Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 794: Move

Lucien’s fury pulsed now—not in wild flares, but in sickening, silent waves.

The kind that scorched the ribs from the inside out.

His jaw clenched so tightly the bones groaned beneath the strain. Eyes fixed forward, but not seeing. Not truly. Just the blur of noble faces—watching. Whispering. Judging.

’He won.’

No one said it aloud.

They didn’t need to.

It was in their silence.

In their refusal to meet his gaze.

In the slow, smirking poison Lucavion had poured into their wineglasses and left them to sip.

Lucien had lost his face. Before the banners. Before the bloodlines. Before the empire itself.

And what made it unbearable—unthinkable—was who had caused it.

Not a rival duke.

Not a political opponent.

Not even a rogue noble with House behind him.

But a boy.

A commoner.

’He doesn’t even have a name.’

And yet he stood there—smiling still, smug and untouchable.

Lucien’s vision blurred at the edges, not from power summoned, but from pure, soul-clawing indignation.

He deserved to be crushed.

An insect like this should never have risen.

Lucien’s shoulder twitched.

And then—

Rowen moved.

Just half a step, smooth as muscle memory. Just enough for Lucien to feel the quiet shift of steel near his side.

Their eyes met—brief, sharp.

Rowen leaned in slightly.

Voice low. Lethal.

“Should I deal with him?“

It wasn’t a question of capability.

It was a question of permission.

Of escalation.

Of whether to end this now, here, before it spiraled into something even the Crown could not walk back.

Lucien’s fingers trembled at his side—half from restraint, half from the urge to give the word.

To finally burn this worm to ash.

But something—again—made him hesitate.

’Should I?’

Lucien’s lips barely moved, but the word passed like a blade across a throat.

“Yes.”

A breath. A command.

And just like that, the leash snapped.

Rowen’s stance shifted, not loud, not violent—just precise. The kind of stillness that comes before an execution. Lucavion would fall. Must fall.

Lucien didn’t care if it played into some contrived scheme. Let the lowborn bask in his clever trap. Let him gloat. Let him think this was victory.

Because once he was broken, there would be no one left to remember his name.

But then—

“Stop it.”

The voice came like silk through fire. Smooth. Clear. Measured.

And it didn’t belong to a guard. Or a noble.

It belonged to her.

Priscilla.

Lucien’s head turned before he could stop it. Rowen froze mid-step.

Lucavion?

He looked too.

“What?” he said, the word light, surprised, almost curious.

But his eyes narrowed as they found hers.

Priscilla stood—tall, poised, but not untouched. There was steel in her posture, and something quieter beneath it. Weariness. Restraint.

“This is enough, Lucavion,” she said, her voice calm, stripped of drama.

Lucavion tilted his head, eyes studying her like one might study a fine crack forming down the spine of a priceless mask.

Then—he smiled.

Not mocking.

Not triumphant.

Just… knowingly.

“Ah…” he breathed.

His gaze swept across the room again. Nobles still trembling between judgment and relief. Guards who’d held their breath. Scholars with ink-stained fingers trembling beside scrolls.

He clicked his tongue.

“It appears the show’s gotten a bit dull, hasn’t it?” he murmured, as if offering the audience an apology.

Then he turned back to Lucien, one final barb on his lips.

“I suppose,” Lucavion said softly, “even dear Lucien makes mistakes. One can’t always judge character so easily.”

He smiled wider.

“Seems even the Crown Prince misjudged the character of his followers.”

Lucavion took a leisurely breath, letting the silence linger just long enough for the tension to thicken again—not into chaos, but implication.

He looked at Lucien—not as an enemy, not even as a rival. But as something else. Something he allowed to stand.

“It happens, truly,” he said, with a soft, almost apologetic shrug. “To the best of us.”

The words were feathered in false humility. But each syllable was precision-forged.

“I mean… managing so many followers, so many voices, all clamoring for your trust—” he smiled faintly, “—it must be exhausting. I can’t even imagine.”

There was no venom in his tone. Only sincerity. That unbearable, unprovable kind.

“And sometimes,” he added, gaze flicking subtly toward the nobles, “no matter how noble the crown, a few rotten roots slip in. Unnoticed.”

The implication slithered through the room like perfume in smoke.

“Of course,” he continued lightly, “to expect absolute clarity in judgment? Perfection in loyalty?” He chuckled, almost warmly. “Even the Crown can’t claim that.”

Then he turned slightly, as if the thought just struck him.

“And yet…” His eyes found Priscilla’s again, softer this time. “Despite it all, Her Highness still shows such grace. Such restraint.”

He nodded to her.

“To speak so plainly… and still forgive so much.” A pause. “Even what was done to her.”

The weight of that line settled like a blade balanced on thread.

Then—Lucavion looked back at Lucien.

“As I said,” he murmured, tone mellow, almost forgiving, “we all make mistakes.”

He let the words hang.

An exit.

A door.

A chance for Lucien to step through it—clean, unchallenged.

But only if he left something behind.

Reynard.

The cost of dignity would be the cutting of dead weight.

Lucavion’s smile never faltered.

“But what we do next…” he said, just loud enough for every ear, “that’s what defines a ruler, isn’t it?”

Lucavion turned toward the center of the room again, hands open in faint apology, his voice sliding like silk over wine-soaked nerves.

“Surely,” he said, gaze sweeping across lords, ladies, and lingering guards, “the Crown would never allow such rot to run rampant. Not in the Empire. Not under the banner of the Flame.”

He gave a light, almost cheerful clap of his hands.

“That’s all I wished to say. I do hope no one minded the little… drama.” His smile widened. “Every banquet needs some entertainment.”

Polite laughter followed—but thin. Uncertain. Drenched in tension.

Rowen’s jaw was locked so tightly it looked carved from iron. His hand hovered near the hilt at his side—not to draw, but to feel control again.

And Lucien.

Lucien—

Felt the words crawl beneath his skin like a disease. The look Lucavion gave him before turning away—subtle, smug, as if Priscilla had granted him clemency, as if they should be grateful.

As if the Crown should thank her for not pressing charges.

’How dare he.’

The insult was veiled in courtesy, wrapped in silk, laced in irony so sharp it bled without showing wounds.

And then—

Lucavion turned to face him.

To him.

Lucien stiffened.

But Lucavion only smiled, gracious and composed, extending a hand.

A formal gesture. Between nobles.

“I hope His Highness won’t mind my little… preach of truth.”

His voice was honeyed, respectful. As if nothing had happened. As if the world hadn’t just watched him unravel the Crown in full daylight.

Lucien’s heart thundered like war drums in his chest. Every cell screamed to reject the hand, to incinerate the touch before it reached him.

But he couldn’t.

Not here. Not now.

He took it.

And the moment their palms met—

Lucien’s grip snapped shut like a vice. No warning. No mercy. Not a handshake—an assertion of absolute, physical dominance.

The strength in Lucien’s hand wasn’t simply noble.

It was monstrous.

The raw force of someone blessed by the Founder’s legacy. A prodigy whose magic and martial capacity were whispered in awe across all provinces. A storm barely leashed.

No one at Lucien’s age could match it.

No one.

Yet, this guy didn’t move at all.