The Extra is a Genius!?-Chapter 556 - 555: The Director’s Office

The day after the funeral, the academy stood in mourning.

Classes had been cancelled, and the usual rhythm of the place had fallen away. The bells that marked each period remained silent, and the corridors, usually alive with students moving between lectures, stretched long and undisturbed. Without the constant flow of voices and footsteps, the stone hallways seemed larger, the quiet settling into every arch and corner. Each step Noel took carried clearly across the polished floor before fading into stillness.

He walked alone toward the Director’s office.

Elyra had stayed in the capital to spend time with her parents while they were still in Valon. Selene and Elena had gone into the city together, finding small tasks to occupy the day. Charlotte had returned to the church, duties waiting for her regardless of grief.

Everyone had chosen movement.

Staying occupied left less space for difficult thoughts to take root. It did not erase what they felt, but it kept the weight from growing heavier. Each of them handled loss in their own way, and none of them questioned how the others chose to do it.

The academy itself looked unchanged.

Banners hung where they always had. Sunlight filtered through tall windows and stretched across the floors in pale lines. Statues watched in eternal silence as they had for generations. Only the atmosphere felt different, heavier in a way that words did not quite capture.

Noel slowed as he passed a familiar corridor.

Years ago, he had walked these halls for the first time, uncertain and out of place in a world that was not originally his. Back then, every glance had carried pressure. Every step had felt measured. He had been navigating a second life he never expected to receive.

That chance had shaped everything.

Now there was only one obstacle left between him and the quiet future he once imagined.

Roberto.

The name lingered at the edge of his thoughts, steady and unavoidable.

He still had time.

Just less of it than before.

Footsteps echoed ahead before Noel saw him.

Dior stood near the intersection of two corridors, silver-white hair slightly disordered as if he hadn’t bothered smoothing it down that morning. His dark green eyes carried their usual intensity, sharp and observant, though there was less edge in them now. His features were refined, almost delicate at first glance, but the set of his jaw kept that impression from lasting. He wore fine clothes, tailored and understated, without royal insignia—formal, yet deliberately detached from the image of a prince.

He looked up as Noel approached.

"Good morning, Noel," Dior said, voice even. "How have you been?"

"Morning," Noel replied. "I’m fine. And you?"

Dior held his gaze for a moment before answering. "I could’ve been better." His tone remained steady, but something beneath it shifted. "I didn’t expect Nicolas to pass so quickly. He was... important to me. I spent a lot of time in the castle growing up. He was almost like an uncle."

Noel didn’t hide his reaction.

The surprise showed plainly across his face.

Dior caught it instantly.

"What?" he asked, one brow lifting. "You thought I was completely insensitive?"

Noel hesitated, then gave a small shrug. "Maybe."

For a second, Dior simply stared at him.

Then he laughed.

It wasn’t loud or mocking. Just real. The sound felt out of place in the quiet corridor, and yet not unwelcome.

"I suppose I earned that," Dior admitted. "I wasn’t exactly pleasant to be around."

That was true.

There had been a time when arrogance and envy clung to him like a second skin, when standing beside his sister felt like standing in someone else’s shadow. The boy who once lashed out at anything that reminded him of that was still there somewhere—but quieter now, tempered.

Noel noticed the difference.

Dior wasn’t trying to impress him. He wasn’t posturing. He simply stood there, speaking plainly.

It was... refreshing.

"I’m sorry about Nicolas," Noel said after a moment.

Dior inclined his head once. "So am I."

A brief silence followed, not uncomfortable.

"Well," Noel said, glancing toward the upper floors. "Daemar’s waiting for me."

Dior stepped aside without ceremony. "Of course. We’ll talk another time."

Noel nodded and continued down the corridor.

The upper corridor was quieter still.

When Noel reached the Director’s wing, the assistant seated outside the office looked up from her desk. For a moment, their eyes met. In the past, she would have asked him to wait, announced his name, followed protocol down to the smallest detail.

Today, she simply inclined her head.

"Good morning," she said softly.

"Morning," Noel replied.

No further questions followed. No formalities. Just a quiet understanding as she gestured toward the door.

Noel stepped forward and raised his hand.

Tok. Tok.

A brief pause.

"You may enter," Daemar’s voice came from within, calm and steady.

Noel pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The office felt the same as it always had.

Tall shelves lined the walls, filled with records and arcane volumes that carried decades of accumulated knowledge. Light streamed in from the high windows behind the desk, casting long shadows across the polished floor.

Daemar sat in the Director’s chair, posture straight, a thick book resting in his hands.

It looked older than most of the tomes around it. The leather cover was darkened by time, edges worn smooth by years of use. Faint inscriptions ran along the spine—wards, perhaps, or simply habits Nicolas had embedded into everything he touched.

Noel’s gaze settled on it immediately.

"Is that it?" he asked. "Nicolas’s diary?"

Daemar did not look up at once. His fingers traced the edge of a page before he closed the book carefully.

"Yes," he said. "This is it."

He rested it on the desk between them, palm still placed lightly over the cover.

"I was rereading some of it before you arrived," he added. "Entries from years ago. The early spatial theories. His first attempts at stabilizing long-range teleportation without anchor points." A faint exhale left him. "He always wrote as if he were arguing with the page."

There was something in his tone that did not belong to formal instruction. Not grief exactly. Something quieter. Familiar.

"He recorded more than spells in here," Daemar continued. "Doubts. Breakthroughs. Failures. Ideas he never shared publicly." His gaze lifted to Noel. "This book holds the mind of a man who never stopped refining his craft."

The diary sat between them like a threshold.

Knowledge.

Legacy.

The next step forward.

Daemar closed the diary fully, the sound of leather against wood quiet but firm. His hand remained on the cover for a brief second before he slid the book aside, careful, deliberate in the simple motion.

"Are you ready for the sparring?" he asked, lifting his eyes to Noel. "There aren’t many students in the academy today. We’ll have some privacy."

Noel didn’t hesitate. "Whenever you are."

Daemar studied him, searching for any trace of uncertainty. He found none.

"If you’d like," Noel added calmly, "I can give you some time to prepare."

A faint smile touched Daemar’s lips at that.

"Well," he said, rising from the chair, "don’t regret saying that later."