Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 230: Shrouded Whisper (4)

–Birds of a feather tend to flock together.

A saying that is from Earth.

–People like them, despicable through and through, always seemed to find each other.

Like weeds in a field, they clustered together, feeding off each otherʼs rot. Slave smugglers, gang leaders, and nobles who turned a blind eye to corruption—all thriving within the same festering underbelly. In their own twisted way, they upheld each otherʼs malice, validating every vile act in the name of power, control, or wealth.

But is it fair to lump them all into the same category?

I wondered, my thoughts darkening. For all the evil I knew them capable of, it was an unsettling realization. I knew nothing about them individually. Was I any better, dismissing their worth with such sweeping judgment? Did I have the right to pass judgment so easily, to decide that they all deserved to be condemned? Was I any different, really, for seeing them all the same way?

But at the end of the day… do all these questions even matter?

These people were the ones who painted themselves into the roles they now played. They categorically labeled themselves with every deal, every lie, every betrayal.

Each one of them contributed to the misery, enslavement, and suffering that filled this world. They were responsible for the roles they chose, and the lines they crossed.

The same held for the people who had tormented these two kids.

Riken

and

Sena

.

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The two young fox siblings drifted into my thoughts, their faces vivid in my mind.

They were so young when they were captured, stolen away, and stripped of any chance at a free life. Beastkin werenʼt like humans—they had a different essence, a wildness rooted in nature itself. Their connection to mana was instinctual, woven into their very being. Even as children, they could manipulate it, drawing power from the world around them without needing years of study or discipline.

For a beastkin, survival was in their blood. They grew stronger earlier than most humans, their bodies resilient, maturing quickly to meet the demands of their environment. And then, there was ʼbeastification,ʼ an ability unique to their kind. Even young beastkin like Riken and Sena could draw on their primal bloodlines, shifting parts of their bodies into animal forms—claws, fangs, even heightened senses—to protect themselves or others. It made them formidable, even at a young age.

And that was why capturing them wasnʼt easy. It wasnʼt just a matter of power or strength; humans had to find ways to break them psychologically, to crush that innate resistance and force them into submission. Humans and beastkin had always been at odds, their instincts and values too different to coexist peacefully for long.

The wildness in beastkin unnerved people, their dangerous, instinctive nature a constant reminder of the power humans couldnʼt control. So, rather than try to understand, humans chose to dominate.

ʼThat is indeed sad.ʼ

For Riken and Sena, their natural gifts had been turned into tools for their captors. The same powers that should have freed them became chains, twisted by those who only saw them as weapons to wield, not lives to nurture.

They had grown up fighting, but not for freedom or family—they fought for survival under the thumb of a master who would never allow them to be anything more than tools.

–SWOOSH!

As I steadied my stance, the blood-soaked room settled around me in sharp, metallic clarity. Bodies littered the floor, their lifeless forms sprawled amidst the carnage, yet my focus remained unyielding on the boy standing across from me. His fierce, unblinking gaze mirrored the quiet fury Iʼd seen flicker beneath his surface in the tournament—a controlled wrath forged from something deeper, something primal.

And there he was, the one responsible for all this—the ”Shrouded Whisperer,” watching from the shadows. He leaned casually against the far wall, his dark cloak blending into the murky shadows like an extension of himself. His presence reeked of illusion magic, the air around him pulsing with the subtle, shifting energy of a spell not yet cast. His eyes glinted, sharp and calculated, taking in the room with a detached curiosity, as if all of this—the death, the blood, even these two broken lives heʼd bound to his will—was merely part of a game.

ʼThatʼs him,ʼ

I thought, locking eyes with the man who had twisted these siblingsʼ lives into tools of his making.

The boy didnʼt move, his ears twitching slightly as he held his ground. I could feel the tension coiled within him, every muscle braced, poised for a strike. Valeria stood beside me, her sword raised and steady, having just deflected the girlʼs surprise attack, but her breath was still ragged, the shock of what sheʼd witnessed still lingering in her eyes.

The Shrouded Whispererʼs low voice slipped through the stillness, cold and unfeeling. ”Impressive,” he drawled, his eyes sweeping over the bodies before landing on me with an amused gleam. ”I didnʼt think anyone would have the gall to waltz in and paint my establishment red.” His smirk was as hollow as his soul, his tone laced with mockery. ”And yet here you are, making quite the mess.”

A flicker of disgust twisted within me, but I kept my expression neutral, and calm. ”You call them your establishment?” I asked, my voice low, unwavering. ”These people… these children? Theyʼre not yours to own.”

The manʼs eyes narrowed, his smug demeanor barely shifting. ”Ownership is just a word,” he replied smoothly, his tone so casual it felt like a slap. ”They serve a purpose, donʼt they? Survival of the fittest, after all. Those strong enough to command will always rise above those who merely… follow.”

Beside me, Valeriaʼs grip on her sword tightened. I could see the barely concealed anger simmering in her eyes, her disgust plain as day.

ʼWell, that is just like her after all.ʼ

I turned my attention to the boy, meeting his steady, defiant gaze.

ʼWhat a pitiful kid.ʼ

He would live his life as a slave for a long time, thinking that he was doing something for his own people.

But in fact, all of his actions were for the sake of an illusion.

SWOOSH!

The boyʼs expression shifted, his eyes narrowing with a flash of raw, instinctual rage. Before I could say anything more, he lunged at me, his claws slashing through the air, swift and deadly.

CLANK!

I barely had time to raise my blade, meeting his strike with a quick deflection that sent a dull clang echoing through the silent room.

In that brief moment, I caught a glimpse of the slave mark burned into his neck—a twisted, pulsing sigil that shimmered with dark energy, binding him in ways he probably didnʼt even understand.

ʼIndeed, the marks are also there.ʼ

The mark pulsed, almost as if it were alive, responding to every strike he delivered with a relentless fury.

At the same time, I could also sense that the Shrouded Whispererʼs magic was thrumming in the air, a sinister hum of energy that pressed down on me like a vice. I didnʼt have to look to know he was preparing something—some spell or illusion aimed to weaken me.

I could feel it coiling, biding its time like a snake ready to strike.

ʼRuthttless indeed.ʼ

This guy was the leader of the people I had just massacred here. The leader of a small gang that he had founded after getting his hands on a certain dark magic book.

He was not affiliated with any organization, and it was just sheer luck.

The boy came at me again, faster this time, his claws aimed at my throat. I sidestepped, angling my sword to parry his attack, the force of his strike resonating through the steel.

He was strong—stronger than any kid his age should be—but every movement was fueled by desperation, by the twisted magic forcing his body into action. I could sense the control pulsing through him, driving his limbs, urging him forward without a shred of hesitation or restraint.

He slashed at me again, and I deflected, feeling the sharp edge of his claws graze past, close but not close enough. His strikes came faster, more frantic, each one tinged with a fury that was as much his own as it was the Whispererʼs.

I could see the strain in his eyes, the raw, guttural rage that was entirely his own—and the helplessness that simmered just beneath it.

”Let me save you this time.”

SWOOSH!

There was a reason why I came here, to this place just to confront this bastard.

I felt the

Flame of Equinox

inside me surging, rising.

ʼIf it was this, it could even eat the slave mark.ʼ

Since I was different from the rest of the world, why not use it? In the end, I was not bound by the rules of this world.

My mana method was different.

My way of forming the core, my way of advancing, my meridians….

Everything was different for me.

ʼTo me…..Rules donʼt apply.ʼ

That was why, when my blade flashed I could see it.

CRACK!

The crack in the mark.