I Was Transmigrated As An Extraordinary Extra-Chapter 301

I survived. Somehow, miraculously, I survived.

Seven days later, and I’m pretty sure death has a personal vendetta against me. Honestly, if someone asked me to write a guide on surviving this level, it would mostly just be: "Step one: Don’t die. Step two: Keep paddling. Step three: Cry quietly."

The past few days were... memorable. If "memorable" means a constant fight for your life against everything with fins, claws, or wings.

I almost fell overboard during a sudden sea storm. Mother Nature clearly has a sadistic sense of humor. I was practically swimming with the fishes—except, you know, the kind that eat you.

Speaking of which, there was that flying sea fish monster. Yes, it’s a thing, and yes, it almost made me its lunch. Imagine a fish that can fly and wants to eat humans. Cute, right?

Then there were the seagulls—or, as I’ve started calling them, "the feathered assassins of doom." Instead of accompanying me with their cheery squawks, they swooped down, pecking at my skin like tiny, vindictive hammers. My solution? Capture them. Cook them. Eat them. Gross, but hey—protein. Survival over morals, folks.

I did manage to find land eventually, discover clean water, and occasionally stumble across proper weapons. Small victories, but victories nonetheless.

Today’s waves are fiercer, tossing my poor raft around like a toy in a bathtub. But I notice... no sea monsters. Not one.

The waves today were fiercer but thankfully there are no sea monsters out to get me today probably because of the sea serpent’s blood that splashed onto my raft when I tried to defend myself.

Ah. That’s right. The sea serpent blood. A little splash from when I nearly became its mid-day snack seems to work like a "Do Not Disturb" sign for other monsters. Apparently, sea monsters are allergic to death-by-venomous-sea-serpent—makes sense. Who wants to touch something poisonous and venomous at the same time? Not me, and certainly not the local wildlife.

I take a deep breath, paddling through the choppy waters. My arms ache, my stomach growls, and my sanity is hanging on by a thread.

"Please, I need land!" I groaned, slumping forward on the raft. "It’s been three days since I last took a bath! I’m starting to smell like a rejected dungeon boss!"

My hair was a mess, my clothes were permanently crusted with salt, monster blood, and regret, and I was fairly certain my skin had evolved into a new biome. If hygiene were a stat, mine would be deep into the negatives.

I squinted at the horizon, half-expecting it to be another cruel mirage—like that one time I paddled toward what I thought was land for two hours only to realize it was a cloud aggressively minding its own business.

Then—

My eyes widened.

"...Wait."

I leaned forward, blinking rapidly. I even rubbed my eyes, just in case dehydration was finally making me hallucinate shirtless islands again.

Nope.

That was definitely land.

A small island, yes—but solid, unmoving, and blessedly not water.

"FINALLY!" I shot up so fast the raft nearly tipped over. "Land! Sweet, glorious land!"

I paddled like my life depended on it—which, honestly, it did. Each stroke felt lighter, fueled purely by hope, desperation, and the promise of not sleeping on a floating plank tonight.

As the island grew closer, I started noticing details. Trees. Sand. Rocks.

And then—

A person.

I froze mid-paddle.

"...Huh?"

The silhouette sharpened as I drew nearer, and my heart skipped.

That stance.

That posture.

That vibe.

No way.

I shot up again, nearly capsizing myself for the second time today. "B-Boss?!"

My voice cracked so hard it echoed across the water.

"BOSS!"

I waved both arms wildly, paddle included, looking less like a survivor and more like a man being actively abducted by the sea.

For the first time since this nightmare level began, relief crashed into me harder than any wave.

I wasn’t alone.

I wasn’t hallucinating.

I finally met someone I actually knew.

If this island tried to kill me next, at least I wouldn’t die lonely.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Royal Dominion Guild Team Leader Office

Whitney paced back and forth across the office, phone pressed tightly to her ear, her heel tapping an irritated rhythm against the polished floor.

"Either you tell me now," she said sweetly—dangerously sweetly—"or I’m calling Dad."

On the other end of the line, Matthew sighed like a man staring down the barrel of his own bad life choices. "Why are you so obsessed with this anyway?" he asked. "You’ve been digging into old dirt for days now."

"I’m not obsessed," Whitney replied flatly. "I’m informed. There’s a difference."

She stopped pacing and glanced at the wide glass window overlooking the guild grounds. Members were training below, laughing, sparring, living normal lives—while a massive question mark sat right in her head, poking her brain with a stick.

After she’d told Matthew everything she knew about the St. Barnesster Incident, she’d expected answers.

Instead, he had dodged her questions like a seasoned politician.

And she hated that.

She clenched her jaw. "You’re still hiding things. I can hear it in your pauses."

Matthew chuckled dryly. "You’ve always been scary like that."

"Uncle."

"...Alright, alright." He cleared his throat. "But I’m telling you the truth this time."

Whitney narrowed her eyes. "You said that last time. And the time before that."

Whitney stopped moving entirely. "One more lie," she said calmly, "and I’ll ping your location and leak it to the entire network. Let’s see how many enemies you made love to do surprise visits."

There was a brief silence.

"...You really are your father’s daughter," Matthew muttered.

"You said you saw her," Whitney pressed. "Remillia, when she was a baby, you said you saw her being admitted to the orphanage."

"Yes," Matthew replied. "That part is true."

"Then tell me everything."

Matthew hesitated, then said, "She wasn’t brought in by an adult."

Whitney frowned. "What?"

"A kid left her there," he continued. "Dropped her off and disappeared."

Whitney blinked. "...A kid?"

"Yeah. Maybe seven years old? Somewhere around that age."

Her grip tightened on the phone. "Matthew," she said slowly, "are you having dementia right now?"

He laughed. Actually laughed. "Probably. My Gift isn’t what it used to be."

"That’s not funny."

"I’m not joking." His voice lowered. "All I remember is that he was small. Too small to be involved in something like that."

Whitney’s irritation slowly twisted into something colder. "A seven-year-old doesn’t just wander into the aftermath of the St. Barnesster Incident."

"I know," Matthew said. "That’s why it stuck with me."

"What did he look like?" she demanded.

"He was wearing a hood. Mask too," Matthew replied. "I couldn’t see his face."

Whitney scoffed. "Of course."

"But I remember this clearly," he added. "He didn’t look scared."

That made her pause.

"...What do you mean?"

"Most kids would be crying. Panicking. Shaking." Matthew exhaled. "He was calm. Way too calm. Like he’d already done what he came to do."

Whitney felt a chill crawl up her spine.

"And that’s it?" she asked. "You didn’t follow him? Track him?"

"I tried," Matthew admitted. "But he vanished. Completely. No trace. Like he was never there."

Whitney stared at her reflection in the glass window. "So let me get this straight," she said slowly. "Remillia survives an incident that should’ve killed everyone. An assassin fails to kill her. And then a masked seven-year-old drops her off at an orphanage and disappears."

"...When you put it like that," Matthew said, "it does sound insane."

Whitney could only sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose as if that alone might squeeze answers.

Remillia’s past really was harder to dig up than an ancient dungeon boss with a ten-phase immunity shield.

"Thanks, uncle," she said at last. Then, casually—too casually—she added, "By the way... have you thought about my offer?"

"No."

The reply came so fast it might as well have been preloaded.

Whitney clicked her tongue. Tch. Figures.

She’d suggested—very generously, might she add—that Matthew join her information guild, Emberflame Guild. Frankly, it was a waste for someone as experienced as Matthew to rot away in his rundown office, surviving off instant coffee and old devices.

"You know the reason why my answer is no, my dear niece, right?" Matthew said, his voice carrying that irritating calm of someone who knew he was right.

Whitney slumped into a chair. "...Yeah. Yeah, I get it."

And she really did.

With Jozef Forbes ordering people to watch Matthew’s every move, even standing too close to him would be enough to put a target on her back. The moment that old fox noticed Whitney getting chummy with Matthew, she would be next in line to be silenced.

"Good," Matthew said cheerfully. "I’m glad you’re being reasonable."

She snorted. "Don’t get used to it."

There was a brief pause before Matthew continued, sounding far too upbeat. "Oh, by the way, since you’re calling—send me some weapons."

Whitney froze. "...Excuse me?"

"Any will do," he continued casually, as if he were asking for office supplies. "As long as it’s not daggers. Those are practically useless to us. Except for one person."

Whitney’s eye twitched. "What do you need weapons for?"

"I’m thinking of forming a small army," Matthew replied, completely straight-faced. "Nothing big. Just enough to be persuasive."

"...You’re joking."

"I’m not."

Her silence stretched.

"You know how to send those weapons without being discovered, right?" Matthew added, hopeful now. Almost pleading.

Whitney immediately straightened. "Yeah. No."

"What?" Matthew exclaimed. "Hey! What are families for if not—"

"—Absolutely not," Whitney cut in. "I draw the line at arming your midlife crisis."

"That’s hurtful."

"That’s accurate."

"My dear niece—"

"Bye, uncle!"

She didn’t wait for a response and ended the call with a decisive tap, tossing her phone onto the desk like it had personally offended her.

She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. ’Who is that kid anyway?’