Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 706

Chapter 706: Table talk
“As official Academy entrants, you will be granted one personal privilege: you may request a weapon, armor set, or artifact of your choosing. The Academy will provide it—within reasonable bounds.”

Toven perked up instantly, eyes gleaming like someone who’d just been handed the keys to a vault. “Wait. Wait, really? We get to ask for a weapon? Like, our own?”

Kaleran gave a brief nod. “One weapon, armor set, or artifact. Yes.”

Toven grinned like a man reborn. “Finally,” he muttered, half to himself. “I can have it.”

Lucavion arched an eyebrow. “It?”

Toven sat up straighter, eyes shining with dangerous sincerity. “I’ve been seeing it for months now. In my dreams. A massive sword—like, taller than me. The core has to be obsidian aetherglass, infused with phoenix-blood crystal, and the edge should be lined with thundersteel—no, wait, blackened thundersteel. Hardened under a voidforge moon.”

Mireilla blinked.

Elayne slowly turned her head to stare.

Toven, utterly unbothered, kept going. “And the handle—get this—the handle needs to be wrapped in dragonhide. But not just any dragonhide. The kind from a duskfire drake, born during an eclipse. That way, the mana feedback doesn’t burn my hands.”

There was a silence.

A long one.

Even Caeden paused his meal.

Kaleran’s mouth opened slightly—then shut. Then opened again.

“…Reasonable bounds,” he said at last, voice a little tighter than usual.

Toven blinked. “Wait, what? That’s not normal?”

Lucavion leaned forward slightly, expression utterly neutral… until it wasn’t. A soft pfft escaped his lips. Then—

He laughed.

Low, unfiltered, and thoroughly entertained.

Toven blinked at the laughter, then frowned, puzzled and ever so slightly offended. “What’s so funny?”

Lucavion took another breath, the last hints of amusement still lingering at the edges of his grin. He leaned in slightly, steepling his fingers like a scholar about to deliver the punchline of a mythic tragedy. “Toven,” he said gently, “those materials you just listed… where did you hear about them?”

Toven sat back proudly. “Heard some adventurers talking about it in a tavern near the Western gate a few months ago. Apparently, it’s what they dream about. Said it was their ultimate weapon, y’know?”

Lucavion nodded slowly, as if he had just uncovered the Rosetta Stone of delusion. “Mm. Right. Yes. See, there’s a reason it was a dream.”

Kaleran made a quiet, pained sound in the back of his throat.

Lucavion continued, voice dry as old parchment. “Even the Royal family would hesitate to assemble a blade like that. Not because they couldn’t—but because it would be a catastrophic waste of empire-level resources. Phoenix-blood crystal? Voidforge moon steel?” He tilted his head. “Do you know what you’re asking for?”

Toven blinked again. “…A cool sword?”

Lucavion exhaled through a chuckle. “Also… not to spoil your aesthetic—but aren’t you a mage? Why are you dreaming about a sword?”

Toven opened his mouth.

Paused.

Toven opened his mouth. Paused.

Then straightened, jabbing a thumb at his chest with unshakable conviction. “Sword is every man’s romance.”

Lucavion gave a solemn nod, like a priest affirming a sacred truth. “That,” he said, placing one hand dramatically over his heart, “is what I’m talking about.”

There was a pause.

A very long pause.

Kaleran’s jaw tightened, just slightly. A muscle near his temple twitched. He did not sigh—but he very nearly did. Instead, he coughed. Once. Sharply.

“…Regardless,” he said, very pointedly ignoring the clear betrayal of magical doctrine just committed at the table, “as I was saying.”

Elayne glanced at Caeden, who quietly sipped his tea with the practiced grace of a man choosing peace.

Kaleran continued, voice precise again. “You will be scheduled with the master this afternoon. There, you’ll consult with a forge-specialist and a rune-crafter to determine the most suitable configuration for your choice. Customization is encouraged—but,” and here he gave Toven a very specific look, “within the bounds of feasibility.”

Toven nodded enthusiastically. “Got it. No void-moon drake blades unless on clearance. Understood.”

Lucavion fought a grin and failed spectacularly.

Mireilla pinched the bridge of her nose.

Kaleran, ever the professional, simply exhaled through it all, gaze now scanning across the rest of them like he was searching for anyone—anyone—who might ask for something sane.

Kaleran adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, his composure returning like a blade sliding back into its scabbard. “One final detail,” he said, voice clipped but clear. “The points you earned during the entrance exam—both in combat and assessment—will now serve an additional purpose.”

He paused just long enough to let the weight of it land.

“They may be exchanged.”

That drew a collective flicker of attention—subtle shifts, faint tilts of heads. Even Elayne’s fingers paused over her cup.

Kaleran continued, “Your points act as provisional currency within the Academy’s internal system. They can be traded for higher-tier gear, spell scrolls, training access, restricted tomes, private instructor hours, or even temporary command over training environments. Manage them wisely.”

And then—he didn’t need to say it.

Because everyone turned.

Five necks pivoted in eerie unison.

Eyes locked onto one target.

Lucavion.

The man in question raised an eyebrow as if surprised by the attention, though the smug curve of his lips betrayed him.

He set down his tea with theatrical gentleness. “What?” he asked innocently, glancing around the table. “I’m sure all of you scored respectably.”

There was a synchronized twitch across the table—like a collective wince had just passed through everyone’s spine.

“Yeah,” Toven muttered, stirring his tea with a spoon that now clinked with passive-aggressive rhythm. “Respectably. Sure. Absolutely.”

Caeden’s brow creased, though his voice remained calm. “Remind me again, Lucavion—how many points did you finish with?”

Lucavion raised a hand, counting invisible figures on his fingers like he needed to recall. “Oh… I believe it was—”

“—One hundred sixty-eight thousand,” Mireilla finished for him, voice dry as dead bark.

Elayne sipped her tea without blinking. “And four hundred twenty.”

“Right.” Lucavion nodded, eyes glinting. “Nice of you all to remember. Touching.”

Toven leaned forward, pressing both palms to the table. “Mine was fifty-six thousand.”

Mireilla exhaled. “Forty-four thousand, three hundred.”

Elayne: “Forty-eight, nine twenty.”

Caeden tapped the side of his mug. “Fifty-six thousand ten.”

Then all eyes went back to Lucavion.

He blinked, feigning confusion. “Ah… I see now. This is that awkward moment where you realize I could buy all of your privileges and still have enough left for a vacation house in the inner capital.”

“Shut up,” Mireilla muttered.

“Respectfully,” Caeden added.

Lucavion leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head, utterly unrepentant. “I’m just saying. If they let me convert those points into, say, air superiority or land ownership, I could open my own micro-nation. Lucavia. Has a nice ring.”

Caeden set his mug down with a quiet clink, his tone flat but firm. “Running a nation isn’t that easy, Lucavion. It requires infrastructure, logistics, diplomacy, resource management—”

Lucavion blinked, holding up both hands. “Whoa, no shot. I was definitely asking to be signed up for all that. It was sure not a joke.”

Caeden’s eyes narrowed slightly. The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the moment of realization.

Lucavion’s grin spread slow—like dawn creeping over a battlefield.

“Oh no,” Caeden said under his breath.

Lucavion tilted his head with faux innocence. “Did I… bait you into explaining how to rule a country I made up just to annoy you?”

Caeden’s expression flattened into pure deadpan….

“Lucavia will accept applications for court advisors starting next week,” Lucavion said solemnly. “You’ll be given a nice cottage and three goats.”

Mireilla didn’t even look up. “You’ll be given a vine collar and a reason to stop talking.”

Elayne murmured, barely audible: “The goats deserve better.”

Toven, unhelpfully, raised a hand. “Can I be Minister of Cool Swords?”

Lucavion pointed at him. “See? A man of vision.”

Caeden leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together, the embodiment of composed threat. “You’d run your kingdom into the ground in a week.”

“I’d outsource the problems,” Lucavion replied smoothly. “And take all the credit when things get fixed. Like a proper ruler.”

There was a beat.

Then Mireilla finally muttered what they were all thinking.

“Gods help us if he ever gets real power.”

Lucavion smiled.

And said nothing.

Who knew what was in his mind.