The Extra is a Genius!?-Chapter 567: The Wine Wager

"Spatial Shift."

The world tightened.

There was no tunnel, no blur of motion. Space recalculated around him, structure folding and settling in the span of a breath. When it released, the scent of trimmed gardens and warm sunlight was gone, replaced by stone, heat, and metal.

Noel stood at the base of a vast inner mountain wall.

Tharvaldur.

He had crossed an entire continent in an instant—what would have taken over a week by sea reduced to a single spell. Even so, he felt the drain in his core, a steady pull rather than a collapse. Long-range transitions still demanded respect.

Before him stretched the capital carved into the heart of the mountain. Hundreds of glowing mana-lamps hung from the rocky ceiling like suspended constellations, casting warm amber light over a city of granite and steel. Suspended bridges crossed high above lava-lit forges that glowed like contained suns. Steam coursed through polished pipes embedded in the walls, rising and dispersing in controlled plumes that made the entire city feel alive.

At the center stood the massive arena, dark granite reinforced with enchanted metal, solid and immovable like a crown forged from the mountain itself. Nearby, the academy curved in a great half-circle, statues of ancient dwarven kings guarding its entrance. High above, carved directly into the inner cliff, the royal castle overlooked everything, its tall windows radiating gold against stone.

That was where Noel had aimed.

And that was where he now stood—directly before the entrance to the royal castle.

He had visualized it clearly.

The spell had obeyed.

He barely had time to register the familiar sight before the air shifted.

Heavy boots struck stone in sharp unison.

More than six dwarves in white armor stepped forward, formation tight, movements disciplined. Their lances leveled instantly, tips aligned toward his chest.

"YOU ARE DETAINED!" they barked in perfect synchronization. "DO NOT ATTEMPT ANY STRANGE MOVEMENTS, INTRUDER!"

The warmth of the city faded behind the cold precision of steel.

Noel slowly raised both hands, palms open, posture relaxed despite the weapons aimed at him.

"Wait," he said evenly. "There’s been a misunderstanding. I have an appointment with Balthor. And with Noriel. You can confirm it."

The captain stepped forward, eyes narrowing beneath his helm.

"Do not lie," he said sharply. "You think you can appear at the gates of the royal castle and walk away with a simple story?"

Noel held the captain’s stare for a second longer, then let out a quiet breath.

’Alright,’ he thought. ’If logic won’t work, we’ll try something else.’

He moved slowly, deliberately keeping one hand raised as the other dipped toward his belt.

"Careful!" one of the guards snapped, lances tightening their angle.

"I’m not drawing a weapon," Noel replied calmly, fingers slipping into his Dimensional Pouch. "If I were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation."

A glass bottle emerged in his hand.

Dark green crystal. Heavy. Sealed with deep crimson wax and stamped with a sigil that any noble merchant across Vaelterra would recognize instantly.

The Estermont crest.

Even before Noel lifted it properly into view, several of the dwarves stiffened.

The captain’s gaze shifted from Noel’s face to the bottle—and stayed there.

"That," one of the guards muttered under his breath, "is not common stock."

It wasn’t.

The wine was absurdly expensive. A single bottle could cost more than a master-crafted weapon. Aged properly. Transported under guarded caravans. Reserved for royal tables and very particular negotiations.

Noel gave it a light turn in his fingers, letting the glass catch the warm glow of the mana-lamps overhead.

"Let’s make this simple," he said, tone easy but measured. "If Balthor and Noriel say they know me, you let me pass and we forget this little misunderstanding ever happened."

The captain’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"And if they do not?"

Noel tilted the bottle once, casually.

"Then you keep this. And you can lock me in whatever cell you prefer."

A pause followed.

The dwarves exchanged brief looks. Pride flickered there. Confidence. The kind that came from standing on their own ground.

Finally, the captain grunted.

"Deal."

The lances didn’t lower, but the tension shifted. Less hostile. More... anticipatory.

Noel adjusted his stance slightly, waiting.

And then—

The massive stone doors of the royal castle began to move.

A deep grinding sound echoed through the chamber as ancient mechanisms engaged. The doors parted slowly, revealing warm golden light from within.

Two figures stepped forward from the entrance.

One broad-shouldered, beard well-kept, hair combed back neatly despite the mountain humidity. No crown rested on his head—he had always claimed he disliked wearing it—but his presence needed no ornament.

The familiar roundness of a well-loved beer belly remained exactly where Noel remembered it.

At his side walked a taller, leaner figure with composed posture and sharp eyes.

Balthor.

And Noriel.

The moment the guards recognized who had stepped through the doors, they reacted instantly.

Armor shifted. Lances withdrew. Knees struck stone in disciplined unison as every dwarf in white knelt without hesitation.

"Your Majesty."

Balthor walked forward without hurry, boots echoing heavily against the carved floor. He did not wear a crown. He rarely did. His beard was braided neatly today, rings of polished metal woven through it, and his hair had been combed back with unusual care. The familiar curve of his beer belly stretched against reinforced royal fabric, unchanged by time or responsibility.

He looked every inch a king.

And yet he still moved like the same dwarf Noel had once shared ale and battlefield with.

Noriel followed half a step behind and to the side, posture straight, expression measured, eyes already taking in the situation with quiet assessment.

Noel remained standing.

The captain noticed immediately and hissed under his breath, "Kneel. You stand before the King of Tharvaldur."

Noel didn’t move.

He tilted his head slightly instead and replied, voice steady, "A king? I see an old drunk I happen to know."

There was a heartbeat of stunned silence.

Then Balthor’s mouth split into a wide grin.

"Well I’ll be damned," he boomed, voice rolling through the chamber like distant thunder. "Have your baby teeth finally fallen out, lad?"

Noel’s lips curved in return. "I was wondering if you’d grown taller. Doesn’t look like it."

A bark of laughter burst from Balthor’s chest, loud and unrestrained. He stepped forward and pulled Noel into a firm embrace without ceremony, the kind that crushed ribs and erased months of distance in a single motion.

"Still got bones," Balthor muttered approvingly before releasing him. "Good."

The guards stared, confusion flickering across their faces.

Balthor turned his head slightly toward them, the humor fading just enough for authority to surface. "Stand down. He’s no intruder."

He jabbed a thumb toward Noel. "This is Noel. A friend. And the one who saved this kingdom when it mattered. You should remember that."

The dwarves stiffened immediately, rising from their kneeling positions with renewed attention.

The captain bowed his head deeper. "Our apologies."

Noriel stepped closer then, offering Noel a firm, formal handshake. "It has been some time," he said evenly. "It’s good to see you again."

Noriel’s grip was firm, his posture as precise as ever. "It has been some time," he said calmly, meeting Noel’s eyes with quiet acknowledgment. "It is good to see you again."

"It’s good to see you too," Noel replied, returning the handshake without hesitation. "Shame we couldn’t speak properly at the funeral."

Noriel inclined his head slightly. "Circumstances were... crowded."

Balthor snorted. "Crowded is an understatement. Half the damn mountain wanted to speak that day."

They began walking inside without further ceremony. The massive doors closed behind them with a low, resonant thud, sealing out the noise of the outer courtyard. Inside, the corridors stretched in polished stone and reinforced steel, banners of Tharvaldur hanging between carved pillars that depicted ancient dwarven kings and victories long past.

Torches burned with steady mana-flame, casting golden light over engraved walls. The air was warmer here, thicker with the scent of forge smoke and aged stone.

"You look thinner," Balthor remarked as they walked. "Or stronger. Hard to tell with you humans."

"Both," Noel answered lightly. "And I’ll look better after a mana potion."

Noriel’s brow lifted faintly. "You depleted yourself?"

Noel gave a small nod. "Long-distance transition. I wasn’t about to spend a week on a ship."

Balthor stopped mid-step. "You what?"

"Teleportation," Noel said, almost casually. "Across continents."

For once, Noriel’s composure cracked—not dramatically, but enough. His eyes sharpened with genuine surprise. "You’ve mastered spatial relocation to that degree?" 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

"Working on refining efficiency," Noel replied, tone controlled but not hiding the quiet pride beneath it. "Still expensive. But stable."

Balthor let out a low whistle. "You really don’t know how to stay ordinary, do you lad?"

They resumed walking, boots echoing through the corridor as servants stepped aside and guards straightened.

The warmth of reunion lingered, but something else settled over the moment now.

This wasn’t a nostalgic visit.

It wasn’t about wine, or feasts, or laughter.

It was politics and war.

Ahead of them, the reinforced inner doors of the royal hall began to open.

The real conversation was about to begin.