Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 814: Let us hold a competition (2)

Thalor took a step forward—not toward Lucavion, but into the room itself. The space seemed to open for him, not by command, but by inevitability. His presence stretched outward, now crowned with the attention of dozens.

He raised his glass slightly—not in toast, but as a gesture of presence, of ownership over the silence he had created.

“I’m glad,” he began, his voice calm and resonant, “to see I’ve earned everyone’s attention tonight.”

The words coasted smoothly across the air, carried by the lingering note of mana that still hummed faintly in the crystal. Measured. Unhurried. The voice of someone used to speaking to rooms designed to listen.

“For those who may not know me,” he continued, tone sliding effortlessly into polite aristocracy, “I am Thalor Draycott. Of House Draycott.”

He let the name settle.

No need to explain further. Not here. Not to this crowd.

The Draycott name was etched into the marble of Arcanis politics—wealth, war, and influence braided into a single identity. If someone didn’t know it, they weren’t worth the correction.

He lowered his glass, eyes drifting back—casually, almost fondly—to Lucavion.

Thalor’s smile softened, touched with humility that felt just practiced enough to seem sincere.

“As both a mage of the Tower,” he said, voice carrying effortlessly, “and a noble of this Empire, I feel it is only right that I begin with an apology.”

He turned his gaze outward again, addressing the hall—not with shame, but with the dignity of someone cleaning a stain from his family crest.

“There was a disturbance earlier—one that I regret occurred within the bounds of this celebration. It was unsightly. A lapse, if you will, in what should have been an evening of grace.”

A few murmurs trickled through the guests, mostly polite confusion, veiled curiosity.

And then—he turned back to Lucavion.

That smile again.

Not sharp. Not warm.

Balanced.

“Mister Lucavion,” he said smoothly, “rightfully defended himself from certain… provocations. A virtue, of course—courage in the face of confrontation. A core of our values in Arcanis.”

That earned a few nods. Subtle. Hesitant. Measured approval.

“But,” Thalor continued, now tilting his glass in an almost regretful gesture, “it is also true that Mister Lucavion has brought an artifact into this banquet, despite being informed of the restriction.”

Now the silence became weightier.

No outrage. No gasps.

Just the shift of eyes.

Some nobles looked to Lucavion. Others looked to each other, unsure whether to speak, waiting for someone else to decide what the correct reaction was.

Lucavion?

He smiled.

That same, infuriating, untouched smile. The one that made no apologies, no justifications. The kind of smile that didn’t deny—but didn’t kneel.

Thalor didn’t falter.

If anything, it made this easier.

He turned, now gesturing—not to Lucavion, but to the group near the fountain.

The Lorian envoy. The students. The trophies.

“And to our guests,” he said, voice rich with performance, “it may have appeared that the Empire allows such rule-bending freely. That we are… perhaps, a land without discipline.”

A few faces tightened.

Some nobles frowned. The Lorian students glanced at one another with wide, unreadable expressions.

“But rest assured,” Thalor said, lifting his glass once more, “you are always safe here.”

His voice dropped just slightly, just enough for the emphasis to land.

“Us Arcanis does not forget our laws. Or our standards.”

Thalor let the stillness breathe for a beat—then his voice rose again, just enough to cut through the tension with a veneer of grace.

“And yet,” he said, turning from the Lorian students back to the room at large, “since we have drawn so many eyes tonight, it would be a waste to simply return to small talk and wine.”

His tone was light now—almost indulgent. A host reclaiming the evening with practiced charm.

“Let us, instead, lean into the moment. After all…” he gestured lazily toward the room, “isn’t hospitality more than just smiles and speeches?”

Some nobles chuckled softly. Others exchanged glances—unsure, intrigued.

“I propose,” Thalor continued, now letting a touch of excitement weave into his words, “we warm the room properly. Not with politics. But with something a little more… spirited.”

He took another slow step, angling himself slightly toward the fountain where the Lorian envoy still stood—stiff, unsure of where this was going.

“A small event. A display, if you will. Nothing too formal,” he said, feigning modesty with the ease of someone long-accustomed to command. “Just enough for everyone to grow… better acquainted.”

He turned then—first to Lucavion.

Lucavion, whose smile had yet to waver, whose poise remained undisturbed even as the ground beneath him shifted.

“Since you’ve already caught our attention, Mister Lucavion,” Thalor said, voice rich with the flavor of implication, “why not represent your cohort? You are, after all, the top-ranked among the ’special entrants,’ are you not?”

A few more whispers passed through the nobles now. Special entrants. A reminder, of course, that Lucavion did not come from the same stock. That his invitation into their world was recent. Conditional.

Then Thalor turned toward the Lorian group. His gaze locked onto the one standing just ahead of the others—a young man with iron composure, regal bearing, and a crest too familiar to mistake.

“Prince Adrian,” Thalor said with an elegant nod, “it would only be fitting that your students—guests as they are—select a representative as well. Perhaps… yourself?”

The prince did not reply. Not yet. But the glint in his eye was answer enough.

Thalor turned back to the room.

“And we,” he said, gesturing to the Arcanis nobles, “shall send our own. One from the Tower. A noble house. A name that honors both our discipline and our swordplay.”

The pitch was clear.

A three-way exhibition. One champion from each side. Arcanis. Lorian. And the anomaly—Lucavion.

Not war. Not battle.

A game.

But in Arcanis?

Games were never just games.

“Let it be friendly, of course,” Thalor added, raising his glass one final time. “But let it be fair.“

Thalor paused mid-pitch—glass raised, audience half-smiling—when a voice cut through the air like steel on stone.

“That… is a great idea.”

The room shifted on its axis.

From the back, Rowen Drayke stepped forward. Each measured stride commanded attention without design—his armor dark beneath the flicker of chandles, eyes fixed in steely resolve.

He halted just behind and to the side of Thalor, creating a silent triangle between the mage, the prince, and Lucavion.

Glaring directly into Lucavion’s gaze, Rowen’s tone carried the gravity of his lineage and the weight of his purpose.

“I shall represent Arcanis.” His words were precise: no flourish, no bravado. Just intent.

The hall exhaled in collective anticipation. Whispers stirred again—some hopeful, some anxious, others calculated.

Rowen’s presence shifted the dynamic.

He had not volunteered for pageantry.

He had volunteered to stand against.

He fixed his stare on Lucavion, unmoving, unmistakable.

The challenge was set:

Arcanis vs Lorian vs Commoner.

But above all—

He, Rowen Drayke, would meet him where the torchlight framed truth.

———-A/N———

Sorry for the inconsistent updates. I am doing my internship now, hence I lack time to write. I will try to write a lot in the weekends, if possible.

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