The Nameless Extra: I Proofread This World-Chapter 81: Called by the Cold Morning

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. The Obsidian Hall 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.
Ruvian opened his eyes the moment the chime rang, heavily influenced by the enchantment of the sound that forced his body to awake.
He felt there was no moment of bleary disorientation.
‘I still can’t get used to the enchantment of that bell…’
He rose, moved, and entered the washroom.
The water was cold, intentionally so. The Academy didn’t bother to heat it for mornings like these. Shock therapy for the soul, perhaps. Or maybe a reminder that a magic water-heater was a currency only the upper scholars could afford.
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.
The boy 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, more… complete like a combatant.
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 cloak was dark and light, the hood sharp and angular like the beak of a raven. Lastly, fingerless gloves completed his attire.
He leaned closer to the mirror.
His hair, damp and unruly, framed his face. The one-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. His body had changed in quiet ways only he would notice. His arms bore the light outline of a muscle. His back, once narrow, had widened slightly. He stood up without a sound, reached for the clasp of his cloak, and fastened it with a quiet click.
“Time to gather with the others.”
Ruvian crossed to the foot of his bed with measured steps, 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.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. sightings.
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. But it would be required then, at the end of Vazrun Island.
He placed it back, carefully.
Beside it was the second item, smaller, more personal. A narrow-shouldered travel pack, plain brown leather, worn slightly along the straps.
He tightened the straps, looped the pack over his shoulder, and straightened with a soft breath.
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.
And most 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 test is not a training exercise. I hope that you all understand that it is not a game. And it is not a rite of passage. The moment you set foot on that island… you cease to be scholars! Some of you will wish, in the coming days, that you had failed early. That you had been sent home. So, you will learn to measure your survival.”
“But… if you can endure with open eyes and cold blood, if you learn to see without the comfort of assumption, you may walk away from it more than what you were.”
He paused, allowing the tension to settle. Then, the sharp sound of leather gloves striking once against his palm.
“Squads One through Ten. Step forward and board your carriages. Squad Leaders, 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. It was the voice of someone too eager to bleed.
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?”
“Huh? Don't tell me this and that. I know it, I wasn't even that loud.” Arlok whispered.
“But Arlok is right, too. I’m also excited. I wonder what the test is about.” Yerin said.
“...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, 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. But a voice echoed in the cold chamber of his thoughts.
‘It's finally now, huh? I guess… I am looking forward to it, as well.’
Of course, he should.
Because in the damnable novel, this Vazrun Island Arc was meant to mark the turning point of Zian Herga. His absence, however, left a void in the tale’s design.
Ruvian understood that stories did not wait for the missing. If one thread were cut, another would have to bear the weight. So he chose to take it upon himself. To claim in and to reshape it. What had once been written for a single man would now fracture into many paths—for more named and nameless characters.
And among them, he would carve his own change too, knowing that the arc was not a stage for one hero anymore, but a crucible for all.
PP= 1450
ME= 510