Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 737: Infuriating Bastard

She didn’t speak right away.

The cup before her still held its warmth, the faint trail of steam coiling upward like the breath of a thought not yet spoken. But Priscilla Lysandra wasn’t thinking of tea anymore.

She was thinking of threads.

Of questions.

Of the pieces she had spent weeks gathering—scattered, incomplete, but not meaningless.

Reynald Vale.

That name alone had been a riddle. A boy polished like a knight but not born from any court. No family seals. No provincial registration. No service records. She had dug, pressed her informants harder than usual. Still—nothing.

And that silence… it was telling.

Because if she couldn’t find it, it meant someone had buried it.

Which led her back to one person.

Lucien.

Everything about Reynald’s style—his blade art, his presence, even his carefully measured fame—reeked of Lucien’s schemes. His obsession with symbols. With control through spectacle.

And Lucavion?

Lucavion had struck directly at it.

No hesitation.

No pause.

She remembered the words Lucavion had said that day. To the baron, to the boy, to her—words that peeled back the curtain not only on Reynald, but on the very system that had propped him up.

The Baron’s identity, too, had been scrubbed. Erased. No records. No court summons. A man with no history sitting like a prop beneath a stage set by nobility.

Every stone she turned over aligned with his words.

Aligned with him.

But it wasn’t just that he was right.

It was the way he had looked at her, there on the terrace, as if he’d known she would come.

As if every step she’d taken had already been accounted for. Not manipulated—no. Anticipated.

That… that was what unsettled her the most.

’How long has he been planning this?’

’How many pieces has he already placed?’

Finally, she lifted her gaze fully—sharp, unflinching.

“I have questions,” she said, voice steady. “Many of them.”

Lucavion said nothing.

Just that faint smile again, like a fire waiting for wind.

“Why Reynald Vale?” she asked first. “What did he represent to you?”

A pause.

Then, firmer:

“Who is he?”

Her tone cut sharper now.

“I searched. There’s no record of him before two years ago. No lineage. No deployment. Not even a proper birth registration.”

She leaned in slightly, every word deliberate.

“And that Baron you defended on the terrace? Another ghost. No court influence. No territorial grants. No taxes registered under his name. He doesn’t exist.”

She let the silence stretch—let the weight of those discoveries settle.

“You said you were showing me something, that day.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“And now I believe you. Because all of it… felt planned. Not staged. Not just performance. Planned.“

Her breath came slower, now measured not out of control—but caution.

“You knew how it would unfold.”

A final breath.

And then—her voice dropped just slightly.

“Didn’t you?”

Now it was her gaze pressing his.

Challenging him.

She had drawn her blade.

Now she waited to see what kind of sword he would return.

Lucavion blinked, then leaned back slightly, fingers tapping once along the side of his cup as if weighing her words with all the seriousness of a man judging tea leaves.

“What’s this?” he said, eyes widening ever so slightly in mock concern. “It seems our little Miss Princess likes to dream a lot.”

Priscilla’s gaze sharpened.

He leaned in.

“Is that how you cope?” he continued, voice lowering just enough to feign intimacy, “Do you imagine how you punch the Crown Prince in your dreams? Maybe teaching him a lesson, making him cry imperial tears into a golden pillow?”

Her fist clenched hard enough that her knuckles turned white.

It was instinct—immediate, scorching. That flicker of fury that clawed its way out from beneath the palace-tempered calm she wore like armor. His smirk. That insufferable smirk. It was too much.

She wanted—genuinely wanted—to punch that smug expression off his face. Right now. In this perfectly silent, overly luxurious chamber.

Lucavion held her glare for a moment longer.

Then—he exhaled.

“It’s a joke, obviously,” he said dryly, before chuckling under his breath.

And then the smirk softened into something looser, something that almost—almost—looked like honest amusement.

“Sorry for that,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Your face was… quite something, though. Can’t blame me.”

He grinned again, lazy and amused.

“Could’ve sworn you were about to draw a sword made of etiquette violations.”

Priscilla didn’t answer.

She just closed her eyes once—slowly—like she was praying for the strength not to commit a crime inside the Sanctum.

Then she inhaled, calm returning with deliberate grace.

“Are you always like this,” she asked through her teeth, “or is this some private ritual of yours to drive people mad before you tell them anything important?”

Lucavion leaned back, draping one arm across the back of his chair like he had all the time in the world—and none of the consequences.

“I like a bit of dynamic in my life,” he said, voice casual, like he was discussing weather patterns rather than emotional provocation. “Else the world would just be… boring, wouldn’t it?”

He gestured vaguely around them, as if this ornate chamber, its crystalline ceiling and immaculate stillness, was just another shade of dull.

“I don’t like colorless, monotone worlds. Everything beige and polite.” His smile turned thinner now, almost thoughtful. “Anger itself is a color.”

A pause. Then, softer—barely a breath.

“…Blood also is.”

Priscilla’s eyes narrowed again.

Lucavion caught the shift instantly, like a predator watching a ripple in tall grass.

“Aww…” he said, resting his chin on his palm, his smirk blooming anew. “Miss Princess is threatening me.”

He tilted his head, mock-hurt.

“I’m so afraid.”

And somehow, he managed to make it sound like the most entertaining thing he’d said all day.

Then—

She stood.

No dramatic scrape of chair legs. No clatter. Just the smooth, deliberate motion of rising—like a storm forming without thunder.

Her cup remained untouched on the table. Her posture, still poised. But her gaze—

It was the kind of gaze that emperors hesitated under. The kind that had silenced courtrooms before she even opened her mouth.

“Enough,” she said quietly. Not loud. Not angry. Just… final.

Lucavion blinked. And for the first time, something flickered beneath that damnable composure.

Just for a second.

Not fear. Not surprise.

Recognition.

But Priscilla didn’t wait for him to reply.

“I came here because I thought—perhaps—you were worth the hour. Worth the questions. Worth the answers.”

She took a step forward. Not threateningly—but directly. Her presence cut through the chamber like wind through silk banners.

“But you’re not interested in dialogue, are you?” Her voice remained even. Measured. But inside—

’He’s testing me. And he enjoys it too much.’

“You provoke,” she continued, her tone laced with frost, “you bait, you deflect. Everything is a game to you. Even this meeting.”

Lucavion opened his mouth—perhaps to reply, perhaps to smirk again—but she raised a hand.

And he stopped.

“I am not some noble’s daughter playing at diplomacy,” she said softly. “I was not raised to entertain riddles and flattery. I was raised in silence. In scrutiny. In a court where one wrong step erases you.”

She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering just enough to press against his ears like a whisper of steel unsheathed.

“I don’t have the luxury of missteps, Lucavion. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

The silence after that was cold.

’And yet…’

She didn’t move away.

Didn’t storm out.

Didn’t spit the words she wanted to—because something inside her, something inconvenient and cautious and curious, held her fast.

He had laughed, yes.

He had provoked.

But he’d also listened.

He hadn’t denied her questions.

He hadn’t lied.

He’d danced around them like a snake with a smile—but never once dismissed them.

And the truth?

The truth was far more dangerous than his teasing.

Because part of her understood it.

Part of her recognized the method to his madness.

’He doesn’t say what he means. But he means something.’

And that was worse.

Because if she couldn’t shake him—if she couldn’t silence him—then she would have to endure him.

Which meant—

She might have to understand him.

Priscilla straightened again.

Then, with practiced grace, she sat back down.

Not because she had lost.

But because she had chosen to remain.

Lucavion, to his credit, didn’t gloat.

Not out loud.

But the gleam in his eyes said it all.

She reached for the teacup again.

Took a quiet sip.

Then—

“Ask me a question,” she said.

Lucavion blinked.

Priscilla set the cup down gently, her fingers no longer trembling.

“If we’re playing games,” she said, “then let’s make it fair.”

Her eyes met his—firm, unflinching.

“Your move.”

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