Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 1008: Your fight....Your decision

”No evidence....”

Lucavion let the word hang between them, tasting the quiet like a pause in a duel.

Then his head tilted slightly, almost curious.

”No evidence,” he repeated. The corners of his mouth twitched. ”Or is it really no evidence?”

He lifted one finger. Just one.

A spark coiled into being at its tip—small, deliberate. Not bright enough to blind, not hot enough to burn, but black as ink spilled into light. The corridor’s glow bent around it, shadows deepening where they shouldn’t have, like the world itself hesitated.

The girls stiffened.

Lucavion smiled faintly. ”Or do you three have the memory span of fish? Can’t even recall what happened at the banquet?”

The braid girl’s composure faltered. ”What are you—”

”Don’t strain yourselves,” he murmured. ”Even your little angel Lucien fell into the same trap, didn’t he?”

The black flame fluttered, its reflection dancing along the walls in warped shapes—flickering silhouettes that moved when he didn’t. The shadows crawled higher, shifting, forming the faintest outline of a figure bowing, then breaking apart again.

Lucavion studied the light as if amused by it. ”Funny how truth behaves. You can try to bury it, twist it, pretend it never happened—but under the right light, it remembers itself.”

He turned the flame slightly, watching how their eyes followed it despite themselves. ”Things can play out quite well,” he said softly. ”Especially when people forget that memory is a form of evidence too.”

The braid girl swallowed, her earlier bravado thinning. ”You’re bluffing.”

Lucavion’s expression didn’t change. ”Am I?”

The small flame pulsed once—then dimmed, collapsing inward until only a faint wisp of smoke remained. The scent that followed was sharp and strange—metal and ozone, the aftertaste of illusion spells undone.

He took a step closer, lowering his hand. ”You were there. You saw what happened when your prince decided to vouch for his friend. When he called me a liar.” His voice dropped lower, quieter. ”And when I showed him what lying looked like on record.”

Silence pressed against the marble. None of them breathed.

Lucavion’s smile returned, thinner now, cold at the edges. ”I still have that artifact, you know. The one that remembers what people prefer to forget.”

The shorter girl’s face went pale. ”You—you wouldn’t—”

”Wouldn’t what?” he asked mildly. ”Use it? No need. I already did.”

He leaned forward slightly, tone dropping into something almost intimate.

”Tell me—when you looked at him afterward, did your precious Lucien still look like an angel?”

The question landed like a knife turned sideways.

The braid girl’s breath caught. The shorter one took a step back. Even the quietest of the three—who hadn’t spoken at all—shifted her stance, unsure.

Lucavion straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. ”Thought so.”

He turned, as if bored of the whole affair. ”You can run to him, of course. Tell him I mocked him again. He’ll puff up, call me insolent, maybe even demand another show.”

His head turned just enough for his smile to flash over his shoulder. ”And you’ll all get front-row seats when it happens again.”

The black flame flickered back to life for a heartbeat as he snapped his fingers—then vanished entirely, leaving only the soft echo of burnt mana in the air.

The shift was immediate.

The arrogance that had filled the corridor only moments ago drained like heat from cooling steel.

The braid girl’s posture faltered first—a minute stiffening of her shoulders, a glance flicked toward her companions. Then the shorter one’s hand, the one that had hovered half-ready for another spell, trembled once before falling to her side.

They didn’t know when he had arrived.

Didn’t know how long he had been standing there, watching.

Didn’t know whether the faint shimmer still hanging in the air was just dust—or the residue of that infernal artifact he’d once used to turn a prince into a fool before the entire freshman assembly.

For the first time, the idea crossed their faces: what if he’d been recording?

If he had, every word they’d spat—every taunt, every spell—would be sealed in proof.

And even Lucien’s shadow couldn’t smother that kind of evidence.

The thought alone made the taller girl’s throat move in a dry swallow.

The silence thickened, oppressive, the only sound the faint crackle of mana fading into stillness.

Then, quietly, the shortest one broke.

Her voice wavered. ”What... what do you want?”

Lucavion looked at them.

Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just looked.

He didn’t move for a long moment, letting the question sit between them until the weight of it began to feel unbearable.

Then, slowly, his head tilted.

”What I want?” he said, his tone soft—almost thoughtful, as if tasting the words. ”Hm.”

Lucavion’s smirk came slow—unhurried, deliberate.

It wasn’t wide. It didn’t need to be.

It curved his mouth just enough to show that he was enjoying this—quietly, dangerously, the way a cat might enjoy watching something that had just realized it was cornered.

The braid girl flinched first.

The smallest movement—a twitch at the corner of her mouth, the sharp intake of breath that betrayed how her pulse had started to race.

The other two weren’t much better; their gazes dropped in turns, shoulders pulling tight, the weight of his silence pressing down like a hand against their throats.

Then Lucavion spoke.

”Since you three poured your...”

His tone lingered on the word, amused. ”...emotions into someone else’s favor so passionately, why stop there?”

He let the next pause stretch, eyes glinting. ”Might as well double it down, won’t you?”

They didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The braid girl’s jaw worked soundlessly. The shorter one swallowed again, her throat moving like it hurt.

Lucavion’s gaze slid past them—to the girl still on the floor.

”Miss Princess,” he said quietly. ”I’m going to leave their punishment to you.”

The words hung there like a dropped blade.

Priscilla’s head lifted—slowly, as if the air had grown too heavy to breathe through. Her white hair, tangled and streaked with dust, caught what little light was left in the corridor. A bruise darkened her jaw; her sleeve was torn, the faint line of blood at her temple barely dried.

Her crimson eyes met his.

And for a second—just one—she looked almost unsure that she’d heard him right.

Lucavion stood above her, the faint residue of mana still coiling lazily around his hand, his expression unreadable. No mockery now. No pity either. Just that same disconcerting calm—the kind that made the world narrow down to what he was allowing to exist.

He extended his hand slightly—not to offer help, but to point.

”Stand,” he said.

The command wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be. It slipped through the air with the weight of inevitability.

Priscilla hesitated. Her fingers pressed against the floor, trembling for half a second before she forced herself upright. The movement was ragged, shaky—but it was hers.

Lucavion’s eyes didn’t leave hers.

”Your fight,” he murmured. ”Your decision.”