The Extra is a Genius!? - Chapter 474

Chapter 474: Chapter 474: Silent Rings
Noel didn’t linger.

Sitting and thinking had its place, but this island wasn’t going to give him answers out of courtesy. Whatever was watching him clearly had no interest in approaching first—and that alone told him more than silence ever could.

He rose from the sand, brushing the fine, glassy grains from his coat, and turned inland.

“Alright,” he said aloud, voice rough but steady, more grounded than he felt. “If you’re going to stare at me, at least have the decency to do it from somewhere interesting.”

Noir’s presence shifted at his back, shadow stretching and tightening like a cloak settling on his shoulders.

‘You’re heading toward the highest concentration,’ she noted. ‘Mana density rises that way. Not sharply. More like… a slow pressure change. Like walking uphill without realizing it until your legs start burning.’

“Yeah,” Noel muttered, already moving. “I feel it too. Like the island’s pulling its thoughts inward.”

The terrain changed as he walked.

The sand thinned, giving way to stone that didn’t crack underfoot so much as accept his weight. Jagged formations rose around him in uneven clusters, slabs of rock tilted at angles that made his eyes itch if he stared too long. Some surfaces reflected light like polished obsidian, others absorbed it entirely, swallowing color until shadows looked deeper than they should have been.

It felt less like walking across land and more like moving through the frozen aftermath of something that had tried to rearrange itself—and stopped halfway.

No wind. No insects. No distant calls of creatures.

Just his footsteps, and the soft hum beneath them.

“You know what bothers me?” Noel said after a while, breaking the silence. His voice echoed strangely, not repeating, just… lingering. “If this place wanted me dead, I’d already be bleeding. If it wanted me gone, I wouldn’t be here at all.”

‘So it wants something else,’ Noir replied.

“Probably.” He let out a breath through his nose. “And I really don’t like guessing games where the rules don’t exist yet.”

The pressure grew more noticeable as he climbed. Not heavier—closer. Like the air itself had leaned in to listen. Mana slid around him in lazy currents, never touching directly, never recoiling either. It reminded him of standing knee-deep in water that never quite splashed.

Noel slowed, hand resting loosely near Revenant Fang, not drawing it yet.

“I know you’re there,” he said, voice carrying farther than it should have. “I don’t know what you are—warden, construct, leftover will, or something that just likes collecting secrets—but you’ve been watching me since I took ten steps inland.”

No response.

Not even a ripple.

Noel snorted quietly. “Figures.”

He kept walking.

The ground rose into a shallow plateau ahead, ringed by stone pillars that didn’t form a circle so much as an idea of one. Each pillar was different—some narrow and blade-thin, others thick and broken, leaning like old soldiers who had forgotten why they were still standing.

The hum intensified here, vibrating faintly through his boots, up his legs, into his chest.

Noir’s shadow spread wider. ‘This is the focus,’ she said. ‘Whatever’s watching you isn’t everywhere. It’s centered here. But it’s… restrained.’

“Restrained how?”

‘Like a dog on a long chain,’ she answered after a pause. ‘Enough freedom to observe. Not enough to act.’

That made Noel stop.

He frowned, eyes narrowing as he scanned the pillars, the ground between them, the empty space that somehow felt occupied.

“…Chains again,” he murmured. “That;s the theme of the Second Pillar.”

He stepped fully onto the plateau.

Nothing attacked him.

Nothing spoke.

But the sensation changed immediately—not sharper, not threatening. It was the feeling of stepping into someone else’s room and knowing, instinctively, that they had noticed.

Noel folded his arms loosely, posture relaxed but ready, like a man standing on thin ice while pretending it was solid ground.

“So,” he said, tone conversational despite the tension coiled in his spine. “You’re watching me. You’re not stopping me. And you’re not helping me either.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes tracing the stone as if it might blink first.

“That tells me two things. One—you’re not the one in charge. And two—you’re waiting to see what kind of mistake I make.”

Noir’s presence pressed closer, protective. ‘Careful,’ she warned. ‘It’s reacting. Not moving—but adjusting.’

“I figured,” Noel replied softly.

He took another step forward, deeper into the plateau, toward the unseen center of attention.

“And here’s the problem with that plan,” he continued, voice low but carrying. “I’m already past the point where hesitation does anything useful. If you’re here to test whether I belong—whether I’m allowed to move through this place—then you picked the wrong day.”

He exhaled, steadying himself, eyes hardening.

“Because I’m not turning back,” Noel said. “Not for you. Not for this island. And not for whatever’s pretending it gets to decide who moves and who doesn’t.”

Noel crested the last rise of broken stone and finally saw it.

The terrain opened into a shallow basin, the ground sloping inward like a bowl carved by intention rather than erosion. At its center stood a structure that hadn’t been visible from anywhere else on the island—not because it was hidden, but because the land itself bent sightlines away from it, angles refusing to align unless you stood exactly where Noel now did.

A tower.

Not tall in the way fortresses boasted height, but narrow and vertical, rising like a solitary finger pointed at the sky. Its surface was pale stone veined with darker lines that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat felt through marble. It reminded Noel of a lighthouse—not for ships, but for something else entirely.

Noir’s shadow stilled at his feet.

‘There,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s what’s been looking at us.’

Noel nodded once and started down the slope.

Each step felt heavier than the last, not with force pressing down, but with awareness. The air thickened, not hostile, but attentive, the way a room changes when someone important stops pretending they aren’t listening.

The entrance stood open.

No doors. No barriers. Just a circular opening cut cleanly into the stone.

“Of course,” Noel muttered. “Would’ve been suspicious if it were locked.”

Inside, the tower was hollow.

Light filtered down from a narrow opening high above, washing the interior in a dim, silvery glow. Chains ran along the walls like veins, converging toward the center of the chamber.

And there—seated at the heart of it all—was a man.

Old. Far older than his body should reasonably still be intact. His hair was thin and white, his skin drawn tight over sharp features, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Heavy chains bound him to a stone chair, wrapped around his arms, chest, and legs, sinking into the floor as if the tower itself refused to let him go.

Noel stopped a few paces away.

For a long moment, the man didn’t react.

“So,” Noel said, breaking the silence. His voice echoed softly, subdued by the stone. “You’re the one who’s been watching me since I arrived on this island?”

Nothing.

The man’s lips parted slightly. His throat worked, dry and strained.

“…Water,” he rasped.

The word barely made it into the air.

Noel hesitated.

Every instinct he’d honed over months screamed caution. Bound figures in strange places rarely came without complications. Traps didn’t always spring from aggression—sometimes they relied on sympathy.

Noir moved first.

She flowed closer, shadow stretching toward the man, senses flaring as she circled him once. Her presence brushed over the chains, the stone, the faint pulse in the tower itself.

‘He’s not lying,’ she said, certainty in her tone. ‘No malice. No deception. He’s… empty. Drained.’

Noel exhaled slowly.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Alright.”

He reached into his dimensional pouch and withdrew a simple glass bottle, sloshing faintly with fresh water. Kneeling, he brought it to the man’s lips, careful not to jostle the chains.

The old man’s hands trembled as much as they could within their restraints.

He drank like someone remembering how.

The old man coughed violently, body jerking against the chains as the water went down too fast. Noel pulled the bottle back at once, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder until the fit passed. Thin, rasping breaths followed, each one sounding like it scraped on the way out.

“…Thank you,” the man croaked at last, voice raw but sincere. He let his head fall back against the stone, eyelids fluttering. “Truly. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to drink without counting every swallow.”

Noel watched him closely. “Are you alright?”

The old man let out a dry, humorless chuckle that turned into another cough. “I’ve been better,” he said, glancing down as much as the chains allowed. “As you can plainly see, I’m bound to this seat like an ornament no one remembers to dust.”

Noel’s jaw tightened. He looked at the chains properly now—thick, dark metal sunk into the structure itself, humming faintly with a power that felt old and stubborn. Not decorative. Functional.

“What happened here?” Noel asked.

The old man was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, the weariness in his voice deepened into something closer to grief. “We were attacked. Not with armies. Not at first. The Northern Isles were… taken. One by one. Controlled.” His eyes lifted, cloudy but sharp. “There’s a woman behind it. The one who rules the center now.”

Noel felt the pieces click into place. “They’re using the people,” he said slowly. “To produce energy.”

The old man’s lips twitched. “Shards,” he confirmed. “Yes. They take them. Break them down. Refine them. People, routes, labor—it’s all fuel to her.”

“I thought so,” Noel muttered. He met the man’s gaze again. “Can I free you?”

The old man hesitated, then shook his head faintly. “I don’t know. I’ve been like this too long. A year, perhaps more. Long enough that time stopped feeling real.”

Noel frowned. “How have you survived?”

A sad smile crept across the man’s face. “They bring food once a month. Just enough. And when it rains…” He glanced upward toward the fractured ceiling of the lighthouse. “I drink what makes it through the cracks.”

“When do they come back?” Noel asked.

“Three weeks,” the man replied. “They were here a week ago.”

Noel straightened.

“Alright,” he said calmly. “Don’t panic.”

He reached back and drew Revenant Fang, the blade sliding free with a low, familiar hum. Shadow and lightning stirred along its edge as he took a breath.

Then, quietly and clearly, he said:

“Claim reward.”