Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 707

Chapter 707: Crest
The meal ended in a quiet clatter of silverware and soft murmurs. Plates were cleared by silent attendants with eerie synchronicity, and the warm light from the hovering chandelier dimmed slightly—as if sensing that frivolity had run its course and something heavier was stepping in to take its place.

Kaleran remained standing near the door, hands folded behind his back like a blade sheathed in protocol.

“Come,” he said simply, voice once again pared down to its sharpest edge. “We begin with measurements.”

The five stood, chairs sliding back in a near-unison that wasn’t planned, but spoke of people who had all learned to read the same tension in the air. They followed Kaleran through the curving hallways of the Sanctum, the marble beneath their feet shifting hue subtly with the changing light—dusky gold to white steel—as they approached the outfitting chambers.

And there, they found it waiting.

A room not of luxury, but calculation.

Glass-paneled mirrors stood in a full circle formation, glowing softly with runes etched in delicate precision. Illusion-thread mannequins hovered midair, each ready to adapt and mimic the frame of the one standing before it. Enchanters and tailors—cloaked in storm-blue robes marked with the Academy crest—stood poised with floating scrolls, enchanted tape lines, and gloves etched with responsive thread.

“Each of you will be assigned to a master tailor,” Kaleran said, gesturing to the row of figures awaiting them. “This is not just for appearances. You are not here to impress as yourselves. You are here as representatives of the Academy. Your presence at the Entrance Banquet is not just ceremonial—it is symbolic.”

He let the words settle.

“You are commoners,” he said bluntly, without venom but without apology. “And nobles will look for weakness. In stance. In speech. In silk.”

A pause.

“That is how they wage their quietest wars—by making others feel lesser, without ever drawing a blade. The Academy will not allow you to walk into that room looking anything less than chosen.”

Lucavion let his eyes skim across the mirrors, the mannequins, the precise hands of people preparing to craft weapons made of cloth and presence. ‘Dressing a message,’ he thought. ‘And we’re the parchment.’

Elayne stepped forward without a word, already studying the fabrics laid out on the platform beside her assigned tailor. She didn’t flinch from the touch of measuring threads.

Caeden stood tall as if he were already armored.

Mireilla gave the faintest nod and allowed the enchantments to scan her without resistance.

Toven, predictably, whispered to his tailor, “Hey, can we add, like, a phoenix on the back? Or no, wait—maybe a flaming wolf?”

Lucavion’s smirk was nearly invisible.

When his turn came, he stepped into the ring of glass and rune. The runes flared, scanning his frame, adjusting for posture, weight, mana resonance. His tailor didn’t speak—just worked with the quiet authority of someone used to dressing names older than dynasties.

“Color preference?” the man finally asked, voice clipped.

Lucavion tilted his head, considering.

Then, smoothly: “Midnight indigo. Threaded in silver. Simple. Sharp.”

The man nodded, noting it with a flick of his gloved fingers.

“And the crest?” he asked.

Lucavion paused.

The question—simple, almost procedural—cut deeper than expected.

The crest.

He hadn’t thought of one.

Of course he hadn’t. He’d never needed to. He wasn’t born to a house, wasn’t trained in halls hung with banners bearing bloodlines. Crest? That was a noble’s language. Their symbol. Their arrogance, etched in silk and stitched with old money.

And yet—

Now?

It made sense.

He wasn’t just fighting anymore.

He was being seen.

His reflection caught in the enchanted glass—tall, quiet, watchful. The estoc at his side, always present. His coat, his stance, the way he let silence speak first. He’d shaped himself like a weapon over the years—but now, for the first time, the world demanded a sigil.

A mark.

A statement.

He folded his arms, gaze narrowing in thought.

‘Something of me, but not just me.’

The estoc. Of course. The weapon that had become an extension of his will. Precision. Reach. Threat hidden in elegance.

The black flame. Yes. The Flame of Equinox. Not heat, but erasure. The fire that consumed mana, burned through pretense, and left silence in its wake.

And then—

Stars.

To symbolize his master’s legacy.

Yet at the same time, he was not Gerald.

‘I will not follow your steps.’

He was not here to follow Gerald’s steps, nor stay under his shadow.

He had never been someone who stayed behind other people in his life.

‘At least that is what I now swore to.’

It may not have been like this in the past, but it was like this now.

That is why his stars wouldn’t have the color purple, as if his master’s.

Not purple ones, not bright and hopeful.

Black stars.

Cold. Distant. Silent and watching.

Symbols of his truth: he was no rising sun.

He was a void that remembered light and chose to shape its own.

“An estoc,” he said finally, voice low. “Wrapped in black flame. And behind it—a single black stars.”

The tailor’s pen paused mid-air, the illusion-sketch frozen in pale light between his fingers. He regarded Lucavion not with curiosity, but with the subtle shift of someone who had just been handed something they hadn’t expected—a crest not born of inheritance, but of intention.

“A single black star?” he asked, voice level, professional. “Center-aligned or offset behind the blade?”

Lucavion considered the image in front of him.

“Offset,” he said. “To the left of the blade’s spine. Slightly higher. Not symmetrical.”

The tailor adjusted the projection with a fluid motion, the star drifting into position—small, sharp-edged, its color a flat, devouring black that absorbed even the magic-light around it.

“And the flame?” the man asked, fingers poised. “Do you want it stylized—artistic sweep? Or natural? Wild?”

Lucavion’s gaze lingered on the illusion for a moment longer.

“Controlled chaos,” he said finally. “Like it’s waiting to consume. Not raging—just inevitable.”

The tailor nodded slowly, the faintest note of approval surfacing in his expression. “Understood. One final question—do you wish for the crest to be visible at all times, or embedded with a glamour for conditional reveal?”

Lucavion tapped a knuckle lightly against the edge of the mirror. “Conditional,” he said. “Let the world see it when it matters.”

“Discreet,” the man murmured. “Fitting.”

He made a final gesture, sealing the crest’s preliminary form into the scroll hovering beside them. It shimmered once, then dimmed.

“I’ll send the confirmed render to your suite after measurements are finalized. You’ll be able to review and approve or request alterations before the embroidery is anchored.”

Lucavion gave a curt nod. “Good.”

The tailor stepped back slightly, the floating mannequin adjusting its posture to mirror Lucavion’s exact stance. The threads began to move again—quiet, efficient, weaving through fabric and forming early frames of the suit.

But even as they worked, Lucavion’s gaze lingered not on the cloth, but on the crest’s final flicker in the illusion-glass. The estoc, cloaked in black flame, and that lone star—unlit, but watching.

‘What is it now? Why do I feel this way?’

It stirred in his chest—quiet, unwelcome.

Not pride.

Not triumph.

Something more hollow than that.

The illusion of the crest faded, but its echo lingered in the reflection. That single black star, watching. Alone. Defiant.

His shoulders stayed square, his expression calm, but something beneath the surface shifted.

A slow, dragging awareness of distance.

‘What is it now? Why do I feel this way?’

He didn’t have to ask aloud.

[What?] Vitaliara’s voice brushed against the edge of his thoughts, soft and curious.

Lucavion didn’t answer immediately.

The tailor moved in the background, murmuring measurements to a scribe-construct. Runes sparked and faded. Fabric shaped itself to his figure. Everything was precise. Everything controlled.

And yet—

That strange, distant sensation curled behind his ribs. Like watching someone else’s memory. Like seeing the shadow of a boy long gone.

‘I have come a long way indeed.’

From ash-soaked fields and sleepless nights, from sleeping beneath broken wards to now—being tailored in floating glass, designing a crest with a voice that held weight.

Quite far.

Even far enough to belong here… at least on the surface.

Far enough to be seen.

But the distance between what he was and what he is?

It wasn’t just behind him.

It was inside him now.

“Nothing,”

This was a little hard to explain.