Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 873: Strange man

The words hung behind them, heavy as iron but clear as dawn. A line drawn—not between enemies, but between what was permissible and what was worth the fall.

Kaleran didn’t wait for assent. He simply turned, the silver-etched edge of his robe whispering against the garden stone as he moved back toward the path. The others followed, slow at first—uncertain whether they were dismissed or summoned—but his pace was not that of someone retreating. It was directive. Leading.

Lucavion fell into step last, the moonlight catching only the curve of his jaw and the set of his mouth—neither smug nor sorrowful. Just… decided.

They walked in silence for a time.

The gravel beneath their boots crunched in rhythm. Lanterns flickered on the pathway—hovering just slightly above the ground, enchanted flames pulsing in a soft, regulated pattern that matched the beat of the main tower’s clock. A cadence of the Academy’s ever-watching breath.

Toren finally broke the quiet with a mutter. “Well… this is cozy.”

Caeden gave a short grunt. Mireilla didn’t look at him, but her lips twitched—wry, unreadable. Toven trailed a step behind, casting glances between Kaleran and Lucavion like he was watching the beginning of a siege and still wasn’t sure which side would crumble first.

Elayne was quiet.

Not withdrawn. Just watching the way Lucavion’s hands flexed now and then at his sides. The tension had shifted—not vanished.

Their carriage came into view.

It wasn’t ornate. Not like the nobles’ gilded monstrosities that had lined the eastern wing during the banquet. This one was steel-bound wood, cleanly made, with a single rune-glow along the upper frame—sturdy, anonymous, functional. The kind meant to carry people, not presence.

Kaleran gestured with a tilt of his chin. “This one’s yours. Direct route to the dormitory quadrant assigned to your group.”

The carriage door opened with a creak—not loud, but deliberate. As if the wood itself had waited to exhale until now.

One by one, they stepped inside. The interior was dim, lined with dark velvet and inlaid with runes too faint to read but too precise to be decorative. The moment Lucavion’s boot hit the carriage floor, a low hum vibrated through the soles of their feet. A pulse. A breath.

Then—

The world outside flickered.

Not the usual shift of scenery one might expect from motion, nor the jolt of mana-laced acceleration. This was different. The instant the carriage door closed, the light outside warped. Not darkness. Not quite.

It was… veiled.

The lanterns that had lined the path were gone, replaced by hanging orbs suspended in vast space—too many to count, and too far apart to illuminate anything directly. Like stars lowered to earth. Their light rippled across invisible structures—arches of nothingness, walkways that shimmered with echo-light only when stepped upon, stairways leading into folds of architecture that folded back against themselves.

None of the five spoke at first.

Then came the sound.

Not noise, exactly. A whisper of a melody, made not by instruments but by refracted mana bending across surfaces. Like a wind chime played by memory itself. It wasn’t a song one could follow—just the impression of one.

The carriage was moving now.

Though the wheels made no sound, and the ground—if there even was ground—was unseen. Around them, images flickered. Not reflections. Scenes.

In one window, a forest stood upside down, its trees blooming upward into fog.

In another, a great library curved into a spiral, its books floating like birds, pages turning themselves.

Through the next—nothing but an endless hall of mirrors, each reflecting not themselves, but a different moment in time: a younger Mireilla laughing with her feet on a windowsill; Caeden bleeding from the hand with a broken blade; Toven crouched in an alleyway, clutching something he wouldn’t let go.

None of them spoke.

Not yet.

It was Elayne who moved first—slightly, leaning forward, as if peering into one of the windows might grant her understanding. But the moment she did—

The lights vanished.

Everything stopped.

The carriage was no longer moving.

There was no sound.

Only stillness.

Then—

A knock.

Three times.

Not on the carriage door, but on the air beside it.

The handle turned.

The door creaked open again.

And there he stood.

A man—if one could call him that—draped in layered fabric that looked half-sewn from mothwing and patchwork parchment. His beard was uneven, one eye was glazed over with cataract, and his shoes didn’t match—one a military boot, the other a slipper embroidered with sigils so old they had become meaningless.

He did not step forward.

He simply looked at them, one by one.

Then—

“Your question,” he said, voice hoarse and patient, as though replying to something someone had asked hours ago, “isn’t wrong. Just premature.”

Lucavion blinked once. “What question?”

The man ignored him.

His gaze turned to Caeden. “No. The displacement isn’t meant to confuse. It’s meant to separate.”

To Mireilla. “No, it’s not real time. It’s slant-time. Adjacent. You’ve already passed the dormitory once—you just didn’t notice.”

Toven tilted his head. “Who the hell are you?”

The man raised a finger—not to shush, but as though requesting their patience, like they were the ones interrupting him.

“It’s the Dormitory Fold,” he continued. “One of the seven internal folds of the Academy. Not marked on any map, because maps can’t hold topologies written in evolving dimensions.”

Mireilla raised a brow. “You could try explaining instead of narrating riddles.”

The man actually looked pleased by that.

“There are doors in this place that only open if you forget you’re trying to open them. Rooms that exist only while you’re inside them. And this dormitory quadrant? It shifts with your mood. If you’re angry, your window overlooks a battlefield. If you’re afraid, the walls grow thicker. If you’re curious…”

He turned then—slowly, with a smile that held far too many teeth.

“…you meet me.”

Lucavion’s hand drifted casually toward his blade, but not in a hurry. “Why?”

The man chuckled softly. “Because I’m the answer. Or maybe I’m the question. Depends which of you cracks first.”

Then he gestured.

And the wall behind him melted.

Not crumbled—melted. Into thread-light and shimmer. Revealing an open pathway through stone and root and light that bent at unnatural angles.

At the end of it stood a door.

A simple door.

With five names etched in its wood.

Lucavion’s name was already glowing.

“I wouldn’t wait,” the man said quietly. “Curiosity doesn’t like to be postponed.”

The man’s voice, until now patient and dry as parchment, took on a strange cadence—less amused, more… intent.

He turned.

The others shifted as his gaze landed on Lucavion—not lazily, not idly, but with precision. Like he was reading something that wasn’t visible. A language written between the folds of skin and shadow.

His one good eye gleamed. The glazed one seemed to swirl faintly, as though something behind it stirred awake.

“And you…” he said, the space between each word stretched just enough to unsettle.

The pause lingered. Too long.

Then—

“What the hell are you?”