The Extra's Reincarnation-Chapter 147: Outcome

Where the sleek, avian profile should have been, there was an unnatural depression—a perfectly round dent that caved inward like a metal bowl struck by a hammer.

"Flecko... what happened to your—"

Flecko flinched away from his touch.

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"Master, please... I tried to warn you."

A cold dread settled in Marcel's stomach as he turned his gaze toward the direction Julian had been thrown. The forest was eerily silent now, the aftermath of Flecko's attack having scattered the wildlife.

The trench carved by Julian's body extended far into the trees, disappearing into the shadowed undergrowth.

…

…

…

"UNBELIEVABLE!" The announcers amplified voice boomed across the arena.

"The first-year duo has overcome the second-year powerhouses! This is unprecedented in the history of the Capture the Flag tradition!"

Students leapt from their seats, their faces flushed with excitement as they pointed at the screens.

Some second-years looked stunned with their expressions in complete disbelief, while first-years celebrated like maniacs, hugging each other and chanting Kaelen and Elenore's names.

"Did you see that sword technique?" a third-year exclaimed, gesturing excitedly.

"That's not standard curriculum—that's high-level soul arts!"

"And Elenore's casting speed! She was buffing and attacking simultaneously without having a support caster!" another student shouted over the roar of the crowd.

In the front row, Franz Evera remained perfectly still, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts.

His unnaturally bright yellow eyes scanned the screens barely acknowledging the spectacle that had the rest of the arena in an uproar.

"Fascinating display," he murmured, though his tone suggested he found it anything but.

"Yet the cameras persist in focusing on the obvious spectacle rather than the truly interesting variable."

Uzan glanced sideways at him, his massive frame shifting uncomfortably in the too-small seat.

"What, not impressed by a couple of first-years taking down Damien and Miyuki? Even you have to admit that was impressive."

Franz didn't bother to respond, his attention fixed on the screens as they cycled through different views of the battlefield.

For what felt like an eternity, the cameras remained fixated on Kaelen and Elenore as they secured the second-year flag from the defeated Miyuki.

"Come on," Franz muttered under his breath, his fingers drumming a precise rhythm against his thigh—the only outward sign of his impatience.

"Show me what I'm looking for."

As if responding to his command, one of the screens finally shifted to a different section of the battlefield.

The crowd's cheering faltered momentarily as they processed the new scene: Marcel Dorn, standing in a crater-like depression in the forest floor, his arms raised triumphantly as he celebrated what appeared to be a victory.

Franz leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Marcel's jubilant display. The second-year was laughing maniacally, his uniform torn and bloodied but his face alight with the thrill of apparent success.

"So that's how it ends," Franz murmured, settling back in his seat.

"Perhaps I was mistaken after all."

Uzan smirked. "Looks like your special admission student wasn't so special."

The crowd's attention had already returned to Kaelen and Elenore when the fourth screen suddenly switched to a new scene. There, slumped against a tree not far from where the victorious first-years stood, was Julian Uzziel.

His uniform was torn, face streaked with dirt and blood, yet somehow he had managed to drag himself to precisely where Kaelen and Elenore were celebrating.

"Julian!" Elenore gasped, rushing toward the bloodied figure slumped against the tree.

She knelt beside him, her golden eyes wide with concern as she took in his battered appearance.

"What happened to you?"

Kaelen followed close behind, both flags clutched in his hand—their victory secured but suddenly overshadowed by Julian's condition.

"I ran into Marcel," Julian said with a weak smile, wincing as he shifted position.

"He wasn't exactly happy to see me."

The screens throughout the arena now focused on this unexpected scene, the cameras zooming in on Julian's bloodied face.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice boomed, "it appears that while Kaelen and Elenore were securing their historic victory, Julian Uzziel was engaged in what must have been a brutal confrontation with Marcel Dorn!"

The main display suddenly split to show a replay of the final moments of Julian and Marcel's battle.

The footage captured Flecko's devastating Steel Descender technique hurtling toward Julian at terrifying speed, followed by the catastrophic impact that sent the first-year flying through the forest.

Gasps rippled through the arena as spectators witnessed the sheer power of the attack.

"Incredible!" the announcer continued.

"Despite taking such a punishing blow, Julian Uzziel somehow managed to make his way to his teammates! What remarkable determination from this special admission student!"

In the front row, Franz Evera's eyes narrowed as he studied the replay with microscopic detail.

While others saw only Julian's defeat, Franz's perception caught something entirely different—a subtle movement just before impact, a precise positioning of hands, a deliberate angling of the body.

"You fool," Franz whispered, his voice too low for anyone but Uzan to hear.

"Look closer."

"At what?" Uzan demanded, squinting at the screens.

"I see Marcel's familiar destroying your special admission student, just as I predicted."

Franz sighed, the sound laced with contempt.

"That's because you're seeing what you expect to see, not what actually happened."

He pointed to the replay now frozen on the screen, his finger indicating the millisecond of impact between Flecko and Julian.

"There. He never took the full force of the attack. His hands moved to Flecko's head at precisely the right moment, while redirecting the impact energy. He essentially bounced off the familiar, using the momentum to propel himself in the exact direction he wanted to go in."

Uzan's expression shifted from skepticism to disbelief.

"That's impossible. No one has reflexes that fast."

"Precisely," Franz replied, his lips curving into a cold smile.

"No one should have. Yet he did."

Uzan's brow furrowed as he continued studying the replay.

The impact shown on screen certainly looked devastating—Julian's body had been thrown backward with tremendous force, carving a path through the underbrush.