Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

‘So… this is what true magical infrastructure looks like.’

He ran a finger across one of the interfaces. It pulsed gently at his touch, recognizing his presence instantly. “Adjust lighting,” he murmured offhandedly—and the walls responded. Shadows shifted, deepened. Another gesture and the dome above rearranged its stars into the pattern of his homeland’s sky.

The attendant, still poised a few respectful steps behind Lucavion, waited until he saw the young man’s gaze settle on the ambient control panel.

Then, with practiced ease, he stepped forward. “Sir Lucavion,” he said, voice polished but soft, as if not to intrude upon the awe that shimmered behind Lucavion’s composed expression. “Allow me to explain a few additional details about your suite.”

Lucavion didn’t turn, but he raised an eyebrow, giving the man permission with silence.

The attendant inclined his head slightly. “Every primary room within this ward is connected to the Sanctum’s integrated service matrix. If you require nourishment, rest, restoration, entertainment, or consultation with any of the Imperial Ward’s arcane liaisons, you need only speak a command aloud or direct your intent toward one of the floating interfaces.”

A crystalline tablet hovered beside them, rotating softly in the air as if listening.

“For example,” the attendant continued, “if you were to say, ‘Evening meal—flavor profile: coastal, influence: Lorian Empire, beverage: mild,’ a course would be prepared within fourteen minutes and delivered either through transport glyph or by hand.”

Lucavion’s lips twitched slightly. “And if I ask for something ridiculous?”

The man allowed a faint smile. “The system will offer the closest approximation and politely suggest restraint.”

‘Charming.’ Lucavion resisted the urge to test it by requesting “phoenix egg poached in gravity-reversed wine.”

The attendant continued smoothly. “Massage services are available at any hour, including rune-assisted therapy. Aetheric restoration chambers are located beneath the suite floor and can be activated through this panel here—” he pointed to a semi-translucent sphere resting on a pedestal, its surface fractured with threads of glowing script.

Lucavion approached it, noting how the artifact almost vibrated with potential.

“This,” the attendant said, placing his hand carefully above it, “is a recent development from the Arcanis Mage Tower. It’s called the Resonance Conductor. It’s… still in testing.”

Lucavion shot him a sideways look. “Testing. That’s the word you choose when something explodes occasionally, yes?”

The man did not blink. “It has only done so three times in the last cycle. And none of those instances involved bodily harm. The worst case was… an unexpected musical episode.”

Lucavion stared.

“Yes,” the attendant clarified with the tone of someone deeply familiar with magical oddities. “The user began singing for five minutes without realizing. The room harmonized with him.”

Lucavion considered this. “So it’s an artifact and a duet partner.”

“Precisely, sir.”

The attendant reached for the Resonance Conductor again. “To use it, simply place your palm against the surface and speak your intent. Meals. Messages. Atmospheric changes. Entertainment. It will sync with your mana signature and attempt to anticipate secondary needs.”

Lucavion touched the orb.

It was cool at first—then warm. Then it felt like him. The glow beneath the surface shifted into a deep indigo streaked with faint traces of silver.

The interface flared.

A soft voice chimed from the orb, smooth and faintly melodic: “Mana resonance acquired. Welcome, Lucavion Sareth. Preferences may now be spoken or projected.”

He blinked once. Then murmured, “Tea. Something bitter.”

A small tray shimmered into being atop a nearby platform. Steam rose in gentle spirals from an obsidian cup.

Lucavion turned back to the attendant. “…All right. I’ll admit. That’s impressive.”

“Thank you, sir. We do our best.”

“And if I need you?” he asked, sipping from the cup—his expression neutral, though the tea was exactly the level of bitterness he’d envisioned.

“You may speak into the orb: ‘Attendant Request.’ One of us will arrive within a minute.”

Lucavion gave a slow nod and turned again toward the suite. The quiet brilliance of the dome above. The unnaturally perfect air. The little magics humming in silence.

Everything crafted to ease. To impress.

Lucavion stood in the center of the suite, cup in hand, as the last trails of steam curled upward and vanished into the air—air that smelled faintly of mana-soaked cedar and polished refinement. The Resonance Conductor pulsed quietly beside him, its light dimming now that it had fulfilled its first request.

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Too perfect.

And in that silence, a thought returned—not from this world, but from another.

That other life.

The one where he had once walked beneath buzzing streetlamps instead of floating starlight domes. Where “advanced” meant voice-controlled thermostats that misheard commands half the time.

Where Bruce, just a high-schooler in 2025, had stared at prototype smart-homes with a fascination he never admitted to his classmates. They were the dream then—clean automation, ambient control, tech-assisted life.

But that was Earth.

This—this was Arcania. A world ruled by spellcraft, where most still cooked over open flames and fetched water from enchanted wells.

And yet…

He swept his gaze across the suite again—the intelligent lights, the shifting floors, the Conductor that responded to thought quite faster than maybe even normal attendants.

“So the difference isn’t the tools,” he mused silently. “It’s who’s allowed to use them.”

He sipped the tea again. Just bitter enough.

The air settled around him, rich with the weight of contradiction.

Magic, here, could rebuild nations.

But it had instead built this—a palace for a fraction of a fraction. A technological marvel hidden behind a curtain of noble sigils and sanctioned bloodlines.

“…How ironic,” he murmured.

[What is?] came Vitaliara’s voice from his shoulder, her tone curious—not probing yet, but close.

Lucavion’s smile curved slow. “Nothing important. Just…” He took another sip, eyes drifting toward the ever-shifting dome above.

“In a world that still draws carriages with mana-beasts and believes chamber pots are a noble inconvenience… someone thought this—” he gestured vaguely at the suite “—was the priority.”

[It is beautiful,] she said, cautious.

“It is,” he agreed. “But beauty doesn’t mean justice. Or sense.”

He leaned slightly on the edge of a glasslike balustrade overlooking a suspended balcony, watching illusion-birds flit across the inner ward. His voice lowered, more to himself than her.

[Vitaliara scoffed, her tail curling around his collar with a flick of amused disdain.] [You, talking about justice? Of all people?]

Lucavion let out a quiet laugh, low in his throat. “Fair.”

He turned slightly, his silhouette half-lit by the dome’s ambient starlight. “I’m not exactly a paragon of fairness myself.” A pause. “You’ve seen that.”

[Seen? I’ve lived it,] she muttered, tone dry.

He didn’t argue. There was nothing to deny. He’d made choices—calculated, cold, and cruel when they needed to be. If the world was rigged, he played the rigging. If people played dirty, he learned how to bleed cleaner.

Lucavion exhaled slowly, the weight of everything finally sinking into his limbs now that stillness offered no further excuse to stay sharp. “Might as well enjoy it, then.”

And with that, he moved.

Not with swagger or deliberate detachment—just a quiet, fluid motion as he returned to the center of the suite. His coat slipped off and folded itself neatly at the gesture of his hand, an enchantment responding to the flick of his wrist. His gloves followed, set down beside the Resonance Conductor, which hummed softly in acknowledgment.

He pressed his palm against the orb again. “Evening meal. Cuisine: imperial-fusion. Profile: rich, spiced. Surprise me.”

The orb pulsed in response. “Meal requisitioned. Estimated time: seven minutes.”

He smirked. “Of course it is.”

Lucavion settled into the recliner—if it could even be called that. The chair adjusted to him with unnatural grace, contouring to the shape of his tension-worn frame like it had studied the knots in his spine and sworn to exorcise them.

He let his head rest back against the arch of the support.

Outside the dome, illusion-stars wheeled overhead. The hum of distant arcane engines filled the silence, barely audible over the sigh of enchanted wind passing through the branches of levitating gardens.

[You’re going to fall asleep,] Vitaliara warned lightly from where she perched along the top of the chair.

“Probably,” he murmured. “But not before I eat.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the comfort to settle into the gaps that battle had carved out of his body. The trial hadn’t just exhausted him physically—it had drained him. Every moment of finesse, every calculation, every burn of mana and blade—paid in full by now.

And tomorrow would begin again. With etiquette. With parades. With the smiling faces of nobles who’d never scraped blood off their own shoes.

He needed time.

Time to think. To move the pieces. To plot out not just how to survive—but how to twist this whole place to his advantage.

But for tonight—

He would rest.

Because for once, the empire had offered a bed that didn’t smell like borrowed power or other people’s sweat.

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