Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 744: A girl who was left in the battlefield

The air was alive with light.

Scarlet lanterns hung from delicate woven threads, drifting gently in the warm evening breeze as if the sky itself had caught fire. Ribbons of flame-motes trailed through the air, summoned from countless floating pyres above the thoroughfares—each one dancing with the colors of the season: gold, crimson, and violet. The scent of spiced wine, candied fruit, and burning myrrh wove together into something strange and sweet and ancient.

It was the Festival of the First Flame, and the capital of the Arcanis Empire, Arcania, pulsed with celebration.

Jesse walked quietly among the crowd.

She had no attendants to draw notice, no crest openly displayed, and no fanfare announcing her arrival. In a city overflowing with noble carriages and shimmering banners, she was just another traveler. Just another girl walking beneath the glow of floating lanterns.

And yet—she had never felt so free.

Her boots tapped lightly against the cobbled roads, newly cleaned for the festival. The magic that pulsed through the ground beneath her was subtle, unlike the raw brutality of Loria’s battle-forged enchantments. Here, power was woven into the rhythm of daily life. Smooth, almost invisible.

The streets curved around intricate plazas where fire-dancers twirled beneath hovering rings of flame, leaving trails of light behind their limbs. Children chased illusionary beasts that dissolved into sparks when caught. Vendors offered charred honey-almond cakes shaped like phoenixes and handed out fire-lotus petals that fluttered into smoke when touched.

Jesse paused beside a quiet alley, her fingers brushing the edge of a railing as she looked up.

The towering structures of Arcania glowed faintly against the darkening sky—towers of silver-veined stone and blue-glass crystal, their edges lit with enchantments that shifted in color as the sun faded. Above them, at the city’s highest tier, the outline of the Spiral Nexus was just visible—coiled like a celestial monument, too far to touch, too close to ignore.

Her heart stirred at the sight.

So this is it, she thought. The empire that used to be our enemy. The city at the edge of everything.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of celebration wash over her. Laughter. Bells. The distant thunder of drums echoing from festival stages.

The rhythm of life.

She should have been here sooner. She wanted to be here sooner. But her arrival had been delayed—sabotaged, really. Her stepmother’s feigned illness, her brother’s “lost” documents, the last-minute complications with their family seal—each inconvenience a deliberate needle, meant to slow her down without giving her cause to accuse them outright.

And yet, she made it.

Despite them, she thought. Because of me.

Her hand brushed against the small seal tucked into her inner pocket—the confirmation of her candidacy, freshly stamped at the Arcanian gate just hours ago. She had missed the entrance trials’ broadcast, missed the first impression everyone else had the luxury of making.

But she hadn’t come here for attention.

She was here to find him.

Lucavion. The name echoed like a quiet ember inside her chest.

Over the years, every trail had pointed toward the same truth: he hadn’t died. He hadn’t been captured. He had escaped. And every piece of information—every whispered rumor, every unsigned report—pointed to the same place.

The Shadowed Thicket. The borderland no one cared to chart.

And past it: Arcanis.

Her expression didn’t change as she resumed walking, but her steps had purpose now. Her gown for tomorrow’s entrance banquet was complete, its fittings finalized just hours earlier in a small tailor shop beneath the outer ring. A dress of dark velvet and silver thread, traditional but refined—more elegant than anything she’d worn before. It would arrive at her dormitory in the morning, just in time.

The sound of celebration echoed through the streets, but Jesse moved with a slower pace now—her footsteps quiet, deliberate, as she turned down a narrower road that curved away from the bright heart of the festival.

This was still Arcania, yes, but here the magic was softer. The lights were lower. The laughter, quieter. A winding path of stone and lampfire led her between small shops and older inns—places built before the Spiral Nexus ever pierced the sky.

She passed by a merchant wiping down his counter, the smell of smoked eel and garlic drifting from his pot. A pair of old travelers sat on a bench outside a dusty map shop, arguing over trade routes and the accuracy of imperial border lines. The air here was calmer. Less urgent.

Real.

Tomorrow, she reminded herself, everything changes.

The Entrance Banquet was more than ceremony. It was the moment when the heirs and chosen of dozens of empires, clans, and guilds would first meet—first measure each other. It was where bonds were made and feuds were born.

And the Lorian Empire’s delegation would gather before even that—ordered to do so by Prince Adrian himself. She had read his name in reports, seen his reputation across strategy boards during war councils. A rising star. And unlike most Lorian royals, Adrian was hands-on, precise, dangerously ambitious.

She would obey. She had no other choice.

But tonight—

Tonight was hers.

Jesse stepped into the small inn nestled between a carpenter’s storefront and a shuttered candlemaker. The wood was aged, the sign above faded by sun and spell-scorch. The Ember’s Rest.

The door creaked softly as she entered, a faint chime of wind-bells greeting her. The inside was warm—lit by floating sconces of low golden flame that hovered just beneath the ceiling beams. A hearth burned in the corner, and a low hum of conversation filled the space.

No noble colors here. No polished marble. Just rough wood, iron fixtures, and the sharp scent of char and old spirits.

She let out a slow breath.

This was what she needed.

The barkeep, a broad-shouldered woman with half-silver hair tied back in a braid, glanced up from polishing a glass. She nodded once, neither surprised nor impressed by Jesse’s appearance.

“Seat’s open. You look like you want something dark.”

Jesse offered a faint smile. “Something that burns going down.”

The barkeep narrowed her eyes as she looked Jesse over—slowly, not rudely, but with the practiced scrutiny of someone who’d seen too many wanderers claim they were tougher than they looked.

“Something that burns, huh?” she muttered, polishing her glass a bit slower now. “You don’t look like the type.”

Jesse arched a brow, her faint smile lingering. “What type would that be?”

The barkeep tapped a knuckle against the bar. “Too polished. Skin’s clean, eyes too focused. No battlefield haze. You’re walking straight—like someone who’s been wearing armor too long but still sleeps light. Either noble-raised or just back from a command tent.”

Jesse’s smile didn’t fade, but her eyes didn’t flinch either. There was a quiet, distant sharpness behind them—a cold steadiness that only someone who had watched comrades bleed out under bad orders could carry.

The barkeep snorted, shaking her head as she reached for a heavier bottle beneath the counter. “Right. Never mind. Your eyes say different.” She poured the drink—dark amber with a slow-moving thickness, the kind of liquor that whispered warnings as it filled the glass.

Jesse accepted it with a nod, her fingers curling around the worn glass rim as she let the smell hit her first—smoke, with a hint of clove and something bitter.

The inn wasn’t full. Most patrons kept to their corners, minds half-lost in their own stories, their own pasts. It was that kind of place. A place for ghosts.

And Jesse was no exception.

She sipped.

It burned. Not like fire, but like memory—familiar, aching, grounding.

Places like this were rare in Arcania. Most inns were lined with crystal glasses and scented with illusions, made for nobles pretending they knew the weight of hard days. But this place—the rough wood, the smoke-stained ceilings, the half-melted wall sigils—reminded her of the old days.

Back when she was barely a third-rate Awakened, half-forgotten in a trench under Lorian command, bitter and cold and near-broken. Before the title. Before the duel. Before the Empire knew her name.

Back when she had lost her reason to keep going.

Back when he found her.

Lucavion.

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