Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 1055: Butchered exam

The moment the words left his mouth—”By needing to.”—the classroom fell into a strange, heavy quiet. It wasn’t reverent silence, nor mocking silence, but something in between. A few students exchanged looks as if expecting a punchline; others smirked, assuming Lucavion was trying to be dramatic or clever. Yet the weight in his tone lingered longer than anyone anticipated, settling into the room like dust after a collapse.

Selenne did not blink. She watched him instead, waiting for the shift beneath the surface. And she saw it—the tiniest flinch, so quick and controlled that no one else in the room seemed to register it. But she was close, far too close, and her senses were sharpened not by empathy but by irritation and scrutiny. His fingers tensed. His shoulders drew inward by a hair. He regretted saying it, or perhaps he regretted saying it honestly.

Lucavion seemed to realize the silence had stretched uncomfortably. He cleared his throat, then lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. ”Or,” he added lightly, ”since I’m a genius, maybe it just came naturally.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the hall. This time Selenne didn’t silence them; she focused entirely on him. Her mouth twitched—not amusement, not approval, but the reflex of someone who had just encountered something so absurd it almost defied response. ’A genius, he says. And yet he is not lying.’ His voice carried no deception, no waver, no attempt to manipulate.

Lucavion did not lie.

He was blunt, he was infuriating, he was irreverent—but he did not fabricate. And that, somehow, made his answer more exasperating than impressive.

’If this dull-headed child truly clawed his way upward by instinct alone...’

Her brow tightened.

’No wonder nothing about him makes sense.’

She felt a faint throb in her temples, the early edge of a headache she refused to acknowledge. If this was his starting point—this void of foundational knowledge—then yes, his performance today would drop significantly. His practical strength meant nothing in an examination rooted in theory.

She pressed onward, tucking away the flicker of concern beneath brisk professionalism.

”Describe the purpose of a mana lattice in stabilization spells.”

Lucavion stared at her, eyes blank.

She rephrased. ”The structure that prevents destabilization during channeling?”

”...Oh,” he said slowly. ”You mean the... net-thing?”

The entire back row snorted, choking on suppressed laughter. Selenne inhaled sharply through her nose and continued before her patience could fray.

”Define a runic catalyst.”

”Something shiny?”

”...No.”

”Right.”

She flipped the page. ”Explain the distinction between internal circulation and external reinforcement.”

Lucavion paused as though genuinely analyzing the difference. ”Internal... feels like inside?” he offered. ”External... outside?”

”Incorrect.”

He nodded, unbothered. ”Worth a try.”

”Explain arcane resonance.”

”Explain...”

”No idea.”

”....Explain...”

”No idea.”

As this form of dialogue repeated for a couple more of times, a student in the third row whispered, ”How is he even alive?” earning a cold flick from Selenne’s gaze that made him straighten instantly.

Lucavion didn’t look embarrassed. He didn’t even look confused. He simply continued answering with the polite honesty of someone who had absolutely nothing to hide and even less to pretend.

And Selenne, insulted on behalf of the very concept of magic, felt her pulse throb again.

’His knowledge is truly near zero.’

’And yet he wields force on par with advanced students.’

’This is impossible.’

She lowered the page with deliberate calm.

In front of her sat a boy who could duel instructors, outmaneuver illusions, and manipulate an affinity the Academy could not classify—yet he could not name a single foundational concept taught to children.

He met her eyes, waiting for the next question with that same, infuriatingly open expression.

Selenne exhaled, just once. She then studied him for a long moment. The longer she looked, the more the pieces refused to fit. ’How did this child cultivate at all?’ The question slipped into her thoughts uninvited. ’Who taught him? He cannot possibly be self-taught—no one reaches this level through raw instinct alone.’ Yet every exchange, every blank stare, every earnest admission screamed that he truly lacked even the most basic framework.

For the first time in years, she felt genuine academic disbelief—bordering on irritation and fascination in equal measure. If she pushed further, she suspected the answers would only grow more absurd. Instead, she made the practical decision.

”You may return to your seat,” she said, tone level but leaving no room for argument. ”Your theoretical performance is severely lacking. Expect a corresponding grade unless your written evaluation compensates.”

Her voice carried deliberately through the hall, meant not for him but for the watching students. They needed the reminder that exam integrity was not negotiable, that strength did not absolve anyone from ignorance.

Lucavion only smirked. The expression was small, almost courteous, and entirely infuriating. ”I don’t care about the grade,” he said, stating it as casually as one might comment on the weather.

A wave of sneers rippled through the room. Whispered remarks—dismissive, mocking—rose from several noble rows. To them, his attitude confirmed everything they already believed: uncultured, undisciplined, undeserving of his results. Selenne’s eyes swept across the hall once, and the whispers died instantly.

Lucavion returned to his seat with the same relaxed stride he had arrived with. Isolde’s gaze followed him, calm and unreadable, a faint curl at the corner of her lips betraying amusement—or perhaps something colder.

Selenne did not allow the tension to linger.

”Next student.”

She flipped her page, voice cutting clean through the silence.

”Isolde Valoria.”

Isolde rose with a smoothness that drew every wandering gaze back to her. She stepped forward as though gliding, each movement refined in a way that spoke of generations of cultivated grace. When she reached the front and lowered herself into the chair opposite Selenne, the room seemed to shift again—not with tension this time, but with quiet, expectant admiration.

Selenne felt a small, unwelcome twinge beneath her ribs. It wasn’t hostility or distrust—it was something simpler, pettier, almost embarrassing in its honesty. ’Jealousy? Really?’ The thought made her inwardly scoff at herself. ’She’s a student. And I’m a Magister. Pull yourself together, Selenne.’ She brushed the feeling aside with a mental flick, annoyed that it had even surfaced.

She straightened her posture and met Isolde’s gaze. ”Let us begin,” she said, her tone crisp.

The first question left her lips, and the moment Isolde opened her mouth, the hall seemed to grow steadier. Her voice was soft but confident, each sentence structured with clarity and purpose. She explained the Ley Conduction Principle not by reciting a memorized text, but by breaking it down, simplifying it, and reconstructing it with the precision of someone who understood not only the knowledge but its implications.

Selenne tilted her head slightly. ’Not bad.’

The next question—deeper, more complex—received an answer just as well-built. Isolde cited historical context, the theoretical foundations, even variations across different magical schools in Lorian and Arcanis practices. Her articulation was smooth, her reasoning meticulous, her delivery composed without being arrogant.

Selenne flipped the page, her expression calm but inwardly noting the contrast. ’This young woman is not simply well-trained. She studies. She thinks.’ Unlike Lucavion—whose mind worked like a blade swung in the dark—Isolde wielded hers like a scalpel.

She asked another question, this one involving mana-layering limitations in early invocation cycles. Isolde answered almost immediately, offering two different interpretations depending on the examiner’s theoretical preference. Selenne actually felt the corner of her mouth lift—not a smile, but an impressed twitch she rarely gave students.

’Truly not bad.’

Selenne nodded once, controlled and neutral. ”Very well. Continue.”

Isolde did. And with every answer—precise, nuanced, effortless—Selenne understood why a girl like her could unsettle an entire generation of nobles. The pedigree, the intellect, the beauty, the posture—she carried all of it as naturally as breathing.

Lucavion watched from his seat with a faint smile that wasn’t admiration, nor jealousy, nor disdain. Something far more complicated—like he was observing an opponent rather than a peer.

It only made Selenne more curious.

She shifted her notes again and prepared the final theoretical prompt. This one would distinguish talent from mastery.

”Isolde,” she said, tone even, ”explain the limitations of harmonic stabilization when casting through disrupted leyfields—and provide countermeasures.”

The duchess did not hesitate.

And Selenne found herself listening with genuine interest.