Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

"I don't want those people to disappear."

The words settled like stone.

Selenne didn't move.

But her mind shifted—tilted, just slightly—at the weight of his words.

"I don't want those people to disappear."

What did he mean by that?

Her lips parted, then closed again. Not because she lacked something to say—no, there were a dozen responses lined and ready. But none of them felt precise enough to pierce through the strange, heavy quiet he'd left hanging in the air.

And stranger still—

That look in his eyes. That pitch-black steadiness that didn't flinch, didn't search, didn't beg.

It knew.

It unsettled her.

Not because it was dangerous.

But because it was familiar.

Too familiar.

Her gaze narrowed as she tried to place it. Not just the words, but the presence. That absurd quiet wrapped in calm resolve, masked behind annoyance-inducing vagueness. That damnable sense of gravity that some people wore not by choice but by having survived things no one had the language to explain.

She'd seen it once before.

Long ago.

In the eyes of the man who had saved her life—and then…

The resemblance was shallow, she told herself. Surface-deep. A trick of mood and moment.

Still…

Her brow furrowed.

"This isn't a story, Lucavion," she said, her voice sharper now. "You're not here to play riddles. You don't get to hide behind poetic little phrases and think it makes you wiser than the room."

She leaned forward, fingers steepling atop the desk, her tone lowering—not in threat, but in pressure. Pure, deliberate weight.

"You're a student. You have been granted position, and attention, and space in a system that would've chewed up others like you without blinking. So when I ask you a question, I expect an answer—not fog. Not parables."

Her eyes bore into his now.

"Who do you think you are?"

Lucavion didn't flinch.

Didn't shift.

Didn't even blink at her demand.

Instead—

He smiled.

Not smug. Not theatrical. But light. Careless. The kind of grin someone wore when the stakes of the conversation didn't weigh on them in the way they should've.

Selenne's eyes narrowed further.

Disrespect?

Perhaps.

But that wasn't what got under her skin.

It was the ease.

The way he didn't seem to register who he was speaking to.

He should've been intimidated. At the very least, he should've hesitated under the weight of her title—her presence. But Lucavion…?

No.

He leaned back like they were discussing weather, like his future didn't hang in the air between them.

"Who do I think I am?" he echoed, tapping a finger to his chin in exaggerated thought. "I guess… someone with decent taste in change."

She stared at him. Hard.

And he just smirked.

The lightness wasn't amusing.

It wasn't charming.

It was unbothered.

Like he truly didn't care what she thought of him.

Her jaw set, a muscle ticking along the edge of her face.

"You're not taking this seriously," she said coolly.

Lucavion raised his brows. "Sure I am."

He tilted his head. "Magister Selenne. You're the one making it sound serious."

Selenne sat back slightly, lips pressing together.

Fine.

If this was how he wanted to play it—

Then there was little she could do.

She had asked.

And he had answered—in that infuriating, noncommittal way of his.

No threats would work on him. No lectures. No veiled warnings. He wouldn't bend to tone or tradition or fear.

And if that was the case…

"Then I see no point in keeping you here," she said at last, voice ice-smooth. "If you insist on cryptic deflections, Lucavion, then I won't waste my breath. You'll likely be facing disciplinary review soon regardless."

Lucavion didn't bristle.

Didn't ask for leniency.

He shrugged. "That's fine by me. Let them bring it on."

He rose from the chair, as casual as if he'd just finished a stroll. "It's not like I did anything wrong anyway."

Her expression twitched.

The faintest tightening of her mouth.

"Is that so?"

He nodded once. "That's so."

She watched him as he moved—slow, unhurried, unbothered.

It wasn't rebellion.

It wasn't arrogance, even.

It was detachment.

Right at the threshold of the door, her voice cut through the quiet.

Cool. Crisp. Laced with finality.

"I won't help you, Lucavion. You understand that?"

Lucavion paused. Turned his head just enough for her to see the corner of his mouth twitch again.

"That is your choice," he replied, voice light, polite even—too polite.

"I don't force anyone to act in a certain manner."

Then, with a lazy flick of his wrist, almost like he was brushing aside a dust mote in the air, he added:

"In the first place, I didn't act with an assumption that anyone would be helping me anyway, Magister Selenne."

He turned back fully, one last glance over his shoulder—dark eyes unreadable.

"And that hasn't changed."

Then he stepped out, the door shutting behind him with a dull, definitive click.

Selenne didn't move for several seconds.

She didn't move for several seconds after the door clicked shut.

Silence returned—deep, thick, irritating.

Selenne exhaled slowly, the breath tight in her chest like something wound too sharply.

This should've been routine. A simple disciplinary interrogation. A clarification. A pressure test.

Not a loss.

But that's what it felt like.

Not because she'd failed to get an answer. He'd given answers—just not the kind that could be boxed, filed, and written up for the council's records.

No, this wasn't about bureaucracy.

This was personal.

She leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on the closed door, her fingers pressing lightly against her lips.

That feeling… that sliver of unease clawing its way up from her spine—it wasn't fear. It wasn't even frustration, not entirely.

It was something sharper.

More humiliating.

She felt like she'd lost.

To a student.

Not in magic. Not in rank. Not in the logic of academia.

But in presence. In control. In the balance of power between speaker and listener.

And the worst part?

He didn't even try.

Lucavion hadn't fought her. Hadn't raised his voice. Hadn't defended himself with passion or logic or defiance.

He'd just… refused to play.

That's what gnawed at her.

That dismissive calm.

The way he made her questions feel small without saying they were.

The way he smiled like the outcome didn't matter.

Not out of arrogance.

Not even out of superiority.

But because he had already accepted something she hadn't even identified yet.

And then there were his words.

"In the first place, I didn't act with an assumption that anyone would be helping me anyway, Magister Selenne."

Her jaw clenched, slow and quiet.

That line—out of everything—that line wouldn't leave her alone.

Not because it was dramatic. Or even particularly clever.

But because it struck a nerve she hadn't known was exposed.

That lonely certainty.

That quiet truth said without bitterness, without edge.

She'd known people like that. Been one, once.

But even then, she'd wanted someone to help.

Lucavion?

He said it like help was never part of the equation. Like it would be absurd to factor it in.

Are you some sort of lone wolf, kid? she thought bitterly.

She could almost hear herself saying it aloud. Disdain curling into her voice.

Because it was childish.

Romanticizing independence.

Her fingers curled slightly against the desk.

No magic. No aura flaring. Just a quiet, deliberate tension—like the air before a storm that hadn't yet decided who it would strike.

Selenne didn't like being ignored.

She didn't like being dismissed.

And she certainly didn't like the way Lucavion had walked out of that room as if he were the one letting her go.

She rose slowly, her chair sliding back without a sound. Her gaze lingered on the door for a long moment, something sharp and cold simmering beneath her otherwise composed expression.

"If that's how you want to play it," she thought, the words biting even in her own mind, "then we'll see."