Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 778: Socialise ? (2)

Next was Mireilla. She didn’t rise, but her voice held the steadiness of someone who knew the worth of posture even when seated.

“Mireilla Dane,” she said simply. “From the Deep Green.”

That drew a subtle shift across the nobles’ expressions.

The Deep Green.

A region that curled along the northwest spine of the Arcanis Empire, thick with ancient forests and whispered with old magic. It was a place nobles referenced in poems and war records alike—a land of druids and dusk-marked rivers, of ruined temples and isolated clans that bowed to the Empire but kept their roots deep in the soil. The people of the Deep Green were known not for politics, but for presence. Elusive, enduring, and close to the wild threads of mana older than the cities that claimed to govern them.

Mireilla met their looks with a stillness that didn’t ask for recognition. It expected it.

Then Caeden spoke, voice like cooled steel. Controlled. Grounded.

“Caeden Roark. From Redwater. Dustlands.”

That word—Dustlands—landed heavier than expected.

The Dustlands. The term referred to the cracked, sunburnt regions far south of the Empire’s central belt. Technically really close to the southern territories under Arcanis sovereignty, but in practice?

A world apart. The land of dry wind, sun-bleached stones, and trade routes carved into history. A place whispered about in terms of heat and exile—beautiful to tourists, brutal to those who called it home.

Caeden’s complexion had hinted at it. His tone—calm, measured, with a cadence unfamiliar to northern nobles—confirmed it. Foreign, but not foreign enough to be excluded. Just enough to be noticed.

Aldric’s gaze lingered a half-second longer on him than the others.

Not with suspicion.

With interest.

After all, while the Arcanis Empire was vast—its banners stretching from frostbound fjords in the north to sun-scorched reaches in the south—its reach was not always seamless. The further one went from the imperial core, the more the lines blurred. And nowhere was that truer than along the borderlands.

The Dustlands.

A term born not from imperial decree but from lived grit. Technically part of the greater southern territories, yet the Empire’s grasp thinned the further south you traveled. Past the last true bastion of Arcanis influence—Varenthia, the citadel city that stood like a spine of steel at the Empire’s southeastern edge—there were no governors appointed by the Council, no Grand Houses to enforce law. Instead, cities ruled themselves, if they were ruled at all. City-states of old blood and sharp blades, hardened by droughts, scarred by uprisings.

And beyond those, across the cracked border ridgelines, lay the Kingdom of Solmara.

Solmara did not refer to its own southern provinces as the Dustlands.

That was Arcanis terminology—imperial, dismissive, a relic of conquest half-finished. But the people who lived there—who traded in spices, and blood, and old debts—they carried the name with pride. Dustlands wasn’t a curse. It was survival in a place that made poets of the desperate and warlords of the bold.

The interest was immediate.

Aldric leaned in slightly, his tone still courteous but edged now with genuine curiosity. “So you’re a foreigner, then? From Solmara’s side of the Dustlands?”

Caeden’s jaw shifted, just enough for Lucavion to notice.

“I’m from Redwater,” Caeden repeated calmly. “South of the border. Technically part of the Empire… depending on which map you look at.”

That earned a soft chuckle from Marius, who clearly appreciated the diplomatic dodge.

“But still,” Seraphina said, tilting her head thoughtfully, “that’s a long way to come. Why here? Why the capital?”

Caeden met her gaze squarely. “Because the strongest gather here.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t boast.

It simply stated.

“I came to test myself. To fight people who don’t fall over when you breathe the wrong way. To see if the strength I’ve built can grow stronger—or if I’ve already hit my limit.”

There was a moment of respectful silence. The kind earned, not granted.

“Well said,” Aldric offered, nodding slightly.

But Lucavion wasn’t looking at Caeden’s words.

He was looking at his eyes.

Just for a moment—when Caeden answered—something flickered behind the cool precision. Not fear. Not hesitation. But… memory. A weight that didn’t belong to combat or ambition. Something quieter. He buried it quickly, almost expertly.

Lucavion tilted his goblet, watching the wine catch the chandelier light in threads of crimson.

He hadn’t missed it.

Not the shift in Caeden’s jaw. Not the slight, instinctive adjustment in his breath. And certainly not the way the words had arrived too clean, too practiced, as if they’d been drawn from a sheath instead of spoken freely.

It wasn’t quite a lie. But it wasn’t whole, either.

Lucavion didn’t need to hear the truth to recognize the absence of it. He didn’t watch people’s lips when they spoke—he watched their vitality, their presence, the undercurrent of energy in every word they wove. And Caeden, for all his quiet, steady demeanor… had just fenced a truth and offered its echo.

Lucavion shook his head once. Not in judgment. Not in disdain.

Just understanding.

Everyone carried a hidden blade or two. This one simply hadn’t drawn his yet.

’Doesn’t matter,’ he thought. ’Not my business. Not yet.’

So he let the silence settle, let the noble group’s curiosity drift away from the Dustlands and the borders of truth.

And the conversation resumed like nothing had flickered.

Toven grinned, nudging his goblet toward the center. “Well, I guess that leaves me.”

He stood just enough to make it dramatic. “Toven Vintrell. Farmer’s son. Expert spoon-bender. Absolutely undefeated in imaginary duels.”

That earned a chuckle from Marius, who lifted his glass in mock salute. “A dangerous man, I see.”

“And finally…” Mireilla murmured, glancing sidelong.

Lucavion didn’t move.

He let the silence sit for one beat too long.

Then he looked up, smile lazy and precise.

“Lucavion.”

No last name. No origin. Just presence.

There was no ripple of confusion. No blink of surprise. No polite request for clarification.

Just a pause.

And then—nods.

Subtle. Measured. The kind that said: We’ve heard the name before.

Of course they had.

Anyone seated in this hall, noble or otherwise, had already witnessed through the crucible of entrance exams. And once the results finalized—once the names of those admitted were carved into the Academy’s official registry—the background checks began. Not by the Academy, necessarily. But by everyone else. Families. Tutors. Ambitious socialites. Spymasters in miniature.

Lucavion’s name had been on that list, on top.

No house. No lineage. No estate.

Just Lucavion.

And yet…

And yet…

There it was.

The look.

Arrogance wasn’t the right word—at least not in its crude, overused form. Lucavion’s gaze didn’t strut. It didn’t leer or belittle. It simply assumed.

Assumed attention. Assumed relevance. Assumed the world would come to meet him, not the other way around.

It wasn’t malicious. It was mechanical. Inbuilt.

A confidence so precise it bordered on insult—not because it tried to offend, but because it made no room for doubt.

The nobles noticed it. Of course they did.

Aldric’s smile didn’t fade, but it tightened, ever so slightly. The flicker of professional courtesy drawing inward. Seraphina’s fingers traced the rim of her glass once—an idle motion that belied the new sharpness in her eyes. Even Marius, who had greeted Toven’s jokes with easy camaraderie, sat a bit straighter.

Because they had all seen the entrance exam broadcasts.

The Festival Trials had been public, streamed through mana projection for days. A celebration of talent.

And Lucavion?

He hadn’t just passed. He had carved his way into the top without a house crest, without a sponsor, without an ounce of inherited power.

The nobles had whispered then, too.

A commoner? No—too sharp.

A bastard of some hidden noble line? Maybe.

A fluke?

No. His record was too clean. Too clean, and too intentional.

Still, power was one thing. Personality was another.

And Lucavion’s presence didn’t ask to be liked. It didn’t soften, didn’t extend a hand.

It stared.

And dared you to reach first.

The nobles didn’t flinch—but the air shifted. The way it always did around someone who had no reason to pretend he didn’t know what he was.

Not a mystery.

“Glad to meet you.”

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