Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 998: Responsibility

As Lucavion got out, whispers started.

Not loud. Not yet. Just quiet threads between students glancing his way.

“Was he in the same exam…?”

“That cut looks real.”

“I thought those zones didn’t leave marks—”

“How hard did he go?”

Lucavion ignored them.

He stood still, letting the exam field’s residual mana drain off his skin, letting his breathing settle. His estoc was already sheathed, its faint glimmer barely visible.

Saphielle walked past him first, adjusting her cuffs, her expression the picture of composure. No dirt, no blood, not even a bruise.

Then Dain—grinning faintly, tossing a light joke over his shoulder to another student as if nothing at all had gone sideways.

Kaireth followed last, eyes forward, jaw tight. He didn’t look at Lucavion as he passed, but there was a flicker of something in his expression. Not quite guilt. Not quite respect.

Recognition, maybe.

Lucavion shifted his weight slightly, one hand sliding into his pocket as the other reached up to brush a smear of soot from his collar. The blood on his ribs had dried into the fabric now—deep red against black. He didn’t seem bothered.

The whispering hadn’t stopped. If anything, it was growing—rippling from the students nearest the exit toward the rest of the room like someone had dropped a stone in still water.

Lucavion’s eyes slid across the gathered instructors, their dark robes lined in silver thread.

Then he saw him—the same instructor from earlier.

Still wearing that same unreadable mask.

Lucavion raised his hand and waved lazily.

A half-mocking gesture. Not rude. Not flippant.

Just amused.

“I hope you recorded my perfect score,” he said, voice calm, not loud—but loud enough. The words echoed across the chamber like a quiet bell.

The instructor’s eyes narrowed—just a little.

But he could not say anything…

Because a moment later, one of the secondary projections shimmered to life beside the primary logs. It projected combat metrics—contact logs.

How did the Academy track injuries in a world of illusions?

Simple.

Every time a monster’s projected limb, weapon, or magic made contact with a student—whether it was a glancing blow or a direct strike—it registered on the system. It left a “signature,” a residual mana trace. The simulation’s enchantments logged every contact and categorized them by severity.

Lucavion’s panel?

Zero.

Zero contact. Zero registered hits from the monsters. Every move they made had been dodged, countered, blocked, or dispatched before it could even touch him. The cuts on his coat? The scorched sleeve? The blood on his ribs?

None of it came from the monsters.

And that was the catch.

The Combat Awareness Trial was meant to test a student’s ability to survive and perform against illusion-generated threats—not how well they survived sabotage from their own team. The simulation didn’t account for spells aimed off-mark by allies. Didn’t flag “accidental” obstructions or stray explosions as failures—because in a real battlefield, friendly fire wasn’t supposed to happen at all.

So by the system’s own logic—by the academy’s own parameters—Lucavion had passed the test flawlessly.

And every bruise, burn, and scratch on him?

Just made that clearer.

Kaireth, still only a few paces ahead, paused.

He didn’t turn—but Lucavion could feel the tension tighten in his shoulders.

Saphielle’s hand twitched at her side.

Dain looked like he wanted to laugh again, but this time it didn’t quite come out.

Lucavion’s smirk didn’t fade.

He let his hand drop back to his side and tilted his head slightly, eyes locked on the instructor who had, not long ago, reminded him it was his responsibility to “protect himself from mistakes.”

“Funny thing about mistakes,” he said, his voice quieter now, just for the instructor. “They usually don’t show up on the record.”

He stepped past the other students without another glance, boots tapping softly against the polished stone.

Whatever favor the Crown Prince’s faction had tried to secure?

It wasn’t going to be that easy.

*****

On the other side, Selenne stepped through the shimmering threshold of Zone E, the illusionary ward behind her sealing with a soundless pulse.

The echo of spells still lingered behind her, dissipating like steam rising off steel.

Her robes caught faint motes of starlight as she emerged, clean and composed. Her batch—five students, handpicked—had exceeded expectations.

Crisp formation. Adaptable flow. Minimal injuries.

It was rare she felt something close to satisfaction after an evaluation, but this time, she allowed the faintest nod to herself as she reviewed their projected metrics. Good spell weaving. Clear threat triage. And none of them needed intervention.

A better performance than she’d anticipated, even.

She let out a slow breath.

Then, something tugged at her attention.

Not a student’s call. Not an instructor’s gesture.

Something… in the air.

Her eyes scanned across the evaluation chamber—the wide marble-floored space where instructors, examiners, and waiting students intermingled in the aftermath of their trials.

And then she saw him.

Lucavion.

Standing near the exit arch of Zone B, just beyond the flow of foot traffic. One hand in his pocket. The other hanging loose at his side. Head tilted, eyes level, watching an instructor with that same infuriating calm.

But what caught her wasn’t the posture.

It was the state of him.

Soot streaked his collar. One sleeve was half-singed. Blood—visible, dried, and unmistakably his—stained the side of his ribs beneath the open flap of his coat.

Her expression sharpened.

No other students looked like that.

Not one.

She scanned his team automatically. Dain. Saphielle. Kaireth. She did not know their names but that was not that important.

All three had exited before him, clean as glass. Not a burn. Not a limp. Saphielle’s braid hadn’t even come undone.

And yet Lucavion—

Her brow furrowed.

There is not supposed to be injuries like this on the students.

Then—those wounds. That blood.

They weren’t from the monsters.

Her fingers twitched, just slightly.

She moved closer, gaze narrowing on the data feeds. She was reading the same conclusion he had—without him needing to say another word.

Friendly fire.

Accidental—or not.

And the way he stood there, watching the instructor with that wry, edged smirk…

It wasn’t arrogance.

It was a quiet dare.

Selenne didn’t waste time with decorum.

Her gaze traced the blood on his coat one last time, her lips drawing tight, then she moved—mana lacing around her like silk drawn through water. Silent. Effortless. Instant.

A shimmer of silver pulsed at her heels, and in a breath, she vanished from the gathering of instructors.

The very next second—she was beside him.

Lucavion jolted.

Not visibly, but his hand went to his sheath with sharp instinct, fingers brushing the estoc’s hilt as he half-turned.

“Wo, wo…” he said, voice edged with calm but wired with readiness, “some warning next time, Professor.”

His tone wasn’t hostile. Just prepared.

Like someone who’d learned the hard way that sudden arrivals often meant someone wanted you dead.

Selenne didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize.

Her voice was even. Cool.

“You’re bleeding.”

Lucavion raised an eyebrow. “I noticed.”

Her eyes swept over him again. No wounds in the log. No simulation strikes. And yet…

“You know friendly fire isn’t logged,” she said flatly.

“Of course,” Lucavion replied, still not turning away. “That’s why they use it.”

A pause.

Selenne’s fingers twitched slightly at her side.

So he wasn’t even going to pretend.

That made it easier.

She let her gaze linger on the exit of Zone B—the place he’d emerged from. Then back to his teammates, who were now drifting further into the crowd, trying their best not to look back.

“You didn’t retaliate,” she said, not as praise. Just fact.

Lucavion shrugged. “Retaliating would have given them the chance to abuse it, wouldn’t it?”

Hearing that Selenne’s mouth could only twitch.