Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 872: God’s above….

Toren let out a rough exhale, dragging a hand through his hair with the energy of someone trying to untangle a thought too large for his skull.

“Gods above,” he muttered, voice tight with reluctant exasperation. “I really don’t like things like this.”

He looked up at the others, eyes wide, hands thrown in a helpless half-gesture.

“Why are we—us, of all people—getting tangled in this mess? Factions? Bloodlines? Political war disguised as etiquette? I didn’t come here to duel philosophies, Luc. I came to train. To survive.”

His voice caught, not quite broken—but thin. Almost boyish in the quiet. Almost tired.

Lucavion didn’t flinch.

He just shrugged.

“That’s life,” he said simply.

Two words. So casual. But behind them—steel.

Toren stared at him for a second longer, then just laughed once, low and bitter, running a hand over his face. “Well. That’s shit.”

Before any of them could respond, a presence cast itself over the garden like a sudden eclipse.

Kaleran.

The Vice-Head’s robes moved without sound, the black and silver stitching absorbing the moonlight like memory swallowed into ink. He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t clear his throat or call for attention. He simply was—already there, already watching.

Lucavion turned toward him last, the way someone turns to face the weight pressing into the base of their spine.

Kaleran’s gaze was trained on him.

Not unkind.

Not forgiving.

Just… deep.

As though he were reading not the expression on Lucavion’s face, but the spaces between his breaths.

The others straightened instinctively. Mireilla’s arms dropped to her sides. Caeden squared his stance. Even Elayne stilled completely, fan forgotten at her hip.

Kaleran’s voice, when it came, was not loud.

But it left no room for mishearing.

“I told you,” he said quietly, “to keep your head low. To hold your tongue until it mattered. To survive with grace, not fire.”

His gaze didn’t move.

“And you listened to none of it.”

The words weren’t a shout. They weren’t even disappointed. They were observational. Like he was reading a report aloud—except the report had teeth and had just detonated a political powder keg beneath the banquet floor.

Lucavion met the look unflinching. His stance didn’t stiffen. His arms didn’t rise to defend. Instead, he gave a slow, almost lazy smile—one that curved just a bit sharper than amusement.

“Correction,” Lucavion said, voice smooth as silk unwinding over broken glass. “I listened. I just didn’t agree.”

Kaleran blinked. Once.

Lucavion shrugged, coat shifting like shadow under starlight.

“You warned us to survive. I’ve done that. But survival doesn’t mean compliance.”

He stepped forward once, his voice dipping low—but still audible, like a private truth meant to echo.

“I won’t bow to the wrong truth just because it’s easier to swallow. Not for the nobles. Not for the Council. And not even for you.”

Toven let out a quiet breath behind him. Mireilla’s jaw ticked. Elayne’s brow furrowed—not in disapproval this time, but thought. Caeden didn’t move at all.

Kaleran exhaled slowly.

And for a flicker of a moment—just long enough to register—he looked tired.

Not frustrated.

Not even angry.

Just… old, in a way that had nothing to do with years.

“Is that how it’s going to be then?” he asked, quieter now.

Lucavion’s smirk didn’t fade. “If I’m right,” he said, “I won’t back down.”

A beat.

Then, from Kaleran:

“…Sigh.”

The sound came like something dragged up from the depths of a man who had seen too many students ignite, too many prodigies burn bright and vanish like smoke in a war too large for them.

But he didn’t reprimand him.

Didn’t scold. Didn’t threaten.

He just looked at Lucavion as if seeing something… inevitable.

Then his eyes slid to the rest of the group.

Kaleran’s eyes drifted from Lucavion to the others—not with reprimand, but with the weariness of a man who had already read this Chapter a dozen times before it was written.

They didn’t meet his gaze the same way they had a month ago. Not with the deference of students, not fully. Something had shifted. They were still young, yes. Still volatile and unpolished. But there was weight behind their postures now. And behind Lucavion’s… something heavier.

Kaleran exhaled quietly and turned slightly, folding his arms behind his back.

He didn’t speak.

Not yet.

Because this part was already familiar.

He’d been placed over the commonborn entrants for a reason—no one else wanted the job. And no one else had the bandwidth to manage it without snapping or condescending. Most assumed the commoners would break on their own, or fall in line. Easy, predictable.

But Lucavion?

Lucavion wasn’t predictable.

’You weren’t supposed to be this loud,’ Kaleran thought, the corner of his jaw tightening. ’Not this early. Not this precise.’

This wasn’t just a hotheaded student with a grievance. Lucavion was something different—strategic, deliberate, infuriatingly correct… and utterly uninterested in appeasement.

’House Varenth was already a problem,’ he continued inwardly, eyes flicking toward the distant towers of the academy. ’And you lit that fuse without hesitation. Not recklessly—but like someone who knew what kind of war would follow.’

And then came today.

The banquet.

The speech.

The sting.

Directly in front of the Lorian envoys, in front of the Crown Prince’s inner circle, Lucavion hadn’t merely defended himself—he had declared

’And now you’ve officially crossed Lucien’s line. Not as a name on a record. Not as a candidate. But as a symbol.’

That was the problem.

Because symbols didn’t die quietly.

Kaleran’s lips pressed together.

’This is going to be a pain in the ass.’

He didn’t sigh again—though it was close. Instead, he stepped forward and spoke, low but firm.

“I was assigned to oversee you after the exams for a reason,” he said. “Because I understood what they didn’t. That you wouldn’t all fit neatly into boxes. That some of you…”—his eyes slid to Lucavion again—”…would refuse the boxes altogether.”

He let that linger.

“But understand this. Every time you push back—every time you strike a noble, or outmaneuver a faction, or name the corruption no one else dares to—” his voice dropped a fraction, “—you don’t just draw attention.”

He paused.

“You invite precision.”

The word fell like a stone into a still pond.

Mireilla looked down. Toven shifted again, arms loosely crossed. Caeden’s jaw flexed.

But Lucavion?

Lucavion just listened.

Still.

Quiet.

Watching.

Kaleran let the silence hold for a beat longer, then turned, his coat brushing softly against the stone underfoot.

He was tired.

But not defeated.

’If you’re going to challenge the bloodlines, Lucavion… at least know what you’re really fighting. They aren’t kings. They’re roots. And they don’t just die when you cut the stem—they rot everything around them first.’

He walked two paces, then stopped again.

Didn’t look back.

Just said:

“I won’t protect you from what you’ve chosen.”

Then—

“But I’ll make sure it’s a fair fight.”

That was the only promise he could give.

And even that… might cost him more than he was willing to admit.