Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

"For now, the Crystal Hall examination must continue. Any further disruptions will be considered obstruction of process and subject to penalty."

Because that wasn't a warning.

That was protocol.

Even the students who'd been murmuring in low outrage now fell still, recognizing that the Academy had drawn its line.

A few still looked sour.

But most nodded—if only because challenging the examiners meant inviting trouble.

From the Rune Block platform, Professor Elir Varnen—still standing beside the testing sphere—gave a small nod of agreement, his face unreadable but eyes narrowed in thought.

"I'll oversee the resonance retest personally," he said, voice low but audible. "Whatever this is, it's not a malfunction."

Lucavion's mouth twitched. "Glad to know I'm not defective."

Professor Varnen didn't respond.

But Valeria saw it again—that thin furrow of interest, not confusion. Not judgment.

Study.

The way scholars looked at rare tomes that had survived fires they shouldn't have.

The examiner gestured once more, calm and decisive.

"Next student."

The command echoed off the spires.

And like a dam being lifted, the testing line began to move again—hesitant, slow at first, but rejoining rhythm under the enforced weight of silence.

Lucavion stepped back without another word, folding once again into the edge of the chamber like he'd never been the center of it.

Valeria watched him retreat.

Unhurried.

Unbothered.

But just before he turned fully away, she'd caught it—a subtle sound beneath the final commands.

A click of his tongue.

Quiet.

Pointed.

It wasn't for the crowd.

It wasn't for D'Rion.

It was for the examiner.

And it stayed with her.

'Why then?'

It hadn't been frustration. Not exactly.

It was restraint.

Lucavion had obeyed, said nothing more. But that small click—it was deliberate. Like he was acknowledging something unspoken. Something expected.

He moved toward the side arch, footsteps silent against the marble, vanishing back through the very corridor he'd entered from—slipping out as easily as he'd arrived.

Valeria's foot moved—instinct first.

But before she could step after him—

Bump.

A light impact. Barely enough to stagger.

"Oh—!"

Valeria turned sharply, arm half-raised before her mind caught up.

A girl stood in front of her. Chestnut hair, tied in a ribboned half-knot. Hazel eyes wide with surprise.

She looked young. Maybe fifteen. Her uniform crisp, the inner lining marked with the subtle silver trim of the Academy's support and theory track.

Valeria blinked once—then remembered.

The banquet.

This girl had been seated near one of the northern tables. Not particularly loud, not drawing attention—but something about her had caught Valeria's eye even then. Composure, maybe. Or the way she'd quietly taken note of everyone without pretending to be uninterested.

Their eyes met.

Just for a second.

A flicker of mutual recognition passed between them.

"Ah…" the girl started, then lowered her gaze slightly. "I'm sorry."

She stepped aside with a quick, courteous nod—then disappeared back into the crowd, swallowed by the line shifting forward.

Valeria turned.

But Lucavion was gone.

The archway was empty.

And her hand, still poised near her blade, curled tightly into a fist before slowly relaxing.

She exhaled.

And then, she remembered—

Her examination.

3:30.

The time ticked in her mind like a chime she couldn't silence.

'Right…'

She couldn't just leave.

*****

Elara arrived just as the murmurs began to splinter into full voices.

By the time she reached the steps of the Crystal Hall, the tension had already crystallized into something sharp—accusations rippling through the air like heat above flame. Students lingered in tight clusters, their uniforms flashing with House crests, faces bright with that particular kind of excitement that only surfaced when ruin wasn't their own.

"What happened?" she asked the nearest pair without thinking.

They didn't look at her, still half-whispering. "They're saying he tampered with the entrance exam. Used an artifact—something to spike the readings."

"Lucavion?"

The name barely left her lips before another voice cut across the hall, loud and eager:

"Commoner tricks, always the same. That kind of flare isn't natural."

Her stomach clenched. 'Artifact?'

Elara pushed through the press of bodies until she caught fragments of what had unfolded.

In that moment of chaos, he'd simply stood there.

Unflinching. Hands in his pockets. As if he'd expected the storm to come.

No spell residue. No illegal artifacts found on him.

But the image—the flare of black fire licking through the transparent sphere—had already spread like gossip with wings. The crowd didn't need proof. They needed a villain.

By the time the examiners restored order, Lucavion's name had already been dragged through a dozen whispered accusations. And yet, he hadn't defended himself once. Just watched. Quiet. Detached.

Then, when examiners dismissed the chaos with clipped finality, Lucavion had simply turned, ignored the sneers, and walked out through one of the side doors—the west corridor that led toward the outer walkways.

Elara stood frozen for a few seconds longer, the weight of everything pressing tight against her ribs. The other students' voices blurred into nothing.

Her first instinct was to leave it—walk away, let him handle the mess he'd made of himself. He didn't deserve her attention, much less concern.

But when her eyes fell to the faint outline of the door he'd exited through, she felt the pull all the same.

'He was there when I took my test,' she thought, jaw tightening. 'It's only fair I return the favor.'

That was how she framed it—fairness, obligation, balance. She told herself she wasn't doing it out of guilt or unease or whatever strange ache had taken root in her chest when the crowd called his name.

But as she slipped out through the opposite side of the hall to circle around and find him, she knew—her heart wasn't nearly as rational as she wanted it to be.

The corridors beyond the Crystal Hall were quieter—cooler too, the air still humming faintly with the aftershock of layered enchantments.

Elara's steps echoed softly against the marble, steadying as her pulse began to settle. Fairness. Obligation. Nothing more. She repeated it to herself like a charm, letting the logic dull the strange tightness in her chest.

Still, a dozen questions pressed behind her ribs.

What exactly happened?

By the time she reached the west courtyard's glass-lined corridor, she caught sight of him—Lucavion standing near the outer arches, his silhouette cut sharp against the fading light. He wasn't alone.

Across from him stood Professor Varnen, posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back. Even from a distance, Elara could sense the weight in his mana signature: calm, deliberate, quietly formidable.

She slowed her pace and pressed herself to the edge of the columned walkway, staying hidden behind one of the supporting pillars. A faint flicker of blue shimmered over her fingers as she whispered under her breath, tracing the sigil for Audire. The magic hummed faintly, then cleared her hearing like a lens focusing.

"…the readings were not falsified," Varnen was saying, voice low but clear. "That much I can confirm."

Lucavion's reply came smooth, even—almost bored. "Then the accusations are baseless. You can tell them that."

"I intend to," Varnen said. "But understand this—whatever you did, or whatever your core did, the academy will not overlook it. The resonance registered a dual-output spike across incompatible spectrums. That doesn't happen."

Lucavion's mouth twitched—just barely. A crease at the edge, equal parts amusement and fatigue.

"Professor," he said, with that familiar drawl that made even dismissiveness sound polite, "please refrain from using such… technical terms. You'll spoil the mystery."

There was no smirk. Not this time. Just a glint in his eyes that made Varnen pause.

The professor's lips pressed together in a thin line—half a second of irritation, then acceptance. He exhaled, gaze dropping for the briefest moment to the marble at their feet before rising again.

"You're right," Varnen murmured. "Too much jargon obscures more than it clarifies."

He folded his arms behind his back again, spine straightening with academic precision. "Most likely," he continued, voice clipped now, "your flame is something… specialized. A deviation rooted not in artifice, but in cultivation. Possibly ancestral. Possibly attuned to a forgotten branch of mana harmonics. Everything is possible."

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable. "Maybe."

"….Sigh…"