Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 1003: Past life coming in clutch ?

Lucavion stared at the question.

A civilian caravan. Open terrain. Airborne surveillance. Limited resources.

It was the kind of scenario that begged for a diagram, or a simulation, or someone who still gave a damn about the chain of command.

He sat still, fingers resting lightly on the quill. No ink on the page yet. No spark of confidence either.

He could feel the hum of magic around the scroll, the time-lock enchantments already ticking in the background. But all it did was remind him what this wasn’t.

This wasn’t the field.

This wasn’t mud and blood and barked orders cracking through the air like thunder. This wasn’t desperation. This wasn’t real.

In battle, there were no clean answers. No elegant formations. No strategic placements designed for theoretical nobility.

There was—

“I cut.”

His lips moved around the words, low enough no one could hear, but the weight of them still landed sharp on his tongue. That was the truth of it. When people screamed and ran and the world split open around you in steel and flame—

He didn’t strategize.

He survived.

He shifted in his seat slightly, spine straightening as the thought clawed its way back to the surface.

I didn’t lead. I was led. And when those above me died, I just… kept going.

Because someone had to.

His eyes flicked back to the question. Protect the civilians. As if any paper could teach someone how to do that. As if it mattered whether you used a pincer or a wedge or whatever clever little acronym some noble brat had scrawled on his coat lining.

What formation stops a sky-borne scout from sending your position to a thousand flaming arrows?

What strategy saves a little girl clutching her brother’s hand when the cavalry’s already on your flank?

They don’t teach that in these walls.

But he couldn’t leave the page blank. The scroll wouldn’t let him move forward until he answered, and if he was going to suffer through this damn test, he might as well write something.

Lucavion adjusted his grip on the quill.

’It is time for me to showcase the skills I have forgotten.’

He hadn’t even realized he was smiling until the quill twitched slightly in his fingers.

Ah. That reflex.

That strange, sharp little grin he only ever got when his back was to the wall and someone—somewhere—expected him to behave.

He tilted his head just a touch, cracking his neck quietly, then brought the quill to parchment.

Fine. Let’s get academic.

After all, he’d technically been a high schooler before all of this. Back when tactical reasoning meant multiple-choice history tests and writing prompts about whether Achilles or Macbeth had the better tragic arc.

Back when he used to turn in five-page essays on the metaphor of rain in post-war literature.

Seven years ago, yeah. But, maybe it would work?

And, well…. Writing was a hell of a lot easier than command.

In open terrain under aerial surveillance, traditional formations fall apart. Anything that looks like a strategy becomes a target, as the enemy would most likely see through it easier than anyone.

So you don’t give them something to aim at.

You give them ghosts.

Split your caravan into decoy branches. Equip the loudest carts with mana-activated noise emitters. Fabricate the illusion of a full-size escort around them—illusionary soldiers, faint mana signatures, low-cost projections just real enough to pass a first glance.

…

*****

At the end of his section, he stopped.

The quill hovered.

And then he added:

You don’t win battles like this with theory. You survive them.

The scroll shimmered again—slow, deliberate—as if considering the answer. Then it clicked forward.

One section down.

Lucavion leaned back in his seat, blinking once.

The words he’d just written—now inked and permanent on the sealed scroll—sat wrong in his mind. Not because they were inaccurate. Not even because they were emotional. But because they weren’t… academic.

He tilted his head slightly, re-reading the last few lines. His handwriting was sharp, clean, maybe too clean considering the way his thoughts had scrambled to catch up with the ink.

“You don’t win battles like this with theory. You survive them.”

’This… would not get a good grade.’

There wasn’t even a question about it. The tone was all wrong—too direct, too grim, too him. He hadn’t argued a side; he’d insisted on one. He hadn’t followed any kind of rubric. Hell, he didn’t even cite a single strategic principle.

But whatever.

He slid a finger across the edge of the desk, the cool stone grounding him for a beat longer than necessary.

It had been a while since he wrote like that—article-style. Back when the only wars he knew were between literary symbols and exam deadlines. Back when he was still writing in passive voice because his English teacher said it sounded more “elevated.” Back when the worst thing he could lose was a percentage point.

Maybe those muscles had really rusted out. Or maybe they’d just been re-purposed.

Seven years.

He flexed his fingers once before leaning forward as the scroll shimmered into its next phase.

SECTION TWO: SPELLFORM THEORY

Lucavion arched an eyebrow.

Now this should be fun.

He wasn’t a mage. Never had been.

He didn’t know spellforms. He fought against them though…

But then—

The scroll glowed faintly, lines of text forming with the smug pace of a professor who assumed you’d been studying your entire life for this moment.

Lucavion read it once. Then again, slower.

Question:

You are given a Class-1 containment array using a tri-symbol configuration. Each glyph plays a separate role: one anchors the containment field, one serves as the trigger interface, and one stabilizes rotational mana flow. Using the provided diagram, identify the stabilizing glyph and explain its role in maintaining spellform integrity during deployment under fluctuating mana pressure.

Lucavion’s eyes scanned the diagram—three runes set in a triangle, each labeled with some archaic squiggle that meant nothing to him. The lines connecting them pulsed faintly, almost like heat maps—one edge was thick and aggressive, another more evenly distributed, and the third curved in a way that almost looked like—

Wait.

He squinted.

’This is just a triangle.’

Seriously. A triangle.

The same kind of triangle he saw a million times in geometry class back when he still had a TI-84 calculator and thought cosine sounded like a pastry.

A triangle, with directional flow, tension curves, and one glyph acting like a pivot point. He traced it slowly with his eyes—one edge leading into a sharp curve, the other into a symmetrical bounceback, and the third into a dead-end compression loop.

He tapped the desk once.

’Okay… So let’s pretend these are points A, B, and C.’

He labeled them in his head.

Glyph A: strong initial push.

Glyph B: weird curve, almost like it’s absorbing stress.

Glyph C: just a release valve—it didn’t do anything except let pressure out.

And suddenly, it clicked.

The same way a perpendicular bisector balances a triangle.

Or how, if you wanted to keep a structure stable under three directional loads, the only point that mattered was the one carrying tension in both directions without snapping.

He grinned—just barely—as the math came back to him.

This wasn’t magic.

This was physics with fancier names.

Response:

Glyph B is the stabilizer.

In a triangle, the stabilizing angle sits opposite the strongest side—absorbing force from both adjacent lines. Glyph B functions the same: it’s the balancing point. Glyph A initiates mana pressure, Glyph C diffuses it. But without B regulating both directions, the force fractures.

————

He set the quill down for a moment.

Damn, I can’t believe that actually worked.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he could practically hear his geometry teacher from Earth saying “You’ll use this someday, I promise.”

He’d called bullshit at the time.

Guess she won that round.