My Skills Have No Limits : Transmigirated In A Novel as An Extra Chapter 12: A Feast Of Strangers

After debating what stunts to pull and what not to in order to avoid getting thrashed by seniors, Aziel and Oliver finally made their way to the looming building.

"The fuck is this mismanagent... there’s no one at the main door?"

Oliver grumbled, kicking at the step as they stood before the massive two-hinged wooden entrance.

"They’re probably holding the party upstairs. Which ans..."

Aziel leaned forward, pushing against the door. The hinges groaned in protest as it slowly opened.

"...they expect candidates to find their own way in."

The hallway inside was dark until, in an instant, every ceiling lamp blazed to life.

"Oi, did the lights just turn on by themselves?" Oliver exclaid, jumping back a step.

Aziel’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the sudden glow.

"Sensor lights..." he muttered, but his words trailed off as his gaze locked on the paintings lining the walls.

At first glance, they seed normal. But the longer he stared, the stranger they felt.

Each portrait blurred at the edges, as if the artist had sared them deliberately after finishing.

Faces that should’ve looked noble or serene seed uncanny, distorted, almost mocking.

"Wait... why does it feel like I’ve seen these sowhere else?"

Oliver shivered, rubbing his arms. "Yeah, nah... this is so creepy rich-people aesthetic."

Aziel didn’t answer.

His eyes shifted further into the hall, where three grand staircases rose upward, curving elegantly like in so dieval bungalow design, each one leading to the second floor.

"Hey!" Oliver suddenly called out, waving him over. "Look what I found."

At the far end, hidden in the shadows, a lift door glead faintly under the light.

Oliver smirked, stepping inside without hesitation. He jabbed the button marked 1st Floor.

"Co on, unless you wanna climb." His grin widened as the doors began to slide shut.

Aziel cursed under his breath, concentrating mana in his legs.

In a short burst of speed, he dashed forward, slipping through the narrowing gap just in ti.

He stumbled headfirst into Oliver, both of them nearly crashing into the lift’s mirrored wall.

"Smooth entrance," Oliver chuckled, steadying him.

Aziel exhaled sharply, half-annoyed, half-relieved. "Keep laughing and I will make sure you’re the one to climb down the stairs later."

The lift shuddered, then began its ascent, the hum echoing in the otherwise silent hall.

Click.

The lift ca to a halt, and the door slid open with a hiss, revealing an old man with long white hair tied neatly in a ponytail.

His tuxedo was spotless, bow perfectly centered, posture straight as a blade.

He bent at the waist with unnerving precision.

"Welco to the party, sirs... others await. Please follow ."

His voice was calm, professional, so asured it almost felt rehearsed.

Neither Aziel nor Oliver said a word.

They exchanged a glance, then quietly followed him down the hall, their footsteps echoing against the polished marble tiles.

The air slled faintly of candle wax and old wood. From sowhere beyond the walls, muffled laughter and the distant chords of a piano trickled through, growing louder with each step.

The man stopped before a towering oak door, its carvings intricate and aged, almost royal in design.

He didn’t move, didn’t even blink, simply raised a gloved hand toward the entrance.

"You may proceed," he said, voice dipping into sothing colder. "Everyone is waiting for you."

Oliver squinted, his brows knitting. "We... expected?"

Aziel clicked his tongue. "Nah, old man. You’ve got us mixed up. Far as I rember, we weren’t invited to anything."

But the old man didn’t answer. He remained perfectly still, like a statue that had never spoken in the first place.

"Forget it," Oliver muttered, shrugging. "Probably says that to everyone. A respect thing."

Together they pushed the door open, and instantly the noise crashed into them.

The hall was alive.

Chandeliers bathed everything in warm golden light. Rows of tables groaned under the weight of food—roasted ats dripping with fat, towers of sugared pastries, bowls of fruit shining with glaze.

Students huddled around billiard tables, chalking cues and cheering as balls clacked across green felt. Others circled drinking gas, mugs of frothing beer raised high.

A group burst into song near the piano, their voices too loud, too cheerful.

It was chaotic, vibrant, almost intoxicating.

And yet beneath the laughter and music, Aziel felt it...

A suffocating weight pressing against his ribs, invisible but heavy, like the air itself had teeth.

Oliver felt it too.

His grin faltered, and he leaned closer.

"What the fuck, Aziel... how are they walking around so calm under this pressure? My lungs feel like they’re shrinking."

Aziel’s eyes sharpened, scanning the crowd. "Many second years, so third-year candidates too."

"Oh yeah, their mana spikes exponentially around that ti in quality and quantity both. But they don’t control it well due to inexperience, almost like a child handed a shotgun."

Oliver grumbled, stretching his fingers toward a tray stacked with miniature cakes.

Smack.

Aziel slapped his hand away.

"Tch... stingy bastard," Oliver muttered, shaking his fingers. "I was testing if food makes the pressure lighter."

Still, they wandered deeper, trying not to stand out. They joined a billiards match—lost almost imdiately to a pair of smirking seniors.

They tried their luck at a drinking circle, Oliver nearly choking on the bitter liquid while laughter erupted around him.

They even attempted a mana-charging contest, but their efforts drew little more than polite nods before the group turned away.

Everywhere they went, it was the sa. Faces turned toward them, then slid away.

Conversations paused when they approached, then carried on without them.

Not a single familiar figure in sight.

By the ti they retreated to the side of the hall, pressed against a window fra, both were clutching glasses of red liquid that tasted faintly like spiced wine.

The surface trembled as their hands shook.

Oliver’s gaze wandered across the room, landing on a couple.

Probably second years—locked in a shaless embrace in the middle of the crowd, kissing like no one else existed.

"Oi," he muttered, half a grin returning. "What do you say we break those two up?"

Aziel didn’t even glance over.

"Nah. That trick’s boring now. And anyway...tell it’s not just . Since we got here, have you seen a single recognizable face?"

Oliver leaned against the cold glass, eyes narrowing.

"Not one. We’ve danced, played billiards, even sang along. And still we got to know no one. Feels like the crowd’s deliberately avoiding us."

He spoke frustratingly as their eyes darted at the crowd.

But in the shifting sea of faces, once a face appeared it never made its way toward their gazes again.

Why?