The Extra's Rise

What did people expect when they heard the words front lines? Some battered trench full of mud, blood, and the smell of old regrets? Ration tents and broken radios, the standard post-apocalyptic picnic? Maybe the occasional grizzled veteran growling about the "old days" while lighting a cigar with a flamethrower?

Well. Yes. But also no.

The truth was stranger.

The frontier outpost looked like someone had asked a paranoid architect to build a fortress, and then told him to do it again, but bigger and with extra budget. Towering walls stretched out like the skeletons of long-dead titans, bristling with sensor arrays, defense systems, and enough shielding to survive a minor geological event or an aggressive family dinner.

Behind those walls weren't tents—there were modular complexes, reinforced buildings designed to be picked up, dropped into a monitoring zone, and then promptly maintain operations under almost any conditions. They housed everything: living quarters, canteens, clinics, strategy halls, even coffee shops with unnecessarily poetic drink names.

It wasn't quite a military compound in the traditional sense. More like a highly secure research station with combat capabilities.

As I stepped through the warp gate, the world shimmered for half a second before solidifying into the unmistakable atmosphere of the frontier. You could feel it in the air—heavy, charged, and watching you like someone evaluating a potentially interesting but unpredictable new colleague.

Waiting there, standing with the posture of someone who never stopped standing straight, was a woman.

Her hair flowed in soft shades of frostbitten blue, like winter wind turned into silk. Golden eyes, sharp and crackling with mana, swept over us like searchlights judging a performance they didn't expect much from.

And oh, she was powerful. Not the loud kind. No explosions, no auras that screamed. Her strength was quiet—like a loaded gun, safety off, pointed somewhere just out of sight.

Meilyn Potan. Peak Immortal-rank necromancer. The kind of name that made other names feel underdressed.

Also: a Six-Star Grand Marshal. Meaning she'd earned more military distinctions than most people had bones.

She raised one hand.

"Attention!" Her voice cracked across the air like a whip wrapped in authority.

The three girls at my side—Rachel, Rose, and Clana—straightened faster than guilt in a church. I casually adjusted my posture as well, trying not to look like the slouching schoolboy who just realised the headmistress was behind him.

"Welcome, Academy students," she said, her tone sharp, her vowels precise enough to draw blood. "I am Grand Marshal Meilyn. You are now under my jurisdiction for the duration of this mission."

Her eyes glided over us, weighing, measuring. Perhaps contemplating our potential, just in case.

"I will say this only once: do not treat this like a vacation. This is not an internship. You will not be pampered. You will not be sheltered. And you certainly will not be special. Not to me."

She stepped forward once, heels clicking like punctuation marks.

"To me, you are trainees. You are assets. Your rank, your bloodline, your royal titles—none of it matters beyond what you can contribute to operations. The only thing that separates you from the rest of the personnel is whether or not you perform. And trust me… I expect performance."

Meilyn Potan tapped her tablet with the clinical precision of someone who'd probably used it to order both coffee and tactical assessments in the same breath. She scrolled, skimmed, and looked up at us like we were particularly interesting entries in a spreadsheet labelled "Academy Visitors with Potential."

"I got your files from Mythos," she said, "Every duel, every test, every time you blinked too hard and destabilised a training room. I must admit, you're all quite exceptional. Annoyingly so."

Her golden eyes flicked to me. "Arthur Nightingale, one step below Integration-rank, Gifted, and a suspicious tendency to survive things you shouldn't. You're Captain."

Then she pointed vaguely at the others with the tablet like it was a holy relic. "Rachel, Rose, Clana—Lieutenants. Under his command."

Rachel looked proud, shoulders straightening further, a subtle smile touching her lips. Rose raised a brow, the slight tilt of her head suggesting she was already calculating the implications. Clana yawned, though she did manage to look slightly more alert than usual.

"It's a small unit," Meilyn continued, "But you'll be merged with other teams for operations. That said, don't expect to coast on the others' work. I'll know if you do. I always know."

The shadows seemed to lean in a little at that.

"And now, you're dismissed for the day. Rest. Hydrate. Don't do anything that would require paperwork." She glanced at a soldier nearby. "Private Rogis, guide them to their accommodations."

The private saluted with the efficiency of a man who had recently remembered his superior outranked him by several universes and set off marching. We followed, carrying our gear with a blend of respectful attention and subtle confusion.

As we walked through the complex, Private Rogis—a lean man with close-cropped hair and the watchful eyes of someone who had seen enough to be cautious but not enough to be jaded—pointed out various facilities.

"Mess hall is that way," he said, gesturing to a large building with actual windows. "Food's decent. Chef used to work at a five-star restaurant in the Central Continent before deciding cooking for soldiers was more honest work."

"Is there a training area?" Rose asked, her voice perfectly modulated to sound merely curious rather than eager.

"Two, actually," Rogis replied. "Standard physical training center is in the east wing. The mana practice facility is underground—safer that way."

Clana perked up momentarily. "And the recreational areas?"

Rogis almost smiled. "We have a common room with entertainment systems, a small library, and what passes for a garden on the roof of the administrative building. Not exactly luxury, but better than what most outposts have."

"How often do you see combat?" I asked, watching his reaction carefully.

His expression shifted slightly, becoming more measured. "Less than you might think. We monitor the border more than we engage. Most days are routine patrols and sensor maintenance. The occasional skirmish happens, but large-scale confrontations are rare."

Rachel stepped closer to me as we walked, her shoulder occasionally brushing against mine. "What about medical facilities?" she asked, her interest genuine. "I've trained extensively in healing arts."

"Full clinic with modern equipment," Rogis answered, seeming to appreciate her professional interest. "Dr. Voss runs it—she's Ascendant-rank with a specialisation in healing. You'll likely meet her during your orientation tomorrow."

We turned down a corridor with polished floors and reinforced walls. The lighting was practical but not harsh, creating an atmosphere of efficiency rather than austerity.

"The Marshal mentioned we'd be working with other teams," I said. "Are there other academy students here?"

Rogis nodded. "Three other groups arrived yesterday. They've been assigned to different sections based on their abilities. You'll be briefed on the full structure tomorrow."

Rose moved forward to walk beside me, creating a subtle triangle with Rachel. "And what's our first assignment likely to be?" she asked, her tone suggesting she was already planning three steps ahead.

"Observation, most likely," Rogis said. "The Marshal usually starts newcomers with reconnaissance patrols. Gets you familiar with the terrain and protocols without immediately throwing you into anything complex."

He stopped before a row of doors, each marked with a simple numeric designation. "Your quarters. 204 through 207. Captain gets the end unit, slightly larger. Standard amenities inside. Comm panel by the door connects to central command if needed."

Clana was already eyeing her door like it contained the promise of a comfortable pillow. "When's the morning briefing?" she asked, stifling another yawn.

"0800 hours," Rogis replied. "Mess hall opens at 0600 if you want breakfast first."

He handed each of us a small metallic card. "Access passes. Don't lose them, they're keyed to your mana signature."

With a final nod that seemed to encompass both respect and mild pity for what we might face in the coming days, Rogis departed, leaving us in the hallway.

The housing was… surprising. The frontier outpost didn't skimp. We were each given private quarters with reinforced doors, insulation, and a complimentary fruit bowl that suggested someone cared about preventing scurvy. The beds looked like they'd actually let you sleep, which was pleasantly unexpected for a place that was constantly alert for unusual activities at the border.

I stepped inside my room, which was all clean lines and subtle functionality—modern comfort with a side of practical readiness. My coat landed on the back of a chair. My boots found the corner. I leaned back onto the bed, half-expecting it to be rock-hard, but no—just comfortable enough to be decent.

Before I could properly settle, a familiar voice spoke from the doorway.

"So, Captain, huh?"

Rose stood there, leaning against the doorframe with an expression that mixed amusement and something harder to define.

"Apparently," I replied, sitting up.

"Well deserved," she said, stepping inside and glancing around the room. "Though I notice they gave you the bigger quarters. Rank has its privileges."

"Want to trade?" I offered, knowing she wouldn't accept.

She pursed her lips.

There was a pause.

Then—flash.

A light brighter than thought, as if the universe blinked.

My jaw dropped.