Extra is the Heir of Life and Death

Chapter 204: And the future, suddenly, felt lighter.

Sebastian and Belle left their seats with the rest of the upper tier when the flow of guests began moving toward the banquet hall.

From a distance the movement looked chaotic, a tide of nobles, ascendants, scholars, and dignitaries spilling through enormous archways, but up close it was strangely orderly.

Invisible lines of etiquette guided every step. No one shoved. No one rushed. Status determined the rhythm of the crowd, and the upper dais filtered out first with quiet authority.

Belle’s arm was linked with Sebastian’s. Her blindfold remained in place, black fabric stark against her pale skin, yet she navigated the shifting mass without hesitation.

People parted around her instinctively. Even those who weren’t looking directly at her felt it, a subtle pressure that suggested it would be unwise to obstruct her path.

Sebastian noticed the way conversations dimmed when they passed.

Not stopped. Just softened.

Eyes followed them briefly, curiosity flickering, before etiquette snapped attention back to polite indifference.

The Feast was a place for spectacle, but staring openly at the Strongest Human Alive was still considered a social misstep.

The banquet hall revealed itself gradually as they crossed a long corridor lined with floating chandeliers.

The lights were suspended by magic alone, each one rotating slowly, casting warm gold across marble floors that reflected the crowd like a calm lake.

The ceiling arched impossibly high, painted with a living mural of the human domain’s history. Battles shifted in slow motion. Cities rose. Constellations rearranged themselves.

When the doors opened, the scent hit first.

Roasted meats. Fresh bread. Sweet citrus. Wine aged in enchanted barrels that infused every drop with subtle warmth. The air itself felt heavier with comfort.

The banquet hall was vast enough to swallow entire districts.

Tables stretched in elegant curves rather than straight lines, designed so no guest felt exiled to a distant corner.

Every surface gleamed. Crystal goblets shimmered under chandelier light. Plates were arranged with surgical precision, each setting a small work of art.

Sebastian and Belle were guided to a table near the center of the upper section. Servants moved around them like shadows, silent and efficient. The moment they sat, plates appeared, filled with food that looked too perfect to disturb.

Crystal glasses chimed softly as they were set down, catching the glow of the floating chandeliers above.

The tablecloth was a deep midnight blue threaded with silver patterns that shimmered whenever light passed over them, as if constellations had been woven directly into the fabric.

Every dish was arranged with obsessive precision—slices aligned, sauces brushed in elegant arcs, herbs placed like deliberate strokes of paint. It felt less like dinner and more like an exhibition.

Warm steam curled upward in delicate ribbons.

The air carried a layered fragrance: roasted meats glazed in honeyed spice, fresh bread still crackling from the oven, citrus and herbs sharp enough to wake the senses.

Somewhere nearby, a musician plucked a gentle melody from a stringed instrument, the notes drifting across the hall and blending with the low murmur of conversation.

Hundreds of voices filled the space, yet none rose high enough to shatter the atmosphere.

It was a controlled hush, the sound of important people pretending not to stare at one another.

Belle tilted her head slightly toward Sebastian.

"It smells good," she said quietly.

"It looks expensive," he replied.

A faint smile tugged at her lips.

They ate slowly.

Around them, conversations swelled.

Diplomats debated border tensions between bites. Academy representatives compared training methodologies. Scholars argued over theoretical frameworks with forks paused midair. Laughter erupted in pockets, sharp and genuine, before melting back into the hum.

Sebastian caught fragments as they drifted past.

"...demon incursions increasing near the torn ridge..."

"...if Carlsan’s framework could be stabilized..."

"...no, the elves won’t move openly, not yet..."

The banquet wasn’t merely a meal. It was a marketplace of information disguised as a celebration.

Alliances were strengthened over wine.

Rivalries were softened with polite toasts. Deals were hinted at without being spoken aloud.

Belle ate calmly, unhurried. She didn’t dominate the table with presence; she didn’t need to. The space around her felt anchored. Even seated, she radiated a quiet gravity that made the chaos of the hall seem distant.

At one point she reached for a glass and brushed Sebastian’s fingers by accident.

"Sorry," she murmured.

"You’re fine," he said.

It was a small moment, swallowed instantly by the scale of the hall, but it grounded him. The spectacle outside their table faded.

The chandeliers, the politics, the achievements waiting to be announced. For a heartbeat, it was just food and shared silence.

The banquet stretched longer than it felt.

Dishes rotated in measured waves. Sweet courses replaced savory ones. Wine glasses refilled themselves through subtle enchantments that never spilled a drop.

By the time the final plates were cleared, the hall carried the soft, satisfied energy of a crowd that had eaten well and was ready to be impressed again.

A chime rang through the air.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The sound threaded through conversation like a needle, stitching silence in its wake.

Guests began rising.

The return to the main hall happened faster than the initial procession. The anticipation was sharper now. The opening acts had whetted appetites. Everyone knew the true achievements were about to be unveiled.

Sebastian and Belle resumed their places on the dais. The floating platform glowed faintly, responding to the renewed focus of thousands of eyes. The artificial night sky above seemed darker now, the stars brighter, as if the hall itself was leaning into the drama.

Blue light flashed.

The announcer returned, immaculate as before, not a strand of hair disturbed by time or movement.

"Honored guests," he said. "We continue."

His voice carried a different weight now. The politeness remained, but beneath it hummed restrained excitement.

"What follows," he continued, "represents not merely strength or survival, but advancement. Achievements that alter the course of our civilization."

The screens flickered.

A new face appeared. Younger than the last featured ascendant. Thin, sharp-eyed, hair tied back in a careless knot that suggested a man who forgot mirrors existed. Ink stains marked his fingers even in the portrait.

A murmur spread instantly.

Recognition.

"Please welcome," the announcer said, "Doctor Alren Voss."

The teleportation flash delivered him to the stage. He arrived hunched slightly, as if unused to standing in front of crowds.

His suit was formal but ill-fitted, sleeves a fraction too long. He adjusted his glasses with shaking hands.

The announcer didn’t wait for silence. He rode the wave of murmurs.

"For hundreds of years," he said, "Carlsan’s Equation has stood as one of the great unsolved pillars of magical theory. A vexing problem that defined the limits of mana efficiency. Generations of scholars attempted refinement. None succeeded."

The hall leaned forward.

"Doctor Voss," the announcer continued, "has solved it."

The words detonated quietly.

The reaction wasn’t loud at first. It was sharp. A collective intake of breath. Chairs creaked as people straightened. Scholars in the crowd visibly stiffened, eyes wide.

"Through his work," the announcer said, "mana consumption for all spells below B-rank has been reduced by fifty percent."

This time the explosion came.

Voices erupted. Applause slammed into the ceiling. Some guests stood without realizing it. Others turned to their neighbors in disbelief, already arguing implications before the explanation even finished.

Fifty percent.

The number echoed like a shockwave.

Half the cost meant double the endurance for entire armies. Civilian infrastructure could run longer, cheaper, safer. Training casualties would plummet. Barriers could be maintained indefinitely. Cities could expand. The economy alone would shift under the weight of it.

Doctor Voss looked like he might faint.

He stepped to the podium, gripping its edges as if it were the only solid thing in the universe. The applause continued long enough that he had to wait, blinking rapidly behind his glasses.

"I... I didn’t do it alone," he said when sound returned to him. His voice was thin but steady. "Carlsan built the foundation. I just... I followed the cracks."

A nervous laugh rippled through the hall.

He swallowed.

"The equation wasn’t wrong," he continued. "It was incomplete. Mana isn’t consumed linearly. It... it folds. There’s a compression point we never accounted for. Once you stabilize that, once you respect the curvature instead of fighting it, the cost collapses naturally."

Many in the audience didn’t understand the math.

They didn’t need to.

The scholars did. And their faces told the story. Some looked offended. Others looked reverent. A few stared at him with naked awe, as if witnessing a man casually rewrite gravity.

"This changes everything," someone whispered loudly enough to carry.

Doctor Voss bowed awkwardly.

"I just wanted... spells to hurt less," he admitted. "That’s all."

The simplicity of it hung in the air.

Applause rose again, louder than before, sustained and thunderous. Not polite recognition. Not ceremonial approval.

This was gratitude.

The announcer stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on the scholar’s shoulder as the hall roared. The screens above replayed fragments of equations, luminous symbols unfolding in elegant spirals that hinted at the scale of the breakthrough without fully explaining it.

The Feast had crossed a threshold.

The opening acts were over.

And the future, suddenly, felt lighter.