The Cursed Extra-Chapter 111: [2.59] One Week Until the Plot Kills Someone I’m Starting to Care About

Chapter 111: [2.59] One Week Until the Plot Kills Someone I’m Starting to Care About

Rhys Blackwood sat alone near the edge of our section.

He occupied the end seat of his row with the defensive positioning of someone who expected attacks from all directions. His father’s spear was propped against his chair. The weapon looked even more worn than usual in the grand setting.

Its leather-wrapped shaft was dark with age and use. The grips showed pale spots where countless hands had smoothed the material. The steel head was kept sharp despite its simplicity. Caught the light in ways that suggested recent maintenance.

A contrast against the ornate, enchanted weapons visible among the other houses.

Practical. Unglamorous. Effective.

Rhys himself appeared carved from stone. His face revealed nothing while his knuckles showed white where they gripped the spear’s haft. The stress lines around his forest-green eyes spoke of sleepless nights and mounting pressure.

Tiny cracks in a facade he fought to maintain.

His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscles bunching beneath his skin. Whatever he was thinking, whatever he was feeling, he kept it locked away behind walls of stubborn pride.

One week.

According to the original timeline, you have one week left to live.

In the novel, Rhys’s death had been a throwaway moment. A few paragraphs describing how a "minor character" died protecting his teammates from a goblin ambush in the Thornwick Warren.

The author had spent more words describing what the characters ate for breakfast that morning than the actual death scene.

Rhys had been mentioned by name exactly once before his demise. A brief reference to "the commoner with the spear" that served primarily to establish he existed at all.

The narrative function was obvious.

His death provided motivation for Leo. A reminder that heroism required sacrifice and that not everyone could be saved no matter how hard the protagonist tried. It gave the golden boy something to angst about for a Chapter before moving on to the next plot beat.

A disposable tragedy.

A narrative convenience.

Just another extra fulfilling their designated role.

But seeing him sitting there, alone and defiant in the face of impossible odds, made the clinical detachment harder to maintain.

Rhys wasn’t just a plot device waiting to die. He was a seventeen-year-old boy trying to save his sister while surrounded by people who saw him as beneath their notice.

His hands were calloused from years of real work. His eyes held the wary intelligence of someone who had survived on the kingdom’s dangerous borders. He had a name. A history. A person depending on him.

And in seven days, according to the script, he would bleed out in a dark tunnel while goblins swarmed over his body.

Focus. Emotion is a luxury you can’t afford. He’s a piece on the board, nothing more.

The mental reminder felt hollow. Tasted bitter in a way I hadn’t expected.

I forced myself to maintain the necessary distance. To think of Rhys in terms of strategic value rather than human cost.

Sentiment wouldn’t save him. Only careful planning and ruthless execution would accomplish that.

Besides. If I saved him, I could steal his skills. His class. His abilities.

That was the point. That had always been the point.

So why did that justification feel so thin?

Movement at the platform drew my attention forward. Saved me from questions I didn’t want to answer.

Professor Isolde De Clare strode into view. Her boots clicked against the stone.

She wore her usual instructor’s robes. Dark grey fabric that did nothing to hide the powerful frame beneath. The robes were cut loosely, as if tailored for a larger person. She wore them with the top clasps deliberately undone.

Not that I was looking. Much.

Her chestnut hair had been pulled back in a severe knot. Secured with what looked like a sharpened steel pin. The pin caught the light as she moved, and I recognized it from the character description stored in my memory.

The Oath Pin. The last remnant of her captain’s insignia from the Crimson Hounds. A memento of the family she had lost.

The thin scar through her left eyebrow was more prominent in this lighting. A silvery line that spoke of violence survived. Her amber eyes swept across the assembled students like a general reviewing troops before a battle she expected most of them to lose.

As she reached the lectern at the platform’s center, she took a long pull from her flask. The motion casual and unhurried.

She let the silence stretch as she drank. Let the nervous energy in the hall build to uncomfortable levels.

Only then did she set the flask down on the lectern with deliberate emphasis.

"Alright, you disappointments," she began. Her voice carried easily to the back of the hall despite its conversational tone. "Time for your first real test. The annual Goblin Subjugation Assessment."

A ripple of tension swept through the assembled students.

Visible in the straightening of spines and the sharp intakes of breath.

Some students, mostly those in Aurum and Argent, leaned forward in their seats. Eager to prove themselves in whatever trial awaited. Their eyes gleamed with the confidence of those who had trained their entire lives for moments exactly like this.

For them, the assessment was an opportunity. A chance to shine.

Others, particularly among House Onyx, seemed to shrink further into their chairs.

Thomlin’s shoulders hunched even lower. Marcus’s quill stopped scratching. The reality of what "real test" meant in a place like Solamere was settling over them like a cold fog.

Goblin Subjugation. The Thornwick Warren. Where Rhys is supposed to die.

Well. Shit.

De Clare’s amber eyes swept across the crowd with predatory interest. Lingered on certain faces before moving on.

She cataloged reactions, I realized. Sorted us into categories based on how we responded to the news. The eager. The fearful. The resigned.

When her gaze found me in my corner, I made sure to look appropriately nervous. Shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Glanced away as if intimidated by her mere attention.

My hands fidgeted in my lap. My shoulders curled inward.

The picture of a terrified weakling who had no business being here.

Keep watching, Professor. Nothing to see but a coward.

"Most of you are cannon fodder," she continued with the casual brutality that made her legendary among the students.

There was no malice in her tone. Just a statement of fact. Delivered with the same inflection one might use to describe the weather.

"The goal is to see which of you are useful cannon fodder."

A few nervous laughs rippled through the crowd. Mostly from students who weren’t sure if she was joking.

She wasn’t.