Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The heavy wooden doors creaked open.

Lucavion stepped inside, his black coat swaying slightly as he moved. His steps were calm, measured—as if he had all the time in the world. He wasn’t tense, nor did he look particularly intrigued by what was happening. He simply arrived.

Draven sat at the head of the long, dimly lit table, his fingers lazily tapping against the wood. Around him, the room was not empty.

Several figures occupied the seats, some leaning back with crossed arms, others sitting upright with sharp, unreadable gazes. These were not mere mercenaries.

They were the power players of Varenthia.

Vyrell Fenrick, the cold-eyed strategist of the Dusk Fang Syndicate. An older man, clad in dark robes, his face lined with experience rather than age. A thinker. A planner. The type who saw the world as a chessboard and rarely made a move without considering the entire game.

Soren Kael, the leader of the Crimson Dogs. A brute of a man, all broad shoulders and scarred knuckles, sitting with an impatient scowl. Unlike Vyrell, he wasn’t one for long discussions—he wanted results.

Marciel Vance, a high-ranking broker with Republic ties. A slim, well-dressed man with a calculating stare, always balancing his words like he was weighing gold in his head. He was here because the Republic was watching—waiting to see where this conflict led.

And a handful of others. Each one representing an interest in this city.

Lucavion’s arrival drew all of their attention.

Some of them merely glanced at him, as if assessing a new piece on the board. Others frowned slightly, sensing something about him that felt off.

Draven exhaled through his nose, amused by their reactions. “Glad you could join us,” he said smoothly, gesturing toward an empty seat. “Take a seat, Lucavion.”

Lucavion didn’t move immediately. He let his dark gaze roam across the room, taking in who was here, what they were. Judging. Calculating.

Then, with an easy smirk, he strode forward and lowered himself into the chair.

A quiet murmur rippled through the gathered men as Lucavion settled into his chair, completely at ease. The heavy candlelight flickered against the rough wooden table, casting uneven shadows over the figures seated around it.

Soren Kael leaned forward first, his thick arms crossing over his broad chest. His eyes, sharp and impatient, swept over Lucavion from head to toe. “Is that him?” he asked, voice gruff. “The one you talked about?”

Draven tilted his head slightly, smirking. “Yes.”

A pause.

“Hmm…”

Vyrell Fenrick, ever the quiet observer, said nothing at first. He merely studied Lucavion with a cold, calculating gaze, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. The dim lighting barely touched his expression, but the sharp glint in his eyes showed he was already considering variables, outcomes. Risks.

Lucavion felt their eyes on him—felt the weight of their scrutiny—but he didn’t react. He didn’t shift, didn’t frown, didn’t make any effort to ease their suspicions.

Instead, he simply let them look.

His smirk remained, lazy yet knowing.

Unbothered.

It wasn’t the confidence of a man trying to prove himself. It wasn’t arrogance, either. It was something worse.

Something eerie.

Soren narrowed his eyes slightly. Something about this bastard’s presence made his instincts coil. He had met plenty of killers in his life—brutal men, cold men, those who enjoyed the thrill of bloodshed.

But Lucavion?

Lucavion wasn’t giving off the aura of someone hungry for violence. If anything, he seemed… apathetic to it. Like he had already decided the outcome of this meeting before even stepping inside.

Soren clicked his tongue, resting his elbows on the table. Something about this guy feels off.

Marciel Vance, the broker from the Republic, was less openly hostile but no less wary. He was a man of numbers, a man who measured risks before making deals. And right now, he was measuring Lucavion.

Where did this guy come from?

Lucavion didn’t look like a battle-hardened warlord, nor did he carry himself like some former noble turned mercenary. His features were sharp, composed—too composed. Most men who sat in this room, who spoke with people like Draven, Soren, and Vyrell, at least showed some hesitation. Even the most dangerous assassins and syndicate leaders had an instinct to stay guarded around men like them.

But Lucavion?

Not a single flicker of tension.

No telltale signs of a man preparing for violence.

No unnecessary movement.

Even now, as the air grew heavier with suspicion, he didn’t move.

Marciel tapped a single finger against the table, his sharp eyes narrowing. What kind of man sits among killers and doesn’t even blink?

Someone either very powerful or very foolish.

Vyrell, still silent, continued to observe. His mind worked through scenarios, trying to piece together the gaps in information. This wasn’t a man they had ever heard of before—Draven hadn’t given them much about his background, only that he was an asset.

But an asset from where?

He was too young to have come from the old blood of Varenthia’s mercenary families. He wasn’t a Republic hound, nor was he affiliated with any of the noble houses in Solmara or Arcanis.

So who the hell was he?

Vyrell exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping once against the wood. “Where did you find him?” he finally asked, his voice smooth and measured. “Men of his… stature are not exactly common.”

Lucavion’s smirk widened slightly, but before he could speak, Draven raised a hand.

“That doesn’t matter,” Draven said, his tone final. “What matters is that he’s here. And for now, he’s my problem.”

Vyrell’s eyes flicked toward Draven, as if weighing the meaning behind those words.

Draven wasn’t an idiot.

He didn’t vouch for people lightly. If he was willing to stake his credibility on this Lucavion, then there was something real behind it.

Soren scoffed, shaking his head slightly. “Fine. But if he turns out to be useless, I’m not wasting my men on him.”

The tension in the room didn’t fade after Draven’s declaration. If anything, it sharpened.

Lucavion could tell—these men were already talking about this before he even stepped in.

His arrival might have changed the approach, but the storm had been brewing long before now.

Soren Kael scoffed, leaning back in his chair with a deep scowl. “You called us here because you’re planning something big.” His thick fingers drummed against the table. “So let’s get to it.”

Vyrell nodded, his gaze sliding back to Draven. “You had our attention before he arrived,” he murmured, motioning vaguely toward Lucavion. “What exactly are you planning?”

Draven leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I just got fresh intel.” His voice was smooth, measured, but there was a sharp glint in his eyes. “Aldric has a new deal lined up.”

That caught everyone’s attention.

Marciel straightened slightly, his calculating eyes narrowing. “A trade?”

Draven smirked. “Yes. And his right-hand men will be attending that meeting.”

The air shifted.

Lucavion didn’t miss the way the expressions around the room flickered—hesitation, intrigue, and in some cases, outright concern.

Soren exhaled sharply. “And what? You’re thinking of hitting them there?”

Draven nodded. “My men will target them at the trade.”

Silence.

Then—

“Are you crazy?” Marciel’s voice was sharp, his usual composed demeanor cracking slightly. “Directly attacking a trade like that is suicide.”

Draven exhaled through his nose, unconcerned. “Tch. You say that like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Marciel’s jaw tightened. “You know exactly what I mean. This isn’t a small skirmish. You attack them during a major deal, and you’re not just cutting into their operations—you’re making this a full-scale war.”

Draven smirked. “Good.”

Soren let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Hah. You want this to be a war.”

Draven shrugged. “They’ve been expanding too fast. Too aggressively.” His gaze swept across the table. “You all know it. You’ve seen it. They’ve been swallowing our businesses whole, taking our clients, our suppliers. And if we keep sitting here playing cautious, we’re going to wake up one day and realize there’s nothing left to fight for.”

Vyrell exhaled, his fingers steepling beneath his chin. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “But an open war will put the entire city on edge. The balance we’ve maintained—”

“Is already gone,” Draven interrupted. His voice didn’t rise, but it carried weight. “The moment we let them establish themselves, the moment we let them take over our business, we lost the balance. They’ve already forced this into a fight. I’m just making sure we don’t lose it before we start.”