Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 1002: Not my forte at all….

Kaireth.

Lucavion might’ve passed him by without a second thought, but there it was—the unmistakable clench of the jaw. Subtle. Contained. But there.

Ah.

So he’s still pissed.

Lucavion let his stride slow, just enough to make it clear he had noticed.

And then he smiled.

Not kindly. Not cruelly.

Just… knowingly.

He tilted his head slightly as their eyes locked and said, low and easy:

“Your performance wasn’t bad.”

Not loud. Just enough for Kaireth to hear.

Then—without breaking stride—Lucavion winked.

A small thing.

But enough.

Kaireth didn’t speak. Didn’t look away. But his hands—resting on the edge of his desk—clenched. Knuckles whitening for half a second before he caught himself and let go.

Lucavion kept walking, lips twitching at the corner.

Damn, that really does improve the day.

The seat he was assigned was four rows from the top. Clean desk. No magic residue. Good vantage. Isolated enough that no one could claim interference.

He sat, drew his quill, and settled in.

The exam hadn’t even started yet.

But he was already having fun.

Lucavion slid into his seat with the ease of someone who knew exactly how much space he needed—no more, no less. The desk was smooth blackstone, cold to the touch, etched with faint, silvery traces that shimmered with anti-tampering wards. No carvings. No smuggled glyphs. No messages hidden under the lip. This place was sterile by design.

And yet…

He leaned back slightly, gaze lifting—not toward the invigilators, not toward the front—but up.

The ceiling stretched wide above him, latticed with arches that carried weight not just structurally, but historically. Each arch traced with filigree spells and sculpted runes from another age—they could even be older than the Academy, even, possibly used as some other function before?

Magic didn’t hum here the way it did in the practice halls. It sat. Quiet and heavy. Like it had been watching students fail and fumble for a hundred years and was, frankly, unimpressed.

Lucavion’s eyes narrowed.

This room is built for judgment.

A strange place, really. Most of the Academy gave off a polished kind of warmth—gleaming walls, sunlit practice fields, the hum of conjured mana in constant circulation. Even the combat arenas had their energy, their clean edges. This?

This was stone and pressure and silence. Designed not to test your knowledge, but your composure.

He tapped a finger once against the desk, thoughtful.

I suppose it makes sense.

After all, it wasn’t just spellcasters that walked through here—it was scholars, tacticians, future generals. People expected to make decisions under pressure, and live with the fallout.

And right now?

Just furrowed brows and tightened jaws, sleeves rolled or pressed flat, nervous glances between desks as they searched for their assigned seats.

Lucavion watched them settle—some too fast, some too hesitant. The ones who tried to look calm always ended up gripping their quills too tightly.

A tall girl with silver cuffs sat two rows in front. She was already flipping through a theoretical tome, eyes darting. A boy behind her mouthed mnemonic chants under his breath.

Lucavion exhaled through his nose.

So that was one constant, then.

Written tests really do feel the same in every world.

No matter how grand the setting, no matter how enchanted the paper, the air always changed when it came time to write. Like even the mana in the room had to hold its breath.

He rolled his shoulder once, letting the ache settle quietly beneath the surface.

RING!

The clock struck.

Not with a chime, but with a deep, reverberating tone that rolled across the hall like the sound of steel against stone.

And just like that, the doors at the front opened.

The instructors entered in a line—eight of them, robed in formal black with silver-trimmed sashes denoting their departments. No flamboyance, no ceremony. Just quiet, deliberate motion. A few held scrolls, others thin crystalline slates that pulsed softly with time-seal enchantments.

Their presence didn’t shift the mana in the room so much as reinforce it.

A signal.

Lucavion leaned his elbow on the desk and rested his chin on his knuckles, watching as they took their positions across the hall—spaced evenly, nothing accidental. Three remained at the front, the others split down the aisles, silent as shadows.

One of them—an older man with slicked-back silver hair and an expression carved out of pure expectation—stepped forward.

His voice, when it came, was calm. Even. Completely devoid of anything resembling warmth.

“This is the Written Evaluation: Tier One,” the silver-haired examiner announced.

His voice didn’t need to rise. The room was already listening.

“You will complete five pages. Three core sections. Tactical Reasoning, Spellform Theory, and Ethical Applications in Practice. Each question must be answered in its respective section.”

No inflection. No shift in tone. Just the steady rhythm of protocol being followed with clinical efficiency.

“You are to write clearly. You are not permitted to skip questions and return. Each scroll is spell-sealed and will advance only once a section is completed. Once it progresses, that section is locked.”

Lucavion’s fingers tapped once against his desk, light but audible. Someone two rows down glanced at him and quickly looked away.

“You may not share materials. Any attempt to communicate, enchant, or manipulate the scroll or quill outside permitted parameters will result in immediate disqualification.”

There was no threat in the man’s tone. He wasn’t warning them.

He was stating a fact.

“You will have three hours. At the conclusion of time, your scroll will seal automatically. No extensions. No corrections. No appeals.”

A pause. Subtle. Almost imperceptible.

Then: “Begin.”

A soft hum spread through the room—not from voices, but from the enchantments activating. Scrolls shimmered on each desk, unfurling in fluid arcs as the first page revealed itself, runes stabilizing into clean, dense text.

Lucavion exhaled once through his nose.

Then reached for his quill.

CREAK!

Then he opened the page, with the sound of shimmering page.

Blank at first—then the glyphs shimmered, resolving into sharp-edged ink that curled like formal script across parchment. He tilted his head slightly, reading the header.

SECTION ONE: TACTICAL REASONING

’I wonder why there is such a section?’

The quill hovered in his hand. Not poised. Just held.

It had been a long time since he’d done this.

He didn’t realize how long until this exact moment—sitting under the ceiling filled with light, around him countless different similar peers, and a page full of silent expectations staring back at him.

Seven years. Maybe more. He had written in that time, sure—notes, observations, the kind of field scribbles that bled into margins during long nights. He knew how to record what he saw.

This was academic. Structured. Clean. It smelled of ink and approval and the kind of polished, theoretical thinking that had never once saved a life on its own.

Heh… It’s been a while.

The words didn’t even feel like a complaint. Just… observation. A small, half-amused shrug in his head as he scanned the first few lines.

Question 1: Given an enemy force with numerical superiority and airborne surveillance, design a response formation using limited resources to protect a civilian caravan crossing open terrain. Justify your choice in formation and allocation.

’Oh. That kind of tactical.’

He frowned faintly, eyes narrowing.

So this was leadership theory. Predictive field strategy. The sort of thing they probably taught the noble brats over breakfast. Of course it was. Most of these students had grown up around war councils and commissioned mentors. They were expected to command, someday. Not survive. Not fight. Command.

Lucavion’s gaze drifted across the room again. Too many straight-backed shoulders. Too many carefully maintained hairstyles. Most of them were already writing.

He looked back down at the page.

Tactical Reasoning.

’This is not my forte at all…’