Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 613

Chapter 613: Young man, and a scene
“I understand,” he murmured.

Yet, was it that easy for him to stand alone like this, watch this unfold….

It was not.

“I do too,” Selphine said quietly, eyes locked on the girl still trying not to flinch as the noble’s boot crept closer. “That doesn’t mean I like it.”

But that was the nature of the world they lived in. Here, in the capital, at the heart of magic’s empire, justice was an abstract ideal. What mattered was power, connection, and knowing when to pick battles.

And these two—this baron boy and his sister—they were no one. At least, not yet.

The crowd around the terrace had mostly turned away. Some muttered. A few looked on with unease. But none of them acted. Because no one interfered with the sons of counts. Not when the bloodlines behind them could unravel entire estates.

The girl finally tried to speak. “Please. We’ll leave—just let my brother—”

“Now you’re talking?” the noble leaned further, and for the first time, his fingers brushed her sleeve.

Selphine’s foot shifted forward—but her attendant, silent until now, placed a hand lightly in front of her. Not forcing. Just reminding.

“This is not your war, milady.”

And then—it happened.

THUD.

A shoulder collided hard into the count heir closest to the girl.

The boy stumbled.

The coin he was spinning flew from his fingers and clinked against the ground, spinning into a drain.

“Hey—!” he snarled, turning sharply. “What the hell—”

The crowd’s attention snapped back like a taut thread.

A figure stood where the collision had occurred.

His robe hung long and loose around him, dusted at the hem with the pale grit of travel, its fabric a muted charcoal gray that swayed softly with his movements. It bore no noble crest, no house sigil. No ostentatious lining of gold or gemstone clasps. Simple. Unassuming.

But to those who looked closely—truly looked—it became clear: the robe wasn’t just well-made. It was precision-crafted. The kind of stitching meant for movement, for survival. Reinforced where it mattered, enchanted so subtly it might go unnoticed unless one had worn such garments before. Adventurer-grade, from a line whispered about among those who hunted monsters or explored wild zones past the Imperial border.

Yet he didn’t carry himself like a hunter.

His posture was relaxed, weight balanced casually on one foot, his hand loosely in the pocket of his robe as though he’d merely brushed shoulders in a crowded hallway and was waiting for an apology. The hood of the cloak hung low over his back, revealing tousled hair parted lazily to one side, long enough to frame his face in uneven layers that gave him the look of someone who’d never quite bothered to tame it.

Unruly. At ease.

And then—those eyes.

Pitch black.

Not dark brown. Not deep blue mistaken in poor light.

Black.

Unmoving. Unblinking.

And yet, they glinted with something unreadable—like the still surface of a well that had no bottom. The kind of gaze that made people hesitate, not because of malice… but because they didn’t know what lay behind it.

Resting on his shoulder was a cat, pure white and curled up like it had no interest in the tension building in the air. Its ears flicked once, its tail stretched and curled again—before it yawned, revealing a flicker of tiny fangs, and settled deeper into the crook of the boy’s neck like royalty returning to its throne.

The count heir who’d been struck had recovered, scowling now as he shoved forward.

“You’ve got a damn nerve,” he snapped. “Don’t you know who I—”

The boy raised one hand.

Not fast.

Not threatening.

Just lifted it—casually—and brushed some imaginary dust from the edge of his sleeve.

His voice, when it came, was low and level. Amused.

“Not interested,” the boy said, his tone dry and unhurried—like someone brushing off a fly rather than addressing three nobles with mana stirring under their skin.

He turned his gaze slowly back toward the count heir, then lazily swept it across the other two.

“Neither does it matter.”

The words landed like soft footsteps in snow—but something about the stillness that followed made them heavier than they had any right to be.

A hush fell around the onlookers. Even the wind seemed to wait.

The boy tilted his head slightly, as if studying them for the first time—his black eyes sharp, yet distant. Detached.

“You’re probably some count’s son,” he said at last, smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. “From one of those proud bloodlines that likes to talk about ‘legacy’ and ‘purity’ when they’ve never worked a day outside a ballroom.”

The noble stiffened, mouth parting—but the boy wasn’t finished.

“Let me guess. You belong to an elitist circle. You know, the kind that breathes heavy when someone mentions ‘lineage’ or ‘old magic.’ The kind that’s been pampered so long you think mana belongs to your last name.”

The coin-spinner growled. “You little—”

“And now,” the boy went on, ignoring him completely, “you’re out here, wagging your tails, trying to feel superior because you felt a bit of strength buzzing in your veins today. A little power, finally. So you chase after a smaller animal. Something you know won’t bite back.”

He nodded slightly toward the baron boy and the girl, whose hands still trembled where they rested on the table.

“Prey. That’s all this is to you.”

The eldest noble took a step forward, mana flaring now—heat rising in an aura of frustration. “You don’t know anything about us.”

That smirk deepened.

“Oh,” the boy said softly. “I know enough.”

He looked around then, black eyes sweeping the gathered crowd, who now stared with rapt attention—silent, motionless, the festive air long forgotten.

“This,” he said, gesturing loosely to the three nobles, “is the part where you threaten me. Then puff up your mana and expect me to step aside, because ‘that’s how the world works,’ right?”

His voice was calm. Too calm.

“You can try,” the black-eyed boy murmured, lifting one brow ever so slightly. Then, with a faint flick of his hand, he stepped back and gave the most casual wave toward the nobles, as though inviting them to proceed with a parlor trick.

“Go on. Play the script. Let’s see how well you know your lines.”

That was it.

The trigger.

The count’s heir’s face twisted, the scorn falling away to reveal something rawer—something personal. His pride, already stinging, had now been torn open and mocked in front of too many watching eyes.

“You bastard!” he snarled.

And then—

His mana flared.

It erupted around him in a sharp, violet surge, crackling with refined pressure, heat curling the edges of his cloak as it expanded. The force of it pushed outward, scattering nearby streamers, rattling glassware, and causing a few in the crowd to instinctively step back. The air shimmered with the sudden density of power unleashed.

Aurelian’s breath caught.

That level—he could feel it even from where he stood.

Mid-four-star. Without a doubt.

He exchanged a glance with Selphine, whose sharp gaze hadn’t wavered, though he could tell even she was taken slightly aback. For someone so young to have that degree of mana mastery already—especially without the support of a magical focus—was no small feat. It wasn’t just talent. It was the kind of upbringing soaked in resources, elite mentorship, and tailored enchantment regimens.

It was the magic of nobility, honed and sharpened for reputation.

“I’ll end you,” the noble spat, his aura pushing toward the black-eyed boy with all the grace of a descending guillotine. “You’ll pay for insulting me!”

And yet—

The boy didn’t step back.

He didn’t even raise his hand.

He simply stood there.

Still.

That faint, unreadable smile lingering at the corner of his lips, untouched by the mana storm gathering before him. His coat rustled in the rising pressure, but not once did his eyes narrow, or flinch, or betray concern.

If anything—

He looked amused.

As if he had seen this before.

As if this wasn’t tension.

This was theater.

And the real story hadn’t even begun yet.