Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 697: Headmaster (2)

“And yet…This year marks the first step toward change.”

That sentence rippled like prophecy.

His hand extended slightly, as if to draw a new line in the world’s design.

“You stand here not because of names. Not because of sponsors. Not because of blood.”

His gaze lingered, briefly, on Lucavion.

“You stand here because you fought for it.”

“You bled for it.”

He turned to the other top ranks—Caeden, Elayne, Mireilla, Toven.

“And some of you,” he added, “took what even nobility could not keep.”

He straightened, and the eleven conceptual spells around him flared once.

“This year will be different. You may not change the world from within. But you will challenge what the world believes is unchangeable.“

He lowered his hand.

“And that,” he said finally, “is the truest kind of magic.”

The Headmaster’s voice lingered in the air, like old magic refusing to fade.

And then it softened—not with weakness, but with weight.

“This,” he said quietly, “is not the first time I have stood at the end of an exam.”

His gaze lowered—not in shame, but reflection.

“I have seen centuries of prodigies pass through these trials. I have watched kings rise from nothing, and nobles fall with everything. I have measured talent. Cultivated genius. Disciplined chaos.”

He turned slightly, hands still clasped behind his back, as the eleven conceptual spells slowed their orbit further—less arcane now, more like memories.

“But the truth?” he said, eyes distant.

“I regret much.”

Silence returned—but this time, reverent.

“The first of those regrets…” His voice cracked, only slightly. “Is that I could not open the gates wider. That I could not tear down the walls that our forebears built with pride and fear.”

He looked around—not just at the top five, but at the other candidates. The battered, the brave, the nearly forgotten. Those who still stood. Those who still breathed.

“I have spent my years studying the weave of the world, binding the tides of aether, and crafting laws where none once stood.”

He paused.

“And still, I could not make the gates yield.”

A long breath.

“I wish… there were more than five. I wish this list stretched into hundreds. That any soul with the will to learn, to understand, to grow—could walk through those doors and call this place home.”

The arena held its breath.

“But I…” he said, almost quietly, “am just an old man. And my time, like my reach, is limited.”

He turned once more—fully now—his eyes locking onto Lucavion first.

Then Caeden.

Then Elayne.

Then Mireilla.

Then Toven.

“One day,” he said, voice regaining strength, “I will fade. And when I do, it will not be my name carved into the gates of change.”

He stepped forward, robes brushing the cracked stone beneath him.

“It will be yours.”

A pause.

Long enough to be a vow.

“That is why the burden falls to you five. The responsibility—not only to excel, but to inspire.“

His voice deepened now, not with power, but purpose.

“To be the example of virtue. Of resilience. Of truth. To stand not as symbols of power, but as the proof that bloodlines do not dictate greatness. That legacy can be earned.“

The Headmaster stood still for a breath longer, letting the silence weigh as heavily as the truths he’d just cast into the open.

Then—

He exhaled, softly.

“…Enough,” he said, the edges of his mouth curling into something close to a smile. “Enough of the ramblings of an old man.”

A faint murmur of restrained laughter passed through the mages overhead—relief, perhaps, or simply reverence disguised as familiarity.

He turned back to the gathered candidates, his voice lighter now, yet still steady with the force of authority earned rather than demanded.

“You have fought. Day and night. Steel and spell. You have carved your names into the stone of this trial.”

He glanced at the distant ridges of the arena—where battles had broken the earth, where illusions had bled truth, where will had turned the impossible into precedent.

“You have every right now…” his tone softened further, “to rest.”

The five before him—Lucavion, Caeden, Elayne, Mireilla, and Toven—remained silent, their expressions unreadable in the light of victory, of exhaustion, of the unspoken understanding that rest was never just rest. It was pause before storm.

“The Academy has yet to open its doors,” the Headmaster continued. “The Festival of the First Flame still burns. Celebrations, rituals, and ridiculous amounts of parading nobles fill the streets.”

His smile widened by a hair’s breadth.

“And I imagine,” he added, “by now every soul in the capital knows your names.”

A few of the younger candidates chuckled nervously.

Toven scoffed.

Mireilla blinked once and then seemed to retreat further into her composure.

Caeden only inclined his head.

And Lucavion… simply watched the Headmaster, as if he had already expected everything.

And then, the Headmaster traced a circle in the air, with a gentle gesture of his hand.

The glyph responded.

A gate shimmered into being behind him—towering, pale gold, rimmed with the same ancient spell-marks that once lit the sky above the arena. It wasn’t just a doorway.

It was a transition.

“Go now,” the Headmaster said, turning away from them at last, “and prepare yourselves. This was not the end.”

He stepped through the gate, his robes vanishing like smoke drawn into dawn.

And with his departure, the authority shifted.

Keleran stepped forward next, flanked by two mage-assistants in slate-gray formalwear. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between duty-bound and vaguely amused.

He clasped his hands behind his back and gave a crisp nod.

“You will be escorted to your accommodations within the inner ward of the capital,” he said, voice clipped and precise. “There, you will remain until the commencement of the Imperial Entrance Banquet.”

He waited a beat, making sure the words settled.

Keleran’s gaze swept once more across the candidates—no longer mere participants, but the ones who had stood when others had fallen.

The storm-tested.

The chosen.

He gave a small incline of his head.

“Further information,” he said, “including Academy structure, faction orientation, sponsor invitations, and resource allocations, will be provided over the coming days.”

His voice was smooth, polished, as if he’d spoken the same lines a hundred times—and yet, this time, something in his tone felt different. Just slightly less rigid. Slightly more… acknowledging.

“I will not take more of your time now.”

A pause.

“You’ve earned what little of it you have.”

He gestured once toward the golden gate, now glowing more brightly—its frame humming with runic resonance, the veil between arena and empire thinned to nothing but intent.

“Rest while you can,” he added, tone softer, almost unreadable. “It won’t be long before you’re asked to prove yourselves again.”

Then, with a sharp turn, he stepped forward, his slate-gray cloak brushing the stone behind him.

“Come.”

One by one, the five moved.

Mireilla with quiet, calm resolve.

Toven with a crackle of defiant ease.

Elayne like a blade hidden in silk.

Caeden like a knight already bracing for the weight of expectation.

And Lucavion—

Lucavion walked as if the gate had been built for him.

No ceremony. No hesitation.

Only the inevitability of movement.

The five stepped through.

And the gate closed behind them.

The trial was over.

But the game had only just begun.

———-A/N————-

Sorry for the late post. My grandmother had an attack, we needed to take her to hospital.

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