Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 781: Slander

The words hung there, heavy with calculated venom.

Reynard didn’t react at first—at least not outwardly. His smile, almost too perfect, didn’t waver. But the gleam behind his eyes had shifted, sharpened, coiled like a snake winding itself beneath velvet.

Davien didn’t hesitate.

“You dare insult House Crane like that? In public? At a banquet of this scale?”

Lyon stepped forward too, fists clenched at his sides—not in preparation to strike, but to emphasize the trembling restraint. “Reynard Crane showed you courtesy. And this is how you repay it? With slander? With disrespect?”

Eyes turned.

Dozens now.

Not just from nearby tables, but across the hall—aristocrats, instructors, junior nobles. Students and stewards. Whispers bloomed like weeds in summer rain.

Lucavion stayed perfectly still.

His hand lowered slowly from his face, and he blinked—once—like the weight of their outrage was a feather brushing his coat.

“I simply spoke,” he said lightly, “what your deeds already proved.”

A murmur rippled again—half breath, half gasp.

“What deeds?!” Davien snapped, stepping closer. “Speak plainly, whelp. If you have accusations, name them.”

Reynard finally raised a hand, stopping him with the ease of a conductor halting his instruments.

“Enough,” he said. Calm. Even. Just loud enough to command the surrounding silence.

He turned to the room—perfectly angled, perfectly tragic.

“I apologize, on behalf of House Crane,” he said, voice dipped in restraint and noble sorrow. “It appears that… for some reason, our House is being slandered tonight. Thugs, was it?”

He looked at Lucavion again. His voice did not rise. It didn’t need to.

Reynard let the silence stretch.

It was a crafted silence, shaped by expectation and control. Every second he waited gave the illusion of patience, of fairness. And every eye in the hall was now turned, not toward him—but toward Lucavion.

Let him speak. Let him make the mistake. Let him say something specific.

’Say it,’ Reynard thought. ’Mention the terrace. Mention anything I can deny.’

Lucavion didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise. His fingers drummed once against the polished wood of the table, thoughtful, as though trying to remember if he’d forgotten a dessert order.

Then he looked up.

Unhurried. Unbothered.

“Indeed,” he said, tone quiet, almost polite. “I said thugs.”

He let the word settle like a stone in clear water.

“Was there something wrong with that?”

The ripple that followed was sharper than before—no longer surprise, but discomfort. A few nobles stiffened. Someone coughed delicately into their sleeve. Even Seraphina, across from him, shifted her weight as if to subtly put space between herself and the fire forming under the surface.

Reynard’s face twitched.

It was subtle. But it was there.

And it shattered the perfect stillness of his mask.

“Of course there’s something wrong with that,” he said, the warmth slipping from his voice like silk peeling from glass. “You insult a noble house, a founding pillar of the Empire, with no cause, no proof, and then ask if it is wrong?”

Lucavion’s gaze didn’t waver.

He tilted his head just a touch. “I never said it was without cause.”

And again—he gave nothing.

No details. No names. No locations.

Just the implication. The taste of truth, dangled like a blade just out of reach.

Reynard felt the hall begin to lean—not toward Lucavion, but toward curiosity. And curiosity, unchecked, was a dangerous thing.

’If he keeps it vague, I can’t disprove it. If I address the terrace, I acknowledge it happened. If I stay vague, I seem evasive…’

He stepped forward slightly, each word sharpened by calculation.

“Then name it, Lucavion. If there’s a claim to be made—make it. What exactly did House Crane do, to be called thugs in front of the Academy’s future leaders?”

He spread one hand out—not hostile, but open. Reasonable. That was the image.

’Trap him. Draw the context out. Let him hang himself by details.’

Reynard’s lips curved faintly.

“Surely, you’re not the sort to hide behind insinuation?”

Lucavion’s smile was slow.

Not triumphant. Not cruel. Just calm. As if this entire exchange had been a particularly tedious lecture and someone had finally asked a question he’d been waiting to answer.

“Insinuation?” he echoed, brows rising slightly. “Oh no. I’m not the type to retreat behind implication. If I say something, I say it plainly.”

He placed his goblet down with a soft, deliberate clink.

“And I always back my claims up.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, one arm resting lazily on the table as if this weren’t a banquet hall bristling with tension, as if the walls themselves weren’t holding their breath.

His voice, when it came, was conversational. Almost too casual.

“Oh, yes—something did happen, Reynard. Since you were so insistent, I’d hate to disappoint.”

The hall was deathly still.

“A boy and his sister. Baron lineage. Had seats at a terrace café—ones they paid for, I might add—when they were approached by three young men adorned in count-house emblems. Rather resplendent, really. One might say… overcompensating.“

A subtle gasp rippled from a nearby table.

Lucavion went on, his tone light, but his eyes now sharp as twin blades beneath the surface.

“These three gentlemen took it upon themselves to educate the baron’s children. Not with words, mind you, but with posture. Presence. Threats.”

He made a loose gesture, like recalling a minor scene in a play.

“One of them placed a boot on the girl’s bench. The other spun a coin in the boy’s face like a countdown. The third… well, he decided proximity was power. All while reminding them they didn’t belong.”

He looked back at Reynard now, and this time, the mask was gone.

“In that moment, House Crane’s honor wasn’t just present. It was leaning forward, crowding a girl no older than my cousin, and reminding a frightened boy that nobility is less about merit, and more about volume.”

Lucavion’s next words came low, level, and deliberate.

“So I intervened.”

A single breath passed through the crowd.

Lucavion continued, softer now, and more cutting for it.

“I didn’t draw steel. I didn’t throw a spell. I simply walked by. And when they chose to escalate—when they lost control of their own mana, and suffered for it—I remained standing.”

He turned to the crowd, letting his voice carry.

“And if that’s the sort of behavior we’re meant to excuse, to protect, to bow to simply because a family crest was stitched on a collar—then yes. I suppose I did say something impolite.”

He looked back at Reynard.

“As heir of House Crane, you must know how delightful your name sounded while trampling dignity underfoot. The self-assuredness. The assumption of immunity.”

Lucavion’s smile returned—slow, unhurried.

“So, no, Lord Reynard. It wasn’t slander.”

He leaned in, just slightly, enough for only the nearest few to hear the next words, though they echoed louder than any shout.

“It was an accurate title.”

Then, louder again—for all to hear:

“Thugs in noble clothing.”

And with that, he sat back again, reached for his goblet, and drank.

Not to toast.

Not to gloat.

Just to taste something sweeter than wine—

Truth.

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