Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 968: First Examination

The academy grounds were still cloaked in night, only the faintest wash of silver brushing the edge of the eastern sky. Gravel crunched beneath Lucavion’s boots, the cool bite of morning air brushing against the edges of his coat. Every breath he exhaled lingered in the air like a ghost reluctant to leave.

He approached the West Arena in measured strides.

The structure loomed ahead—half arena, half battlefield. Its stone walls rose high into the predawn gloom, spiked with defensive runes and lined with flickering mana lanterns. Most were still dim, as if even they refused to wake this early.

But someone already had.

Lucavion’s steps slowed the moment he crossed the threshold into the outer ring. His eyes, sharp despite the hour, caught the silhouette standing in the open circle of the arena grounds.

A man. Broad-shouldered, posture relaxed but alert—like a coiled spring draped in nonchalance. His coat was partially unfastened, revealing the reinforced weave of battlewear beneath. No emblem. No house colors. Just that quiet, unwavering stance of someone who didn’t need to advertise power.

The man turned, meeting Lucavion’s gaze with calm disinterest.

Lucavion stopped ten paces short.

The air had weight now. Not stifling—but pressing. Deliberate.

’Damn… not bad.’

The thought slid across his mind uninvited, but not unwelcome. He tilted his head slightly, letting his gaze trace the edge of the man’s aura.

It wasn’t just strong—it was trained. Controlled but bleeding at the edges, like someone had unsheathed a sword but hadn’t quite decided whether to use it.

’Letting it leak just enough to test me, huh?’

Lucavion let the air around him settle. He didn’t flare his own aura in return. That would’ve been too loud, too eager. Instead, he exhaled through his nose and offered a slow, easy smile—one that could’ve been mistaken for respect or mockery, depending on how you wore your pride.

The man’s brow furrowed slightly, almost imperceptibly. That flicker of annoyance—there it was.

Lucavion’s eyes narrowed.

’So… it’s not just a show of strength. Something’s already pissed him off.’

The realization clicked into place like a gear snapping into its groove. Maybe it was the assignment. Maybe it was him.

And that?

Well, that made it all the more fun.

He clasped his gloved hands loosely behind his back and spoke first, tone light but edged.

“Am I early, or are you the sort who likes to scare the students before they can even yawn?”

The man’s expression soured further, his eyes narrowing in a way that suggested he regretted waking up more than he regretted being alive.

“…It’s too early for this shit,” he muttered, voice gravelly with fatigue. “I don’t talk before sunrise.”

Lucavion raised a brow. “I wasn’t the one who arranged it.”

The man gave a sharp scoff. “Yeah, I can fucking guess that.”

Lucavion clicked his tongue, mock-wounded. “Tu tu tu… language.”

“Language can go fuck itself.”

Lucavion blinked. Then gave the faintest grin.

“…Damn.”

For a moment, silence hung—thick, slightly awkward, mildly amused on one side and actively irritated on the other. The man rolled his neck with a dull crack, brushing back a few strands of hair that had fallen across his brow. He studied Lucavion for a beat longer, as if trying to decide whether to punch him, fail him, or tolerate him.

Finally, he sighed.

“I’m Instructor Arcten,” the man said, voice flat but firm. “And as the gods clearly hate both of us, I’m your examiner for today’s Weaponship Evaluation.”

He turned slightly, gesturing toward a long rack of weaponry lined just along the western wall—metal glinting under half-lit lanterns, blades and polearms of all kinds meticulously arranged.

“The rules are simple,” he went on, tone curt, mechanical—like someone reciting a script he’d had to repeat far too many times. “You choose your weapon. I choose mine. We fight. Both of us will be wearing suppression bracelets—same setting, two-star limit.”

He held up his left wrist, revealing the dull silver band fitted snugly to the bone. A single blue rune pulsed faintly on its surface.

“These regulate mana output, suppress physical enhancement, and link to the arena’s feedback barrier. It’s a sealed dome—activates as soon as the match begins. Tracks impact, precision, mana control, movement, and adaptability. Nothing lethal can happen inside, but if I break too many of your bones before it ends, that’s on you.”

Lucavion gave a light hum, stepping toward the weapon rack without hurry.

“Sounds… encouraging,” he murmured, brushing his fingers along a few hilts. “So how does it work? First to land a strike?”

Arcten snorted. “You’re not that lucky. You’ll know when it’s over.”

Lucavion approached the weapon rack with an unhurried grace, his eyes sweeping over the blades like a noble inspecting wine—measured, unimpressed. At first glance, the weapons gleamed beneath the low lanternlight, their steel catching the faint shimmer of mana-streaked moonlight pouring through the open dome.

But then—

“Hmm…”

His step slowed.

He leaned in.

And that slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth like the first tug on a thread waiting to unravel.

“So that’s what you were trying to do.”

His voice was almost amused. “How cheap.”

The blades were pristine—too pristine. They reflected light cleanly, unnaturally, as if the surface had been polished to disguise what lay beneath. Lucavion tilted his head, letting the moonlight catch the edge of a sword’s curve, and then—

He pressed his finger to its edge.

No blood.

No resistance.

Nothing.

The blade didn’t cut.

Not even a drag across skin. Just cold, dull metal.

He tested another. And another. All the same—dead metal in a swordsman’s dress.

But that wasn’t all.

His brow knit slightly, the smirk curving into something colder. He gripped one hilt properly this time, lifted it—then held the weapon loosely in his palm.

The weight was off. And worse—

The material felt wrong.

’This… isn’t standard steel. It’s not even forged for real combat.’

He narrowed his eyes, letting mana slide along the edge of his palm, barely brushing the hilt—

—and immediately recoiled, feeling it.

A faint sting.

An echo of rejection.

’The core of the blade… it repels mana.’

Unnaturally. Deliberately.

Whoever made this didn’t just dull the edge. They poisoned the connection.

A weapon that could neither cut nor channel—useless to a real fighter.

Behind him, Arcten’s voice cut through the air like an afterthought.

“What’s taking you so long?”

Lucavion didn’t turn around. He simply raised his voice, not loud, but clear.

“Instructor Arcten.”

His hand rested on the hilt again, the tip lowered to the floor. “Would you mind taking a look at this?”

Footsteps approached, slow and unconcerned.

Arcten came to a stop beside him, arms crossed as he eyed the blade Lucavion had selected.

“…Looks fine to me.”

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, watching him from the corner of his eye.

“Does it?”

Arcten let the silence hang a moment longer, then—

A smile.

But not a kind one.

The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth carried nothing but dry mockery, the kind of expression worn by men too tired to pretend and too seasoned to care.

“It does.”

The two words came sharp and final.

He turned without waiting for further debate, strolling back toward the center of the arena with the ease of someone who already knew how the game was rigged.

Halfway there, he paused, glancing over his shoulder with that same disinterested edge.

“Unless you’d rather keep examining the furniture, feel free to join me in the ring. Clock’s ticking. You don’t start in the next ten seconds, I stamp the scroll with a zero.”

He held up a hand lazily, as if he was already counting down fingers.

Lucavion didn’t flinch. He didn’t scowl. He didn’t even sigh.

He smiled.

Slow. Wide. And far too calm for someone being invited to fail.

“Zero, huh?”

His voice dripped with idle amusement.

“I am not the one to ever miss a chance to fight.”