Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 746: Found you

Chapter 746: Found youThe name landed like a blade drawn from scabbard steel.

Lucavion.

Jesse’s breath hitched.

Her eyes widened—not from surprise alone, but something deeper. A crack in the quiet armor she’d worn since stepping into the city. She had expected to chase whispers. Expected silence, not confirmation. Not now. Not like this.

Her heartbeat quickened, breath shallow for a moment as her gaze slowly lifted toward Virelle.

The barkeep hadn’t noticed at first—too caught in her memory of the scene—but when she met Jesse’s eyes, she paused.

A beat.

Then Virelle chuckled softly, as if easing back into the tale. "He looked cool, I’ll tell you that. Dead calm. Not in that cold, cocky way some of the highbloods do it, either. It was like... everything he did made sense. Every movement. Every dodge. Like he was already five steps ahead of everyone in that arena."

Jesse said nothing. Her fingers curled slightly around the rim of her glass.

"His opponent?" Virelle went on, voice warming with admiration, "Reynald Vale. That one’s no slouch either—young noble, sharp instincts. Protected a whole group of candidates during the labyrinth sequence. Kept them alive, advanced through every phase, even earned the crowd’s favor by the end of day two."

She shook her head slowly, eyes distant with memory.

"But then he went up against him."

"Lucavion," Jesse whispered. She hadn’t meant to. The name slipped out like breath on glass.

Virelle gave her a knowing glance. "Yeah. Lucavion. The way that duel played out..." She gave a low whistle. "That wasn’t just talent. That was art. Fluid. Relentless. Precise."

"He beat Reynald, or whatever that person’s name?" Jesse asked, her voice thin with disbelief and awe.

"He didn’t just beat him," Virelle said, her tone quiet now, reverent. "He commanded the field. Turned the whole damn arena into a fire pit by the end—some old sigil layering technique no one saw coming. Even us old-timers felt it. That weight. That certainty. Like watching the idea of an Awakened, not just a person."

She let out a slow breath, then chuckled. "Hells, I hadn’t felt that fire in my veins since the March on Stoneveil. And I wasn’t the only one. The whole inn went still. No one spoke. Just watched."

Jesse swallowed hard, the back of her throat dry.

She could see it in her mind. That boy. Pale. Silent. Moving like the world had already told him its secrets. She hadn’t seen him in years. Not truly. Not since he vanished without a word. And yet—

She could still hear his voice in her memory.

"Drinking doesn’t fix it."

Virelle watched her for a moment longer, then spoke, more gently this time. "You knew him?"

Jesse’s voice came softly—fragile, almost disbelieving. "Yeah... he was an old friend of mine."

Virelle didn’t press. Not immediately. She simply nodded, polishing the rim of another glass with a slow, practiced hand. Then—casually, but not unkindly—she said, "Well, then you’ll probably want to know the rest."

Jesse blinked. "The rest?"

Virelle leaned on her elbows, eyes still carrying a flicker of admiration. "After the duel with Reynald... well, that boy didn’t stop there. Reynald had protected a handful of promising candidates all through the trials. Got them through ambushes, mana beasts, cursed terrain—you name it. Real leadership."

"But Lucavion..." Virelle clicked her tongue. "He eliminated every single one Reynald had protected. Picked them off one by one after the match, during the final skirmish phase. Clean. Tactical. No wasted movement."

Jesse’s eyes widened, breath catching again.

"And when the dust settled," Virelle said, voice low with finality, "Lucavion stood alone. Ranked first. Unanimously."

The inn suddenly felt too quiet. The fire too warm. The drink in Jesse’s glass suddenly not enough.

"Does that mean..." she began, the words catching in her throat, "...he’ll be entering the Academy?"

Virelle gave her a long, steady look. Then nodded. "That’s what I heard. Academy confirmed it last night. First seat goes to Lucavion. He’ll be at the banquet tomorrow, along with the rest."

And just like that—something cracked in Jesse.

Her expression didn’t twist with confusion or sorrow.

No.

A smile bloomed—slowly, then all at once. One that couldn’t be hidden, even if she’d tried. It was crooked at first. Disbelieving. Like the start of laughter after days of silence. But it grew, wide and bright and utterly unguarded.

To think...

To truly think—that she’d find him here, in this place, in this city of floating sigils and foreign sky.

All this time, she had been

None of them spoke unless addressed. It was early still, and their lady’s mind was elsewhere.

She held a polished dataslate in her lap, its interface scrolled open to a rotating archive of portraits and names. Lineages. Aptitude rankings. Regional affiliations. Known dueling records. Instructor notations, where applicable.

The official registry of incoming students to the Imperial Arcanis Academy—Class 127.

She skimmed in silence.

House Kalenhart’s heir. Strong in diplomatic shielding techniques.

The Scion of Vervain. Tied to the Ivory Guild. Likely dangerous in subtle influence.

A prodigy from the outer southern dominion. Commoner background—but sponsored by a minor barony with peculiar ties to the Northern Research Ministry.

All noted. All committed to memory.

In the world she belonged to, disrespect was rarely loud.

It arrived as a pause too long. A greeting too informal. A glance held just a second past permission. Nobility spoke in brushstrokes, not declarations. And Valeria—trained by her mother, tempered by her station—knew how easily a wrong note could haunt a year of politics.

So she studied.

She studied because it mattered. Because power was sometimes a name remembered—or one deliberately forgotten.

A hairpin clicked into place. A small mirror was tilted before her, the attendant awaiting approval. Valeria gave a nod—silent, efficient.

Still her eyes stayed on the list.

Then, her thumb paused.

The entry wasn’t bolded. It bore no crest.

Just a single name.

Lucavion.

No surname. No house. No affiliations listed.

No sponsors. No endorsements.

But his rank—unofficially annotated in crimson by one of the more thorough registry aides—was "Unknown / Combat-Verified: Peak 4-Star."

A note beneath it:

"Defeated Candidate Reynald Vale in trial match. Technique unregistered. Recommendation: observe."

Valeria’s lips curved faintly.

Not a smile. Not quite.

Just a recognition of something inevitable.

The flame that slipped through the cracks of recorded fire.

"You’ll cause noise in a place that survives on silence," she murmured to herself, the dataslate folding closed with a soft chime.

"My lady?" one of the attendants asked gently, hands paused over the fastening of her cloak’s inner collar.

Valeria tilted her chin.

"Continue."