Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 655: Lucavion (2)

On the other side, the city still wrapped in the amber glow of the Festival of the First Flame.

Though most of the revelry would peak after dusk, the streets were already alive—children chasing illusion-kites shaped like phoenixes, perfumed vendors hawking flame-glazed fruit, and tiny fireworks that popped with flower petals instead of sound. Somewhere in the distance, temple drums beat steadily beneath the crackle of celebratory spellbursts, marking the noon hour with reverent rhythm.

Elara sat beneath a carved awning laced with ivy charms, her fingers wrapped around a cup of floral tea that still steamed faintly. The establishment theyʼd chosen for lunch was perched on a high terrace overlooking one of the quieter squares—still festive, but less chaotic than the main thoroughfare. White paper lanterns bobbed on enchanted strings above their heads, occasionally dipping low enough to cast warm pools of light across the table. The scent of spiced citrus and grilled meat mingled in the air, carried on soft wind.

Aurelian was halfway through a honey-dipped flatbread, gesturing animatedly with one hand as he tried to both eat and explain a rune conversion theory at the same time.

”Iʼm telling you,” he said, mouth half-full, ”if you reinforce the loop structure with a mirrored leyline echo, you donʼt just stabilize the projection—you amplify it.”

”That only works in theory,” Selphine said, spearing a piece of roasted fig with her fork. ”In practice, mirrored echoes are notoriously unstable. Youʼre better off stacking a conditional anchor. Less flashy. Less risk of your eyebrows ending up on the ceiling.”

Aurelian looked offended. ”You just hate things that sparkle.”

”I hate things that explode when someone sneezes near them.”

Elara took a slow sip of her tea, letting their rhythm play out. She had offered her own thoughts earlier that morning—an adjustment to a resonance-binding glyph that helped mana cohere more cleanly in layered castings—and though Selphine had raised a brow, she hadnʼt disagreed.

Theyʼd spent the morning in one of the rented study rooms above the archive wing, windows cracked open, pages strewn across the floor in organized chaos. It had felt… normal. In the way rare days sometimes do. Like nothing pressing was hunting them, no memories clawing their way up from under skin.

Now, they shared the meal as casually as any old friends might—until Aurelian leaned back with a satisfied sigh and pointed his fork lazily skyward.

”You know,” he said, ”I could get used to this. Good food, good theory debates, minimal death. A marked improvement over last week.”

Selphine smirked faintly. ”Letʼs see if you still say that after the mage trials next month.”

”Oh please,” Aurelian said. ”Whatʼs a little arcane dueling between friends?”

”Unclear,” Elara said, setting her cup down with a soft clink. ”Depends on whether youʼre planning to duel me.”

Aurelian paused. Then grinned. ”I take it back. Death might be preferable.”

They laughed—softly, but real.

Around them, festival music floated in from the streets below. A troupe of dancers passed by the edge of the terrace, trailing flame-colored silks enchanted to shimmer like burning feathers. Somewhere, a choir of young acolytes sang a prayer to Lysandra in rounds—voices rising, falling, overlapping like waves breaking over stone.

And above it all, high on the cityʼs spires, the broadcast continued.

The laughter at their table faded as a subtle ripple passed through the air—not of magic, but of attention. A murmuring, shifting weight, like a tide turning.

Aurelian was the first to notice it.

He leaned forward slightly, glancing around the terrace. Conversations at nearby tables had slowed. Waitstaff paused mid-step. Even the lute-player in the corner missed a chord.

Then came the voice.

Not a personʼs, but the clean, clipped tone of the illusion-broadcast—projected from the spire-mounted pillars overhead. Clear. Authoritative. The sort of voice designed to silence a city.

--------------

”PHASE TWO: LOCAL DOMINION TRIALS

Objective: Establish control zones by capturing one of the activated relics.

Designated contestants who successfully claim a relic shall be recognized as Zone Lords.

As a Zone Lord, you must defend your relic from challengers during the Dominion Period.

Sub-trials now apply. Your relic draws challengers. Defeating them strengthens your bond with the domain.

At the conclusion of the Dominion Period, all surviving Zone Lords shall be granted a cultivation boon derived from the relicʼs origin—unique, and irreversible.”

----------------------

Aurelianʼs eyes snapped to the nearest broadcast feed—now showing the forested arena from a high, floating perspective. The terrain, until now quiet and stretched in watchful calm, shifted.

Then—

BOOM.

Across the vast expanse, six pillars of radiant light erupted from the earth, like spears hurled skyward by something ancient and buried. The image trembled as mana surged upward, distorting the projection. Each beam was a different color—crimson, violet, deep jade, silver, golden-white, and void-black—and where they struck the clouds, the sky cracked with soundless thunder.

Gasps echoed from below the terrace, festival-goers now pressing toward every visible illusion screen.

Even the dancers paused mid-step.

”Well,” Selphine said, cool and low, as she turned to face the projection fully, her half-eaten fig forgotten, ”that escalated.”

”What in the hells is a ʼZone Lordʼ?” Aurelian muttered, already sketching sigils on his napkin, trying to mirror the spell matrix blooming across the illusion feed.

Elara rose slightly from her chair, her hand braced on the tableʼs edge as she watched the image shift—now zooming in on one of the relic sites: a massive stone structure, overgrown and pulsing with faint inscriptions. Contestants were already converging on it, some casting protective wards, others clashing in front of the steps like ants around honeyed steel.

”Itʼs a land claim,” she murmured, eyes narrowing. ”Relic-based. Whoever holds one becomes a focal point. The sub-trials will push others toward them—itʼs not just survival now. Itʼs territory.”

”And incentive,” Cedric added, his arms crossed as he watched with unreadable eyes. ”A cultivation boon from a relicʼs origin? Thatʼs enough to shift someone an entire rank if theyʼre lucky.”

Selphine frowned. ”Or kill them if theyʼre not.”

Elaraʼs gaze remained fixed on the relic site flickering in the projection—where one contender had just been thrown off the steps by a concussive blast of air and rolled, limp, into the underbrush.

She didnʼt flinch.

”Itʼs the nature of an opportunity,” she said quietly, but with steel under the calm. ”For an Awakened, risk is the toll we pay for advancement. If you approach every chance like itʼs your death sentence, youʼll never move forward.”

Aurelian grinned, still half-bent over his napkin. ”Spoken like someone whoʼs nearly died more times than Iʼve had proper breakfast.”

”Iʼm still here,” Elara replied, lips tilting faintly. ”Which is more than most.”

Selphine leaned back, arms crossing, not in disagreement but in wary restraint. ”And sometimes caution is what keeps you alive. Not everyone can charge into the storm and come out cleaner.”

”Thatʼs the thing,” Elara said, her voice low but steady. ”You donʼt come out cleaner. You come out changed.”

The air between them hung for a moment—thick with unspoken memories, quiet wars fought far from relics and trials.

Then the projection shifted again.

The scrying feed moved from relic to relic—cycling between battlefronts scattered across the trial zone. One showed a narrow riverbank where a fire mage and a shadow cultivator clashed in brutal rhythm. Another, a cliffside, where a lightning-fast spear-user fought two illusionists at once.

They were skilled. Precise. Blood marked the ground in places, and names flashed—contestant identifiers updating as alliances shifted and broke apart.

But none of it was new.

None of it held the tension of change.

Aurelian leaned back in his chair, chewing absently on a piece of fruit. ”Itʼs not bad. But nothing like yesterdayʼs wild ones. Whereʼs that axe guy when you need him?”

”Or Sparkjaw,” Selphine said dryly. ”Iʼm shocked he hasnʼt claimed a relic just for the aesthetic.”

Elaraʼs eyes narrowed slightly, still following the feeds. Her fingers tapped once against the base of her cup, a quiet rhythm as the illusions flicked past more sites—more fights.

A slow build.

Nothing remarkable.

Not yet.

Until—

The projection stilled.

”Oh…..It is that guy from the terrace!”