Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 876: Dorms….

“I’ll add it to the list. Right after stopping being insufferable.”

[Emotionally honest, my tail,] Vitaliara muttered.

Lucavion stretched one leg lazily over the couch arm and let out a half-yawn. “You say that like you want a heartfelt confession. Do you want me to cry on the rune-lit floor and whisper about my feelings?”

[Only if you want me to evaporate out of sheer secondhand embarrassment.]

He snorted again, drumming his fingers against the armrest. “Good. Because the only thing I feel right now is mildly itchy.”

[Then take the suit off, genius.]

“I was going to,” he said, finally pushing himself upright with a grunt. “Eventually.”

[Eventually implies you were going to sleep in it.]

Lucavion didn’t dignify that with an answer. He stood, stretching his arms above his head, the fabric pulling tight across his shoulders before he started unfastening the high collar of the banquet jacket.

The silken weave rustled faintly as he peeled it away. Even rune-cooled as it was, it still clung to him like humidity with opinions.

He grimaced. “Tch. No wonder nobles are always angry. These things feel like they’re stitched from strangulation and guilt.”

[It’s tradition. Presentation. Identity.]

“It’s a straightjacket with embroidery,” he muttered, slipping the jacket off entirely and tossing it onto the couch without ceremony. Next came the over-layer, the brocade vest, followed by the silver-threaded undershirt.

And then, of course—

“You know,” he said, undoing the cuffs with casual fingers, “for someone who lectures me about propriety, you certainly stick around when clothes start coming off.”

[Wha—?] Vitaliara’s voice flared in his mind, startled. [I am not peeping!]

Lucavion grinned, low and wicked. “Ah, the indignant squeak of a guilty conscience. Classic peeping cat behavior.”

[Peep—?! I’m not a—!]

He chuckled as he stepped out of the last layer and stood there in only his trousers, rubbing the back of his neck where a seam had been digging into his skin. “You know, if you were really scandalized, you’d vanish from my mind entirely.”

[I should!] she huffed. [But someone has to make sure you don’t choke yourself with a shirt.]

“Oh, so you admit you’re watching.”

[Lucavion.]

“Peeping cat,” he sing-songed, grinning.

[Lucavion!]

He turned toward where he imagined her, his smirk still in place. “You’re lucky you’re not corporeal right now. I’d be ruffling that puffball coat of yours until your dignity disintegrated.”

[I dare you.]

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Too late. The mental image is locked in.”

And then—

pop.

She appeared.

White fur, golden eyes, that signature elegant tail curling high with righteous fury. All projected from his mind like she was daring reality to object.

Lucavion raised a brow. “You know,” he said with a slow smirk, “that little pout on your face just makes it worse.”

She blinked.

He lunged forward.

[No—Lucavion—don’t you—!]

He reached down and ruffled her fur with both hands, dragging them back over her head and spine like a man possessed.

She screeched.

[You absolute—!]

He laughed, unrepentant, as her tail fluffed like a bottle brush. “Pfft—gods, you feel like marshmallow lightning.”

[Lucavion, I swear—!]

He didn’t get to finish the thought.

CHOMP.

“OW—!”

She bit down on his hand, not deep enough to break skin, but hard enough to make him recoil with a curse and a laugh. “Hells, you vicious little pillow!”

[Vicious? You assaulted me!]

“Hehehe…” Lucavion raised his bitten hand like it was a trophy of war, grinning despite the faint red marks on his skin. “Caught.”

[Vile.] Vitaliara’s tone seethed with affront, but the twitch in her whiskers betrayed her. [Absolutely irredeemable.]

“I do try,” he replied smoothly, turning away and stretching with the slow satisfaction of a man who had thoroughly earned his petty victory.

One by one, the rest of the formal layers were discarded. Belt, gloves, the ridiculous embroidered sash. Each hit the floor with a soft rustle or thunk as he made his way across the room.

“Honestly,” he muttered, loosening the last of the waist-fasteners, “this entire outfit feels like it was designed by someone who’s never had to move.”

[It was designed by someone who never intended you to move. Just stand still, smile, and sparkle.]

“Sparkle?” he echoed with mock horror.

[You did sparkle a little. There were starlight threads in the hem.]

“That’s slander.”

[That’s embroidery.]

He rolled his eyes but didn’t dignify it further. Barefoot now, and finally stripped down to nothing aside from a certain clothing to cover certain area, he crossed into the washroom. The rune-glass door shimmered as he passed through, the spell-inscribed fixtures coming alive with his presence—gentle warmth rising from the stone floor, mist curling faintly as the steam enchantment activated.

The basin glowed faintly, feeding hot water into the carved marble tub nestled into the corner. Polished obsidian walls reflected him back—sharp, lean, scarred. He glanced once, expression unreadable, then reached to twist open the rune-valve.

Water rushed in with a low hiss.

Behind him, Vitaliara perched herself neatly on the room’s outer sill, tail swaying with residual irritation and dignity.

“I’ll float,” he said, stepping in. “Smugness keeps me buoyant.”

[Of course it does.]

He slid into the water with a hiss of breath, the heat washing over him like a wave peeling tension off his shoulders. Muscles unknotting. Breath easing.

He then leaned back against the curve of the tub, the steam curling lazily around his shoulders as he let the tension bleed from his spine. The water had that subtle, silken clarity that only mana-infused reserves could hold—heated evenly, never scalding, never dull. Refined. Too refined.

’Of course it’s comfortable. This place probably has enchantments on the water molecules to ensure the steam curls aesthetically.’

His gaze drifted to the cluster of small, glowing glyphs on the inner rim of the tub—embedded into the marble like little runescript petals. One in particular pulsed faintly, a shifting light beneath its surface that didn’t match the others.

He frowned.

“Auto-infuse… Core Weave Mode?” he read aloud, tilting his head. “That sounds ominous.”

[That sounds like a bad idea,] Vitaliara offered immediately from her perch, nose twitching. [Anything with ’core’ and ’mode’ in the same phrase is never relaxing.]

Lucavion smirked faintly and, naturally, pressed the glyph.

There was a faint ping, followed by the soft hum of mana circuits activating.

The water began to glow—not brightly, but steadily. It pulsed with a muted golden-blue shimmer, the ripples tightening, condensing around his frame with peculiar precision.

’Interesting.’

For a moment, it was almost pleasant. The mana clung to his skin like warmth with intent, seeping into his muscles with a cool flicker of resonance, a thread of pressure knitting itself into every fiber of his body.

Then it turned.

It shifted.

His breath hitched as a sudden weight slammed down through his limbs—like someone had poured gravity directly into his blood. The mana that had once felt gentle now constricted with mechanical efficiency, pressing into his shoulders, arms, even his ribcage. His biceps tensed. His calves clenched. His back muscles spasmed slightly under the strain.

And he realized—

“…Ah. So this isn’t for relaxing.”

[What did I just say?] Vitaliara snapped, her golden eyes narrowing. [What did I just say?]

Lucavion grit his teeth as another pulse of mana surged through the bathwater, making every joint in his body feel like it was bearing a weighted vest of pressure magic. “Okay,” he hissed through his teeth, “someone in this empire needs to stop naming training functions like they’re spa upgrades.”

A rune nearby flickered to life:

|Core Weave: Musculature Optimization Sequence—Level 1.

“Oh good,” Lucavion muttered. “Level one.”