Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 675: Show your real face

”You are skilled… But itʼs time to get more serious now.”

The words hadnʼt been shouted. They didnʼt roar like a challenge or sting like an insult.

They just were—quiet and absolute.

And the moment they were spoken, the world changed.

Reynald—no, Seran—felt it.

First, the flame.

Not the kind that scorches flesh or licks at the edges of robes.

No… this flame breathed.

It pulsed, coiled like a living force around that manʼs frame—cold and hot all at once. Black fire woven with starlight and shadow. It didnʼt burn the way flame should. It unraveled. It devoured. Not with hunger, but with indifference.

ʼWhat is that flame…?ʼ

Reynaldʼs grip tightened around his longsword, his breath catching in his throat.

His mana.

It recoiled.

When that man—this guy, whatever his name was—unleashed that wave of power, Reynald felt his own energy bend. It was like placing polished steel into acid: slow at first, but inevitable. His aura thinned in places, drawn out of alignment, fraying like threads.

ʼThatʼs not heat. Itʼs… entropy.ʼ

And then came the pressure.

A weight that pressed down—not on his shoulders, but in the marrow of his bones. Like the battlefield itself had drawn breath and now watched.

His instincts screamed.

Fight or flee?

No—those werenʼt the options.

Yield or break.

This guy hadnʼt used a title. Hadnʼt drawn on fame. Hadnʼt even declared anything.

And yet, he stood there—his blade low, posture almost casual—as if he were the one issuing the exam.

Reynald staggered a half step back. He told himself it was strategy.

But the truth?

He couldnʼt understand.

Not just the technique. The why.

Why are you doing this?

He had offered him cooperation.

Earlier—before this clash had spiraled into madness—he had tried.

He had spoken evenly, offered joint movement to the next phase. Had extended the olive branch with the same tone he used to soothe frightened candidates and skeptical nobles alike.

He had been careful.

Measured.

Just as planned.

And yet—this man attacked him anyway.

He didnʼt insult him. Didnʼt challenge his honor. Didnʼt even speak his name.

He just moved. Like a force of nature disguised in human shape.

ʼThis isnʼt just some talented outlier. This guy is wrong.ʼ

Because nothing about this made sense.

The flame that devoured his mana. The pressure that bent space around him. The movements—too precise, too fast. A fighting style that looked like poetry written in violence.

And worse?

That look in his eyes.

It wasnʼt rage.

It wasnʼt pride.

It was intent.

As if this entire farce—the Trials, the cameras, the politics—meant nothing to him.

As if Reynald Vale himself meant nothing.

ʼWhy… now? When everything was going well?ʼ

He had done everything right.

He had followed the script.

He had bled just enough to be admirable, spoken just enough to be loved, saved just enough to be remembered.

And now, this man—this madman—was shattering it.

No explanation. No challenge. Just force.

Reynaldʼs heart slammed against his ribs as the fire coiled again behind the strangerʼs back, petals of black flame spinning lazily in the air like stars pulled from the void.

And for the first time since he took the name Reynald Vale—

Seran wasnʼt sure what was he supposed to do….

*****

The flame deepened.

It wasnʼt just mana now. It was a presence—an idea, manifest. Around Lucavion, the battlefield dulled in color, as if the very air had forgotten how to breathe. Black fire coiled lazily behind him in orbiting shapes, drifting not like smoke, but like constellations slowly unfurling.

Then—

—FWOOOOOM!

His mana burst forth.

The effect was instantaneous.

Several candidates watching from the sidelines staggered back, clutching their chests, eyes wide in disbelief.

Seran—Reynald—stood rooted, every fiber of his body screaming at him to act. To move. To do something. But his instincts warred with logic, both crushed under the suffocating bloom of Lucavionʼs power.

Lucavion moved again.

But this time—he wasnʼt dashing.

He walked.

Deliberate. Poised. Like a judge descending the steps of some cosmic tribunal.

Seran raised his blade instinctively, lips parting to command a retreat—when—

”NOW!” one of the cadets screamed.

Three of them. The ones heʼd shielded earlier. The ones who had survived the wrecked platform thanks to his calm, his leadership, his sacrifice.

They surged forward, weapons drawn, enchanted sigils flickering across their limbs.

Foolish.

Lucavion didnʼt even flinch.

Instead, he extended his free hand, palm open toward the ground.

The petals of black fire behind him pulsed once.

And bloomed.

「Flame of Equinox: Withering Lotus」

—FWOOOOOSH!

Twelve lotus-like glyphs erupted in a perfect circle from the ground, each one spinning outward from Lucavionʼs position. They didnʼt explode. They didnʼt roar.

They whispered.

Black flame curled up from the runes like the tendrils of a sleeping god. Elegant. Beautiful. Terrifying.

Each cadet took one step into that zone.

The tips of the flame—thin, graceful filaments like lotus stamen—rose toward them like they had been waiting.

—SHHNK. SHHNK. SHHNK.

Three gasps.

Three collapses.

No blood. No scream.

Just mana being cut.

Burned not from the outside, but from the inside out. Their cores stung, their spells collapsed, and they fell—unconscious before they even hit the dirt.

Lucavion didnʼt spare them a second glance.

His eyes were on Seran.

”Donʼt interfere,” he said calmly.

And then, with the same voice—soft and cruel in its simplicity—he spoke again.

”Come on.”

Lucavionʼs estoc lowered slightly—casual, almost disappointed.

”Come on.”

No roar. No fanfare.

Just a quiet beckoning.

An invitation dressed in inevitability.

And Seran—Reynald Vale, heir of discipline, darling of diplomacy—snapped.

He could not stay there. Not after that.

Not when those cadets—his cadets—fell like petals to an invisible flame.

He moved.

—BOOOOM!

The ground cracked beneath him as he surged forward, golden mana erupting in full from his core. His sword blazed with light, his eyes hardened with royal clarity.

All pretense was gone.

The aura of a mid 4-star warrior—true mid 4-star, not tempered for display—poured from him in waves.

—FWOOOOOM!

The pressure was vast. Real. Noble. A force built on discipline and lineage. A pressure honed in hidden rooms of the palace, forged beneath secret teachings and cloaked in anonymity.

His blade arced forward, drawing a golden glyph mid-air.

「Form VI – Dawnbreaker Spiral」

—CLANG!

A storm of luminous slashes descended in tight spirals, each one layered with precise timing and controlled burst-mana. The technique was meant to overwhelm. To corner. To seal.

Lucavion didnʼt block.

He shifted.

A pivot of the foot. A tilt of the hip. The kind of movement that wasnʼt taught—only known.

—SWOOSH!

The first spiral missed.

The second clipped nothing but cloak.

The third—

Lucavion stepped into it.

—CLINK!

His estoc intercepted the final strike not with power, but with a deflection so clean it made the watching crowd inhale as one.

Seran gritted his teeth. He spun, blade glowing brighter.

「Form VII – Crownʼs Resolve」

A direct, high-speed thrust imbued with his full weight of mana. Gold shimmered along the bladeʼs length like a comet descending—

Lucavion parried with a flick.

Not of the wrist.

Of the heel.

His boot twisted along the earth, shifting his stance by a breathʼs width—and the estoc flicked sideways.

—CLANG!

The golden thrust was knocked askew.

Seranʼs balance faltered.

Lucavion didnʼt press forward.

He waited.

Letting the pause hang there like a bladeʼs edge. Then he spoke:

”Is that all?”

Seran growled, stepping back. Mana surged again, brighter this time.

「Form VIII – Solar Crest」

The blade vanished in motion—too fast for the eye. A horizontal arc, then vertical, then a crashing cross.

Lucavion ducked.

Twisted.

And moved with the strike—not against it.

He passed beneath Seranʼs final swing, cloak trailing behind like shadow stitched to nightfall.

And then—

—THWACK!

His fist met Seranʼs stomach.

Not the blade. Just a punch.

Seranʼs body lurched.

—THUMP!

He collapsed to one knee, coughing once, the gold in his aura flickering like a candle in the wind.

Lucavion stood above him, estoc idle in hand.

”If you donʼt want to show more, I will eliminate you here.”

No killing intent.

Only craziness.

”Do it or not, this is your final chance.”