Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 631

Chapter 631: Meeting

“Both,” he said. “And neither. You’re here because the Empire is watching.”

A beat.

Then, softer: “And because you earned it.”

She didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Not until the carriage turned a bend, revealing the outer ring of the Academy—a plaza alive with candidates and carriages both extravagant and plain. She saw them then: the nobles dressed in flowing silk, stepping with practiced grace; the commoners in patched coats and determined gazes, surrounded by mana-tuned luggage and silence.

Her gaze lingered on the latter.

Commoners.

She had seen many in her travels—some desperate, some defiant, many forgotten by the systems that built spires like the ones surrounding her now. But these weren’t beggars or rag-wrapped survivors of conflict. These were mages. Fighters. Scholars, even, by the way some of them carried themselves. Plain in dress, yes—but not in spirit. Their eyes burned.

She leaned forward slightly, just enough to catch the rising pulse in the air—the weight of ambition hanging like mist over the crystalline plaza.

A sharp breath escaped her.

“…They’re here for the exam?” she asked, more to herself than her attendant.

He glanced toward her, a slow nod following. “Yes. The Candidacy Trials. They opened the gates to non-nobles this year—on decree of the Arcanis Council. The first time in history.”

Valeria’s brows dipped. “Trials?”

“A tournament,” he explained, “of sorts. But more elaborate. Not just duels. Simulations. Arcane challenges. Even scenarios drawn from real campaigns.”

That pulled her gaze fully from the window.

She had fought real campaigns.

She had unseated barons.

And she had never heard of anything like this.

Her tone sharpened slightly. “Why?”

“To appease rising unrest,” the man replied without missing a beat. “And to pretend at equality. If the nobles choose the worthy from among the masses, it’s still the nobles who choose. Make no mistake—this is still a stage. Just a broader one.”

Valeria’s lips thinned, her gaze cutting across the plaza once more. She spotted a trio of foreign students near the eastern entrance—one with skin inked in mana-thread lines, the other two bearing blades shaped in the Lorian style.

Her mind turned, slow at first, then faster.

So many changes. So much she hadn’t seen.

She had been gone.

A full year, marching under the banner of her house. And of his. Carrying out sentence after sentence under the orders of a marquis who understood the game of power better than most. Her blade had delivered justice in shattered fortresses and broken halls. She had carved truth from lies, duty from privilege.

And in that time, the Academy had turned into something new.

She leaned back into the cushioned bench, her jaw tightening.

Commoners, rising?

Her instinct was to question it. What did they know of the burdens nobility bore? Of expectation. Of legacy. Of walking with the weight of a name that belonged not to you, but to your blood?

But—

She blinked.

A flicker of memory surfaced.

That bastard.

The one who hadn’t cared for noble rules. Who slipped coins to guards and smirked through every reprimand. Who had challenged everything she believed in with one raised eyebrow and a handful of sarcastic comments. Who walked like the world owed him nothing and fought like he owed it back in full.

Lucavion.

Valeria’s brow furrowed, her fingers curling faintly atop her lap.

She hadn’t thought of him much lately.

Or—no.

She had.

Just not when she meant to.

His name had come up more than once—whispered in the camps, shouted in inn corners, traced through the stories of Cloud Heavens Sect corruption like a blade’s edge hidden beneath silk. “The Sword Demon,” they called him now. Foolish, arrogant… devastatingly effective.

She remembered the way he had dismantled that sect’s illusion.

Not with speeches.

With action. And mischief. And that damned smile.

He’d have passed this trial, she thought suddenly, sharply.

No question. He would’ve stood on that stage with no house crest, no banner behind him—and still drawn all eyes.

She exhaled through her nose, gaze flicking out once more to the gathering sea of candidates.

‘You’d like this, wouldn’t you?’ she thought bitterly, though her tone—even inwardly—lacked venom.

‘A perfect excuse to irritate nobles. To prove something without ever saying it.’

The carriage slowed.

They were nearing the Nexus entrance.

Valeria’s eyes lingered on one boy—plain robes, scuffed boots, a thick spellbook pressed to his chest like a shield. He looked younger than the rest. Nervous. But unshaken.

She watched as another candidate—a girl with twin daggers and a cloak too thin for the season—paused to rest her hand on his shoulder. A brief, silent gesture.

Then they moved forward, together.

She watched as the two commoner candidates disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the sheer enormity of the plaza.

And for a moment—just a moment—she remembered.

The soft clink of coins in his hand. The glint of candlelight off stolen silver as they ducked into yet another questionable inn. The way their steps fell into rhythm without needing to be said. No banner. No guards. No plan, really.

Just two people—one quiet, the other insufferably smug—wandering the cracked alleys of Andelheim with nothing but stubbornness and a barely disguised mutual concern between them.

She had hated him at first.

And yet…

There were nights she’d walk beside him, listening to his schemes and half-jokes as if they mattered more than any mission.

No carriages then.

Just boots caked in road-dust, and the whisper of city wind tangled in his coat.

Valeria’s fingers pressed lightly against the window frame.

“I wonder where you are right now…” she murmured, voice so low it didn’t quite leave her lips.

A beat.

Then her attendant shifted beside her.

“We will arrive at the quarter reserved for noble students,” he said, gently breaking the reverie. “Your rooms have been prepared. The Olarion crest has already been sent ahead to mark your quarters.”

Valeria didn’t look at him yet. Her gaze remained on the window, on the towering structure drawing nearer—the Spiral Nexus, rotating in slow, deliberate elegance, like it had all the time in the world.

“And after?” she asked, already suspecting the answer.

“There are… social arrangements,” he replied with diplomatic tact. “Tea receptions. Light gatherings. A few walkabouts in the outer gardens, weather permitting.”

She turned to him now, expression as flat as her voice. “Parties.”

“Soft introductions,” he corrected. “Your father has requested that you make yourself known. The nobles and merchants here have sent their heirs, their scions. These are the people who will sit beside you in class. Perhaps across from you in a duel. Or above you, should alliances form.”

Valeria leaned back into the seat, arms folded across her chest, jaw tightening ever so slightly.

“I don’t like such meetings.”

“You rarely do,” he replied evenly, not unkindly. “But that doesn’t change the necessity. You represent House Olarion now. Not as a knight in armor, but as a name. A future. They will expect you to speak. To listen. To charm, even if you hate it.”

“I’d rather face a wyvern.”

“Most would.”

He waited for a pause, then added quietly, “But this is one of your fates, isn’t it?”

That silenced her.

Not because it shocked her.

But because it didn’t.

She knew. Had always known. Nobility came with armor you didn’t wear—it was stitched into your blood, not your uniform.

*****

The morning light in Arcania had a way of sharpening everything—edges of rooftops, whispers between crowds, the cold that settled beneath your collar even after the sun had risen. Selphine and Aurelian made their way through the upper avenues, cloaks fluttering behind them like banners of old houses no longer spoken of aloud.

Laurelshade Pavilion stood tucked between an old sculptor’s tower and a vine-covered glasshouse, its charm subtle, easily overlooked if you weren’t paying attention. Eveline’s style, as ever—hidden power behind quiet walls.

Aurelian raised a brow as they approached, surveying the manor with a flick of his hand. “Doesn’t look like much.”

“Eveline never needed ‘much,'” Selphine replied.

“True,” he mused, his eyes trailing over the engraved woodwork, the subtle mana barriers layered over the windows like woven mist. “But she always had a way of making ‘not much’ explode if someone looked at it wrong.”

Selphine knocked once.

Then again.

They waited.

Nothing.

No attendant. No curious peek through the curtain. Not even the hum of footsteps.

Aurelian frowned. “Strange.”