Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 742: Troublesome Student even before the academy (2)

Kaleran’s boots clicked softly against the polished stone as he stepped further into the dining hall, hands behind his back, posture immaculate. His eyes skimmed the gathered students like a tactician surveying the aftermath of a battle. He paused only once—at the end of the long table, where Lucavion sat.

Then his lips moved into a perfectly measured line that almost resembled a smile.

“The day of sponsor meetings is complete,” he announced, his voice carrying just enough resonance to land precisely where it needed to—between formality and veiled exasperation.

Everyone at the table looked up.

“But,” Kaleran continued smoothly, “apparently, a certain someone caused… yet another scene.”

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t even change his tone.

But his gaze? It didn’t move from Lucavion.

Lucavion, who raised his teacup again with the elegance of a man entirely too comfortable under scrutiny.

“Scene?” he asked mildly, brows arched in the picture of innocence. “I merely answered questions. With enthusiasm.”

Kaleran’s head tilted ever so slightly. “You told the envoy from House Idrayne that their political relevance has the lifespan of a molting toad.”

Lucavion clicked his tongue. “That was metaphor. Artistic license.”

“You corrected his pronunciation mid-insult.”

“Accuracy matters.”

“You turned down the soul-bound clause from the Eastern Guildmaster in front of his heir, his steward, and two enchanted scribes.”

“Ah, yes. That one did cry a little. But to be fair, I declined with charm.”

Toven buried his face in his hands. Mireilla choked on a laugh. Even Caeden’s shoulders gave a small twitch, betraying a smothered smile. Elayne just exhaled like she was aging ten years by proximity.

Kaleran closed his eyes for a beat. When he opened them, the weariness was still professional—but there.

Kaleran didn’t move. Not for a long second. Just stared at Lucavion with that same weary patience—like a tired guardian wondering whether it was too late to change his name and flee to a mountain temple.

Then, calmly, he produced a crystal scroll from his coat and unfurled it. The mana-infused glyphs shimmered in the air, outlining a list that glowed with formal complaints.

“The full record,” he began flatly, “includes twenty-seven refusals, sixteen corrections of etiquette, nine veiled threats, and five blatant dismissals. You also redirected a teleport glyph to delay a meeting by thirty minutes—without informing the envoy.”

Lucavion sipped his tea, unconcerned. “That was a favor. He arrived less sweaty. Presentation matters.”

“You rearranged the crest placement on the projection panel of the Syrelith envoy.”

“It was upside-down.”

“And when the archivist from House Leviran asked for a lock of your hair to begin a divinatory compatibility rite—”

Lucavion coughed delicately. “Cultural misunderstanding. I misunderstood how hard to push her hand off my shoulder.”

Kaleran’s eye twitched.

“And then,” he said slowly, “we come to the most formal complaint of the day.”

His gaze sharpened. The air thinned around it.

“House Varenth.”

The shift in the room was subtle, but undeniable. Even Mireilla stopped laughing. Caeden straightened. The weight of those two words—those two names—dragged tension into the table like a dropped blade.

Lucavion, for his part?

He set his cup down. Neatly. Without flourish.

And laughed.

A low, amused sound—dry as wind over bone.

“Oh, that,” he said, shaking his head with faint disbelief. “They’re calling that an assault, are they?”

Kaleran didn’t answer. Just held the scroll aloft.

“They’ve submitted a formal grievance to the Academy Council. Apparently, their representative—Khaedren Varn—was subjected to a binding flame rite, and quote: ’left humiliated, spiritually insulted, and physically endangered.’”

Lucavion lifted one brow. “And the record doesn’t include what he did, does it?”

Kaleran was silent for a beat. Then said, very softly, “We have internal logs. The mana flux was recorded. The entrance protocol was violated. We know who crossed the line.”

“Then you already know, Mister Kaleran,” Lucavion said, smile thinning. “I may not be someone who thrives under rules. But I’m not a savage. I don’t attack unless I’m provoked.“

He leaned back, the quiet weight of finality in his tone.

“But,” he added, “I also don’t kneel. And if someone thinks their bloodline gives them the right to slap me across the face in my own room…”

His eyes glinted.

“…they should be ready to lose the hand.”

Kaleran stared at him. Then sighed—an old, exhausted sound that didn’t belong in a man so young-looking.

“I’m not asking you to bow,” he said at last. “Just to survive.”

“Survival,” Lucavion said smoothly, “has never required submission.”

Lucavion let the last syllable hang there—submission—before picking up the thread again, his voice quieter now, not dulled but sharpened, honed into something crystalline and deliberate.

“And I also don’t view the concept of spending one’s days in the borders determined by those who think they are above…” he paused, eyes flicking briefly toward the crystal scroll still shimmering in Kaleran’s hand, “…as living.”

A breath.

“To me, that is not what being alive means.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Because something in the way he said it stilled the room all over again.

No bravado. No dramatics.

Just conviction, carved clean and true.

Caeden’s pen stilled. Mireilla stopped twirling her fork. Elayne, usually the first to scoff at Lucavion’s provocations, said nothing. Even Toven—who normally acted as though nothing in the world could rattle him—glanced toward Lucavion now with an expression bordering on something else.

Respect.

Or maybe warning.

Kaleran stared for a long moment, the weight behind Lucavion’s words settling into the cracks of the polished floor like rainwater seeking its place.

Kaleran closed the scroll with a flick of his fingers, the mana-light extinguishing like a breath held too long. He didn’t move at first—just stood there, staring at Lucavion with that ageless tiredness of a man who’d seen a hundred students flare like stars and burn out twice as fast.

Then, at last, he exhaled.

“You really are a troublesome kid,” he muttered.

It wasn’t a reprimand.

It wasn’t even said with annoyance.

If anything, it was almost fond… or as close as Kaleran got to fond, buried beneath layers of protocol and weathered expectations.

He didn’t scold him.

Didn’t warn him.

Because the truth, however inconvenient, was clear.

Lucavion hadn’t acted without cause. The internal reports confirmed it—nobles who’d arrived emboldened, certain that this year’s prodigies were meant to be courted, bent, or broken. At least three other names had been flagged for subtle intimidation tactics, with two students already filing silent retractions of their sponsorships under the guise of “personal reflection.”

Khaedren Varn had just been the first to get burned by something that refused to kneel.

Kaleran’s eyes swept the room once more, his voice shifting back to formality.

“That said… your sponsor decisions are due within three days. The official envoy responses must be registered with the central ledger before the final bell on the third.”

A few sighs rippled through the table. Toven groaned softly and muttered something about not knowing how to pick between “gold-covered cages and castles built on blackmail.”

Lucavion said nothing. His fingers tapped once against the cup.

Kaleran continued.

“Four days from now, the entrance banquet will be held. Attendance is mandatory. You’ll be officially announced to the greater Academy assembly, to Imperial observers, and to the political circles that fund the outer testing spheres.”

Mireilla arched a brow. “So we dress up and pretend to like people we might have to kill one day. Got it.”

Elayne gave her a warning glance, but Kaleran—again—didn’t correct her.

Instead, he nodded.

“Your ordered attire and commissioned weapons will be delivered on the day of the banquet. You will receive them upon arrival, just before the procession.”

That got everyone’s attention. Even Caeden’s brows lifted slightly, the only visible sign of his anticipation. Lucavion didn’t react outwardly, but something beneath the surface of his expression… tightened.

’A blade reforged by a man who doesn’t lie with his hands,’ he thought.

’That’s no gift. That’s declaration.’

Kaleran glanced at them all again.

“In the meantime, you’ll receive etiquette instruction. Ballroom readiness, court manners, introduction protocols. Two sessions per day.”

Groans this time. From multiple sides.

“I’m not dancing,” Toven said flatly.

“You will,” Kaleran replied with absolute calm, “or you’ll be partnered with Lady Merinth’s animated armor for rehearsal. It crushes shoes and doesn’t apologize.”

Toven turned slightly pale.

Caeden cleared his throat, straightening. “And if we already have court experience?”

“You will attend anyway,” Kaleran said smoothly, “to ensure no one forgets that experience alone doesn’t excuse poor posture.”

Lucavion let out a quiet, amused breath.

’So. Three days to finalize the stage. Four to prepare the mask. After that… the game begins with wine and applause.’

He stood slowly, pushing back his chair without urgency, and offered Kaleran a short bow—deeper than expected, but just shallow enough to make it feel performative.

“I’ll be ready.”

Kaleran didn’t smile.

But he didn’t look away either.

“See that you are.”

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