The Nameless Extra: I Proofread This World

At last, the morning of Vazrun Island finally came.

At precisely two in the breathless dark morning, the moon had begun its descent, and even the wind lay silent. All the four halls — Celestia, Vermillion, Azure and Obsidian Halls — awoke to the echoing toll of a magical chime, resonating like some distant ancient bell.

It was sharp, and very loud, cutting through the dormitory’s quietude. There was no second call. Those who did not rise with the chime would be marked, and those who were marked would be penalised.

The instructors had made it clear the night prior:

Every first-year scholar had received the directive to wake at 2 a.m., assemble by 3, and depart immediately to Drevhan Shore, where Velthia’s Vessel awaited.

Chime!

Ruvian opened his eyes the moment the chime rang, heavily influenced by the enchantment of the sound that forced his body to awake. There was no moment of bleary disorientation at all.

’Haaa... I still can’t get used to the enchantment of that bell.’

Soon, he rose, moved, and entered the washroom.

The water was cold, intentionally so, perhaps.

Maybe the Academy didn’t bother to heat it for mornings like these.

By the time he returned to his room after drying himself, Ruvian sat before it and took a long moment to regard the reflection staring back at him.

Ruvian, who had first arrived here, in this academy, was already a memory.

Now, clad in the Academy’s official Field Scholar Combat Attire, he cut a markedly different figure — more composed, more grounded, and more... complete like a combatant mage.

The tunic, midnight-black and tailored close to the body, gripped him tightly, subtle enchantments sewn into the fabric’s bones for resistance against the elements, minor magic impacts, and light blade damage.

Under the right light, the fibers looked slightly blue.

His pants were cut for agility, flexible but reinforced at the joints, and tucked seamlessly into matte boots made for rough terrain. Around his waist, a utility belt held narrow pouches of blackened leather, carefully arranged for efficiency: for potions and dry food rations.

His [Equinox Cloak] that he received from Silvena was dark and light, the hood sharp and angular like the beak of a raven. Lastly, the [Whisperflow] — his fingerless gloves completed his attire.

He leaned closer to the mirror.

His hair, damp and unruly, framed his face.

The two-month growth had changed him in small, merciless ways. Making him look older, colder, and intimidating to stand up to.

Those same dark eyes held little softness.

Ruvian moved without a sound.

”Time to gather with the others.”

He crossed to the foot of his bed measurely, already knowing what needed to be done. The luggage had been packed with forethought the night before, but now he opened it once more and rechecked each item.

Folded neatly on one side, still wrapped in enchanted preservation linen, was the formal suit — the one the Academy had commissioned for him weeks ago, tailored precisely to his new measurements.

It would not be needed now, of course.

But it would be required then — at the end of Vazrun Island.

He placed it back, carefully.

Then he looked around the room one final time before stepping out of his room.

****

The courtyard was cloaked in a sallow, pre-dawn gray, colourless light. A cold, dark morning wrapped them as if an absence of heat. Ruvian stood still among the gathered, his cloak pulled tight against the wind.

Eighty carriages stood waiting in formation, lined along the perimeter of the wide courtyard.

The horses, larger than usual, stood tethered in disciplined rows, not one of them whinnying or moving without cue.

The scholars had gathered as instructed. Four hundred of them, first-years all, assembled neatly in lines five across, grouped according to their preassigned squads.

The formations were rigid, but the people were not. Ruvian observed the patterns in their stances. Some stood still, overcompensating with upright posture, others shifting from foot to foot, glancing sideways in anxiety.

Most of them were simply staring forward...

Toward the raised platform at the front of the courtyard where the instructor stood like a blade driven into stone.

The man giving the speech was tall, severe, dressed in a long black coat that bore the golden crest of the Academy’s elite faculty — Chief Instructor Arveth Dros, the one appointed to oversee the entirety of this year’s Vazrun Island trial.

Beside him stood two others, one of them wearing the ceremonial blue of the Ministry of Scholar Affairs, and the other in simple grey, which meant they were from Internal Evaluation.

Ruvian kept his face neutral.

He noted how Instructor Arveth’s gaze passed over the entire crowd before he issued his directive.

”First-Year Scholars,” he began, the words were sharp.

”You will now proceed to board your designated carriages. Five per squad, one squad per unit, in the order of your assigned numbers. You were told this already, and I do not care to repeat it a second time. Your leaders are expected to maintain discipline. If they cannot, their entire squad will bear the consequence.”

”Vazrun Island is not a training exercise. I hope all of you understand that. It is not a game, so cast aside that notion. And do not assume it is a symbolic rite meant to acknowledge your growth. When you set foot on that island, you cease to be students sheltered by the academy’s walls. Out there, on that island, the consequences of your decisions will be lasting.”

His voice grew colder.

”Honestly, I think some of you, before this test is over, will find yourselves wishing you had failed long before reaching a certain point. Wishing you had been sent home while you still had the chance.”

He joked.

A heavy silence settled over the crowd.

”So learn to measure your strength and growth....”

”But most importantly...”

He inhaled deeply.

”Learn to measure your chances of survival in the wild, against the outside world.”

He stopped, allowing the tension to settle.

Then, the sharp sound of leather gloves striking once against his palm.

”Alright. Squads One through Ten. Step forward and board your carriages. Squad Leaders, report to the handlers and confirm your manifest. The rest of you — wait! Your turn is coming.”

He stepped aside as handlers in gray and black uniforms began calling numbers.

The scholars began to move, boots striking against stone and breath fogging from a hundred mouths as the machinery of the test began to lurch into motion.

Somewhere in his line from the third front, a voice broke the silence.

”Heh... this is going to be fun,” Arlok muttered.

He sounded like someone too eager to bleed.

Later, there was a soft exhale coming from in front of him, sharper than the wind.

”Keep your voice down, you fool,”

Shima hissed.

”You want to get our squad marked before we even board?”

Arlok frowned.

”Huh? Don’t tell me this and that. I know it, and I wasn’t even that loud.” He whispered back.

Yerin couldn’t help but also muttered in a low voice at them.

”Honestly, I’m also excited. I wonder what the test is about.”

Horren’s face had already turned slightly pale at the mere thought of the journey ahead. He folded his arms and let out a troubled groan.

”...I just hope that everything goes smoothly during the voyage. I don’t like the ocean. Ah, this is really bad.”

”Quite down, you scaredy-stick... think about the happy thing! Happy thing!”

”Shhh... You dumbhead, I told you to lower your voice!” Shima hissed again, this time with more venom as if she was about to bite Arlok’s arm.

Ruvian said nothing as he merely smiled.

’Honestly... I am looking forward to it, as well.’

Of course, he was.

Because in that damnable novel, the Vazrun Island Arc was originally meant to become the great turning point of Zian Herga’s story. It was the place where the protagonist was supposed to rise, to change, to begin walking toward the path that would eventually shape the entire world.

But now, Zian’s absence had left a hollow gap within the story itself.

Still, Ruvian understood something very clearly.

Things would not stop moving simply because the protagonist was missing.

If one destined path was severed, another would inevitably emerge. Fate had always been stubborn like that, after all.

The future that had once revolved around Zian alone was already beginning to fracture, splintering into countless possibilities. The destinies of future heroes, named extras, and nameless extras alike were no longer bound to a single course.

Because among those countless branching paths, Ruvian had no intention of leaving everything to fate.

Like hell that was ever an option.

As far as he knew, if the story had lost the hand that once guided it forward, then someone else would have to seize the reins.

And Ruvian intended for that someone to be him.

Because this time, in this deviated version of the novel, the Vazrun Island Arc would no longer be a stage built for one hero alone.

It would become a turning point where the fate of everyone involved could be rewritten.

Ruvian let out another sigh before smiling.

Soon, after what felt like an unbearably long wait, their squad number was finally called out by one of the academy supervisors standing near the departure platform.

”Squad 69! Move!”

The loud voice immediately echoed across the area.

And so, without wasting any more time, Ruvian and the others followed suit and boarded the carriage.

──────── ✦ ────────

[Chapter 211: The Cold Morning of Vazrun Island Test]

Plot Points= 19,230