Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 905: Legendary bettor

Marisse’s expression shifted the moment the name left his lips.

A faint tightening at the corners of her mouth.

The briefest flicker in her gaze—recognition, and perhaps something else.

Then came the smile.

It was measured, deliberate… and entirely at odds with her eyes, which remained as cold and appraising as glass.

“Oh…” she said softly, as though tasting the sound of his name. “Lucavion.”

She let it linger, drawing it out just enough to suggest familiarity.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Her tone gained a delicate lilt, the kind that pretended at politeness but dripped with judgment. “I had heard… that among this year’s special students there was a certain ruffian. One whose manners were… lacking.”

She gave a faint shrug, the motion practiced, dismissive. “Considering that, I really shouldn’t have been surprised.”

Lucavion’s smirk curved a little higher—not a flinch, not a frown, but the expression of someone presented with an easy opening and delighted to take it.

“Manners,” he said lightly, “are often just a circus act for those who deem themselves higher beings.”

His gaze swept lazily over her from head to toe, not with lewdness, but with the air of someone weighing an antique and finding it tarnished.

“I prefer to keep my freedom.”

A faint ripple of suppressed laughter moved through the students who had been following the exchange.

Marisse’s smile thinned. “Freedom, is it? How… convenient an excuse for a lack of discipline.”

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, as though considering the statement, before answering with a deliberate drawl. “Convenient, perhaps. But I find that those who shout about discipline the loudest are often the ones who can’t function without a title to hide behind.”

He gave her a small, mock-thoughtful nod. “Must be exhausting, really—keeping the mask in place all day.”

That one landed. The faint stiffness in Marisse’s shoulders betrayed it.

Her eyes sharpened, the smile pulling just a fraction too tight. “Careful, boy. You tread close to—”

“To what?” Lucavion interrupted, his tone still smooth, still unconcerned. “To the place where polite fiction gives way to truth? Or to the point where you realize the audience isn’t clapping anymore?”

For a beat, there was only the quiet stir of the students, the air thick with the subtle shift in momentum.

Marisse’s composure wavered—just slightly, but enough for those watching to see the edge of her patience.

Lucavion simply stood there, relaxed, the faint smirk still in place, as if he’d never intended to win the exchange outright—only to make her lose it on her own.

Marisse drew in a slow, steady breath, the faint tension in her shoulders smoothing as she exhaled.

When she looked at him again, the smile had returned—not warm, not even polite, but the kind worn by someone who wanted others to believe they were entirely in control.

“Well…” she murmured, her voice dipped in a honey that didn’t disguise the steel beneath. “You’ll find that things like these… little scenes, little acts of rebellion… are not often overlooked by the Academy.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat too long, deliberate in its weight.

“One way or another, they have a way of… biting back.”

Lucavion tilted his head as if trying to better hear her through background noise, then gave a small shrug, almost casual to the point of insult.

“I just laughed,” he said, his tone light, conversational. “And expressed my emotions… my thoughts. If that’s what earns me something to ’bite back,’ then I can’t even begin to imagine what’s coming for the ones who do much worse.”

The corner of his mouth curved—not in defiance, but in an almost lazy amusement.

“At the very least,” he added, his voice carrying just enough for the surrounding students to hear, “I prefer to talk to people while they’re standing in front of me… not from behind their backs.”

The implication hung between them like a drawn line in the sand.

A few students glanced at Marisse, clearly catching the barb, while others kept their eyes fixed on Lucavion as if waiting for the next spark.

Marisse’s smile remained, but the light behind it had dimmed to something colder, sharper.

Lucavion, however, looked entirely at ease—shoulders relaxed, hands at his sides, as if the whole exchange had been nothing more than an idle chat on a sunny afternoon.

“My, my… how very rude you are,” she said, her voice still even but edged with dismissal. “There is a reason manners exist, Lucavion. They are what keep a society functioning, what allow people to coexist without descending into chaos.”

Her gaze held steady on his.

“If you wish to ignore that, that is your choice.”

Lucavion started to reply, but she didn’t give him the space.

“Of course,” she continued smoothly, “such disregard is hardly surprising, given your… background. A common upbringing. Little in the way of true education.”

Her words fell like precise cuts—small, but made to sting. “With a mind like this, I doubt you’ll be able to hold onto your place here for long.”

A ripple passed through the crowd, quiet but unmistakable.

Marisse’s eyes drifted to the five students without noble crests—Lucavion among them—before she let out a soft, mock-thoughtful hum.

“In fact… I imagine it was much the same for all of you, wasn’t it? You and the other commoner students did not take seats from the nobles. You were granted your places because the Academy has… certain quotas. Dedicated seats. Reserved for those without a name, so the balance looks fair on paper.”

She let that implication hang, the undercurrent unmistakable—you are here because of charity, not merit.

Lucavion didn’t answer right away.

But there was a flicker—a glint in the darkness of his eyes, quick as the spark of a blade catching light.

Then his mouth curved into a slow, deliberate smirk.

Marisse didn’t let the moment cool.

Her eyes stayed locked on him, her voice as smooth as lacquer over steel.

“This little… quota system,” she said, letting the phrase curl with distaste, “has only just been implemented this year. And I, for one, was against it from the very start.”

She let her gaze sweep over the small cluster of commoner students again, as if inspecting merchandise.

“Seats earned by tradition, lineage, and years of proven excellence… suddenly handed away because the Council wishes to play at fairness? A sentimental gesture—wasteful, really.”

Her attention slid back to Lucavion, and the smile returned, this time edged with something openly mocking. “So forgive me if I am not impressed when one of these… new beneficiaries takes it upon himself to lecture me about masks and manners.”

The crowd’s murmur deepened, sensing the deliberate escalation.

Lucavion’s smirk didn’t falter. If anything, the faint gleam in his eyes sharpened—like a hunter spotting the faintest sign of prey in the brush.

He let the silence hang for a beat longer than necessary, then spoke with an ease that felt almost lazy.

“So…” he said slowly, “if you were against it, I imagine you must be dying to prove the whole thing was a mistake.”

Marisse’s lips curved in that same polished, unyielding smile, but her tone lost any pretense of softness.

“Indeed,” she said, “I have been against it from the very start. There is a reason—long-standing and well-founded—that the Academy has traditionally chosen only those with better blood. Generations of cultivation. Houses that have proven themselves in both scholarship and service. That is how standards are upheld.”

The words landed like stones tossed into still water.

Around Lucavion, the other commoner students—Caeden, Mireilla, Elayne, and Toren—shifted, each wearing some shade of distaste. Caeden’s jaw tightened, Mireilla’s brow furrowed, Elayne’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Toren’s hands flexed at his sides.

Lucavion glanced at them briefly, noting the silent reaction, before turning his gaze back to Marisse.

The faintest smile spread across his face—not warm, not forced, but sharp and deliberate.

“I see.”

He let the words sit, and as he spoke again, his eyes locked on hers with an ease that felt almost predatory.

“Then,” he said slowly, “let us make a bet.”

He spoke the words.