Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 720

Chapter 720: Failure (2)
“I came to see what failure looks like.”

Reynald’s glare could have carved glass.

His fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, knuckles paling, but he didn’t strike. He didn’t rise to the bait. Not now. Not in here.

He’d learned better.

“I know I failed,” he said, voice like a drawn blade—quiet, sharp, restrained. “You don’t need to remind me.”

Ronnie raised a brow, arms folded loosely as he leaned against the rune-sealed wall. “Then what, Seran? Should I offer comfort? A handshake? Maybe write a letter of recommendation for your early retirement?”

But Reynald didn’t flinch.

He stepped forward.

“Lucavion,” he said, his voice cutting through the chamber like the edge of his own ruined sword. “He’s not just some rogue awakened. He knew.”

Ronnie’s expression didn’t change.

“He knew, Ronnie,” Seran repeated, firmer now. “He knew I was under direct orders. He knew I wasn’t a real commoner. He knew about the Crown Prince.”

At that, Ronnie blinked once.

Slow.

Measured.

Then he laughed.

It wasn’t loud. Just a short exhale through his nose—disbelief dressed up in a sneer.

“Oh, gods, Seran…”

He shook his head, pushing off the wall with an easy roll of his shoulders.

“So that’s what this is.”

Seran stiffened.

“You’re making excuses.”

“It’s not an—”

“You’re trying to protect your pride,” Ronnie continued, cutting him off. “I get it. It’s pathetic, but I get it. You thought you’d be the golden shadow, right? The perfect little emblem of loyalty.”

His tone dropped.

“But you lost. On camera. To a man who never said his name.”

Reynald took a step closer, jaw tight. “I’m not excusing anything. I’m warning you. Warning him. That man—Lucavion—he didn’t beat me by chance. He planned it. He provoked me into drawing the artifact. He knew where it was. How it worked.”

Ronnie’s smirk faded slightly, but only slightly. His eyes stayed cold, flat.

“You really expect me to carry that up the chain? ‘Oh, he beat me, but he knew too much, sir!'” His lip curled. “Do you think the Prince has time for your paranoia?”

Seran’s eyes blazed. “Then send me to him. Let me speak directly—”

“No,” Ronnie snapped. The smile vanished now, fully replaced by disdain. “You don’t get to speak directly anymore. You forfeited that right when you exposed your rank, your weapons, and our involvement in front of the Empire’s whole damn broadcast grid.”

He leaned in.

“You don’t get to lecture me on threats. You are the threat now. A liability.”

Silence.

Reynald stood still.

Then—

“If you don’t believe me, fine,” he said, low. “Ignore me. Write me off.”

But his eyes, now clear and steady, locked onto Ronnie’s.

“But when Lucavion burns through the next operative—when he gets closer—don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Ronnie stared back, unreadable for a moment.

Then he turned, walking for the door.

At the threshold, he paused.

“Lucavion,” he said again, the name rolling off his tongue like something bitter. “You know, it’s not just you whispering it anymore.”

He turned, only slightly, enough for the faint glow of the glyphs to catch the sharp curve of his smirk.

“Half the damn Empire’s whispering it now. You’ve seen the rankings….Oh right, you haven’t….”

Reynald didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Ronnie continued.

“First-ranked. Highest point total. Eliminated over a dozen high-tier candidates—including your entire group.”

His tone darkened, now tinged with disgust.

“Every last one of them. The kids you hand-fed through the earlier stages, the ones you shared your rations with—he erased them. No hesitation. No delay. One by one, clean and quiet.”

Reynald’s eyes narrowed.

Ronnie let the words hang for a moment, like smoke curling in still air.

Then he scoffed, shaking his head with a humorless grin.

“Oh—and get this,” he added, as if tossing a final insult onto an open grave. “He gave them tips.”

Reynald’s gaze snapped upward.

“Mid-duel. Mid-pressure. He offered corrections on their stances. Told one of them not to overextend with her left leg. Gave another advice on mana flow before shattering his shield right through it.”

Ronnie turned, pacing with theatrical disgust. “Gives them help, then wipes them off the field. What does that make him? A battle tutor from the abyss?”

He stopped. Met Reynald’s stare again.

“And still came in first. Overwhelmingly. Every instructor on the top floor had their runes pinging red from the spike in kill score.”

“He wasn’t after points,” Seran said.

The words came flat.

Firm.

Ronnie tilted his head, amused. “No?”

Seran’s eyes burned.

“He didn’t just dislike my group. He targeted them. Because of me.”

“Oh? So now it’s personal?”

“He said it himself,” Seran replied coldly. “‘Because you need to leave a message.'”

Ronnie blinked, and Seran stepped closer, his voice low, even.

“He spared me on purpose. After disabling me. He branded my chest with flame. A crown, Ronnie.”

A tense pause.

“He told me,” Seran continued, “‘Your master. I’m coming for him.'”

That stilled the air for a heartbeat.

Then—

Ronnie laughed.

Not lightly.

Not kindly.

A full, dry, mocking laugh that rang off the stone walls like nails dragged across iron.

“Hunting the Crown?” he echoed through the grin. “Ahahaha…”

He wiped a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, Seran. You poor bastard. You’ve been beaten so thoroughly you’ve started quoting your opponent like some tragic bard from the frontier.”

He leaned forward again, smirking like a knife.

“Next thing you’ll be telling me he’s a fallen god in disguise, cursed to walk among mortals, preaching poetic vengeance between sparring drills.”

Seran didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

And that was what made Ronnie’s grin finally falter.

Just a little.

“You think I’m being dramatic,” Seran said.

Ronnie turned away.

“No,” he said over his shoulder, voice cool again. “I think you’ve cracked under pressure.”

Seran’s composure cracked.

His hand lashed to his collar, fingers digging into the fabric. He yanked the front of his tunic down, exposing the skin just above his heart—where the mark still lay.

A twisted, blackened burn.

Not jagged. Not random.

A crown.

Charred into flesh with precision. The edges still raw. The skin still tender.

Unhealed.

Despite the potions. Despite the restoratives they’d given him when he was dragged from the arena. Despite the healers who had mended his ribs, aligned his spine, cleared the battle-bruises from his limbs.

This mark—

It stayed.

“Look at it!” Seran shouted, voice echoing through the chamber like a fractured sword strike.

Ronnie turned, pausing just long enough to glance.

Then he laughed.

Not the sneer this time.

A bark of amusement.

“You’re showing me scars now?” he said, grinning like this was theater. “What’s next, Seran? Do you write poetry about the fire in his eyes?”

Seran didn’t flinch.

He kept his hand over the brand, jaw clenched.

“This isn’t normal,” he growled. “I’ve had third-circle curse brands vanish in minutes. But this? It hasn’t faded. It hasn’t even scabbed.”

“And what, exactly, do you want me to do with that?” Ronnie asked, spreading his arms with mock empathy. “Report to the Crown Prince that Lucavion’s flames are emotionally clingy?”

He tilted his head.

“Or maybe you think that’s part of the prophecy too.”

Seran’s breathing was sharp now, each inhale laced with restraint. “You think this is funny. You think he’s funny. But listen to me, Ronnie.”

He took a step forward.

Closer.

“This mark—this brand—he left it intentionally. As a message. As a promise.”

Ronnie stared at him.

Unimpressed.

Seran’s voice dropped.

Low. Hollow.

“He doesn’t want to fight us. He wants to tear through us.”

Ronnie stared at the charred crown, lips twitching with amusement.

Then he exhaled—long, exaggerated—before clicking his tongue once.

“Come on, man…” he said, voice dripping with false pity. “You’ve really gotta do better than self-harm conspiracies.”

Seran blinked. His breath caught.

Ronnie gave a dramatic shrug, motioning lazily at the burn on his chest. “A non-healing brand? In this era? With the healers you had access to? You expect me to believe he etched a permanent magical threat into your skin and nobody could purge it?”

He smirked again. Cruel now.

“Honestly, Seran, if you did carve that into yourself, I’ll admit—it’s a nice touch. Very tragic. Very literary.” He leaned back slightly. “Next time maybe add a poem around it. Something about fire and forgotten crowns.”

Seran’s fists trembled at his sides.

But Ronnie didn’t give him a chance to speak.

He turned for the door, gloves folded neatly behind his back as the runes began to swirl in preparation for departure.

“Anyway,” he said casually, “your new placement’s been finalized.”

The door hissed.

“Welcome to the Ash-Class.”

The glyphs pulsed brighter behind him.

“But don’t worry. Someone’ll come fetch you soon.”

He stepped through.

And then, without turning—

“Oh. And Seran?”

The words echoed like a nail driven into old wood.

“Try not to embarrass him again.”

The door sealed behind him.

And Seran stood alone.

The crown on his chest still burned.

Not with heat.

With reminder.