Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The shift was instantaneous.

One breath, he stood on Arcanian marble—gleaming, anchored, familiar.

The next… gravity twisted.

Lucavion's boots touched down on soil that didn't belong to any nation, any realm he knew. The sky above shimmered with a dusk-colored hue, not quite night, not quite day. Two suns drifted lazily across opposite ends of the sky, creating a constant twilight effect, casting jagged shadows in every direction. The very air was alive—charged.

He inhaled, slowly.

The mana here didn't just exist—it moved. Swirled beneath the surface like rivers under glass. It responded to his presence, subtle shifts running along his skin like strands of static brushing over old silk.

'Interesting,' he thought, glancing at his fingertips as they glowed faintly with latent energy. 'So it was going to feel like this?'

In the novel, this world—the fabricated space for the entrance exam—had been described with flair, but even the most poetic lines hadn't done it justice. The Aetherfold, as it had been briefly named in lore notes, was supposed to be volatile, alive, and ever-changing. And now? It felt like it was watching him.

"Clever design," he murmured.

His boots shifted against the ground—a strange mixture of hardened clay and crystalline dust. A soft crunch echoed around him. No structures, not yet. Just sparse terrain, a line of hills in the distance, shadows moving along them like predators hunting the horizon.

[You're quiet,] Vitaliara said from his shoulder, her fur bristling slightly. [I can feel it too. The ground, the air—it's breathing.]

He gave a subtle nod. "And it's hungry."

For combat. For emotion. For story.

His eyes drifted to the faint outline of floating runes in the sky above, swirling just fast enough to indicate that the zone's perimeter was already beginning to shift inward.

'So the countdown's begun.'

Naturally. The test wouldn't waste time.

In the novel, this trial had been Elara's moment. Her emergence. Her frost magic cutting through illusion and doubt alike. It was here she'd faced the first of the named contenders, laying the foundation for the camaraderie—and rivalries—that defined her arc.

'Where are you now?'

The thought echoed through Lucavion's mind, half-formed, unfinished, like a question with too many answers. His eyes lingered on the shifting horizon, tracing the shapes of the warped hills and fractured spires jutting from the ground like the ribs of some long-dead god.

In the story—the original one—Elara had started in Zone Nine. That much he remembered with clarity. Her arc was precise, methodical. She was always destined to cut her way through the ranks here, standing above the carnage as proof that determination could outmatch privilege. Her story.

But this?

This was no longer just her tale.

Lucavion took a slow breath, the air humming with unstable mana that bent around his presence like ripples around a stone. 'How much of it have I already broken…?'

He couldn't help the question—not now, not after everything.

He'd done too much. Not small things, not just ripples. Waves.

Aeliana was supposed to die. Quietly. Offscreen, almost. Her name a footnote in another's pain. But he'd pulled her back from the edge—torn her from the jaws of narrative closure and made her something else. Something more. A heartbeat now entangled with his own.

And Stormhaven…

Lucavion's lips curled slightly. That city was meant to burn. The Kraken was supposed to emerge in the dead of night, tear through the coastal wards, drag half the navy into the depths, and leave the Duke limping into irrelevance—arm lost, morale shattered.

But it hadn't.

He had stopped it.

Stopped fate, if such a thing existed.

'The butterfly effect,' he thought, flexing his gloved fingers slowly as the mana danced across his skin. 'It should've torn the narrative to shreds already.'

Then there was the Cloud Heavens Sect. They weren't supposed to fall—not until Act Two, when Elara and her allies would face them as one of their first major enemy factions. Their defeat had been a milestone, a moment of unity, sacrifice, and triumph.

Instead, Lucavion had walked into their hidden citadel months ahead of schedule, left the halls smeared with ash and silence… and met Valeria there.

'That wasn't supposed to happen either.'

But it had.

And that changed everything.

Not just because of what he'd done—but because of who he'd affected. The ones that were supposed to cross paths with Elara. The ones destined to become her companions, her rivals, her burdens. Many had met him first.

'So the question is…'

He let his gaze fall to the strange soil beneath his boots, where faint patterns of leyline residue flickered with purpose—guiding all contestants toward inevitable confrontation.

'…does the main scenario still exist? Or did I already kill it?'

The sky overhead shifted subtly, one of the suns dimming as if listening.

[You're spiraling again,] Vitaliara said, the dry curl of her tone wrapping around the edge of his thoughts.

"My bad," Lucavion said with a breezy exhale, brushing a speck of glimmering dust from his shoulder. "You know me already."

[Well, you're certainly alive enough to attract attention,] Vitaliara noted, her ears perking up. [Seems you have some guests.]

His smile didn't falter.

"Guests, huh?" He flexed his fingers, letting the dormant mana in his palm flicker to life, then closed it slowly. "Tch. I was hoping for at least ten more minutes of existential dread."

But the luxury of brooding was over.

From the ridge just ahead, a shadow flickered—then exploded forward with a sharp gust, a blur of speed carried by wind magic, legs pushing off from the stone with precision far above novice level.

A sword—long, straight-edged, gleaming with enchantment—sliced through the air, aimed directly for Lucavion's chest.

CLANG!

Lucavion moved without hesitation.

His own blade met the strike with clean precision, steel on steel ringing through the twilight air. Sparks scattered as the opposing force crashed against his guard.

For a moment, the two stood—locked, swords pressed, gazes clashing with equal intensity.

Lucavion tilted his head, a wry grin forming.

"Speed," he said, his voice calm, light, and mocking. "Not bad."

He twisted his wrist slightly, redirecting the pressure, his foot gliding to shift his weight with surgical control. The enemy staggered half a step, clearly not expecting such seamless redirection.

Lucavion's smile widened—just a touch cruel now.

"But luck…" he leaned in, letting his voice brush the edge of arrogance, "quite not there."

With a smooth snap of motion, he broke the deadlock and kicked the challenger backward—just enough to force distance, not to injure. Not yet.

The young man stumbled back, boots skidding across the coarse crystalline dust, barely keeping his footing. His blade dipped instinctively into a guard position, but his breathing had quickened—just enough to show.

His clothes were plain. Threadbare at the sleeves, dust-stained at the cuffs. No crest. No insignia. Just the sort of gear someone would wear if they'd spent their coin on steel and nothing else.

A commoner. But not just any—a trained one. His stance was balanced. His strike had been fast. He hadn't come here just to survive.

"...Why unlucky?" the boy asked, narrowing his eyes.

There was no arrogance in the question. Just genuine confusion. Maybe even curiosity.

Lucavion's brow arched.

"Why?" he echoed, stepping forward, blade trailing loosely in his hand like it weighed nothing at all. "Because you chose me as your first target."

He stopped, tilting his head, pitch-black eyes gleaming with dry amusement.

"I can't let myself get eliminated, can I?"