Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 775: Headmaster Verius (3)

Verius Itharion let the silence breathe.

Then, as if picking up a thread woven before any of them were born, he continued—his voice quieter now, but no less certain.

“This year,” he said, “the Academy changes.”

The air stilled again. Not in awe, this time. In attention.

“You will find new faces among your peers—new voices among your halls. Commoners, yes. Born without crest or title. Admitted not by blood, but by trial. And they passed.”

There were no gasps. No murmurs. Only the quiet weight of truth laid bare.

“This decision is not a concession,” Itharion said calmly. “It is an evolution. A return to form, not a departure. For when Lysandra the First Flame forged this place, she did not ask for noble lineage. She demanded excellence.”

He stepped forward, just once. His robes whispered with the movement.

“And more than that…”

He turned slightly now, facing the long stretch of students seated near the center of the chamber. His gaze found the group from the Lorian Empire—nobles in gold-threaded uniforms, their posture carefully trained, their eyes locked in place. And yet… there was tension. The kind bred by legacy, by rivalry.

“…we welcome this year a delegation from the Lorian Empire.”

The words settled with ceremonial grace, but they echoed louder than bells.

“An envoy of scholars, warriors, and heirs,” Itharion continued. “Sent not as guests—but as students.”

The weight behind the clarification did not go unnoticed.

“They stand here under the terms of the Treaty of Valerius Plains. A peace forged not in sentiment, but necessity. We respect that peace. We honor its ink.”

His eyes scanned across the Lorian seats once more.

“But let no one mistake this for sanctuary.”

A beat.

“Within these halls, we are not Lorian. Nor Arcanis. Nor Northhold nor Suraen nor Kervaille. We are students. No barons. No dukes. No royals.”

And then, smoothly, subtly—he turned.

Lucien.

Even seated, even silent, the Crown Prince seemed to radiate stillness like a law written in stone. But Itharion’s gaze didn’t falter.

“Even princes,” he said, “learn here.”

Lucien inclined his head a fraction—neither challenge nor submission. Just acknowledgment.

And Itharion moved again.

To the far side of the hall now. To the edge of ceremony.

Where five students sat apart from crowns and banners and histories older than any of them.

Lucavion’s table.

The headmaster’s gaze landed there—and held.

“And of course,” Itharion said, “we welcome the special students.”

His tone was even.

But not dismissive.

“This year, we have admitted five candidates through an experimental stream—evaluated outside noble lineage, unbound by Academy tradition.”

Verius Itharion let the weight of his last words settle.

Then, without shift in tone, he resumed—threading seamlessly from decree to recognition.

“Those who paid attention…” he said, and for the first time, his voice curved with the faintest note of dry gravity. “—will have watched the entire process of this year’s entrance trial.”

A murmur of acknowledgment rippled beneath the stillness. Not challenge. Not doubt. Just memory—of a trial so merciless, so impossible in scope, it had left even veteran scholars silent. The Pseudo-Ten. The arena of fracture and fold.

“And if you watched,” Itharion continued, “then you saw them.”

He gestured lightly—not to the nobility. Not to the crown.

But to the five.

“You saw their decisions. You saw their instincts. You saw the cost of their success.”

His eyes, silver and ageless, passed over them. Not with affection. Not even with pride.

But with the same grave reverence he had afforded Lysandra’s memory.

“Lucavion. Kaeden. Elayne. Toven. Mireilla.”

He spoke their names with deliberate care. Like oaths. Like promises.

“You were not admitted because of heritage. You were not chosen for luck. You are here because you dared to challenge what you were… and won.”

Then—he inclined his head. Barely. A gesture not often given by the Headmaster of the Arcanis Academy.

“Congratulations,” he said quietly, “for surviving yourselves.”

Silence followed. A different kind. A silence not just of awe, but recognition. Of five names etched now into the story of the year—and perhaps more.

Then, Itharion’s voice deepened, the echo returning, not louder, but broader—more expansive. As though the hall itself had leaned forward to listen.

“I will not lie to you.”

His gaze swept the room.

“This world will not improve on its own. Magic will not wait for consensus. Power, left untamed, will always seek a throne—or a grave.”

His eyes returned to the five.

“But it is my wish—my charge—that each of you, no matter the path you follow, contribute to more than strength.”

A breath. A pause.

“Contribute to wellness. To the betterment of the world. To the vision left behind by the First Flame—a vision not of conquest, but of elevation.”

His next words struck not with power—but with hope honed to steel.

“Create something better.”

Then he turned to the chamber.

“All of you.”

Verius Itharion let the silence echo, not as an ending—but as a conclusion.

Then, without drama or spectacle, he lifted his hand.

And clapped.

Once.

The sound rang crisp and clean through the air—and the world shifted.

Not violently. Not with flash or blaze.

But with elegance.

The hall did not simply change—it transformed. The ambient mana bent, folded, and rethreaded itself like silk guided by an unseen loom. The vaulted ceiling melted into an illusion of twilight skies, constellations blooming in real time overhead, their light shimmering in hues that no natural star could claim. The floor restructured beneath their feet, elongating and reforming into tiers of soft gleaming marble and gold-veined obsidian.

Tables unfurled from the space between breaths—long, ornate, set with crystalline dishes, enchanted cutlery, and plates that shimmered with the memory of flame. Aromas began to rise—spiced venison, goldenroot stew, chilled orchis fruits and emberbread still steaming from conjured ovens.

Gasps filled the room—not from fear, but wonder. Even the nobles, so used to excess and spectacle, sat straighter.

It wasn’t just the spell.

It was the precision.

The beauty of absolute control.

And Itharion, still standing at the dais, simply let it settle. Like a painter stepping back from his finished canvas.

Then he spoke, voice smooth, timeless.

Then he spoke, voice smooth, timeless.

“The banquet,” Verius Itharion said, “has begun.”

The words were gentle, but final—like the closing of a gate that opened only once in a generation. Students began to shift, murmuring anew, the tension of ceremony now easing into the hum of anticipation. Yet before the room could break fully into celebration—

Itharion raised one hand again.

Not to conjure. Not to alter.

But to invite.

“And now,” he continued, “as is tradition of our generous Empire… we offer the floor to our honored guests.”

His gaze turned once more to the gilded row at the hall’s center. To the delegation of the Lorian Empire, whose uniforms gleamed like embossed sigils under the mana-lit constellations. Some shifted in their seats. Others stilled entirely.

“We welcome the voice of the Lorian Empire,” Itharion said. “Let their thoughts be shared in peace, and their presence be acknowledged as fellow scholars of this age.”

A long pause.

Then a single figure rose.

He moved with calm, measured elegance—the kind that came not from pride, but inheritance. Every motion rehearsed. Every step etched in the marrow of his upbringing.

Prince Adrian of Loria.

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