Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 698: Wow

As the five stepped through the golden gate, leaving the arena behind, the shift was immediate—visceral.

Gone was the stone and ash of the battlefield.

In its place: opulence.

The capital’s inner ward unfolded before them like a dream sculpted by precision and wealth. White-gold pillars stretched into the sky, each engraved with runes older than empire. Crystalline walkways shimmered underfoot, refracting the sunlight into iridescent patterns across the polished courtyard. And above them—no longer arena ceilings or sky-choked dust—but a dome of floating gardens, suspended by pure aether, blooming in midair with impossible flora that pulsed faintly with life-force.

The very air tasted expensive.

Toven froze mid-step, jaw half-dropped. “…Wow….This is….”

Elayne didn’t speak—her eyes were darting to each floating structure, tracking the way golden automatons glided between balconies with trays of silk-covered parcels. Her silence held the tautness of someone raised to expect the bare minimum.

Caeden’s shoulders straightened. But not from arrogance—from disbelief, restrained only by decades of dignity. He murmured a quiet word in a language none of the others spoke—a thank-you, maybe, or a warning to himself not to want this too much.

Mireilla’s hand unconsciously brushed the side of her skirt, as though checking to see if it had picked up dust where none existed. The sheen of it all unsettled her composure. But she would never admit that aloud.

And Lucavion?

He didn’t stop.

The power of wealth without blood.

The elegance of a world that had always shut its gates to people like them—until now.

’So this… is what they’ve hoarded. What they swore we’d never touch.’

He stepped forward, unflinching beneath archways that sang with mana, as if the land itself whispered “finally.”

And then they came.

Attendants—at least a dozen—approached in perfect silence. Not hurried, not subservient. They moved like dancers in formation, garbed in robes of soft silver with accents of the academy’s sigil embroidered in dusk-blue.

One by one, they peeled off and approached each candidate.

The attendants bowed—not deeply, but with precision—every movement as practiced as a blade’s arc.

And from behind the columned arch, Keleran emerged again, his slate-gray cloak barely disturbed by the breeze that whispered across the floating gardens. His expression was as composed as always—an elegance made of edges and restraint.

“Your attention,” he said simply, and the hum of the attendants fell to stillness.

He walked to the front, stopping beside the one who had stepped forward for Lucavion. “Each of you,” he began, “has earned your place here not by favor, nor fortune, but by force of will.”

His gaze swept the five.

“And as such, you will be treated accordingly.”

A beat.

He turned slightly, hands clasped behind his back.

“We begin with the First Rank. Lucavion.”

A few attendants inclined their heads slightly deeper. Lucavion, naturally, did nothing. He simply met Keleran’s gaze with a quiet amusement and the barest tilt of his head.

’Well. That’s new.’

Next, Keleran’s voice rang again.

“Second Rank—Caeden Roark.”

The tall, quiet swordsman gave a slight bow of his own, the name of his fallen village whispered back into relevance.

“Third—Elayne Cors.”

Elayne’s lips pressed into a line. Not quite proud. Not quite defiant. Simply… acknowledging.

“Fourth—Mireilla Dane.”

She didn’t move, but her eyes lifted—cool, unblinking. The kind of grace that needed no stage.

“Fifth—Toven Vintrell.”

“Just Toven,” the boy added before Keleran could finish. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Not big on the title thing.”

Keleran’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

“You may call yourselves whatever you like,” he said, “as long as you understand what it means.”

Then, a faint nod to the surrounding attendants.

“These are your coordinators, assigned to you individually for the duration of your induction. They will manage logistics, scheduling, and assist with orientation. Tomorrow you will be fitted for your Academy attire. Basic etiquette, noble protocol, and imperial customs will follow. For today—”

He gestured outward, to the grand courtyard and the dozen buildings nestled within floating platforms.

“—you are to consider this home.”

A pause.

“Rest well. You will need it.”

And with that, he turned, not waiting for reply, and walked down the silver-lined path—his silhouette slowly swallowed by the garden’s light.

As soon as he vanished, the air relaxed—ever so slightly.

[What a show-off], Vitaliara muttered from Lucavion’s shoulder, her tail flicking with half-hearted disdain. [I’ve seen less performance in war councils.]

Lucavion’s gaze tracked the crystalline branches above as he walked. ’Why doesn’t it suit you? A floating garden, servants who bow, and everything smells like expensive guilt. This is your kind of theater.’

[It’s artificial,] she answered, eyes narrowing slightly. [The trees don’t grow—they hover. The flowers hum like they were built, not born. Even the wind feels curated.]

Lucavion didn’t reply right away.

He glanced at the ground beneath his feet—no dust, no cracks, not even the weight of history pressing upward.

A form of art, then.

And just as that thought settled—

“Sir Lucavion,” came a gentle voice beside him.

He turned, and the attendant stood at a respectful distance—no more than twenty, cloaked in silk, a tablet of light in one hand.

The attendant inclined his head once more, then gestured with a subtle sweep of the hand—graceful, unassuming, but firm in intent. “If you would follow me, Sir Lucavion,” he said, his tone perfectly neutral, yet tinged with that careful reverence reserved for those newly anointed by spectacle and merit alike. “Your quarters have been prepared.”

Lucavion didn’t speak.

He simply nodded—just once—and followed.

The others dispersed behind him, guided in similar fashion. Mireilla’s heels tapped in soft rhythm, Elayne vanished like a silk thread lost in wind, and Toven could be heard muttering something about “not touching anything that glows unless it asks first.”

But Lucavion’s path curved inward—deeper.

Through corridors lined with floating glyph-lights that pulsed in sequence as he passed. The walls shimmered faintly, not with reflection, but with memory—faint magical echoes embedded in the material, impressions of the past caught in flickers of light. A soft chime greeted him at each threshold, not mechanical—but organic. As though the building itself acknowledged his presence.

The attendant spoke only when needed. “These structures are carved from aether-infused marble, mined in the upper ranges of Veyrith. Responsive enchantments woven directly into the foundation allow each suite to adapt to the occupant’s affinity.”

Lucavion’s eyes narrowed as they passed through a curved archway, the doorway unfolding before them like petals peeling open at his arrival.

The room beyond?

It could only be described as deliberate excess.

The ceiling was vaulted glass, but not glass—an illusion dome, enchanted to mimic a night sky visible only to those within. Stars wheeled above, subtly shifting with the rhythm of real constellations. The floor was soft underfoot, not rug, but animated silk that shifted hue with temperature and intent.

Crystalline interfaces floated beside the furniture, projecting lists of commands, maps of the inner ward, even a schedule for meals that could be adjusted by voice or gesture. An entire section of the suite was devoted to personal spellcraft—books that hovered in place until chosen, runic canvases that rewrote themselves with new theory the moment he thought of them.

A wall bloomed open near the far end, revealing a private bath—liquid mana suspended in a state between mist and water, giving off a faint shimmer like moonlight poured into a basin.

Even Lucavion—who had walked through noble estates, negotiated in the high halls of merchant cities, and even did rest in a Duke’s house recently….

’So… this is what true magical infrastructure looks like.’

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