Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

“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.”

A few beats of silence.

Lucavion leaned back slightly, watching. Interesting.

Draven wasn’t just planning a single strike. This wasn’t just about hitting a trade deal.

He was pushing every major force in Varenthia to move against the Black Veil at once.

And it was working.

Soren grunted, crossing his arms. “Alright. Say we go along with this insanity. Taking out a trade meeting won’t be enough. They’ll recover.”

Draven nodded. “That’s why we’re not stopping there.”

He pulled a rolled-up parchment from his coat and tossed it onto the table. It unfurled, revealing a map of Varenthia.

Several locations were already marked.

Warehouses. Hidden strongholds. Key supply lines.

Soren’s eyes flicked over it, his scowl deepening. “You really want to burn them out.”

Draven smirked. “They’ve been getting too many customers lately. That stops now.”

Marciel let out a slow breath. “Even the Iris Bloom?”

Lucavion raised an eyebrow at the name.

Vyrell sighed, rubbing his temple. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?”

Draven’s smirk didn’t fade. “They took over our product.”

Lucavion tilted his head slightly. “Iris Bloom?”

Draven’s eyes flicked toward him before he explained. “A narcotic,” he said simply. “High-end. Rare. Expensive. You don’t find it outside of Varenthia’s underground markets.”

Vyrell added, “It’s also the reason we’ve kept certain powerful people on our side. Officials, nobles, even Republic merchants. The trade keeps the right hands full of coin.”

Lucavion stayed silent, his gaze drifting across the gathered men. His fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his chair, slow and deliberate, as if absorbing every word.

Then, in that same calm, lazy voice, he mused, “One of the biggest businesses, I presume?”

Draven smirked. “Not one of the biggest. The biggest.”

Lucavion nodded. “I see.”

That was all he said, but the weight of his words settled into the room.

Soren scoffed, rolling his shoulders. “Tch. Say we agree. You think we haven’t thought about this before? You think we wouldn’t have already burned their warehouses if we could?” He leaned forward, his voice carrying a bitter edge. “How do you plan to deal with Aldric?”

Marciel exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Yeah. That’s the damn problem. He’s a 6-star Awakened, for fuck’s sake.” He motioned toward the map. “This whole plan is bold, I’ll give you that. But none of this means shit if Aldric is still standing at the end of it.”

Vyrell’s gaze was steady, unreadable. “You’re acting like we were just too cautious before,” he murmured. “Like we were afraid to strike. But the truth is, we never had the option.”

Silence.

Then, Vyrell continued. “We’ve never thought to gather together and move against the Black Veil like this because it would have been suicide. Aldric alone is enough to keep this city in check. You don’t make enemies of a 6-star Awakened unless you have someone just as strong to counter him.”

Lucavion glanced at Draven, his smirk returning ever so slightly.

“And from what I’m hearing,” Vyrell continued, his cold gaze never wavering, “no one like that has entered Varenthia. No one from Solmara. No one from the Republic. No one from Arcanis.”

He exhaled slowly, tapping his knuckles against the table. “So unless you’ve got an army hidden somewhere, Draven… this plan still fails.”

Draven chuckled.

The sound was low, amused.

Then—he gestured lazily toward Lucavion.

Marciel’s brow furrowed. Soren’s expression darkened. Vyrell, for once, looked uncertain.

Draven’s smirk widened.

“But this time,” he said smoothly, “I do have someone.”

The room shifted.

Lucavion simply smiled. But in that moment, his presence felt different. Sharper. Heavier.

Soren exhaled sharply, glancing between Draven and Lucavion. “…You’re fucking kidding me.”

Draven leaned forward slightly, his smirk never fading. “I don’t joke about things like this.”

Vyrell’s fingers curled slightly. His cold gaze flicked toward Lucavion, studying him again—but this time, with more weight.

The room felt tight.

The problem they had never been able to solve—the reason why none of them had dared move before—Draven had just thrown the answer in front of them.

And he was smiling.

Silence stretched through the room, thick with unspoken doubt.

Lucavion felt their gazes on him—weighing, measuring, doubting. He was used to it. People always looked at him the same way at first. With curiosity. With skepticism.

Then, eventually—with fear.

But these men? They weren’t there yet.

Soren let out a sharp exhale, his expression somewhere between disbelief and irritation. He turned to Draven, voice flat. “You’re fucking serious? This kid?” He motioned toward Lucavion, his scarred knuckles tightening. “He’s your answer to Aldric?”

Draven just smirked. “That’s right.”

Soren’s brows twitched. He looked at Lucavion again, this time more critically. The kid—because that’s what he looked like, a damn kid—was holding his composure just fine. His expression was unreadable, his posture relaxed, but that didn’t mean shit.

Soren had met plenty of cocky bastards in his time. Plenty of men who carried themselves like they were untouchable—right up until the moment they got crushed.

And Lucavion?

He was young.

That much was obvious. Early twenties, twenty-five at most. His features were sharp, striking, but still held the smoothness of youth. His scar gave him a dangerous look, sure, but it wasn’t enough to make up for experience.

Soren scoffed. “Draven, have you lost your fucking mind?”

Marciel sighed, rubbing his temple. “I was going to ask the same thing.” His sharp eyes flicked toward Lucavion, assessing him from a different angle. “You’re telling us that this… no-name swordsman is supposed to stand against a 6-star Awakened?” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Do you even realize how absurd that sounds?”

Vyrell, who had been quiet so far, finally spoke. “Even the most talented prodigies of this generation are at most 5-star. Some at their peak might be on the edge of breaking through, but even then, that’s still a massive gap.”

His cool, unreadable eyes locked onto Lucavion. “And yet, you’re claiming that you can do what no one else can?”

Lucavion didn’t answer immediately.

His smirk didn’t fade, but there was something behind his eyes. A flicker of something sharp, something old.

Draven just chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re all thinking too small.”

Soren scowled. “Thinking small?” He exhaled sharply, leaning forward. “Draven, you do realize that this isn’t just about skill, right? This is about power. Raw, overwhelming power. Aldric isn’t just another swordsman—he’s a fucking 6-star.”

Marciel nodded. “That kind of difference isn’t something you just ‘overcome.’ It’s a gap in strength that can’t be ignored.”

Vyrell’s gaze sharpened. “Unless…”

The room tensed slightly.

Vyrell studied Lucavion once more, his eyes narrowing. “…Unless you’re telling us that this man is already beyond 5-star.”

A quiet beat.

Then, Soren scoffed.

“Now I know you’re full of shit,” he muttered. “A kid like this? Beyond 5-star? Don’t make me laugh.”

Lucavion simply smiled.

The tension in the room had shifted.

It wasn’t just skepticism anymore—there was challenge in the air.

Draven leaned back slightly, his sharp gray eyes sweeping over the gathered men before settling on Lucavion. He studied him for a moment longer, then exhaled, his smirk fading just a little.

“You…” he muttered. Then, his voice hardened. “Do it.”

Lucavion raised an eyebrow. “Here?”

“Yes,” Draven said firmly.

Lucavion sighed through his nose, then nodded.

And in the next instant—

The entire room shifted.

A wave of black starlit mana erupted from Lucavion’s body, unfurling like a void swallowing the air itself. The pressure was immediate, dense and unnatural, filling the chamber with an oppressive weight. His usually dark eyes turned—shifting, expanding—like a night sky bursting with countless stars.

The air became thick, heavy, stifling.

The gathered leaders reacted instantly.

Vyrell’s fingers twitched, his own aura flaring up—cold, sharp, methodical. Soren’s brute-force mana surged outward, raw power colliding against the dark starlight. Marciel, ever the cautious one, tightened his grip on the edge of the table as he sent his own controlled wave of resistance.

Every single one of them—all of them, 5-star Awakened—instinctively pushed back.

And for a moment, the pressure evened out.

Soren scoffed, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted to the suffocating weight in the air. “Is that it?” His voice was rough, unimpressed. “Draven, if this is what you were banking on, you’ve already lost. It’s strong, sure, but it’s not enough to take on Aldric.”

Marciel exhaled, regaining his composure. “I can feel it—it’s different. But not overwhelming.”

Vyrell’s gaze remained steady. He wasn’t so quick to dismiss it. But even so, this wasn’t enough.

Draven, however, didn’t react to them.

He simply looked at Lucavion, his smirk widening just slightly.

“Kid, don’t hold back.”

Lucavion let out a slow, tired sigh.

Then—

The room collapsed.

Or at least, that’s how it felt.

A second wave of power surged from Lucavion, deeper, darker—unstoppable. This time, it wasn’t just the quiet, creeping weight of starlit mana. Pitch-black flames erupted from his body, curling and twisting around the air like living shadows.

The flames didn’t burn the walls. Didn’t scorch the table.

But they pressed down—and they devoured.

The moment they meshed with the cosmic starlight, everything changed.

The weight in the air doubled.

No—tripled.

Soren’s teeth clenched as he staggered slightly, his instincts screaming at him. Marciel inhaled sharply, his carefully controlled aura buckling under the force. Vyrell’s fingers twitched as his mana tried to hold the pressure back—but it wasn’t enough.

A deep, suffocating stillness settled into their chests, their breathing turning difficult.

Soren cursed under his breath, his hand twitching toward his weapon.

And he wasn’t the only one.

The others—all of them—were instinctively reaching for their blades, their magic, their weapons—anything to defend themselves.

But before any of them could move—

Draven raised a hand.

A sharp, clear gesture.

A silent command.

Soren gritted his teeth but didn’t draw his blade. Marciel hesitated, his fingers curling against the wood but remaining still. Vyrell’s cold eyes flicked between Draven and Lucavion, his mind already racing with calculations.

Lucavion, meanwhile, looked completely unfazed.

He was simply waiting.

And Draven, still seated at the head of the table, chuckled.

“See now?” he murmured.