Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 638: Entrance Exam (3)

"I can't let myself get eliminated, can I?"

The boy blinked.

There was a beat of silence—just long enough for it to settle in.

Then his eyes narrowed, not with anger, but exasperation. "...You're joking."

Lucavion didn't deny it. He smiled. The kind that didn't reach the eyes, the kind that carried too many layers to be understood all at once.

"Took you long enough to notice."

That did it.

The boy moved.

Anger or pride—perhaps both—spurred him into motion. His mana surged, a clean pulse of wind-infused strength gathering around his legs as he dashed forward, kicking up a swirl of dust behind him.

Not bad. Fast again. His footwork was refined, pressure low and blade poised for a horizontal feint.

But too eager.

Lucavion stepped into the swing—not away from it—and in that instant, the boy's momentum turned against him.

First move.

CLANG.

Lucavion's sword met his at an upward angle, diverting the boy's strike just slightly to the right. Not enough to look like a failed attack, but enough to throw off his center of gravity.

Second move.

Lucavion pivoted his heel, blade twisting in an elegant spiral, not just knocking the opposing sword aside but guiding it upward—and leaving the boy's flank momentarily exposed.

Third move.

CRACK.

Lucavion's knee came up, fast and clean, slamming into the boy's wrist with just enough force to send the blade flying from his grip. It spun once in the air, catching a flicker of violet sky, before clattering to the ground behind them.

The boy stumbled back, eyes wide, teeth clenched. He didn't speak—couldn't. His body tensed, prepared to lunge for the weapon or unleash some desperate spell.

But Lucavion was already there.

With one smooth step forward, he pressed two fingers to the boy's chest—just two—and released a flicker of force, a condensed pulse of mana woven with surgical precision.

A ripple of impact flashed through the boy's body.

THUD.

He crumpled to one knee, coughing, his internal mana circulation disrupted in a single, brutal point-strike.

Lucavion stood over him—not cruelly, but inevitably.

The young man looked up, breath ragged, eyes still blazing with effort. There was defiance there—a final flicker of will refusing to surrender, even when his body no longer responded.

He tried to move.

Tried to force his limbs to obey.

But Lucavion's strike had been too precise. The threads of mana within him—the pathways every warrior relied upon—were disrupted. Not severed, not broken beyond repair. But locked, frozen under pressure that choked his control.

His fingers twitched uselessly at his side.

He wasn't getting up.

Lucavion sighed quietly, not in contempt, but in quiet resignation. "You'll learn," he said, tone neither cruel nor kind. "But not here."

He reached down, brushing a single fingertip across the boy's contestant token. The sigil etched into it pulsed once, then dissolved in a flicker of light.

Elimination confirmed.

Teleportation engaged.

A soft glow surrounded the boy's collapsed frame, and a moment later, he vanished—safely removed from the battlefield, his hopes carried with him to wherever the disqualified were sent.

Silence settled again, heavy and unbroken.

Then—

[You just wanted him to attack first, didn't you?] Vitaliara's voice curled into his thoughts with bemused clarity, tone equal parts sly and accusing. [A chance to show off.]

Lucavion didn't turn. He merely lifted an eyebrow as he slid his sword back into its sheath.

"You're assuming things now."

[Am I?]

"Absolutely." He dusted off the hem of his coat, not a wrinkle on him. "Would've been rude not to entertain him a little."

[A little?] She huffed, but the glint in her eyes was impossible to miss. [You dismantled him like you were giving a lesson in swordplay.]

Lucavion glanced toward the horizon, where the boundary lines of the trial zone were beginning to flicker again—closing in, squeezing them all closer together.

"I'm considerate like that."

[Heh…] Vitaliara purred, stretching out her limbs as she perched once more on his shoulder. [I know the kind of person you are.]

Lucavion tilted his head, smirk playing lazily at the corner of his lips. "Do you, now?"

[Oh yes.]

He chuckled under his breath and stepped forward, boots crunching softly against the crystalline dust. "Then you'll understand why I plan to make the next one even more educational."

Lucavion's smile lingered as he moved, a slow, deliberate curve that said more than any flourish of steel ever could.

"Still," he murmured, voice softer now, "the boy wasn't bad."

[Hmph, high praise from you.]

He shrugged lightly. "Peak 3-star. That's not something most commoners reach, let alone master with that kind of control. Good instincts. Composure, too—at least until I ruined it."

[Vitality and hunger. That's what I saw.]

He nodded once. "Exactly. But…"

The smile faded, if only slightly. His gaze drifted toward the skyline, where the boundary pulse continued its gentle contraction—like a heartbeat narrowing in a dying chest.

"…it was never going to be enough. Not for the Academy."

[No.]

Vitaliara's voice had dropped, tinged with that particular resonance she only used when something truly meant something. When death, or unfairness, or power met its ugly mirror.

He continued walking.

"You know," Lucavion said, more thoughtful now, "most of the commoners in this trial? They aren't here for the Academy. Not really."

[They want visibility.]

He nodded. "The broadcast. The arena eyes. Every enchanted lens and mirrored feed will be streaming this mess to noble salons and merchant towers and city taverns. They're not chasing titles—they're chasing names."

[They want to be seen.]

"Exactly." He flicked a pebble with the tip of his boot, watching it bounce once, twice, before disappearing into a shadowed crevice. "Not everyone here wants to study under dusty old Archmagi. Some just want to survive in a better way. Bodyguards, guild contracts, security details for trade fleets. As long as you've got the stats and a little screen time, someone'll come knocking."

[It's mercenary work, really.]

"But mercenary work with benefits."

His voice was calm, measured, but beneath it was something else—something harder to name. A subtle understanding of the game. Of the system. Of the way people twisted their dreams around desperation and still managed to walk forward.

"They want to matter," he said simply. "Even if they don't know how."

[And you?]

"Can't say I am a normal one, can you now?"

"Can't say I am a normal one, can you now?" Lucavion said, half-turning his head with that usual gleam in his eye—too amused to be humble, too knowing to be innocent.

[Vitaliara] didn't miss a beat.

[No, you're just a pretentious idiot.]

He blinked, then laughed, low and unapologetic. "That's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

[Harsh?] She flicked her tail against his jaw. [You walk around quoting yourself like you're the final draft of a philosopher's memoir. Pretentious is the generous word.]

Lucavion lifted both hands in mock surrender, grin crooked. "Well, better a poetic fool than a forgettable one."

[Hmph.]

Vitaliara's snort was regal, but the warmth curled just beneath it—a softness only someone like Lucavion might notice. She was always watching. Always judging. But she stayed.

And that meant more than words.

The wind shifted, brushing dust and mana-slick air across his coat as he stepped forward again, following the slow curve of a ridge that led deeper into the collapsing zone. The terrain here was beginning to distort—edges of old ruins bent sideways, gravity twisting slightly as the fabricated space strained against its own artificial limits.

Far ahead, faint clashes of steel echoed like distant thunder.

Lucavion adjusted his gloves.

"You know," he said quietly, the grin fading just enough to make room for something sharper, "for all its drama, this little game of survival has its charm. Different paths. Collisions waiting to happen."

[You're hoping something interesting stumbles into your blade.]

"I'm expecting it."

His boots struck stone again—firmer this time. The path narrowing, the tension in the air tightening, like a string drawn across a bow.

"And if I'm lucky…" Lucavion smiled to himself, voice nearly a whisper now, "maybe I'll get a real contender this time."

He didn't say Elara.

He didn't need to.

The game was still unfolding. And Lucavion?

Lucavion was ready.

Sadly, what he envisioned in his mind didn't happen directly at all….

---------A/N----------

My exams are finally finished.