Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 719

Chapter 719: Failure
The room was quiet.

Not the peace of silence.

But the kind of quiet that waited.

Reynald sat alone in the center of a perfectly square chamber carved from deep, dark stone. Smooth walls pulsed faintly with containment glyphs—soft runes etched into the walls like veins, shifting gently with blue-white light. Not enough to blind. Just enough to remind.

You are not free.

It had been a day and a half.

Thirty-nine hours, by his count.

He had not been questioned.

He had not been summoned.

Not a single mage had stepped through the reinforced threshold that sealed the only door. No instructors. No judges. No Crown-bearers.

Just silence, and the quiet hum of restraint wards working endlessly overhead.

He shifted slightly on the bench they’d given him—clean, polished stone, with a cushion that suggested civility rather than mercy. The food had been fine. Nutritious. The water was cool. His injuries had been treated, his burns salved, his bones aligned.

Everything looked like kindness.

But it wasn’t.

He wasn’t being treated.

He was being watched.

Reynald leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers curling into each other.

There were no shackles.

No bars.

But he knew the truth.

This place was more secure than any prison. The wards etched into the walls were tuned to resonance signatures. Personalized to match his aura. His escape was not only unlikely—it was mathematically impossible.

The Crown Prince had told him what to expect if he failed.

He had not told him what would happen if he disobeyed.

And that was the weight pressing down on him now.

Not the confinement.

Not the silence.

Uncertainty.

‘No one’s come.’

Not even a reprimand.

Not even a scolding.

And that was what unnerved him most.

He had expected judgment.

What he’d gotten was…

Nothing.

His thoughts spiraled.

Did he overstep? Of course he did.

The artifact—unauthorized. His technique—lethal. The intent—not just evident, but public.

He could see it now. The way Lucavion had looked at him at the end.

He had known.

Every inch of it.

And so had the observers.

Of course, the crime he’d committed—while severe—wasn’t enough to warrant execution.

Not officially.

The rules of the Academy’s entrance exams were clear. No artifact-class weaponry above Tier III. No externally synced spellcraft. No lethal force without direct provocation or life-endangerment.

He had broken two of the three.

And yet, in the eyes of the law, the penalty would be suspension. Disqualification at worst. A sealed record. Maybe a quiet reassignment far from the capital, hidden behind paperwork and forgotten honors.

But that didn’t matter.

Not to him.

Because this wasn’t about a violation.

It was about a failure.

He had been given a job.

Not a task. Not a goal.

A purpose.

Infiltrate the Academy. Rise with the commoners. Shape their narrative. Be the symbol.

That was all he was supposed to do.

And he’d failed.

There was no misunderstanding it. No way to explain it cleanly. No mitigating detail that could rewrite what had happened on that field.

He had fought with full strength.

He had used the Crown Prince’s tools.

He had tried to kill a man.

And he still lost.

‘How did it come to this?’

The question turned in his mind like a blade lodged too deep to pull free.

Lucavion.

That man.

The fracture in every assumption. The ghost in the machine. The one piece of the board that didn’t follow rules, didn’t answer to any faction—didn’t belong.

He had expected resistance. Rivalry. Even danger.

But not that.

Not someone who could stand at the peak without a crown.

Not someone who could smile through fire, unravel techniques designed by palace tacticians, and walk away not triumphant—

But amused.

And worse—informed.

‘How did he know?’

Lucavion hadn’t just matched him.

He had spoken words he should not have known.

“Your master. I’m coming for him.”

Reynald’s throat tightened.

Lucavion hadn’t guessed.

He had known.

About the Crown Prince.

About Reynald’s role.

About the artifact’s presence.

And that—

That changed everything.

This wasn’t just a freak encounter with a rogue awakened. This wasn’t some unexpected prodigy slipping through the cracks.

This was interference.

Premeditated. Directed. Designed.

‘But by who?’

Who was Lucavion?

Who trained him?

Who gave him that sword technique?

No public records. No noble house. No Empire-granted cultivation route. And yet—he moved like someone who had seen death from the inside and carved a name into its walls.

He knew things he shouldn’t.

He did things that shouldn’t be possible.

And maybe the worst truth of all—

He hadn’t even been fighting to win.

Lucavion hadn’t killed him.

Hadn’t even tried.

Because Seran had never been the target.

He had been the message.

The thought struck like a cold needle through his spine.

He had been used.

Used by someone else’s plan to carry a warning to his master.

He clenched his jaw, fists tight against his knees.

‘No.’

Just then…..a sound echoed.

—KNOCK.

The sound wasn’t loud.

But it was foreign.

Alien.

After nearly two days of uninterrupted stillness, the single rap against the reinforced door struck like thunder. Reynald’s head snapped up, every thought in his mind freezing mid-motion.

Someone was here.

Finally.

He rose to his feet, not quickly—but with practiced grace, keeping his posture sharp even now. He brushed a hand through his hair, composed the tension in his shoulders, and faced the door.

Was it him?

The thought came unbidden.

Had the Crown Prince arrived to speak in person? To pass judgment? No—he wouldn’t come here. Not to the holding tier of the Citadel. Not when his presence could stir whispers, trigger questions.

Still…

He waited.

A series of mechanical clicks followed—runic seals disengaging, glyphs stuttering briefly as the door hissed open.

And the one who entered—

Wasn’t Him.

It was worse.

Reynald’s eyes narrowed.

“…Ronnie.”

The man who stepped inside was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in travel-dark armor lined with crimson thread—form-fitting, but ceremonial. His white gloves were spotless, his cape draped with just enough flair to suggest importance without arrogance.

But his smirk?

That was pure poison.

“Reynald,” Ronnie said, his tone smooth and slightly amused. “You’re looking well. Considering.”

Reynald said nothing at first.

His eyes dropped slightly—just for a second—toward Ronnie’s belt. The seal hanging there bore the same crest etched into his own armor months ago.

The sigil of the Crown Prince’s inner circle.

But unlike Seran…

Ronnie didn’t wear it like it was borrowed.

He wore it like it belonged.

“What do you want?” Reynald asked, keeping his voice even.

Ronnie chuckled softly, stepping further into the chamber with that same casual confidence that made Seran want to snap the bench in half.

“To visit an old comrade,” he said.

“Don’t lie.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t insult you with lies,” Ronnie replied, brushing invisible dust from his lapel. “Not when the truth is so much more fun.”

He met Reynald’s gaze directly.

“I came to see what failure looks like.”