Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 766: Entrance (4)

The hush that fell over the hall wasn’t total silence.

But it was close.

Not stunned. Not reverent.

Watchful.

As the five descended together—Mireilla, Toven, Elayne, Caeden, Lucavion—the atmosphere rippled. Not just from the force of their presence, but from the sheer disruption of it.

Each of them carried a different rhythm.

But it was Lucavion who changed the tempo of the room.

He didn’t walk in the center. Didn’t make a show of leading. And yet—he was the axis. Every step aligned to him without intention. Even Elayne, poised and honed as she was, adjusted her stride half a breath to match his.

And everyone noticed.

Even the nobles too proud to show it. Even the professors seated above. Even the crest-marked heirs standing near the dais. Their expressions didn’t shift much—but their eyes did.

Lucavion’s name had already spread through whispers, through wagers, through nervous laughter behind fans and half-masked smirks.

Sword Demon.

An uncrowned thing—too raw for decorum, too refined for ridicule. An outsider who had beaten an imperial favorite with no clan name behind him, no doctrine, no signature style. Just a blade, and the will to put it where it mattered.

He walked as though the hall didn’t matter.

As though nothing in it could matter.

And then—

His gaze shifted.

Not in search, but in certainty.

It swept over the room once—and stopped.

On her.

Valeria.

Their eyes met.

Just for a moment.

No flair. No gasp. Just stillness—caught in that invisible thread between the past and the present.

And then—

Lucavion’s mouth quirked. Barely. A sliver of curve that most wouldn’t notice.

But she knew that smile.

She knew it too well.

And then—

His lips moved.

No sound.

Just a shape carried on intention.

“Hello, Pink Knight.”

Valeria blinked.

Her breath caught, so soft it might’ve passed unnoticed by the room, but not by her.

Her heart—calm for the entirety of the evening, steady under pressure, practiced under a hundred layers of courtly poise—lurched once. Hard.

A quiet stutter against her ribs.

As if her body remembered something before her thoughts did.

Pink Knight.

He said it like a greeting. Like a tease. Like a promise.

And in that instant—

The hall, the nobles, the ritualized noise of power—

All of it blurred.

Just for a second.

Because that name—that name—wasn’t spoken by anyone else.

No one here even knew it.

It wasn’t written in dossiers. It wasn’t whispered among the gossip circles. It wasn’t part of her cultivated image.

It was his.

A name shaped between stolen moments and battlefield ash, back when neither of them were what they are now.

A memory made real.

Valeria’s spine remained straight. Her chin didn’t dip. She showed nothing, as expected of her.

But inside?

The flame flickered to life.

He was here.

And he still remembered.

*****

At the central table, the mood had settled into something almost conversational.

Almost.

Aurelian was tracing invisible glyphs along the stem of his goblet, lips pulled into a slanted half-smile as he dissected Lorian court fashion with his usual flair. Selphine responded in slow, arched phrases, her tone silkier now—measured, as if weighing each word before releasing it like a drop of ink in water. Cedric said little, his attention split between watching the hall and watching Elara.

And Elara?

She didn’t speak.

Her posture was perfect, her face composed, her fingers folded neatly atop her place setting. She offered a small nod at Aurelian’s latest jab about someone’s jewel-encrusted shoes—just enough to pass for engaged.

But her thoughts were elsewhere. Coiled. Focused.

Because beneath the silk and the ceremony, the positioning and performance, she could still feel the rhythm of the hour.

It was not over.

Not yet.

Then came the voice.

Smooth. Arching with ceremony.

“Special Student Entrants—now arriving.”

Elara’s head snapped up.

The table quieted instantly.

Across the hall, conversation dimmed. Even among the gathered nobility, curiosity flared. The phrase was unfamiliar. Not exchange envoy. Not commoner cohort.

Special.

Aurelian blinked. “That’s… not scheduled.”

Selphine leaned forward slightly. “Did they move the duelists’ bracket?”

“No,” Cedric muttered.

Elara didn’t speak.

Because she already knew.

She didn’t know how. But she did.

And when the mirrored doors at the far end of the hall parted once again—this time with no fanfare, just silence sharpened to a point—

She felt it.

Saw it.

Him.

Lucavion.

The moment he stepped into the light, her heart didn’t race.

It stopped.

Not metaphorically. Not with flair. It stopped.

Her breath faltered. Her fingers twitched against the tablecloth. And everything else—voices, light, ceremony—became distant noise.

Because it was him.

There was no mistaking it.

The hair, black and just too tousled to be disciplined. The eyes, deeper than shadow, watching the world like it was already a solved riddle. The suit was regal, precise, far beyond the Luca she had known in tattered edges and scuffed boots.

But it was him.

The same mouth. The same tilt of smirk that curved—barely—at the corner when someone muttered in awe nearby.

The scar was gone. That long mark that once split across his right eye like a line of memory erased.

But the eyes were the same.

And the thing that made her certain—the thing that silenced every last trace of doubt—

Was the white cat curled lazily across his shoulders.

The same cat that used to wind through their campfires in Stormhaven, indifferent to rain and blood and betrayal. The same one that hissed at Cedric once and then slept on his bedroll for a week.

Its tail flicked once, smug.

’Luca.’

The name rose, unwanted, unwelcome, unspoken.

’Lucavion.’

And she felt it then. Like iron branding her lungs.

These two names—once lives apart, once severed like a blade between selves—were not two people.

They were one.

They had always been one.

Her Luca had always been this.

Lucavion.

Sword Demon.

Traitor. Savior.

And now—student.

The halls of the Academy had opened.

And the boy who had ruined her was walking its floors again.

Not a ghost this time.

Not a memory.

Not in exile.

But in glory.

And this time—he would see her.

Eventually.

But not yet.

Not until she was ready to look him in the eye and decide what she would be.

Justice. Ruin. Forgiveness.

Or something far, far sharper.

She swallowed.

Slowly. Silently.

And then—without turning to them—she said to the others at the table, her voice soft as steel behind silk:

“…He’s here.”

And then—

Her gaze shifted.

Slow. Inevitable.

Not toward him. Not yet. She couldn’t afford that. Not while her pulse still pounded in her throat like a war drum muffled beneath silk and spine.

Instead, her eyes slid sideways.

To her.

Isolde Valoria.

Still standing beside Adrian, the two of them like some marble-carved scene from a history tapestry—perfect in composition, pristine in presence. Adrian’s arms were folded now, speaking quietly to a nearby noble, his posture still and composed. But Isolde…

She wasn’t speaking.

She wasn’t smiling.

She wasn’t looking at anyone else.

Her eyes—those soft, washed-lavender eyes—were locked.

On him.

Across the vastness of the banquet hall, beyond the murmuring students and the glittering light and the practiced courtesies, Isolde’s gaze had found Lucavion.

And it had not left.

It wasn’t surprise.

It wasn’t admiration.

It was expectation.

A stillness that Elara knew too well. The kind that preceded movement. The kind that said: Ah. You’re here.

Not Is that him?

Not Could it be?

Just: You.

Elara didn’t want to look.

Not yet.

She wasn’t ready—wasn’t supposed to be ready. Not with the pulse still hammering against her ribs, not with her knuckles white beneath the silk of her gloves. But the moment pulled at her like gravity, inevitable and cold.

She turned.

Toward him.

Lucavion.

He stood just beyond the lower steps of the dais, framed by the chandelier’s flickering light like something conjured—not born. The white cat still curled like a crown over his shoulder, its ears flicking lazily, unbothered by the shift in pressure that had begun to wrap the room like storm-thick air.

But Lucavion—

He wasn’t relaxed.

Not anymore.

He wasn’t surveying the crowd. He wasn’t measuring nobles or mocking etiquette.

He was looking at her.

Isolde.

As if his eyes were saying….

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