The Extra is a Genius!?

The clang of metal on metal rang out sharp in the cold morning air.

It was still early — the kind of hour most nobles would never dare leave their beds — but the Thorne training yard was already alive. Dozens of soldiers drilled in formation, blades flashing under the rising sun, voices barking orders, feet pounding stone.

Noel stepped into the open yard without a word.

His coat was gone, replaced by a dark sleeveless training tunic and fitted trousers. His boots were strapped tight. His hair was tied back. And at his hip, as always, hung Revenant Fang, bound tightly in its worn leather sheath.

Heads turned.

One by one, soldiers paused mid-swing or stance, eyes shifting toward him.

Someone chuckled near the archery posts.

Another whispered just loud enough: "Looks like the noble brat wants to sweat with the real men."

Noel ignored them.

He crossed the yard at a calm pace, stopping just short of the central sparring square. His boots hit the dirt with a soft crunch.

He dropped his training bag, stretched his arms slowly, and began moving through his warm-up sequence.