Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 676 - 676: Seran
Seran’s breath caught.
Thump…
The echo of the blow still rang inside his ribs—dull, internal, nauseating. A punch. Just a punch.
And yet his vision swam.
For a split second, the world around him blurred at the edges, the scent of charred mana in the air mingling with dust and shame.
He pressed one knee into the cracked stone, sword trembling against the ground as he looked up—eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.
And there he was.
Standing above him.
This guy.
That same posture. That same look. Not pity. Not mockery.
Just… indifference. Calculation.
And those eyes—that obsidian black, clear and sharp, looking at him like a problem to solve.
‘You.’
The word formed in his mind like a crackle of dry lightning.
A strange heat surged through his chest. Not fear. Not guilt. Not even humiliation.
Anger.
Pure. Clean. Centered.
How dare you.
He had done everything right.
He had followed the script. Had smiled at the right times, bled at the right moments. Had lifted others, even as he carried the weight of a name that could never be spoken.
And now this thing—this anomaly with a god’s flame and a madman’s poise—was looking down on him like he was the imposter.
‘You don’t get to look at me like that.’
And yet—
A second truth burned beneath the anger.
He couldn’t win. Not like this. Not within the constraints he’d been ordered to obey.
He was stronger than this. So much stronger.
He was no mid 4-star. He was at the peak—an Awakened talent with training that rivaled knights twice his age. The palace had poured relics into him, forced breakthroughs at the edges of stability. He had seen techniques most nobles never even read about. His body had been honed with quiet cruelty.
But it was all hidden.
Because it had to be.
If a “commoner” entered the academy with the strength of a peak 4-star and the discipline of a royal guard, questions would surface. Investigations would follow. Who trained him? Who funded him? Who hid him?
And eventually, the trail would lead back to him.
To the Crown Prince.
And the Crown Prince’s plans were never meant to be questioned—let alone seen.
That’s why he was ordered to limit his strength.
Hold back. Appear promising, but raw. Develop publicly, but never shine too brightly.
Seran had agreed without hesitation.
He understood.
Because it made sense. The Trials weren’t meant to be lethal. They were structured to push, not break. There should have been no reason for him to go beyond his carefully planned restraint.
He was sure of it.
Until this.
Until this impossible bastard stepped into the ring without warning, without title, without even a damn name—and began dismantling everything.
So then what now?
Seran stood in the shadow of the man before him, vision sharp, muscles screaming, his mana trembling like a caged animal behind thin bars of logic.
What the hell was he supposed to do?
Because this wasn’t just a duel anymore. This was a trap. A perfectly engineered contradiction.
If he didn’t reveal more of his strength—if he kept his aura dimmed, his edge dulled—he wouldn’t win. No tactic, no formation, no textbook response would bridge the gap.
Not against him.
Not against this goddamn lunatic who fought like a storm disguised in silk, who burned through spells and pride with those petal-shaped flames of oblivion.
And if he lost?
If Reynald Vale—the supposed symbol of commoner tenacity—fell here?
Then he would be eliminated.
The academy had made that much clear. No exceptions. No “but he tried” passes.
Fail in the Trial, and you don’t enter.
And if he didn’t enter the academy—
The entire plan collapsed.
The Crown Prince’s vision of a symbolic commoner leader… shattered. His political lever. His presence inside the student body. The subtle control through influence and admiration.
Gone.
All of it. Gone in a single match.
Because of him.
But the alternative…
If Seran revealed the full extent of his strength—if he unleashed the peak of his 4-star Awakened potential right here, in front of witnesses, enchanted recordings, and rune-sealed observation wards—then everything he’d built would unravel anyway.
The commoner hero?
No.
He’d be seen as a fraud.
A plant.
People would ask questions.
How did a nobody get that strong?
Who trained him?
Where did he get access to those techniques? That aura control? That footwork?
They would investigate. Dig. They would tear apart the carefully constructed lie he had worn like armor.
And eventually, they would find the truth buried beneath the ashes of the Velcross name.
They would find him.
They would find the Crown Prince.
And the questions wouldn’t stop there.
Not ever.
So then—
What the hell am I supposed to do?
He couldn’t win without revealing himself.
He couldn’t reveal himself without destroying everything.
He was trapped.
And that bastard across from him?
He knew.
Lucavion stood with that calm, half-bored posture, flame drifting behind him like a question with too many right answers. As if daring Seran to make the mistake.
As if this had been the real test all along.
Seran’s teeth clenched.
A thousand hours of training. A thousand lines of policy. A thousand steps executed without fault.
And now, with the world watching, he had to choose:
Protect the lie, or win the war.
And the worst part?
There was no good choice.
Only risk.
Only exposure.
Only him—standing there with those star-black eyes, as if he’d already decided how this story ends.
Lucavion watched him in silence.
Long enough to feel deliberate.
Measured enough to feel like judgment.
Then—
“Fine.”
His voice was soft, almost bored.
But the tone—
It split the air.
“If that’s how you’ll act.”
The petals behind him pulsed.
And then burned.
—FWOOOOOM!
Black fire erupted, trailing up his blade like breath being drawn from the soul of the earth. His estoc lifted, no longer idle, no longer patient. The point leveled toward Seran—not like a challenge.
Like an executioner settling the blade.
Then Lucavion tilted his head slightly, as if examining something beneath the surface.
And he spoke again.
Not loud.
Not cruel.
But direct. Piercing.
“So that’s all it was, then?”
His gaze sharpened, the mirth behind his eyes vanishing like mist under moonlight.
“A little act. A bit of theater.”
He took one slow step forward.
“The commoner knight. The humble hero.”
A scoff, soft, elegant, edged with frost.
“How pathetic.”
Seran’s shoulders tensed.
The guy saw it. Pressed further.
“You spent all that time pretending to inspire them. And for what?”
His tone curled like smoke around the next words.
“To fall to a man you didn’t even know the name of?”
Seran’s breath caught.
Lucavion’s voice dropped lower—just above a whisper, sharp as glass.
“The mask fits, Seran Velcross… but only when no one’s watching.”
Everything inside Seran froze.
His name.
His real name.
The guy hadn’t said it loud enough for the audience to hear. Only for him. Intentionally. Calculated.
A threat.
A warning.
A goddamn scalpel aimed straight at the heart of the lie.
Seran’s fingers trembled on the hilt of his sword.
This wasn’t just an enemy.
This man was cutting into the plan. Into the future the Crown Prince had forged.
Into everything Seran had bled to build.
And now… it was all teetering on the edge of a blade.
Lucavion stepped forward again, his voice ice and starlight.
“If that’s really all you’ve got, then kneel.”
He paused.
The flame behind him flared.
“Because everything else you’ve done?”
A smile—not cruel. Just honest.
“It meant nothing.”
Snap.
That was the sound Seran felt, not heard.
His restraint—meticulously forged, tightly wound, blessed by royal decree—fractured.
Because no one got to say that.
Not after what he survived.
Not after what he gave.
The stone beneath him cracked as his aura surged—not gradually.
All at once.
—FWOOOOOOOM!
Golden mana erupted from his form in a torrent, not just blazing—it howled.
No more hiding.
No more half-steps.
His eyes blazed with gold. His sigils ignited across his blade. Every inch of him screamed war.
The pressure of a true peak 4-star surged outward like a tidal wave, slamming into the field with force that sent watching candidates stumbling.
Lucavion’s cloak stirred slightly in the wind.
And he smiled.
Just a little.
As if this was exactly what he wanted.
