Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

SLASH!

The streets were painted with the crimson sprawl of fresh blood.

SPLASH!

Amid the chaos, Zirkel wiped his blade against the cloak of a fallen disciple, his mismatched eyes narrowing as he glanced around. The once-pristine crimson robes of the Crimson Serpent Sect now lay tattered, their wearers reduced to lifeless forms sprawled across the cobblestone streets.

The metallic tang of blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint scent of burning incense that lingered from the Sect's rituals. Zirkel's axe gleamed, still dripping with the blood of his most recent opponent. Around him, four other Mad Dogs stood in varying states of readiness, their weapons bloodied but their spirits undeterred.

Zirkel exhaled heavily, shaking his head as he glanced at the carnage. His gaze drifted upward, toward the looming sect compound ahead. A part of him still couldn't believe they were here, let alone succeeding. His thoughts churned, replaying the last three days in a loop as if trying to find some logic in the madness.

"We're going to take down the Crimson Serpent Sect."

Those words. They still echoed in his head, sharp and absurd. They were spoken so matter-of-factly by their employer, Lucavion, as if wiping out an entire sect was no different than handling a particularly unruly gang.

Zirkel snorted, kicking aside the body of a disciple as he muttered under his breath, "This guy's not just insane—he's completely unhinged."

For three days, Zirkel had traveled with him, watching him from the saddle of his horse. He couldn't wrap his head around the man. Lucavion was different—not in the way nobles who played at being warriors were different, but something deeper. He wasn't just fearless; he acted as if the rules that bound others didn't apply to him at all. It was unnerving.

How can twenty men be enough to take down an entire sect? Zirkel thought, glancing at one of the other Mad Dogs who was wiping his blade on a crimson robe. If it were that easy, everyone would be doing it.

The question had plagued him since the moment Lucavion had made the declaration. It wasn't just bold; it was outright suicidal. The Crimson Serpent Sect was no small-time operation. They had numbers, resources, and decades of entrenched power in Thornridge. And yet, here they were, cutting through the sect's disciples like reapers in a field.

The real question, though—the one that Zirkel couldn't stop turning over in his mind—was why he had gone along with it.

He could have refused. He could have stayed in the camp, left Lucavion to march alone into his doom. But he hadn't. And the reason was as infuriatingly simple as it was compelling.
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"If you can survive until the end, you'll earn one gold coin for every kill."

The promise of that reward had silenced every protest in the camp. One gold coin per kill—an offer so absurdly generous it could only come from a madman. For most mercenaries, an average job might pay fifty silvers if they were lucky. A gold coin was a king's ransom in comparison.

And so, they had followed. Not out of loyalty, not out of trust, but out of greed—and maybe, for some, a curiosity about the man who had made such an outrageous offer.

Now, standing in the blood-soaked streets of Thornridge, Zirkel found himself questioning more than just the promise of coin. What kind of person throws around that kind of money? What does he actually want?

Zirkel's thoughts were interrupted as another wave of disciples emerged from the shadows of a nearby alley, their crimson robes fluttering like bloodied banners. They moved with coordinated precision, their weapons glinting in the dim light. For a moment, the air stilled, the tension crackling like a live wire.

"More of them," one of the Mad Dogs muttered, hefting his mace with a grin. "Looks like we're not done yet."

Zirkel grunted, raising his axe. "Form up. Don't let them surround you."

In the end, he would just be doing his job.

"Create chaos all around the city….Make them come at you. And leave the rest to me."

Those words still rang in his ears, absurdly confident and yet delivered with such calm certainty that Zirkel couldn't help but follow them. He'd thought Lucavion a lunatic then—hell, he still thought that—but as the night unfolded, a darker part of him couldn't deny the intrigue. He wanted to see what this man was truly capable of.

And that was why they had split into five groups, scattering across Thornridge like wild dogs unleashed. If there was one thing the Mad Dogs excelled at, it was creating havoc.

"Come, you bastards," Zirkel growled, his smirk widening as he raised his axe. The crimson-robed disciples surged forward, their cries of anger mingling with the crackle of flames and the distant shouts of civilians fleeing the carnage. Around him, the other Mad Dogs braced for impact, their blood-streaked faces alight with feral glee.

The first disciple lunged at Zirkel, a curved blade flashing toward his throat. Zirkel sidestepped with practiced ease, his axe coming down in a brutal arc that cleaved through the disciple's chest. Blood sprayed across the cobblestones as the body crumpled, but Zirkel was already moving, his axe whirling to meet the next attacker.

"Keep it tight!" Zirkel barked to his men, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Don't let them pin you down."

******

The grand chamber of the Crimson Serpent Sect was a stark contrast to the dim prison below. Lavish red banners hung from the high ceiling, embroidered with the sect's coiled serpent sigil in golden thread. The room's centerpiece was a massive obsidian throne, its jagged edges gleaming ominously in the torchlight. Sitting upon it was Vaelric Veynar, the Sect Master of the Crimson Serpent Sect, his aura exuding menace.

Or at least that was what the whole place around him gave the vibe of.

Vaelric was a man of imposing stature, his crimson robes draped around him like the folds of a storm. His sharp, angular features seemed carved from stone, and his piercing amber eyes burned with an intensity that made even his most loyal disciples avert their gaze. In his hand, he toyed with a black jade serpent figurine, his fingers curling and uncurling around it as he listened to the frantic report before him.

"You dare disturb me for this?" he growled, his deep voice reverberating through the chamber like distant thunder.

The disciple who knelt before him trembled, sweat beading on his brow. "Sect Master, please, it is urgent. We are under attack. A group has been targeting our people around the city—they've already killed twenty of our disciples."

Vaelric's hand stilled, his grip tightening on the figurine until his knuckles turned white. His eyes narrowed, and his presence seemed to swell, filling the chamber with an oppressive weight. "Who dares?" he said, his voice dangerously low. "Who dares to challenge us and attack us on our own land?"

The disciple hesitated, his voice quivering as he spoke. "We… we don't know, Sect Master. They appear to be a group of mercenaries. Their motives are unclear. They are attacking indiscriminately, cutting down anyone bearing our emblem."

Vaelric rose from his throne, his robes billowing like blood-red smoke. The figurine in his hand shattered under his grip, shards of jade falling to the floor. "Mercenaries?" he repeated, his voice rising to a roar. "A bunch of hired blades dares to defy the Crimson Serpent Sect? To kill my disciples?"

The disciple flinched, his head bowing lower. "Y-yes, Sect Master. They're moving quickly, hitting key outposts and retreating before reinforcements arrive. We've lost control of the eastern district, and they're pushing toward the main gates."

Vaelric's fury blazed like an inferno. "Twenty of our disciples, slaughtered! And you come to me with nothing but excuses?" He took a step forward, the sheer weight of his presence forcing the disciple to press his forehead to the floor. "How is this possible? How did they breach our defenses? Answer me!"

"That just happened."

Vaelric's glare burned with unrelenting intensity as he paced the grand chamber, his crimson robes trailing behind him like flames licking at the air. The disciple cowered, trembling under the weight of his rage.

"They're not coordinated," the disciple stammered, his voice quivering. "Sect Master, they fight like madmen. They wreak havoc wherever they go—they don't even care about bystanders. They strike fast, they kill without mercy, and they vanish."

Vaelric's expression twisted into a scowl. "Madmen? A pack of rabid dogs causing chaos under our noses?" His fists clenched as his voice rose. "What are the city guards doing about this?"

The disciple hesitated, his shoulders hunching further. "Sect Master… the city guards aren't responding."

Vaelric froze mid-step, his fiery gaze snapping toward the disciple. "What did you just say?"

The man gulped, his voice barely above a whisper. "The city guards… they've done nothing. They aren't intervening."

For a moment, the chamber was silent, save for the faint crackle of torches along the walls. Then Vaelric laughed, a cold, humorless sound that sent shivers down the disciple's spine.

"Of course they haven't," Vaelric said, his tone dripping with derision. "That pathetic lordling who rules this city—did you really think he'd dare lift a finger without my permission? I crushed his authority beneath my heel long ago." He smirked, though the fury in his eyes remained. "That was how I silenced the Azure Blossom Sect without interference. That fool was so easy to intimidate, he became little more than a puppet."

Vaelric turned abruptly, his robes swishing as he closed the distance between him and the kneeling disciple. "So, now you come to me," he hissed, his voice low but venomous, "because these so-called mercenaries are rampaging unchecked, and no one is left to stop them?"

The disciple nodded frantically, his forehead pressed to the cold floor. "Y-yes, Sect Master. Forgive me."

"How many of these vermin are there?" Vaelric demanded, his tone sharp as a blade.

"We've identified five different groups, Sect Master," the disciple replied quickly. "Each group consists of four people. They move separately, but their timing is precise. Wherever they strike, they leave behind carnage before we can respond."