Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 902: In school politics

Selenne’s voice cut cleanly through the steady rhythm of strikes ringing across the yard.

”Just as the Magicians’ block is divided by elemental specialization, the Close Combatant sector is organized by weapon discipline. The general weapons—swords, spears, axes, bows—each have their own dedicated buildings.”

She gestured with a gloved hand toward the line of structures beyond the sparring rings. From here, Elara could make out the signs hung over each arched doorway—etched and gilded in the stylized script of the Academy. Sword Hall.Spear Hall.Axe Yard.Archery Range. Farther down, a darker wood structure bore the emblem of twin daggers crossing, while another, smaller wing carried the curved sigil of polearms.

”The less common disciplines—niche weapons or hybrid forms—are grouped together at the far end of the sector,” Selenne continued. ”Not because they are lesser, but because their training methods require more adaptable facilities.”

Elara’s eyes flicked over the signs again. She didn’t come here often—not since she’d arrived under her new name. She could name the halls easily enough, but she didn’t have the kind of insight into them that she had for the magic blocks. She knew only the broad strokes.

”There are reserved training grounds here as well,” Selenne added, her tone matter-of-fact. ”Cultivation rooms, too—scaled for the needs of martial artists rather than magicians. They are in constant demand, and access is earned the same way everywhere else in the Academy: performance and merit.”

She let that sink in before turning, her cloak sweeping in a measured arc as she led the group back toward the archway.

”Follow,” she said simply. And without waiting for stragglers, she guided them out of the Martial Arts block, the sounds of clashing steel and short, disciplined shouts fading behind them.

They were nearly through the last archway when movement caught Elara’s eye—a stream of figures emerging from the opposite path, their pace steady, their chatter carrying in brief bursts. Another freshman group.

From the looks of it, their tour had been running parallel to theirs, just through a different sector. The cut of their uniforms was the same, though Elara recognized none of the faces. At the front walked a woman perhaps in her early thirties, her stride sure and unhurried.

The aura around her prickled faintly—not as sharp as Selenne’s, but definitely there. Mage, Elara guessed. The measured weight of her mana suggested someone practiced in precision rather than brute force, though without the cold, suspended gravity that Starlight carried.

The two groups drew up before each other almost naturally, bottlenecking where the path narrowed. A few curious glances passed between the students, the quiet appraisal that happened whenever strangers of the same rank sized each other up.

Selenne did not slow. Her eyes flicked over the other guide once, no more than a passing acknowledgment, and she shifted her stance as if to continue on without pause.

But the woman in front of the other group broke into a smile—not the polite sort exchanged between colleagues, but one edged with familiarity.

”Oh, it is mighty Miss Selenne,” she said, her tone deliberately carrying over both groups. ”Now doesn’t even consider us humans anymore.”

Selenne’s steps slowed—not halted, merely reined in. A subtle shift of weight on her back foot, her cloak settling against her sides as she turned her head just enough to meet the woman’s gaze.

”Marisse,” she said, the name carrying no flourish, no particular inflection. Only recognition. ”I thought it better not to delay your students. Time here is... best not squandered.”

The other woman’s smile sharpened, though it never reached her eyes. She moved forward a fraction, enough for the lamplight filtering through the archway to catch on the faint embroidery at her cuffs—storm-gray thread on deep indigo, the mark of the Academy’s Tactical Formations faculty.

”Oh, of course,” Marisse replied, her voice sweetened with the kind of civility that bruised on contact. ”Always so considerate. One would almost think you’ve forgotten how to speak to anyone outside your precious ”empty” space.”

Marisse’s words landed like a flicked blade, the curve of her lips folding into a full sneer before the echo of ”empty” had even faded.

Up close, she carried herself like someone more used to the weight of robes than armor—no callouses along the grip fingers, no latent tension in the shoulders that marked a swordsman. Elara’s eyes skimmed the fine lines of the woman’s stance, the even sway of her step. Mage, she thought. Probably from the Magicians’ block as well, no matter how she likes to dress the insult.

Selenne did not answer.

The silence stretched, the kind that made students shift on their feet without knowing why. Those who didn’t understand glanced between them, searching for a cue in expressions that gave none.

Marisse filled the gap herself, her gaze sliding downward with a slow, deliberate weight that left no question of where she thought Selenne stood. ”Some of you might be wondering,” she said, her tone lilting with mock generosity, ”what exactly our dear Miss Selenne meant by ’empty space.’”

She let the pause breathe before continuing, eyes still locked on Selenne’s. ”You see... magic is not just sparks and colors. It is housed—disciplined—by system. By structure. By the place it is kept.”

Her attention flicked to the nearest cluster of Selenne’s students. ”Tell me—have you been to the Magicians’ block yet?”

Several nodded, unsure if the question was rhetorical.

Marisse’s smile widened, warm only on the surface. ”Then you’ve seen them. The elemental buildings. Fire, water, earth, wind... each with its own methods, its own hierarchy.”

Selenne’s voice was even when it came. ”I have explained everything relevant to them. You’re wasting their time.”

”Oh, I doubt that.” Marisse’s chuckle was quiet, but the edge beneath it carried like a wire drawn taut. ”In fact, I rather think you’ve left out... quite a bit.”

Selenne’s gaze didn’t waver. ”Stop with baseless remarks.”

Marisse tilted her head, feigning wounded innocence. ”Come on... if you’d have let me speak, I would’ve already explained everything by now.”

”I somehow doubt that,” Selenne replied, tone clipped.

A laugh slid from Marisse’s lips—soft, deliberate, and edged just enough to cut. ”Haha... you certainly might not have the best discerning ability out there, I would say.”

Selenne said nothing.

The pause drew the attention of every student in earshot, the air between the two women pulling tight like a bowstring. Marisse took the silence as her cue, turning to address both groups at once, her voice carrying with a confidence that demanded listening.

”You see,” she began, ”in those very blocks you’ve all toured—or will tour—it is our responsibility, as mages, to teach the younger generation. To refine them. To sharpen what talent they bring through these gates.”

Her pace was unhurried, her eyes skimming the students as if weighing their worth. ”And, of course, for teachers to be good at what they do, they must be tested. Accountable. Naturally, we also have a grading system for that—nothing mysterious. Simple, really.”

She smiled, but it was the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. ”How many students we take under our wing, how many we successfully develop into competent practitioners... that number contributes to our standing here. It is not just a matter of prestige—it’s proof of work done.”

Her gaze slid back to Selenne, the shift subtle but unmistakable. ”And yet—strangely—there is a certain someone who still holds the position of Magister Primus.”

A faint ripple passed through a few of the more informed students. The title was no small thing—it belonged to the head of the Magicians’ block, the one with ultimate authority over all elemental halls.

Marisse’s smile thinned, her words dropping into a sharper register. ”And our so-special Archmage manages to keep that seat... without having a single disciple to her name.”

Her eyes held Selenne’s as the last words landed, letting the implication coil in the air for everyone to taste.