Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 709: Borough

[I sense a lot of mythical beasts around.]

Hearing that Lucavion glanced sideways. ”And?”

[Most of them are asleep. Domesticated. Suppressed. Some barely even realize what they are anymore.] Her voice lost some of its casual edge, a flicker of old disdain bleeding through. [And the ones who do? They keep their auras sheathed so tightly they may as well be furniture.]

Lucavion leaned back, setting the empty cup down. ”Sounds like nobles.”

[Sounds like fear,] she corrected. [And conditioning. You can tell a lot about a society by how it treats its strongest.]

He said nothing for a moment. Then, ”And what does it say about us?”

[Youʼre indoors, drinking tea.] She rolled back onto her stomach, chin resting on her paws. [You tell me.]

Lucavion let out a short exhale that might have been a laugh, if one was generous.

”Comfort is a kind of captivity,” he said absently. ”The chains just happen to smell like honey and clean linen.”

[And thatʼs why you donʼt let yourself rest.]

”No,” he said, rising slowly to his feet and letting his fingers brush along the glass once more. ”Thatʼs why I do. Because rest is rare. And power? That comes from knowing exactly how long you can stay still before you strike again.”

[Oh, how very noble of you.]

”I am the noblest,” Lucavion said with an utterly straight face, his voice dipped in just enough arrogance to make it unclear if he was serious or mocking the entire concept.

[Vomiting levels of nobility,] Vitaliara scoffed. [Truly, Iʼm humbled to be in your sainted presence.]

He gave her a mock bow, lips twitching with something dangerously close to amusement. But before he could indulge the banter further, the Resonance Conductor pulsed softly—once, then again, rhythm steady and official.

”Sir Lucavion,” came the voice. The assistantʼs tone was perfectly clipped, perfectly timed. ”Your forge consultation has been scheduled. You are expected at the Iron Spire within the next thirty minutes.”

Lucavion raised an eyebrow, then turned to Vitaliara with a sigh that was far too elegant to be sincere. ”And so the page turns.”

[Blacksmith?] she asked, hopping down from the couch with a casual flick of her tail.

He stretched his shoulders slightly, then reached for his coat. ”Apparently itʼs time for me to be armed like a proper threat.”

[You already are one.]

He didnʼt deny it.

Just as he pulled the coat into place, he paused by the interface glass, staring for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

ʼLetʼs see if this part of the story has also changed.ʼ

From here on, things were supposed to spiral—slowly at first. Like a match waiting for the wrong breath.

ʼSo far, everythingʼs followed the script. The banquet, the sponsor offers, even the tailored silence.ʼ

He stepped toward the exit as the doors hissed open, light trailing in through the hall like a path waiting to be walked.

******

The walk from the accommodations to the forge district wasnʼt far—at least, not by imperial design. Within the inner borough of Arcania, even the layout obeyed intention. The Academyʼs facilities were woven into the highest veins of the capital like organs within a divine body—each step from luxury to purpose, from velvet to steel, by calculated transition.

Lucavion and the others walked in a loosely held line, the hush of magic-soaked stone under their feet barely echoing. Their formal coats fluttered in the gentle upward breeze that filtered through the hovering garden-terraces above, bringing with it a scent of silverroot trees and some kind of crystal-laced incense Lucavion couldnʼt place.

Then they stepped beyond the quiet gates of the Sanctum.

And the world… opened.

Even Lucavion paused.

They had entered the heart of the Imperial Borough. No longer just the inner ward of the Academy—but the summit of the empireʼs ambition.

Massive bridges arched overhead between floating platforms, each one a minor palace unto itself. Airships drifted lazily through the sky, trimmed in gold and sapphire, bearing noble crests like birds displaying their feathers. Automaton sentries, fashioned from living bronze and cloaked in illusion, moved with eerie grace through the air, eyes glowing faintly behind filigree masks.

The buildings here werenʼt just tall—they were composed. Each one a monument to mastery. No single wall lacked detail; every spire, every rune-carved arch, every floating lantern seemed placed by a master artisanʼs hand. And between it all—

Beasts.

Not in cages. Not on chains. But resting silently.

ʼOh….So these are the tamed monsters…..Is the Empire trying to show off, or are they somehow modified?ʼ

A feathered serpentine wyrm coiled in the shade of a crescent-shaped library tower.

A massive, lion-bodied creature with iridescent wings curled at the base of a fountain, as still and regal as a statue—until one eye flicked open.

Elayne slowed slightly beside Lucavion, her gaze drifting upward to a tower wrapped in vineglass and humming with power. Mireillaʼs posture stiffened clearly her experience as an adventure kicking in.

[Theyʼre not here,] Vitaliara murmured, her voice curling low into Lucavionʼs mind like a whisper meant for locked doors. [Not directly. Not in sight, at least. The ones I sensed earlier… theyʼre deeper. Beneath. Beyond. Hidden.]

Lucavionʼs gaze scanned the ridge of the nearest platform—nothing but runed stone and glowing lanterns. No serpents. No claws. No roaring terror.

Just silence wrapped in perfection.

”Then the ones we can see?” he asked quietly.

[Window dressing,] she said, with a flick of her tail. [Old blood, maybe—probably altered. Clipped. The true ones wouldnʼt laze in open plazas like trained cats.]

He nodded, just faintly, the edge of a thought forming.

ʼSo the beasts that matter know how to stay quiet.ʼ

[Exactly.] Her voice dropped a shade. [You donʼt notice us unless we want to be noticed.]

He glanced again at the creatures nearby. The feathered wyrm lay perfectly still in the shade, its scales refracting subtle colors with every breath. The leonine-winged beast at the fountain didnʼt move—but its presence did. It wasnʼt radiating aura. It wasnʼt baring fangs. It wasnʼt doing anything a true apex would do.

Which meant only one thing.

”Theyʼre not wild,” Lucavion murmured. ”Theyʼre aware. And theyʼve made a choice.”

[Or had it made for them,] Vitaliara replied, her tone laced with something older. [Either way, they donʼt feel like us.]

Lucavionʼs brow twitched slightly.

This was something that was most likely the doing of the current emperor.

ʼSigh….How far you are planning to go?ʼ

The final stretch of the bridge curved downward into a spiral—a gradual descent as though ushering them, not toward a forge, but into the heart of something far older, far deeper.

Lucavionʼs boots struck the obsidian-veined steps with practiced ease, but even he slowed as the Iron Spire came fully into view.

It was breathtaking.

No smoke. No soot. No roaring bellows.

Instead, a vertical tower of glass-forged obsidian and shimmering silver latticework rose from the stone like a blade piercing the sky. Runes pulsed across its surface in deliberate, rhythmic waves—every line a channel of pure mana. It didnʼt just hum with power.

It sang.

The gates were wide open, if they could even be called gates. They were more like a pair of massive, floating arcane conduits, their edges laced with goldlight, hovering without hinge or anchor. As Lucavion stepped forward with the others, a gust of warm air washed over them.

And with it came the sensation.

Mana.

Raw. Ancient. Alive.

It wasnʼt the usual presence of ambient aether. This wasnʼt residual spell energy left over from a few recent castings. This was deep-forged leyline power channeled into sanctified flame. Elemental pressure curled across their skin like a second atmosphere.

Even Caedenʼs posture shifted—rigid, alert.

Elayne stopped entirely. Her fingers brushed the side of her neck as if calming something beneath the surface of her own control.

Mireilla frowned, eyes narrowing. ”...This placeʼs mana is thicker than a dungeon core.”

Toven didnʼt speak. He just stared, mouth slightly open.

Lucavion stepped through the threshold—and felt it.

Not heat. Not pressure.

Presence.

A slow, encompassing gravity. Like walking into a cathedral, except it didnʼt smell of incense or sanctity. It smelled of ore. Of molten light. Of ritual tempered by fire.

[This forge…] Vitaliara whispered. [Thereʼs something divine here.]