Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 967: On other side

Valeria’s boots carried her past the last archway into the dormitory quarter, her pace unhurried, measured.

It had been happening since she arrived, after all.

Since she’d settled into her temporary dormitory. Since she made the mistake—or the deliberate choice—of walking toward Lucavion during the banquet.

It was deliberate, of course.

And she didn’t regret it.

But that didn’t mean the others agreed.

To them, it had been a misstep. A visible one. A message.

To walk toward him. Not away.

That was the mistake.

’I kind of expected it…’

She wasn’t a fool. A knight, yes—but not blind. Her blade might be her focus, but she had grown up in a house where politics hung thicker than incense.

’Smile when the prince walks by, even if your teeth grind. That’s what your father told you, remember?’

She remembered. She always did.

And now here she was.

The girl who stood beside the boy who challenged a prince.

Lucavion hadn’t whispered slights in a hallway or skirted around confrontation. No, he had stood tall—publicly, openly—and dared the crown prince to stare back.

And she… she had crossed the floor toward him.

Not Lucien.

Not the safety of silence.

But toward the boy with black eyes and sharper words.

So now, she bore the weight of that choice.

The glances. The pauses in conversation.

The distance.

’They haven’t ostracized me entirely. Not yet. But they’re waiting to see where the winds blow.’

And worse—her dormitory.

Of all places to be assigned, it had to be Marcus’s block. The one where Lucien himself resided.

’Coincidence?’ she asked herself. Then shook her head faintly. ’No… if this were punishment, Lucavion would be here too. But he’s not. So maybe… just bad luck.’

Whatever the reason, she had no intention of dwelling on it tonight.

She stepped into the dormitory hall, greeted by the quiet chill of enchanted stone and the distant flicker of crystal lanterns mounted overhead. The space was too pristine, the silence too precise—like even the air was filtered through status.

Her building—Cedar Wing—was near the outer edge of the dorm quadrant. Thankfully distant from Lucien’s more central quarters.

’At least there’s that,’ she mused. ’A little distance from royalty is probably a good thing right now.’

She didn’t cross paths with anyone on the way up. Just the quiet creak of stairs beneath her boots and the subtle pulse of mana seals lining the corridor.

Her room was modest by noble standards—larger than most, but without the decadence some of the old families demanded. She preferred it that way. Clean. Ordered. Hers.

As she stepped inside, the scent of old wood and faint parchment greeted her. A folded envelope rested neatly on the desk, sealed with the sigil of the Academy—a stylized tower etched in starlight ink.

Valeria closed the door behind her, unhooked her cloak with practiced ease, and crossed to the desk.

She broke the seal in a single motion.

The letter unfolded with a whisper of stiff paper. Inside, her schedule had been laid out in perfect clarity—no preamble, no explanations. Just lines. Dates. Times. Rooms.

[Monday — 9:00. Weaponship Evaluation. West Arena]

[Monday – 15:30. Affinity Test. Crystal Hall.]

[Tuesday – 8:00. Combat Awareness Trial. Zone B.]

[Tuesday– 14:30. Written Evaluation – Tier I. Grand Lecture Hall A.]

[Thursday – 05:00. Mana Control Trial. Cultivation Chamber 3D.]

[Thursday– 09:00. Written Evaluation – Tier II. Grand Lecture Hall A.]

[Friday – 12:00. Etiquette & Conduct Evaluation. Rotunda Salon.]

Valeria stared at the list for a moment, letting the times settle.

Her eyes paused at the Thursday slot. 05:00.

’Five in the morning?’

Her brow twitched slightly. ’They really expect people to be at their best at that hour?’

She exhaled, folding the letter again and setting it down beside her. The weight of the schedule wasn’t overwhelming—not yet—but she could feel the shape of the week stretching ahead of her, taut like a string drawn across a bow.

’The Academy must be more crowded than they let on. Too many students to test, not enough hours to test them in. No wonder they’re splitting us by dawn.’

She stood in silence for a moment longer, then reached over and extinguished the lantern with a twist of her fingers.

Darkness settled over the room.

’Whatever.’

*****

From the outside, it looked no different.

Just another stone-set dormitory, built in uniform lines like the rest of the student quarters. Weathered edges. Modest structure. A door like any other. Nothing to suggest anything unusual.

And yet—step inside, and the illusion unraveled.

The air shifted.

Silence held a sharper edge. The walls, though of the same stone as the rest, bore the faint shimmer of reinforced enchantments—older, deeper than the standard-issue wards. Velvet drapes fell in long, deliberate folds, drawn just so to filter the light without ever truly blocking it.

Furniture of foreign make filled the space—no lacquered pine or ironwood common to the Academy. Here, every surface gleamed, every piece precisely arranged. A bookshelf lined with aged tomes. A side table carved with the markings of a forgotten dynasty. Polished brass fixtures, incense holders, ceremonial blades mounted with symmetrical intent.

It was a student’s room, yes. But only technically.

Inside, it felt like a sanctum. Like the dwelling of someone who didn’t need to prove his place—because the room did it for him.

Near the window, a young man sat in quiet repose, teacup balanced effortlessly between his fingers. His eyes were closed, posture elegant in a way that did not ask for attention but always commanded it.

He didn’t drink immediately.

He waited.

Let the steam rise, curl, and settle—measuring the silence like one might measure a rival’s breath before a duel.

Only when the moment felt correct did he lift the porcelain to his lips, tasting the blend with the deliberate calm of someone who had never known interruption without consequence.

Tap.

His eyes opened.

Not to the door.

To the window.

A sound too small to draw alarm—but too out of place to ignore.

He rose without haste, setting the cup down upon the tray with the softest click. Crossed the room without a sound. Slid open the latch.

Outside, the breeze had grown colder. The courtyard beyond was empty. Not a soul in sight.

Only a single note, folded cleanly, weighted beneath a shard of polished obsidian.

He picked it up.

No signature. No seal.

Only five words, penned in an unfamiliar hand:

“Lucavion will be made understood his ignorance, Your Highness.”

The breeze stirred again, rustling the paper faintly between his fingers.

He read it once more.

Then again.

No reaction surfaced—not in breath, nor brow, nor lips.

He simply folded the note once more, set it beside his cooling tea, and stood in stillness, as if tasting the words in silence.

The wind fell quiet.

And he whispered—more to the room than to anyone who could hear:

“…Is that so.”

******

RING!

Lucavion stirred before the second chime of his alarm, eyes blinking open to the dim light filtering through the barracks slit-window.

PAT!

As his hand hit the alarm, the room went quiet, save for the low groan of wood settling in the cold. A breath drew into his lungs, slow and sharp.

He sat up.

Stretched.

Arms lifted overhead, spine cracking in satisfying succession as he rolled his shoulders back. The faint chill clung to his bare skin like silk drawn too tightly. He looked toward the window, unimpressed.

“Still night,” he muttered, voice husky with sleep. Then he scoffed.

“How pointless.”

A sigh escaped, half-irritation, half the resignation of a man who’d already accepted the rules of the game long before it began. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for the folded uniform—coat, belts, utility straps, layered black tunics. One by one, the pieces came together with mechanical ease.

The estoc—polished, lean, tempered for him alone—was the last to be buckled at his side.

He paused.

Head tilted slightly, black eyes drifting toward the shadowed corner of the room.

A breath, then a lazy grin.

“Still,” he said aloud, as if to an audience that wasn’t supposed to exist, “I am curious as to what you have in your hand.”