Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 745: A girl who was left in the battlefield (2)

Lucavion.

Jessie remembered the first night he sat beside her at a backwater supply post. She hadn’t spoken a word to anyone in days. She had been ready to vanish, to slip out past the patrols and disappear into the snow. But he had brought two chipped cups and a half-empty bottle—not of liquor, but preserved fruit tonic. Some awful mix the supply sergeants passed off as a “celebration ration.”

“Drinking doesn’t fix it,” he’d said that night, calm as ever, “but sharing something bitter makes it easier to swallow.”

He didn’t let her drink then. Not real alcohol. Said it would only make the weight worse when she stood up again.

And the worst part was… he was right.

But you didn’t stay, she thought. You didn’t stay long enough to see what happened after.

When he vanished, she didn’t fall back into despair.

She fought. She rose. She clawed her way up.

And somewhere along that way, alcohol had become easy to reach.

Not to forget—but to fill the silence.

She sipped again, letting the bitterness sit on her tongue before swallowing.

The barkeep glanced at her from the corner of her eye. “Military?”

Jesse didn’t answer at first. Then: “Once.”

“Didn’t come from around here, did you?”

“No,” Jesse replied, placing the glass down. “But I’ve been heading here for a long time.”

The barkeep nodded, as if she understood more than Jesse had said. She moved away to serve another customer, leaving Jesse alone with the heat of the drink and the chill of her memories.

The warmth of the drink settled in Jesse’s chest like a quiet ember. Not enough to dull her thoughts—she wouldn’t let herself be dulled—but enough to take the edge off. Just enough to let the tension of the journey, the weight of the capital’s grandeur, bleed away from her shoulders.

The barkeep returned after a while, polishing another glass, not pressing—just present.

“Loria?” she asked casually, tilting her head. “You’ve got the look. Posture’s still too sharp. Like you don’t trust your back to rest.”

Jesse exhaled softly through her nose, not quite a laugh. “That obvious?”

“Only to people who’ve lived long enough to stop marching.”

The words struck deeper than expected, and Jesse let her gaze drift to the hearth, where the fire flickered low and golden.

“Valerius Plains….”

“Valerius Plains,” the barkeep echoed with a click of her tongue. “Gods. That place still eats bones?”

Jesse smiled faintly. “It hasn’t changed.”

The barkeep leaned on the counter, pouring herself a small glass of the same drink Jesse had ordered. “Name’s Virelle,” she offered. “And you?”

“Jesse,” she replied simply.

“Well, Jesse,” Virelle said, tapping her glass against Jesse’s in an unceremonious toast, “you’ve got more bite than most nobles who step through my door. They want perfume and pageantry. You want peace.”

Jesse arched a brow. “You get many nobles here?”

“Too many,” Virelle muttered. “Especially with the Academy’s entrance cycle open. Half the city’s parading heirs like they’re prize cattle. All silks and gilded lies.”

Jesse chuckled quietly. “You don’t sound impressed.”

“I’m too old to be impressed,” Virelle said. “Besides, power means nothing if you don’t know how to hold it without flinching.”

That struck something in Jesse—an echo of her training, of the way Lucavion used to speak. Not of strength in terms of mana output or titles, but in how you stood. How you endured.

“You were Awakened once,” Jesse guessed.

Virelle nodded. “Long time ago. Too long now. Sparks burn fast when you throw them into the wrong kind of fight.”

“And now you run an inn?”

“Now I run a haven,” Virelle corrected. “For those who don’t want to forget what real weight feels like.”

Jesse took another sip, the burn softer now, her body settling into the quiet rhythm of the space. The inn was old, the wood warped and aged—but it felt real. Grounded. The opposite of the gleaming towers and floating sigils of the noble quarter.

“Do you know much about the Academy?” Jesse asked after a pause. “The Imperial one.”

Virelle raised a brow, eyeing Jesse with that same even, unflinching gaze—like someone who had seen every kind of story walk through her doors and knew when one was about to start.

“Oh…” she said slowly, setting down her glass with a soft clink. “Are you one of the envoys sent by the Lorian Empire?”

Jesse didn’t answer at first.

Just stared into her drink. The liquid caught the firelight in ripples, like distant blood over steel.

“…Exchange students,” Virelle continued, her voice softer now, more measured. “Was that what they called it?”

Jesse nodded once, the motion barely more than a breath.

“Yeah.”

Virelle leaned back, folding her arms. “I see.”

She didn’t press, didn’t ask for details. Didn’t need to.

“Bit strange,” she murmured. “To think we’d ever see Lorian uniforms walking through the Nexus gates. A few years ago, the only exchange between our Empires was steel and fire.”

“Peace,” Jesse said quietly. “That’s what they’re calling this.”

Virelle snorted. “Peace is just war that learned how to wear a nicer coat.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—just dense. Solid. Like the weight of a blade across your back that never quite left, even when the fighting was over.

“You want to know about the Academy?” Virelle asked at last.

Jesse looked up. “I do.”

Virelle nodded and reached behind the bar, pulling out a worn map—creased, frayed, the edges darkened with age and soot. She spread it across the counter, pressing down the corners with a pair of chipped coasters.

“There it is,” she said, tapping a spot near the Spiral Nexus’s base. “The Imperial Arcanis Academy. Old as the capital itself. Built in layers, like the city. Each tier for a different division. Elementalists. Sigil Weavers. Tactical Awakened. Some say the bottom layers are older than the Empire.”

“And the students?” Jesse asked, eyes scanning the lines like a soldier memorizing terrain.

“Divided by affiliation,” Virelle said. “Noble lines. Sponsored candidates. And now—” her eyes flicked up to Jesse, “—the commoners. Those who passed the Candidacy Trials.”

“Oh….”

Jesse’s fingers tightened ever so slightly around her glass. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to feel the weight of it.

“I wasn’t here to see it,” she said, voice low. “Had… delays.”

Virelle raised a brow, but didn’t press. She leaned her weight onto the bar, eyeing the old map as though recalling pieces of a story she had no business remembering so well.

“Shame,” she said after a sip. “You missed quite a show. The whole city stopped to watch. Taverns packed, streets half-empty, even the Nexus paused most of its outer-tier lectures to let the professors view the trials.”

“Was it worth the spectacle?” Jesse asked.

“Oh, absolutely,” Virelle said, chuckling to herself. “Day one was dull—monotone, structured. A lot of posturing. Tests of discipline, control. Most of the candidates were trying too hard to prove they belonged. Still, a few stood out.”

Jesse leaned in, listening now. Her drink had gone still in her hand.

“But the final days…” Virelle’s tone shifted, gaining a touch of fire. “That’s when things changed. The tests got harder. Crueler. They started throwing more at the candidates than most fresh Awakened ever see in the field.”

Jesse didn’t respond. She didn’t have to.

Virelle continued, almost with a grin. “And then there was this one kid… caught everyone’s attention. Young. Pale. Didn’t shout, didn’t flex. Just moved. Calm. Focused. Like everything around him was already decided.”

Jesse’s breath stilled. Just slightly.

“…What was his name?” Virelle mused aloud, tapping a knuckle against her temple. “It was a bit unique. Old-sounding. Not native.”

Jesse didn’t blink. “What happened?”

“He cleared one of the strongest contestants that was favored by the entire crowd,” Virelle said. “Outmaneuvered his techniques. Then—get this—turned the damn place into a fire pit.”

Jesse said nothing. She was already breathing too carefully.

“Ah,” Virelle said at last, snapping her fingers. “Lucavion. That was it.”

The name landed like a blade drawn from scabbard steel.

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