Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

“Vendor?” she repeated, voice low, sharp. “Marquis Vendor?”

Idena nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.”

The weight of that name sent a ripple down Priscilla’s spine.

The weight of that name sent a ripple down Priscilla’s spine.

Of course it was him.

The reason for her unease was simple.

In recent months, a storm had begun to stir within the outer provinces—subtle at first, then undeniable. A rising force within the Empire’s nobility. A name that had once lingered at the periphery of power, distant and unconcerned with central politics, now surging forward with bold, calculated momentum.

Vendor.

The Marquis Family of Vendor had long been exempted from the Empire’s courtly entanglements, protected by its distance and isolation. Too far to be relevant. Too localized to be dangerous.

But that was no longer true.

They had changed.

And they had moved.

Aggressively.

In the past year alone, Vendor’s name had echoed across three provinces. Not with diplomacy. Not with trade.

But with action.

Their alignment with House Olarion had shifted the balance. What began as a formal cooperation—military aid in exchange for land and honor—had become something far larger. A crusade.

Together, the two families had begun systematically purging the remnants of the Cloud Heavens Sect.

And not in silence.

The accusations had started with whispers. Then, came the documents. The testimonies. The confessions. The Imperial Court had been reluctant to intervene—until the evidence became undeniable.

Child trafficking.

Human furnacing.

Cultivation through stolen lives.

The Cloud Heavens Sect had used their sacred arts as a front to harvest the potential of the young, turning bodies into vessels for power.

And Vendor had brought it all into the light.

Now, the once-proud Sect was in retreat. Their holdings seized. Their temples dismantled. Their members hunted like traitors across the provinces.

And behind it all—Vendor.

Vendor, whose political ascent was no longer theory but reality.

Vendor, whose alliance with the disgraced but martial House Olarion had birthed a blade the Empire could no longer ignore.

Priscilla’s gaze lingered on the projection, but her mind had already pulled far ahead of it. Her voice came soft, unreadable.

“He appeared there,” she murmured, “and then?”

Idena’s reply was calm, but it carried a tension—like flint being drawn across steel.

“He won.”

Priscilla blinked once. Slowly.

“Oh?”

She leaned back just slightly, the subtle shift of posture barely visible beneath the folds of her storm-gray mantle.

It made sense.

Of course it made sense.

After seeing the way Lucavion dismantled Reynald Vale without resorting to theatrics—after watching him weave swordplay into something closer to arithmetic than art—there was no doubt.

Only a handful in the Empire could match that level of technical brilliance.

Still, the confirmation settled in her chest like a falling coin.

Then—

Idena continued.

“And it was also him,” she said, voice quieter now, like dropping a blade into silence, “who first exposed the Cloud Heavens Sect.”

The words landed hard.

Priscilla’s hands, still resting in her lap, stilled even further. Her lips parted slightly—but no sound came out.

Lucavion…?

The same boy who stood unbothered at the edge of the forest relic.

The same boy who smirked at nobles and turned down power like it was spoiled wine.

He had brought down a Sect?

Not just defeated.

Exposed.

The implications rushed in all at once.

“Wait,” Priscilla said, her tone sharper now. “He… was the one who uncovered it? The first one?”

“Yes,” Idena affirmed. “Before the court acknowledged it. Before the temples were seized.”

A beat.

Idena’s voice didn’t waver, but the weight of her words sank deeper than before.

“In the semifinals,” she said, “Lucavion faced Lira Vaelan. Senior disciple of the Cloud Heavens Sect.”

Priscilla’s head turned sharply.

Lira Vaelan.

She knew that name.

The one they once whispered would be the Sect’s next leader. Elegant, precise, revered. A prodigy among a generation of predators.

“She was undefeated,” Idena added, “until him. And it was during that fight… that he revealed the proof. Evidence. Names. Sealed scrolls from inside the Sect’s sacred archives.”

Priscilla didn’t respond immediately.

Her gaze had drifted, no longer watching the projection above—now, it was inward. Focused. The weight behind her eyes wasn’t disbelief. It was recognition.

Because this had happened before.

And she hadn’t seen it—then.

Not clearly.

But now?

Now she did.

Lucavion, standing before Lira Vaelan, presenting the truth not as a sword but as a scalpel. Laying bare what the Sect had hidden under gilded reverence. And doing it not in court. Not in the comfort of noble halls.

In the ring.

In public.

Before an audience trained to look, but not always see.

And then…

Reynald Vale.

His downfall had followed a similar shape, hadn’t it?

Lucavion didn’t just defeat him.

He dismantled him.

With words sharpened like blades, with power too carefully measured to be born of chaos. With a rhythm that wasn’t improvised, but orchestrated.

Another “golden” figure.

Another illusion made palatable for the people.

Stripped bare.

This time… without even needing to say the whole truth aloud.

‘Is that what you’re doing?’ Priscilla thought, eyes narrowing.

A repeat. A reflection.

Not just a fight.

A message.

But this time, the audience wasn’t just the crowd. This time, only those who’d seen what he did before—only those paying attention—would recognize the pattern.

The question turned into certainty.

‘He did it intentionally.’

He wanted Reynald to snap.

He wanted the mask to fall.

Just like before.

He had chosen the when, the where, and the how.

And now—she couldn’t help but ask it.

Her breath slowed.

Her thoughts honed to a single edge.

‘Is he… is he really confronting brother? Is this really what he wants to do?’

The moment she asked it, the pieces fell into place.

The terrace.

The speech.

The choice of law.

The deliberate escalation.

And now, dismantling a figure whose roots—however subtly buried—reeked of Lucien’s hand.

Reynald Vale.

Chosen. Shaped. Then, exposed.

It made sense.

Too much sense.

Priscilla’s voice came low, almost inaudible.

“But why?”

If Lucavion truly was aiming at the Crown Prince…

Why?

Why would a boy with no name and no title reach so far?

What did he stand to gain?

And more than that—

What did he stand to lose?

She stared at the projection, but it wasn’t Reynald she was looking at anymore.

It was him.

Lucavion.

And for the first time… she didn’t just see a rogue.

She saw a blade being drawn from its sheath.

Carefully.

Quietly.

And aimed.

****

The crystal screen flickered to life across the city square, its surface a shimmer of light and illusion weaving together into a live broadcast.

Cheers erupted from the crowd gathered below, cloaks rustling, mana-sabers glowing faintly in their scabbards.

But one girl stood apart from them.

She leaned against a wrought-iron railing several levels up/

Her hair was pale—too pale to be natural, though the roots betrayed nothing—and her gloved fingers curled slightly around a paper cup of half-finished tea, long gone cold.

Her eyes, however, were not on the cup.

They were fixed on the screen.

There.

Just there.

A flicker.

Not the duel itself—not the burst of frost that cascaded outward, but the boy who deflected it with elegant footwork and arrogant grace.

No, she didn’t care about the fight.

Her eyes locked onto him.

The boy on the screen—no, the young man now—moved with a grace too practiced to be called youthful. His blade sang through the air, clean and sharp, not for show, but with the efficiency of someone who had killed before. Who would kill again. His coat fluttered behind him, scorched at the hem, but his stance remained unshaken, centered in that chaos like a silent verdict.

The camera’s enchantment caught a close shot.

His face.

Those eyes.

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