Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 724: Sponsor (2)

The streets changed when he crossed into the Imperial Borough.

No noise. No clutter. Just clean lines and cleaner silence. Even the air tasted different—tinged with mana-filtered purity, as if the wind itself had been scrubbed of its imperfections. There were no shouting vendors here, no scent of steel or smoke. Only serenity, enforced by money and old blood.

He moved with ease past the first security gate. The guards glanced up—and didn’t speak. One flick of the sigil on his coat and they bowed, sharp and shallow. Protocols were observed. Not a single wasted word.

The outer walkways of the estate were paved with lunar marble, veined faintly with violet—a material rare enough that even most highborn never walked it barefoot. Twin statues of archons flanked the entrance, their gaze forever cast downward as if even they deferred to those inside.

The place was called the Sanctum of Stars—an extravagant name for what was, in practice, a gilded cage. It hosted only the finest people of the world, and only those with offers from nobles or direct imperial interest were granted entry.

Aside from the Imperial Palace and the Grand Towers of Magic themselves, this was the most prestigious place in the capital to stay.

And it was here Lucavion had been placed.

’Not bad for a boy who started with nothing,’ Khaedren mused, stepping across the threshold.

The moment he entered, three attendants in tailored robes turned in perfect unison. Their eyes didn’t linger on his face—they dropped immediately to the crest. Crimson thorns. Silver blade. The room hushed.

"Honored guest of House Varenth," the lead attendant said, bowing low. "You are expected."

He inclined his head once. No words. None needed.

The lead attendant turned without hesitation, her stride brisk, precise. No fawning. No delay.

Professionalism, as expected.

"This way," she murmured, as they passed the central atrium—a suspended garden of floating aether-lilies glowing softly in the light of enchanted skylights. The petals shimmered with passive wards, a sign of the layers of protection and luxury embedded into every inch of this place.

As they moved, whispers followed. fгeewebnovёl.com

Other candidates peered through the glass-walled lounges. Some recognized the crest. Others recognized the silence that followed it. The weight of House Varenth was not just felt. It commanded.

They reached a corridor with inlaid gold trim—discreet, but unmistakable to those who knew what it meant.

The elite suites.

Not rented.

Not requested.

Granted.

The attendant stopped before a high, double-paneled door, its surface etched with old imperial script—translated loosely: Only those invited may cross the threshold.

"Sir Lucavion is within," she said, voice softer now. She stepped aside, her eyes never once meeting Khaedren’s.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t pause.

The moment the attendant stepped aside, he placed a gloved hand on the door and pushed.

Not roughly.

Not gently.

Just decisively.

The double-paneled doors opened without resistance, their hinges too well-oiled for sound. And without waiting for permission—spoken or otherwise—he stepped inside.

It was a beautiful suite. Opulence layered with restraint. Marble inlay beneath his feet, runic crystal set discreetly into the walls to suppress noise and amplify aether. A cascade of filtered sunlight spilled through the skylight, illuminating the room with a soft, golden hush. There was a dining lounge, a modest library, a private altar to the imperial saints.

And in the center of it all, seated with one leg draped lazily over the other, was the boy.

Lucavion.

Top of his class. Star of the entrance trials. The one who’d had the gall to reject three imperial houses before even stepping into his uniform.

He was dressed in simple black—unadorned, sharp, tailored to move. A cup of tea rested beside his elbow, still steaming. His eyes didn’t widen at the intrusion. Didn’t twitch at the lack of decorum.

He didn’t stop walking.

Not at the sight of Lucavion’s calm posture.

Not at the tea left untouched.

Not even at the deliberate stillness of the boy’s spine.

And certainly not at the fact that Lucavion—this so-called prodigy—had not moved an inch.

Not risen.

Not bowed.

Not even acknowledged his entry with so much as a shift of posture.

Khaedren’s eyes narrowed, only slightly.

’Unacceptable.’

The judgment didn’t reach his face.

It didn’t need to.

But it noted itself—neatly, ruthlessly, alongside the other data he collected with each step.

No etiquette. No ceremonial courtesy. No recognition of the difference between invitation and authority.

When a noble enters, you stand.

Lucavion did none of these.

The boy simply watched.

And that, more than anything, confirmed what Khaedren had suspected before arriving.

Powerful? Certainly.

But still untamed.

He stopped three paces from the table, hands folded behind his back.

The silence pressed down, thicker now, not due to hostility—but weight.

Lineage had its own gravity.

"You’ve been allowed the finest accommodations in the capital," Khaedren said quietly, his voice like silk folded over iron. "You’ve been granted access to a sanctum that most highbloods wait years to even glimpse."

His eyes didn’t leave Lucavion’s.

"And yet you do not stand."

It wasn’t a question.

It was an evaluation.

A correction.

Not to provoke.

But to instruct.

Because if Lucavion was to walk among them—not just tolerated, but wielded—he needed to understand the rules.

And right now?

He was failing them.

"This lack of etiquette," Khaedren said, his voice still steady, but edged now with cold finality, "is unacceptable."

The words hung there—not shouted, not threatened. Just delivered, like a blade placed gently on a table. A warning. A lesson.

And finally—finally—Lucavion moved.

He turned, unhurried, head tilting just enough for one black eye to glance toward him from the side. The steam still curled from the lip of his teacup. His expression didn’t shift. His hands didn’t rise. His posture, maddeningly, remained unchanged.

But his voice?

Smooth.

Unflinching.

And far too composed for someone meant to be apologizing.

"One does not simply speak of lack of etiquette," Lucavion murmured, "when they failed it at the start."

His gaze drifted—not toward Khaedren, but toward the still-closed door.

Or more precisely—

Its untouched, un-knocked frame.

"Or..." he added softly, his voice dry as winter silk, "should I presume House Varenth simply doesn’t know the basic etiquette of knocking?"

There was no anger in the tone.

No mockery.

Just fact, dressed in tailored sarcasm.

The sort that did not seek offense.

Only invited it.

Silence followed.

Tense.

Charged.

For the first time since stepping through the door, something in Khaedren shifted.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sudden.

But it was there.

A stillness, deeper than calm.

Sharper than patience.

The kind of stillness that belonged to wolves before the bite.

He took one slow step forward.

And another.

And this time, the gloved hands behind his back curled just slightly.

"That," Khaedren said—quiet, restrained—"was not a clever remark."

The formal tone had not broken.

But it had lowered. Hardened.

Because now it wasn’t diplomacy that filled the room.

It was bloodline.

"You presume parity," he continued, gaze narrowing. "As if we are peers. As if the legacy behind my name and the dirt behind yours are worth the same breath."

Another step. Not fast. Just close.

Close enough that Lucavion’s seated posture placed him beneath Khaedren’s full height—and the unspoken weight that came with it.

"You sit as if this is your table. You speak as if this is your court."

His voice grew colder.

"And now, you suggest that House Varenth—the blade of the Crown Prince, the shield of the eastern gates—owes you courtesy?"

His hands relaxed.

But his eyes?

His eyes were ice drawn into needlepoint.

"A commoner may rise in ranks. In skill. In potential."

He leaned forward slightly, just enough to let his words settle between them like frost.

"But a commoner does not demand equal footing."

The words struck not like thunder—but like scripture. Ancient. Unyielding.

He straightened then, gaze unblinking.

"You may be useful. You may even be valuable."

A pause.

"But do not mistake being wanted for being entitled."

He let that linger.

Then:

"Stand."