Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The boy stayed still for a second longer, the silence thick around him like a storm cloud—

and then, he moved.

A blur.

A gust of his long coat whipping past.

Gasps broke from the crowd as he dashed through the air with a single, fluid motion, and in less than a heartbeat—he was there.

Right before her.

The imperial guards reacted instantly—blades half-drawn, feet shifting with practiced precision—

“Stand down.”

Her voice cut sharper than any sword.

And they froze.

The crowd didn’t dare breathe again.

Because the black-eyed boy had not drawn a weapon. He hadn’t summoned mana. He hadn’t so much as flared a fraction of intent.

He stood before Princess Priscilla Lysandra with his head gently bowed—not low, not groveling, but respectful.

Measured.

Balanced.

The white cat still perched on his shoulder let out a soft rumble, as if protesting the sudden movement, then returned to its lounging silence, tail curling around the back of his neck.

And then, he spoke. Smooth. Calm.

Still holding that damnable composure.

“…Forgive me,” he said, voice quiet enough for only the princess and those closest to hear. “But I must offer a tribute.”

Priscilla’s red eyes narrowed, the icy sheen never leaving her expression.

“I forgot to breathe,” he continued, head still bowed slightly. “And it’s my fault.”

His voice lowered a touch more, as if confessing something terribly honest.

“I was too busy being distracted. By beauty.”

A hush.

Complete and pure.

Selphine scoffed from somewhere in the back. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered under her breath, eyebrows lifting in sharp disbelief. “Of all things—he tries that?”

Aurelian blinked slowly. “Bold,” he said, uncertain whether to be impressed or secondhand humiliated.

Priscilla… remained unmoving.

Her gaze, cold and unflinching, didn’t falter.

Her crimson eyes bored into him—into those unreadable pitch-black irises. As if trying to see through them. As if daring them to break.

But he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t waver.

Just stood there, composed in his silence, offering nothing else but the lingering echo of his words and the smallest curl of that half-ghost smile still clinging to the edge of his lips.

The plaza remained frozen in stillness, a delicate equilibrium poised on the edge of a blade.

Princess Priscilla Lysandra did not flinch.

Her crimson eyes, impossibly deep, held the boy in silence. The faint flutter of lanternlight brushed across her features, but nothing softened her expression. Cold. Stone-carved. Regal to the point of ice.

“…Insolent,” she said.

The word fell like a blade into snow. No raised voice. No thunderous rage.

But the effect was immediate.

One of the imperial guards stepped forward with blade half-drawn, the steel glinting as he leveled its sharp edge directly at the boy’s face. “Kneel,” he growled. “You dare to—!”

But the boy didn’t move. Not a twitch of fear. Not even surprise. He merely watched them all with those black eyes, quiet and unreadable.

He tilted his head slightly—as if listening to something only he could hear—and let the silence stretch, just long enough for discomfort to deepen.

Then… a breath.

Calm.

Measured.

His gaze flicked—once—back to the Princess.

And he said nothing.

The crowd remained bowed, yet murmurs sparked like nervous sparks under dry leaves. This wasn’t just disrespect. It was bordering on the absurd. A single wrong word, a single heartbeat of misplaced defiance, and the boy’s life could have been ended right here, by royal decree.

But he stood.

And she stared.

Neither moved.

Priscilla’s lashes did not lower, nor did her gaze waver. Her expression remained untouched by the boy’s words—if anything, colder now than before, the faintest shadow of disdain curling at the corner of her lips.

It wasn’t the compliment that bothered her.

It was the calculation.

Because she saw it in him—the way he’d timed his words, the precise rhythm of his voice, the theatrical bow that wasn’t quite submissive. He knew exactly what he was doing. Every gesture had been curated. Every word designed to land precisely where it would stir the most disruption.

This wasn’t flirtation.

This was provocation.

A test.

A quiet blade held between gloved fingers.

She took one step forward.

The guards twitched.

The crowd held its breath again.

The black-eyed boy remained still.

And then, softly—

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice low, clipped. “What house dares to shape a son with such audacity?”

Again, silence.

And in that silence, the wind stirred.

The white cat on his shoulder twitched an ear.

And the boy, finally, moved.

He lifted his gaze just a fraction more, meeting hers fully now. No smirk. No bow.

Just those unreadable, bottomless black eyes.

“…You misunderstand,” he said quietly.

A pause. Her gaze narrowed.

“I am not the son of a house,” he continued. “I am not shaped by a lineage. I am shaped by the world.”

And the calm in his voice—

Was the calm of someone who had stood on the edge before.

“You stand before me under the assumption that names alone determine weight.”

His lips curved again—barely. No joy in the motion. Just something sharper. Colder.

“I disagree.”

The crowd stirred—tiny ripples of unease moving outward like rings in dark water.

The princess did not blink.

“…You speak as though you are free,” she said.

He inclined his head. “Am I not?”

Priscilla’s voice lowered.

“No one born under the Empire’s sky is truly free.”

For the first time, his eyes changed—just faintly. The shadow of something darker passed through them.

Then—

“I see,” he murmured, gaze lowering to the tip of the sword pointed at him. “Then perhaps… I’m something else entirely.”

The guard’s blade twitched in response, but the princess lifted a single hand.

He stopped.

Priscilla studied the boy for a breath longer. Then—

“Your arrogance,” Princess Priscilla said, her voice a whisper made of glass and steel, “will earn you enemies.”

The black-eyed boy gave no bow this time. No show of theatrics.

He simply answered:

“It already has.”

He lifted his gaze again, steady and clean, as if the truth in that admission was not shameful—but inevitable.

“More than I can count.”

A pause. Then—

“But I’m still standing here.”

The words fell like quiet thunder.

Around them, the crowd was so silent that even the distant bells of the lower quarter festival seemed muffled. The wind stirred gently across the rooftops, tousling his coat and brushing past the silver fall of Priscilla’s hair—but nothing moved between them.

Stillness clung to them like gravity.

Priscilla stared, unmoved.

Then, with a single, delicate motion of her fingers—barely a twitch—

The blade shifted.

The guard obeyed.

The cold steel edge slid forward with chilling grace, resting just against the boy’s neck. It did not cut. But it could. The faintest push. A slip. An order.

The boy’s breath did not hitch. His stance did not falter.

Even the white cat on his shoulder merely blinked.

Priscilla’s voice lowered—soft and dangerous now, like snowfall before an avalanche.

“Then tell me,” she said. “Why did you dare to speak in the name of Royal Family?”

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