Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 1028: Starlight’s Suspicion

A woman moved along the vaulted corridors of the Magic Block, her stride neither hurried nor languid—simply certain.

TAP! TAP! TAP!

The tap of her boots echoed softly against the runed marble, each step balanced with deliberate precision. Light from the crystalline lanterns brushed across her cloak, catching faint glimmers along its twilight-dyed hem. Her posture was straight, poised, and almost too composed, like someone carved into stillness rather than taught it.

Her hair fell in a controlled cascade of shadowed violet, not quite loose but not bound either, moving only slightly when she turned a corner.

Sharp lines defined her profile—calm, unreadable, the kind of face the Academy whispered about in the same breath as reverence and unease. The air around her seemed… thinner, quieter. Not by force, but by presence.

Students exiting nearby lecture rooms hushed instinctively as she passed.

“Magister Selenne,” someone whispered, almost afraid to speak louder.

Another leaned toward his friend. “She looks scary for some reason—”

The rest of his words trailed off when she glanced their way—a single, cool sweep of her eyes. Not reprimanding. Not unkind. Simply uninterested.

She moved on without pause.

The doors of the Magic Block opened at her approach, parting in a wash of pale starlight from the embedded wards. Beyond them lay the main colonnade, a long stretch of stone corridors connecting toward the administrative wing.

She stepped outside, the shift in air—brisk, crisp, no longer tinged with spell residue—barely registering on her expression.

Only once she was past the last cluster of students did her thoughts settle into motion.

’An eighth exam.’

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a flicker so quick no one watching could have caught it.

Seven exams had always defined the first-year week. Seven—codified, debated, approved by committee, reviewed annually.

They were the bedrock of the Academy’s evaluation system. Any alterations required months of bureaucracy, documentation, formal announcements.

And yet this evening, pinned beneath mana-locks, there it was:

A compulsory oral interview.

Reinstated without warning.

Stamped with the Academy’s crest as though it had been there all along.

’No notice. No petition. No vote.’

Her cloak whispered against the marble as she descended a short flight of steps.

’And certainly no consultation. Interesting.’

That was the gentlest word she could give it.

The Oral Interview was not a harmless addition. It had been retired decades ago for good reason—too malleable, too easily influenced by instructors with personal agendas. A tool for politics masquerading as “assessment.”

So why bring it back now?

She continued down the colonnade, passing a row of enchanted windows casting pale-blue reflections onto her boots. A faint breeze brushed her hair as she stepped into the connecting hall that led to the Vice-Headmaster’s wing.

’Is this truly about academic rigor?’

A pause.

’Or about opportunity?’

The week had already been marked by… peculiarities.

Sabotaged equipment in the Weaponship Evaluation.

Friendly-fire “mistakes” conveniently unrecorded during combat trials.

All affecting the same student.

Her jaw tightened a fraction.

’Lucavion.’

She could still picture him emerging from the simulated trial—coat scorched, sleeve half-burned, dried blood against black fabric—while his teammates walked out clean as polished glass. She remembered the silence in his voice when he said, “That’s why they use it.” And the unspoken truth beneath it.

She had raised a formal complaint about the instability of his cultivation chamber. The Academy had sent back a neat rejection stamped in red.

So now, suddenly, an oral exam appears—one that tests theoretical knowledge, terminology, structured magical logic.

All of which happened to be the weakest points in Lucavion’s foundation.

Her strides slowed as she turned down the final hall.

’Too convenient.’

Another step.

’Too sudden.’

Another.

’Too targeted.’

The Vice-Headmaster’s door came into view, framed by old wardwork carved into the arch. Her reflection dimly appeared on its polished surface: steady, unreadable, eyes holding the faint shimmer of distant violet.

She stopped before it.

’If they think I won’t question this…’

Her hand rose, calm and precise, and she knocked once.

Inside, the wards stirred.

Selenne waited, posture straight, expression smooth, mind very, very sharp.

’Let’s see what excuse they’ve prepared.’

The wards finished their soft hum, settling into a quiet pulse—an invitation.

Before she could speak, a calm voice floated through the door.

“Come in, Selenne.”

Not Magister Selenne.

Not Archmage Selenne.

Just… Selenne.

Her eyes narrowed faintly—not in suspicion, but in recognition of the man behind the voice. Of course he would know it was her. The man had a talent for sensing trouble before it arrived, the kind that made him invaluable in a place where politics often walked on silk and struck with steel.

She pushed the door open.

The Vice-Headmaster’s office was a spacious chamber lit by warm gold lamps, not the cold blues favored by the rest of the Academy. Books stacked in careful towers lined the shelves. A few scrying mirrors dimmed themselves at her entrance, their surfaces retreating into shadows.

And there, at his desk, sat Kaleran.

He looked up with that familiar mild smile—brown eyes thoughtful, robes slightly disheveled, quill still in hand as though she’d interrupted him mid-sentence.

“Selenne,” he greeted, leaning back in his chair with genuine warmth. “I was wondering how long it would take you.”

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “You expected me.”

“Of course.” Kaleran gestured toward the chair opposite him. “When a new exam appears on the board without a whisper in the faculty logs, I can think of precisely one person who would come knocking within the hour.”

Her cloak settled around her as she sat. “You make me sound predictable.”

“Reliable people are predictable.” His smile tugged wryly.

She didn’t reply to that—though the faint shift of her gaze, softening by a degree, was acknowledgment enough. Kaleran was one of the very few people in the Academy she spoke to without needing to armor her every word.

The Vice-Headmaster folded his hands atop a stack of parchment. “Let me guess. You’re here regarding the addendum.”

“You reinstated an exam retired for malpractice four decades ago,” she said evenly. “Without notice. Without discussion. Without me.”

His expression didn’t flicker. “Yes.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Kaleran.”

A breath escaped him—the weary kind reserved for difficult truths and long corridors of paperwork.

“I won’t insult your intelligence,” he said. “You already know this wasn’t my idea.”

Her eyes lowered a fraction, thoughtful.

’Then whose?’

He tapped a finger against his desk, considering. “The Head Council pushed it through midday. Stamped, sealed, delivered to administration, and ordered implemented immediately.”

Her posture didn’t change, but the air in the room felt tighter. “Midday.”

“Mhm.”

“Suspicious timing.”

“That is also what I thought,” Kaleran said lightly, though his tone carried an edge few ever heard from him. “Especially considering the… recent incidents with certain students.”

Her gaze sharpened. “You noticed.”

“I oversee admission for the five commoner scholarships this year,” he reminded her. “I have a vested interest in their well-being. And one of them has already raised several flags.”

Lucavion’s name wasn’t spoken, but it didn’t need to be.

Kaleran leaned back, eyes narrowing faintly in thought. “When their schedules were clearly in line with a discrimination, as if to give them a message, I was unable to interfere with such a small matter.

Kaleran exhaled softly, rubbing at the side of his brow as though a headache had settled just behind it. “All five commoner admits were affected, Selenne. Every single one. Their schedules were… adjusted. Their exam environments, their evaluators—everything pressed just enough to be felt, but not enough to be condemned outright.”

Her eyes narrowed.

’Patterns. Always patterns.’

“Pressure from every angle,” Kaleran continued. “Small things. Tiny things. Nothing individually damning, but cumulative? It paints a very clear picture.”

“And now the Tower is involved,” she said quietly.

He gave her a grim little nod. “Yes. The Magic Tower made its position known this afternoon—quite loudly, I might add. They want the Oral Interview reinstated immediately. Claimed it was essential for ’identifying theoretical deficiencies before they spread.’” His voice dipped into a parody of the Tower’s pompous tone for a split second before he sighed. “Transparent as glass.”

Selenne leaned back slightly, her expression unreadable. The Tower rarely involved itself in first-year evaluations.

’So someone whispered in their ear.’

Kaleran lifted a hand. “To be frank, the exam itself is not a massive issue. No one is going to be expelled over a single oral interview. And especially not that student.”

Her gaze sharpened by a hair. “Especially?”

He nodded again. “Yes. He has been performing exceptionally well in his exams.”