The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He? - Chapter 317

Chapter 317: Chapter 317 – “The Moving Heroes!”
Far away from the dwarven lands,

The practice grounds stretched wide beneath an open sky—an expanse of white stone slabs veined with old sword marks, scorched lines, and hairline cracks left behind by generations of warriors. Tall stone pillars ringed the field, banners snapping sharply in the wind, each emblazoned with the sigil of the high noble’s lineage. Mana hummed faintly in the air, drawn tight by the presence of two blades that refused to yield.

At the center stood a young man.

Golden hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead as sunlight caught in sharp strands. His golden eyes burned with focus—clear, unwavering. In his hands was a golden sword, its blade gleaming with disciplined brilliance, every inch honed through relentless training.

Across from him stood an old man.

His back was straight, posture relaxed to the point of arrogance. Muscles still corded beneath battle-worn armor, he held a black sword in one hand as if it weighed nothing. His silver-streaked hair was tied back neatly, his eyes—so similar to the young man’s—held calm, seasoned depth.

The moment that young man moved, the ground cracked.

He surged forward, golden sword flashing as it carved through the air in a precise, lethal arc. The strike came fast—too fast for most eyes to follow—yet the old man’s blade rose effortlessly, steel meeting steel with a clean, ringing clash.

CLANG.

The young man didn’t stop.

He twisted his wrist mid-strike, flowing seamlessly into a second slash, then a third—each one sharper, heavier, driven by explosive footwork. Golden light traced his blade, cutting crescents through the air.

The old man parried them all.

Not hurried.

Not strained.

Each block was minimal—small turns of the wrist, half-steps backward, a slight pivot of the shoulder. His black sword moved like an extension of thought itself, redirecting force rather than meeting it.

The young man pressed harder.

He dropped low, spun, and swept upward—then vanished in a burst of speed, reappearing at the old man’s flank. His sword struck again, a thrust aimed cleanly at the ribs.

The old man stepped aside.

The blade skimmed past his armor by a hair’s breadth.

“Too wide,” the old man said calmly, even as he countered.

His black sword flicked out—fast, precise—and the young man barely twisted away, the edge slicing through air where his neck had been an instant before.

The practice grounds shook as the young man landed, boots skidding across stone. He inhaled sharply, then launched again—this time abandoning restraint.

Golden mana flared.

His strikes became heavier, sharper, driven by raw will. The air screamed as his sword cut through it, each blow layered atop the last in an unbroken chain of aggression. Sparks flew, light clashed against darkness, and the sound of steel rang endlessly across the grounds.

Yet still—

The old man stood firm.

He stepped into the young man’s assault, black sword weaving through golden arcs, deflecting, redirecting, dismantling. His movements were economical, almost lazy—but every parry landed exactly where it needed to be.

Minutes stretched.

Sweat dripped from the young man’s jaw.

His breath grew heavier.

But his eyes never wavered.

Then—both warriors leapt back at the same time.

Distance opened between them.

The wind rushed in to fill the space, banners snapping violently overhead. For a heartbeat, the world stilled—two figures standing at opposite ends of the practice grounds, blades lowered, gazes locked.

And then—

They dashed.

Stone exploded beneath their feet as they crossed the distance in a blink. Two swords flashed once—only once—

SHHHK—!

They passed each other.

Silence followed.

The old man stood still, black blade lowered at his side.

Behind him—

The young man collapsed.

His body hit the stone hard, breath knocked from his lungs as the golden sword slipped from his grasp and clattered beside him. Dust settled slowly around his fallen form.

The old man closed his eyes briefly and sighed.

“You are still lacking…Aiden.”

He turned his head slightly, gaze dropping back toward the young man on the ground.

Aiden lay there, chest rising and falling heavily.

Then—slowly—

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Are you sure?” he muttered.

The old man frowned.

Clink.

Something slid off his arm and hit the stone.

The old man’s eyes widened as he looked down.

His arm guard—cleanly sliced—lay at his feet, split with surgical precision.

He froze for a breath.

Then he laughed.

“HaHahahaha!”

A deep, genuine chuckle escaped him as he looked back at Aiden, pride flickering unmistakably in his eyes.

“You were always the hardworking one, my grandson,” he said warmly.

“But it seems… there is more to it this time.”

Aiden’s smirk faded.

Resolve hardened his golden eyes as he pushed himself up, muscles screaming in protest. He stood, retrieved his golden sword, and pointed it straight at the Sword Duke once more.

“Indeed,” he said quietly.

And then—

He dashed again.

****

Somewhere else,

The room was dark.

Not the gentle darkness of night, but the kind that swallowed sound and depth alike—thick, deliberate, as if the shadows themselves had been arranged with care. Heavy curtains sealed the windows, and no lamp burned. The walls disappeared into blackness just a few steps from where a single chair stood at the center of the room.

Clink.

A coin rose into the air.

It caught what little light there was—just a thin sliver slipping in from beneath the door—spinning end over end, flashing silver for a heartbeat before falling.

A hand snapped up and caught it cleanly.

The young man didn’t look down.

His dark hair fell loosely around his face, eyes sharp and calculating as they followed the coin’s arc only by instinct. He leaned back in the chair, posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, thumb already flicking the coin upward again.

Clink.

Up.

Spin.

Catch.

His lips moved quietly, voice barely more than breath.

“What choice will you make?”

The coin flew again.

“How will it affect the future?”

Catch.

Another toss—higher this time.

“Will this life end here?”

The sound of the spinning coin echoed faintly, the only rhythm in the room. His gaze tracked it, pupils narrowing slightly as if he were watching something far more complex than a piece of metal.

His hand closed around it.

Silence.

The coin rested in his palm, warm from repeated motion. For the first time, he didn’t immediately toss it again. His eyes drifted away—from the coin, from the room—settling on nothing at all.

“…Is the last chance going to be wasted as well?”

A pause.

The air felt heavier, as if the room itself were waiting.

His thumb flicked.

Clink.

The coin rose once more.

“Should I….. interfere?”

He caught it.

This time, he looked.

Whatever he saw there made the corner of his mouth lift—slow, sharp, knowing.

A smirk.

Before he could speak again—

The door burst open.

Light flooded in, harsh and intrusive, tearing the darkness apart in a blinding slash. The sudden brightness revealed shelves stacked with books, scattered papers, and the faint outline of arcane diagrams half-erased on the floor.

An old man stormed in, hunched but fiery, clothes plain and worn enough to make him look more like a pauper than one of the most powerful figures in the academy. His face was red with fury, eyes blazing as they locked onto the young man.

“You bastard of a grandson!” he barked. “What do you think you’re doing in here, huh?! Sitting in the dark like some brooding villain—lights off—doing nothing!”

He gestured wildly, voice rising.

“Just look at your friends! They’re working their bones to dust! Training, studying, bleeding for the academy—and you? You sit here flipping coins?!”

The young man stood up slowly.

Casually.

As if the anger flooding the room didn’t concern him in the slightest.

He spread his hands, coin still resting between two fingers, expression cool—almost bored.

“If I have to work hard despite being the grandson of Arcadia Academy’s dean,” he said lightly, “then what exactly is your use, old man?”

The words hit like a slap.

The old man froze.

His body trembled—not with weakness, but with barely restrained rage. His finger shot out, pointing accusingly.

“You… you—!”

For a moment, it looked like he might explode.

Then he stopped.

He drew in a deep breath.

And the air changed.

The frantic anger receded, replaced by something far heavier—something colder. His posture straightened, and the chaotic aura around him settled into a stern, imposing presence.

When he spoke again, his voice was low and serious.

“Eric.”

The name landed with quiet finality.

“You can’t rely on me anymore,” he said. “Nor on my position as dean.”

His gaze hardened, disappointment cutting deeper than anger ever could.

“You will stand—or fall—on your own from now on.”

He turned away.

The light retreated as he left, the door closing behind him with a dull, decisive thud.

Darkness reclaimed the room.

Eric remained standing for a moment, unmoving.

Then he looked down at the coin in his hand.

Turned it over.

A soft chuckle escaped him.

“Tails.”

He closed his fingers around it and smiled to himself, eyes glinting in the dark.

“It seems I won’t need to interfere, huh. Well, I was too scared anyway”

The coin disappeared into his palm.

And the room fell silent once more.