Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The streets of Arcania never truly slept. Even now, in the lull between sun’s descent and moon’s full dominion, mana-lit lanterns pulsed like quiet hearts along the arches of silverstone roads, casting elongated shadows over ever-moving silhouettes. And amongst it all, boots striking cobble without urgency nor aim, Lucavion walked.

Not with a purpose, per se. No destination. Just the luxury of time—something he hadn’t known the taste of in a long while.

Vitaliara perched lightly on his shoulder, tail wrapped loosely around his neck, her presence half-feline, half-forgotten royalty. She glanced at the passing noble banners, the flickering lights that rose from the taverns and candidate lounges nearby.

[You seem… pleased with yourself.] Her voice was soft, but not without edge—like silk draped over a blade.

Lucavion’s smile curved, faint but unmistakable. “Is it that obvious?”

[Only when you try to look too casual.]

‘I suppose I’ve earned it.’ His eyes wandered upward, past the crest-lined spires and into the distant silhouette of the Spiral Nexus. ‘Twenty days. Long enough to see the city’s rot. Short enough to remain unbothered by it.’

He had arrived early, earlier than most would consider proper. But propriety had always been something he wore when convenient—never when necessary.

‘Besides…’ His gaze dipped, scanning the ever-thinning line of hopefuls by the Trial Pavilion, some still curled beneath their wagons, asleep with blades at their sides. ‘…bribes wouldn’t work this time.’

[You didn’t bribe anyone this time,] Vitaliara noted with a hum, feigning innocence.

Lucavion scoffed, brushing an errant wisp of her hair from his collar. “Bribes solve problems when systems are flawed. This one, however…” He gestured lazily toward the Trial Grounds with a tilt of his chin, “This one’s different. In the capital, a different currency speaks.”

[Let me guess, prestige? Bloodline? Or perhaps… showmanship?]

“All of them.” He rolled his shoulder gently to reposition her weight. “But more than that… this time, it’s narrative.”

Vitaliara blinked, her golden eyes narrowing with interest.

Lucavion didn’t comment further.

Some thoughts were best left unsaid—especially the ones that gave too much away. And besides, the moment felt too quiet, too rich with evening lull, to ruin it with philosophy.

Instead, he slid his hands into the deep pockets of his coat, glancing toward the slow bustle that still echoed near the far end of the Pavilion grounds. Just past the curve of the stoneward steps, the enrollment boards glowed faintly—dim now that the sun had fled, but still active. Still humming with residual signatures.

“I registered early,” he said absently, voice half-laced with mischief. “Mostly because I hate queues.”

[Doesn’t that make you sound a bit too noble?] Vitaliara asked, but there was a wry note in her tone—more tease than critique.

“Perhaps,” he said, tilting his head. “But tell me, do you remember that line yesterday?”

[Of course I do.] She twitched her tail once, curling it tighter around his shoulder. [Some waited the entire day just to hand in their forms.]

Lucavion let out a low, mock-sympathetic whistle. “A whole day,” he echoed, shaking his head with exaggerated pity. “All for a paper that might get incinerated the moment the Trials begin. Poetic, in a cruel way.”

[Serves them right,] Vitaliara said, and for once, her voice held no pretense. [Leaving something that important to the very last moment… That’s not ambition. That’s arrogance.]

“That,” Lucavion murmured, “is something I can’t agree more with.”

He turned another corner, past the dim glow of rune-lined fences and toward the plaza where candidates were gathering now—quiet, orderly, though a subtle tension crackled in the air like kindling before a storm.

The marble checkpoint ahead shimmered with soft arcs of mana, filtering every entrant through a magical scan. Just past it, white-robed officials moved efficiently, directing people by number, by zone.

Lucavion reached into the inner fold of his coat, withdrawing the small paper he’d received upon registration. At first glance, it looked mundane. Thin parchment, off-white, with inked lines and a seal in violet wax.

But then—pulse.

The paper flickered. His name glowed faintly at the top:

Lucavion

Contestant No: 02893

Zone: Six

“A magic token,” he muttered, holding it up to catch the shimmer. “Simple in design, but refined. I like it.”

[You would like anything that glows,] Vitaliara quipped. [You’re worse than a crow.]

“No, no. Crows lack taste.” He smirked, flipping the paper between his fingers. “This is efficiency woven into aesthetics.”

Then he recalled the entrance exam from the novel. The examination would be held not here, not even within the city’s bounds, but in a constructed realm: a zone fashioned by the very hands of the Magic Council and overseen by the Headmaster of the Imperial Arcanis Academy himself.

Because, of course, when you’re testing thousands of contenders, there is one single type of method that most writers would think of.

[So… this is the teleport point?] Vitaliara asked, lifting her head slightly.

“Looks like it.” Lucavion nodded toward the marked pedestal ahead. Already, groups were being escorted into the glowing rings one after another, each flare of magic consuming them in pulses of pale violet.

[Thousands of people…] she murmured, watching a cluster vanish in a single blink. [I wonder how many of them will come back whole.]

He glanced at her. “Do you mean whole in body… or mind?”

[Both.]

The method was simple. Efficient. Brutal.

Battle royale.

A classic—timeless, even. The kind of solution that only ever changed names across the centuries, but never its function. Toss hundreds—thousands—into an isolated, conjured space, strip away their status, their sponsors, their comforts… and let nature—and mana—sort the rest.

Lucavion watched as another cluster of contestants vanished into the aether-ring, their bodies swallowed by light, their expressions a cocktail of fear, focus, and that faint, feral glint one only gets when survival is on the line.

“This is what most writers would’ve chosen,” he said, more to himself than to Vitaliara. “And you know what? For once, they weren’t wrong.”

[Efficient, yes,] she replied, hopping down to rest on the curve of his arm as they neared the stone podium. [But predictable.]

“Predictable isn’t always a flaw,” he countered, offering the glowing paper to the white-robed official stationed at the front of Zone Six’s entry ring. “It just means you can plan three steps ahead while everyone else is still figuring out the rules.”

The official nodded curtly, pressing his palm to a crystal disc embedded in the podium. The disc lit up, and Lucavion’s token flared in answer. A pulse, a shimmer—his number now linked to the zone’s spatial anchor.

[So how does it work exactly?] Vitaliara asked, watching with narrowed eyes as mana surged through the pedestal. [They fight until only a few are left?]

Lucavion gave a lazy shrug, but his eyes were sharp. “Something like that. The space itself is unstable—by design. Created by the Magic Council, sustained by massive leyline cores. But the mana expenditure is absurd. They can’t keep it running for long.”

[So they force it to collapse over time.]

“Mm.” His smirk returned, faint and knowing. “The zone begins wide—plains, hills, ruins, maybe even forest sections. Enough room to hide, flee, ambush. But it shrinks. Slowly. Relentlessly.”

[A shrinking death-box,] Vitaliara mused. [Charming.]

“And very, very fair,” Lucavion said, stepping onto the designated ring as his number was called.

“And very, very fair,” Lucavion said, stepping onto the designated ring as his number was called.

Zone Six.

Each teleport ring was calibrated to a specific sub-space, a fractured shard of reality compressed into a manageable pocket dimension. And this one? It would be his proving ground. His theatre. His hunt.

“Last man standing?” he asked the official casually.

The robed man didn’t so much as blink. “Top five survivors. Additional evaluation for those with distinguished performance. Zones will collapse within two hours.”

Lucavion gave a low whistle. “Efficient and dramatic.”

[They want blood and spectacle,] Vitaliara murmured, her claws lightly pressing into his sleeve. [And if you don’t give it to them… you’ll be forgotten.]

“Then I’ll be unforgettable.”

The teleport ring ignited beneath his boots. Lines of arcane script glowed in a radial pattern, winding inwards like a summoning circle. The air grew thick with pressure—not heat, not cold, but intention. As if the space itself knew it was about to be torn and rewoven.

[Be careful,] she said, softer now, the teasing edge gone from her voice.

Lucavion glanced down at her, and for a rare moment, the smirk faded—replaced by something quieter.

“I’ll be more than careful,” he said, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “I’ll be precise.”

The world flashed.

Color inverted—sound vanished—and in an instant, Arcania was gone.

And Zone Six opened like a hungry maw.