Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 690 - 690: Final Candidates (2)
The atmosphere had begun to stabilize—tense but quiet. Candidates huddled in corners of the basin, meditating, tending to wounds, casting wary glances at rivals and enemies alike. Mana was being restored. Plans were being made.
And then the ground shifted.
Not literally.
But perceptibly.
The air grew heavier. The mana thinner, like something massive had entered the field and drawn attention without sound or speech. Lucavion’s head tilted slightly, his gaze already locked on the southern arch of the safe zone.
There—between the crumbled stone and shifting light—
He entered.
A figure whose presence felt carved, not born.
The young man who stepped through was built like war given skin—broad-shouldered, shirt torn across the ribs, blood drying in streaks across dark bronze skin. His cleaver—less a weapon and more a slab of steel shaped by fury—rested across his back like an extension of his spine.
And he radiated intent.
Not killing intent.
Not threat.
But challenge.
The kind of pressure that rolled off his form like heat from a forge, daring anyone nearby to even consider stepping forward.
[That’s… not subtle,] Vitaliara muttered.
Lucavion didn’t answer. He simply watched as the mountain of a man strode forward, each step deliberate, each movement taut with focus. The wounds on his arms looked recent—half-stitched by regeneration magic or sheer willpower—but none of them seemed to slow him.
He wasn’t smiling. Not like the lightning fool had. Not like the smug nobles had before.
This man entered like a warrior who had earned the right to walk tall.
And he knew it.
Every person in the basin noticed.
The chatter stopped.
Even the gray-garbed girl’s gaze lifted subtly, tracking him as he passed by her with a presence that didn’t need words. The lightning-coated boy whistled low.
“…Damn,” he muttered. “Did someone summon a raid boss?”
Lucavion smirked faintly at that.
Because yes.
It felt like that.
This wasn’t just another survivor.
This was someone who had dragged half a war behind him just to arrive here.
And the aura he unleashed—
It wasn’t accidental.
It was invitation.
A blatant declaration to every single candidate still conscious:
I’m not afraid of you.
Try me.
Lucavion’s smirk deepened.
The newcomer hadn’t spoken a word, hadn’t so much as looked in his direction. But his presence had entered like a battle hymn without music—felt rather than heard.
[Vitaliara’s voice coiled in his mind, drier than the cracked stone beneath their boots.]
[You’ve found your soulmate. Congratulations.]
Lucavion rolled his eyes without looking away. “You’re hilarious.”
[Seriously, you two should just spar until one of you breaks a rib or proposes.]
“I’m leaning toward both.”
She huffed, smug. [And people say I’m dramatic.]
But then—
The light changed.
A low, deep pulse thrummed through the ground, followed by a golden shimmer that crept up the boundary of the safe-zone like frost in reverse. It wasn’t violent, but it wasn’t calm either.
Outside the circle, distant roars began to echo—monsters driven to frenzy, spell-saturated beasts losing form and control as the space around them warped.
The safe-zone itself lit with runes—one by one, like switches being thrown.
It had started.
Lucavion’s eyes narrowed.
“The zone’s converging.”
Even the air was changing now, thicker with pressure, more volatile with shifting mana. Candidates began shifting on instinct, eyes darting, backs straightening. No one said it, but everyone felt it.
They had maybe twenty minutes.
Maybe less.
Then the circle would collapse, and the next phase—whatever chaos the mages had brewed—would begin.
But then—
Something else happened.
A flicker at the edge of vision.
A silhouette.
Small. Slender.
Crawling across the field outside the zone.
No—sliding.
“…Is that—?” someone muttered.
“Are those vines?” another asked, squinting.
Lucavion stepped forward, eyes narrowing slightly.
They were vines. Thick, ropey threads of deep green, twisted with faint runes of movement magic. They writhed beneath the girl like living skates, carrying her broken form forward with aching slowness.
She was bleeding badly—her left leg wrapped in makeshift cloth, the wound still fresh, oozing with every shift. Her face was pale. Hair matted to her cheeks. But her eyes…
They never wavered.
Focused on the circle.
On survival.
Lucavion exhaled through his nose.
‘Another one from the novel.’
She hadn’t been a central character, not quite. But he remembered her. A quiet genius with plant affinity—slippery, calculating, and ferocious when cornered.
She didn’t walk into the circle.
She slid into it.
Exactly one second before the convergence wall slammed shut.
Mana flared around the safe zone as it sealed completely, a burst of light rising skyward like a siren’s call—and she collapsed onto the ground, the vines curling around her like tired limbs.
The tension rose again.
Lucavion didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
He just watched as another piece of the board settled into place.
And the final game prepared to begin.
*****
The sky above the basin dimmed for a breath.
Then—
It shone.
Not with sunlight, not with magic, but with intent. Golden threads of structured mana wove into a lattice, stretching upward and outward until it formed a dome of radiant arcane script above the gathered candidates.
The voice that followed was neither human nor machine. It was deep, resonant, and laced with the kind of timeless reverence that demanded attention without ever raising its volume.
“Congratulations.”
A pause.
“To those who have reached this sanctum—your path has not been easy. You have bled. You have endured. You have been witnessed.”
The words echoed through the basin, rolling over tired shoulders, bruised minds, and wary hearts.
“The trials you faced were not simply tests of survival—but tests of character, growth, and capacity. And now—your names shall be etched upon this trial’s record.”
A pulse rang through the air.
Then the dome shifted—compressing to a flat pane of pure mana above them, where golden letters began to inscribe themselves one by one.
First the header:
—CANDIDATE PERFORMANCE INDEX—
Then the names, listed in descending order, glowing brilliantly for all to see.
———————
Lucavion – 168,420 points
2. Caeden Roark – 56,010 points
3. Elayne Cors – 48,920 points
4. Mireilla Dane – 44,300 points
5. Toven Vintrell – 42,700 points
6.
7.
.
.
.
21.
——————–
A murmur passed through the group like a wave. Someone audibly gasped.
Toven’s voice broke the hush, cracking upward. “Wait, WHAT—?”
Even Vitaliara blinked.
[You tripled him.]
Lucavion tilted his head, expression unreadable.
“I was being polite.”
[No, you weren’t.]
The golden list continued etching names until the twenty-first entry shimmered into existence.
Then—
The voice returned.
“Current standings have been recorded.”
A new pulse rippled through the air—less ceremonial now, more structured. The kind of shift that signaled a transition. A rule being drawn.
“There are twenty-one of you.”
The light dimmed slightly, and a new interface formed beneath the performance list—a smaller set of glowing script now hanging midair like an edict suspended before judgment.
“Of these, the top five have earned provisional qualification to the Imperial Academy.”
A breath caught in someone’s throat.
The implication was clear.
Only the top five.
Lucavion didn’t move. Caeden Roark nodded once, solemn but unsurprised. Elayne Cors’s gaze narrowed in subtle focus. Mireilla straightened slightly despite her wound, eyes burning faint. Toven… looked like someone had hit him with a slow-moving realization spell.
“However,” the voice continued, “those beyond rank five are not eliminated. Based on your demonstrated ability, you are eligible to join subsidiary academies within the kingdom’s arcane, martial, and hybrid divisions.”
There were murmurs now. Shifting stances. Some hopeful. Others… clearly not satisfied.
Then the light flared again, and the tone changed.
Sharper.
“If you are unhappy with your current placement—if you believe your talents warrant a higher place—you may issue a formal challenge to one of the top five.”
Every head turned then.
Slowly.
Toward Lucavion.
Toward Caeden.
Toward Elayne.
Toward Mireilla.
Toward Toven.
“All challenges will be honored. All duels will be one-on-one.”
Another beat.
“However, each candidate may only challenge once.”
That last sentence dropped like a guillotine. Final. Cold. Unforgiving.
One shot.
One name.
One chance.
“Victory allows you to take your opponent’s rank—and access to the Imperial Academy.”
“Defeat ends your claim. Permanently.”
The golden script hovered, silent once more.
And then, slowly—
The tension shifted again.
Everyone looked at everyone else.
Not just as survivors now.
But as rivals.
The final round had begun.
———–A/N———-
Sorry for the late chapers, I had an exam yesterday. Now normal schedules will continue.
The Novel will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!
