Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 1054 By needing to

Chapter 1054  By needing to

“Then perhaps you should reconsider your view regarding women.”

“Considering a certain person had a rather influential role in shaping those views…”

Her pulse tapped once at her throat.

She remembered Lucavion’s voice cracking when he first said Isolde’s name.

A crack he buried beneath laughter moments later—but cracks lived beneath the plaster.

‘He shouldn’t falter like that if he truly sees her as an ally.’

‘Unless he still feels something.’

‘Unless he remembers something.’

But she shut the thought down before it could finish forming.

She didn’t want nuance.

Nuance wasn’t useful.

Hatred was simpler. Cleaner. Sharper.

In hatred, she did not waver.

The candidate finished his trembling explanation. Selenne dismissed him with a curt nod.

“Next candidate.”

A shuffle, another name called. More nerves, more theory, more stumbling attempts at impressing a Magister who did not believe in leniency.

Elara forced herself to breathe deeper. The room steadied around her: cool air, steady mana, the faint shimmer of wards overhead. She could focus on that. She would focus on that.

But the voices lingered anyway, refusing to be silenced.

“I can understand that. Influence often leaves… impressions.”

“Not everyone starts on equal ground.”

Elara pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth.

What impressions?

What influence?

What ground?

She had spun her entire understanding of the past on the certainty that Lucavion and Isolde were united in what happened to her. The dungeon. The exile. The betrayal.

Everything.

And now—

Now she recalled the tremor in his wrist when Isolde pushed too hard.

She should ignore it.

She tried to ignore it.

The next candidate spoke, voice low but clear, outlining the properties of aetheric conduction. Selenne’s posture sharpened, interest evident at last.

Elara listened. She tried to listen.

She forced herself to anchor in the present.

But underneath that focus, her mind whispered:

‘Their dialogue was coordinated.’

‘The students are fooled. The examiners don’t care.’

‘They’re playing a game, and the world sees two prodigies trading pleasant barbs.’

And—

beneath even that—

a quieter thought, colder than the rest:

‘I am right to hate him.’

‘More than ever.’

She straightened in her seat as Selenne’s voice carried again through the hall:

“Next candidate.”

*****

One by one, the students made their way to the front. Each stepped forward with the polished confidence Selenne expected from noble households—yet the moment they opened their mouths, that veneer crumbled. Their answers were rehearsed but shallow, their reasoning brittle, their delivery lacking both conviction and structure.

Selenne kept her expression neutral, but mild disappointment threaded through her thoughts. ‘I had expected more.’ Over the years, she had conducted countless interviews with second- and third-year students, a process she genuinely enjoyed; older students understood discourse, engaged with ideas, and offered arguments she could challenge. But these first-years… she found herself waiting for something sharper, something that showed even a spark of maturity.

It never came.

The next candidate stumbled over a basic question about mana conduction theory. The one after that recited a memorized definition with no understanding. A third froze entirely, unable to articulate the logic behind his own affinity classification. Selenne shifted a page on her desk, though her mind was several steps removed.

‘Most of these are from well-established houses. They should have grown up trained for public speaking, debate, presentation—at the very least, composure.’ Yet their voices wavered, their explanations shook, and their attempts at formal tone cracked like thin ice over shallow water. She supposed the raw fear of being questioned directly by a Magister played a part, but still.

‘Curious. Second years were not like this. They carried themselves with more precision.’

A pause hovered in her thoughts.

‘Perhaps it is a skill the Academy drills into them over time. If so… we are starting far lower than I anticipated.’

Her gaze drifted momentarily across the room to Lucavion and Isolde. The duchess sat with unshakeable poise, her expression politely unreadable as she observed each trembling classmate. Lucavion, by contrast, looked faintly amused, chin propped against one hand, the corner of his mouth tugged upward in a silent commentary only he understood. The two could not have contrasted more—yet the atmosphere between them remained cool, taut, full of quiet edges.

“Next candidate,” Selenne announced. “Haleen….”

A student approached, sweating and pale, and left just as quickly after a middling performance. Then another. And another. Selenne’s disappointment grew into something calmer and more resigned.

‘I will need to adjust the difficulty scale. Their foundations are uneven.’

She turned the page in her notes.

“Lucavion,” she called.

The young man rose from his seat with a measured ease that bordered on insolent comfort. He straightened his coat, swept one quick glance toward Isolde—who smiled as though she had already seen the outcome—and then walked forward with no sign of anxiety. When he stopped before her, the room seemed to draw a quiet breath.

Selenne allowed the faintest smile to touch her lips. It wasn’t warm; it wasn’t encouraging. It was the expression of someone who had been waiting for a puzzle to finally land in her hands. ‘Let us see what kind of anomaly you truly are.’

“Take a seat,” she said. Lucavion complied, relaxed, almost casual, his posture somehow respectful without following any shape of proper decorum. The other students leaned forward, sensing entertainment more than scholarship.

Selenne began with something simple. “Define the Ley Conduction Principle.”

Lucavion blinked once. “The what?”

Several students snorted. One laughed outright. Selenne’s eyes cut toward them in a single, slicing glare that shut the entire row up in less than a heartbeat. When she looked back at him, Lucavion had not changed expression; he simply waited, as though hoping for a second version of the question that might magically clarify itself.

She tried again. “Explain how natural mana flow is redirected during spellcasting.”

Lucavion tilted his head. “Magister… I don’t cast spells.”

“That is not what I asked,” she replied.

He paused. “Right.” His brow furrowed. “Then… I would assume… you redirect it with intent?”

Silence fell. Not the good kind.

Selenne stared at him for three seconds longer than was polite. ‘Intent? That is barely the first rung of a child’s explanation.’ She shifted her weight, suddenly more curious than irritated. ‘How is he still breathing at his power level if this is what he knows?’

She selected a different angle. “Very well. Describe the function of an auxiliary chant in structured spellwork.”

Lucavion opened his mouth, then closed it again, like someone trying to recall a term they had heard once in passing—perhaps while half-asleep. Finally, he said, “I… don’t use chants.”

A ripple of muffled laughter rolled through the hall. Isolde did not laugh, but her eyelashes lowered with a glint that suggested she was biting back commentary. Elara’s eyes flared for a moment, then shut down into cold dismissal.

Selenne’s patience thinned. “Lucavion, this is a theoretical assessment. You are expected to demonstrate basic conceptual knowledge.”

He looked genuinely apologetic for a second—then shrugged. “I didn’t grow up with this,” he said, almost matter-of-factly. “I fight. I don’t… theorize.”

Students snickered at his bluntness. Selenne’s gaze snapped toward them again, quiet but lethal. Their grins evaporated.

She inhaled slowly. “Explain the mana pathways.”

Lucavion blinked. “Mine or yours?”

“…What?”

“Well, everyone’s is different, aren’t they? So if you want me to explain them… I can tell you where mine hurt sometimes.”

Someone in the back gasped. Isolde’s lips twitched—almost a smile, but not one of kindness. Selenne felt her composure sway for the first time.

‘He truly does not know.’

‘Not the theory, not the terminology, not even the common framework.’

‘And yet he performs on the level of trained mages.’

Her disbelief sharpened.

“How did you reach your current level of strength without basic knowledge?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Lucavion looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers as though testing the weight of a memory. And then he answered.

“By needing to.”