data screen as if it had personally offended her. "You'll get your reward. Eventually. Something suitably ridiculous to match your habit of collecting world-ending enemies like trading cards. I'll have to consult with the board, of course. And the military. And possibly an exorcist, just to make sure you haven't been possessed by a chaos spirit."

Arthur smiled, ever so slightly smug. "Thank you, Headmaster. Your generosity is noted and appreciated."

"Out. Go. Before someone else declares war on you. Or worse, asks for your autograph." She waved a dismissive hand toward the door. "And don't think we're done discussing this. The full debriefing will happen tomorrow, with the entire faculty present. I want to make sure everyone gets to enjoy watching you explain how you managed to turn a routine reconnaissance mission into an international incident."

Arthur rose from his seat, offering a bow that managed to be both respectful and vaguely insolent at the same time. "I look forward to it. Should I prepare visual aids?"

"Get. Out."

As Arthur turned to leave, Eva called after him, her voice softening almost imperceptibly. "And Arthur? Try not to challenge any other deities to combat before dinner, would you? The cafeteria staff are still recovering from the last time you requested 'battle rations.'"

Arthur grinned over his shoulder. "No promises, Headmaster. But I'll do my best."

The door closed behind him with a satisfying click, leaving Eva alone with her thoughts and the looming administrative nightmare that would undoubtedly follow. She sighed deeply, reaching for a crystal decanter on her desk that definitely didn't contain water.

"That boy," she murmured, "is either going to save the world or destroy it. Possibly both, in that order."

Outside the Headmaster's office, Arthur found himself face to face with Marshal Meilyn Potan. The Immortal-rank necromancer was leaning against the wall, arms folded, her golden eyes as unreadable as ever. Despite the recent battle, she looked immaculate—her blue hair perfectly arranged, her uniform spotless. Only the faint shadows beneath her eyes betrayed the strain of her encounter with Vorgath.

"Nightingale," she said, her voice maintaining its usual flat cadence. "I see you survived the Headmaster."

Arthur straightened instinctively. "Marshal. I didn't expect to see you here."

"Clearly." She pushed away from the wall, studying him with that piercing gaze that seemed to catalog every weakness and strength simultaneously. "I came to thank you."

Arthur blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. "Thank me?"

"Is there an echo in this hallway?" Meilyn's expression didn't change, but something that might have been amusement flickered in her golden eyes. "Yes. Thank you. For what you did on the frontier. It was reckless, stupid, and completely against orders." She paused. "It was also the reason I'm still breathing."

"I couldn't just leave you there," Arthur said simply.

Meilyn studied him for a long moment. "Most would have. Self-preservation is a powerful instinct, especially when faced with a being like Vorgath."

"I'm not most people."

"No," she agreed. "You're not. Which is why I've recommended you for the Star of Valor. The highest military decoration the Western Continent can bestow on a civilian."

Arthur's eyes widened. "That's... unexpected."

"So was watching a student stand between me and the Axe King." For the first time, a ghost of a smile touched Meilyn's lips. "The commendation comes with certain privileges. Access to military archives. Priority requisition rights for rare materials. Things that might prove useful to someone preparing for a duel in eight years."

Understanding dawned in Arthur's eyes. "That's... very generous, Marshal."

"It's pragmatic," she corrected. "Your survival serves the Western Continent's interests. And..." She hesitated, something almost human flickering across her usually impassive features. "And I pay my debts, Nightingale. Remember that."

She straightened, once again the perfect image of military discipline. "You have eight years. Make them count. And when the time comes—" She fixed him with that golden stare. "Don't die. It would reflect poorly on my training."