Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 691

Chapter 691: Final Candidates
The final words of the announcement faded—

And the silence that followed was no longer born of tension.

It was anticipation.

The kind that coiled in the gut. The kind that didn’t crackle with fear, but readiness.

Then—

A ripple of energy shimmered across the outer edge of the safe-zone. Smooth. Intentional.

Dozens of figures began to appear in flashes of silver-blue light. Mages in layered robes and glowing insignia, each one marked by the Imperial Academy’s seal—a nine-spoked sigil of convergence, hovering subtly above their left shoulders. Behind them came assistants, aides, and formal attendants dressed in neutral grays and gold-trimmed uniforms. Some held mana crystals. Others carried diagnostic relics, potion cases, or parchment-scroll interfaces hovering midair.

The candidates instinctively straightened.

This wasn’t like the simulated broadcasts.

This was real presence.

Authority had arrived.

One of the mages stepped forward, an older woman with hair bound in coils of silver thread, her robe woven through with enchantments that glimmered as she moved.

Her voice carried without amplification.

“Candidates,” she said. “You’ve reached the final trial phase. From here on, your battles will be fought under observation, judgment, and full restoration protocols.”

She lifted a hand, and beneath her, sigils spread out like lotus petals—wide enough to cover the entire basin.

“You will now be granted recovery.”

The petals shimmered, and a wave of soft mana rolled across the safe-zone—warm, vital, threaded with clarity and healing. Wounds began to mend. Bruises faded. Muscles unclenched. Mana cores tightened and rebalanced.

Even Lucavion felt it—like cool water threading through a forge.

[That’s… clean work,] Vitaliara admitted. [Refined. Minimal interference. They didn’t just pump healing magic into the air—they are tuning it for each individual.]

Lucavion said nothing, just closed his eyes for a moment as the ambient force recalibrated his internal flow.

Around him, others were visibly relaxing. Some collapsed onto the ground with ragged sighs. Others knelt, heads bowed as the pain they’d been carrying for days finally began to leave them.

Even Mireilla, still tangled in her vines, let out a breath so deep it almost cracked.

The mage continued.

“You will have time to rest. Food and mana restoration tinctures will be distributed shortly. Your next instructions will arrive within the hour.”

Her gaze swept across the group once.

Cold.

Measuring.

She turned.

The other attendants began to move, dispersing recovery kits, stabilized potions, core-soothing scrolls, and in some cases—just warm water.

Lucavion exhaled slowly, feeling the threads of magic seep deeper into his frame—beyond the layer of healing, beyond the mundane restoration. There was something else in it. Something ancient. Something precise.

He opened his eyes.

“I didn’t expect them to use divine power,” he murmured.

[Vitaliara’s presence sharpened immediately.]

[Divine power? So that’s what it was.]

“Yes.”

He rose to a full stand now, flexing his fingers as the lingering traces of the spellwork slipped away like silver mist. The tuning, the precision—it wasn’t just smart magic. It was something more refined than arcana.

“Such wide-range recovery, all tuned individually,” he continued, voice low. “It’s not something normal high-tier healing spells can accomplish. And that clarity—how it never clashes with our own mana channels? That’s divine resonance.”

[From war?] she asked cautiously.

Lucavion’s smirk was faint. Knowing.

“…You can say that.”

Vitaliara huffed.

[Of course you know what that feels like.]

But she didn’t press further.

Because the air was already changing again.

The basin, once chaotic and scarred, now shimmered with a subtle transformation. The atmosphere didn’t grow heavier—it became defined.

Above each candidate, a shimmering thread of mana now floated—barely a hand’s length above their heads. Thin golden lines, each pulsing softly, glowing with a single, undeniable truth:

Their names.

Not spoken. Not shouted.

Simply shown.

Lucavion

Caeden Roark

Elayne Cors

Mireilla Dane

Toven Vintrell

And down the line. All twenty-one.

There were no ranks attached—only names.

But the moment Lucavion’s shimmered into view, there was a pause.

Heads turned.

Toven’s breath caught, and he visibly deflated. Mireilla, still half-reclined, blinked once and simply nodded to herself, as if confirming a suspicion. Elayne’s gaze flicked upward—not in surprise, but in confirmation.

And around them, others—those ranked below, some just outside the top five, some at the very bottom—looked.

At him.

Because now they knew who he was.

Lucavion tilted his head back, just slightly, letting the golden thread above him shimmer in his peripheral vision.

Then, with a lazy smile curling across his lips, he exhaled a single phrase—

“Wow… Look, I’m famous now.”

He said it like a joke.

But the eyes on him?

They didn’t find it funny.

Not because he wasn’t amusing—he was.

But because the smile wasn’t mocking.

It was relaxed.

Laidback.

Like a man lounging on the edge of a volcano, wondering if anyone would be stupid enough to push him in.

Lucavion’s gaze swept casually across the crowd, catching every glance thrown his way—curious, fearful, envious, calculating. He met them all with the same look.

An open invitation.

Go on, he thought.

Try me.

Because under the calm, under the amused glint in his eye and the hand loosely resting against his hip, he could feel it.

The itch.

The pulse.

That soft thrum of anticipation rising through his skin like a second heartbeat.

He wasn’t smug because he was safe.

He was smiling because he was ready.

If any of them—any one of them—was arrogant enough to believe that 168,420 points could be earned by trickery or happenstance…

Well.

Wouldn’t it be fun to prove them wrong?

The kind of fun that left craters.

Just then, as if to cater his thoughts…

A shadow moved.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Boots thudded against the basin floor—not with urgency, but with certainty. Not like someone charging into a duel, but like someone walking home.

Lucavion’s smile widened—barely.

Because he already knew who it was.

Caeden Roark stepped forward from the gathered candidates, towering over the crowd like a wall that had grown legs. His frame was a masterpiece of tempered brutality—muscle packed tight, not bulky in excess, but in function. Every motion spoke of strength refined through purpose, not vanity.

His skin, deep bronze, bore recent scars like medals—some slashed down his shoulder, one still fresh across his left collarbone, cauterized but not healed. His cleaver, nearly the size of a grown man’s torso, was strapped to his back in a harness of rune-threaded leather, though he didn’t reach for it. Not yet.

He didn’t need to.

Not to speak.

Caeden’s hair was short, the curls damp with sweat and dust. His jaw was squared, unshaven, his expression carved from stone and set with one clear emotion: recognition.

And still, he walked.

Right up to Lucavion.

Until he was close enough that his shadow covered him entirely.

And then—he stopped.

Said nothing.

Just stood there, gaze tilted down with the weight of someone who wasn’t impressed by titles, numbers, or flair. Not out of arrogance—but honor. Because Caeden Roark didn’t look down on Lucavion to belittle him.

He looked down to meet him.

This wasn’t hostility.

It wasn’t challenge born from pride.

It was a test.

Silence rippled through the crowd.

Lucavion, still resting one hand lazily near his hip, blinked once.

Then grinned.

Because beneath Caeden’s calm exterior, beneath the quiet steps and unmoving stance—he could feel it.

Not anger.

Not ego.

But fire.

A slow, patient one.

The kind that built under mountains for centuries…

…before exploding skyward.

Just how he liked it.

The silence stretched long enough to feel like the world was holding its breath.

Around them, the other candidates leaned in—some subconsciously, some openly. Even the mages and attendants paused mid-movement, their senses fine-tuned enough to register the crackling tension blooming at the center of the basin.

Lucavion, still relaxed, didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

He waited.

And then—

Caeden Roark spoke.

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was deep, even, and unflinching.

“You…”

A pause.

“…you are strong.”