Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 695: End of the exam
Chapter 695: End of the exam
The vines retracted slowly.
Mireilla stepped back from the battered form of Edran Sylven, her breathing even—shallow, but steady. Not a drop of wasted motion clung to her frame. Her gauntlet dissolved back into coiling bark and reabsorbed into the moss beneath her boots.
She didn’t gloat.
She didn’t need to.
The glyph above flared once more—declaring the end of the match in that same steady violet.
Victory: Mireilla Dane.
Edran didn’t argue. He couldn’t.
Still breathing, still conscious—but defeated. Decisively.
The healers moved fast, pulling him from the arena with practiced hands and muting salves. Mireilla offered a nod to them as she passed, her name still flickering gently above her head, but said nothing more.
But before she could fully retreat to her side of the basin—
Another glyph lit up.
Name: Alvera Nyce – Rank 12
Challenge: Mireilla Dane
But the duel didn’t begin.
Not immediately.
Mireilla had barely stepped off the field when the attending mages intervened—two of them sweeping toward her with silent efficiency, scrolls already unfurled, hands raised in twin gestures of restoration.
A third stepped forward with a crystal phial, filled with mana-dense liquid so blue it shimmered like starlight.
She took it wordlessly.
Sat cross-legged at the basin’s edge.
Drank.
And began to breathe.
Slow. Controlled.
The world gave her a moment, and she used it—not just to recover, but to center.
Lucavion, arms folded loosely, watched from a slight rise near the back of the crowd. His eyes didn’t track her like a predator—more like a scholar, attentive, measured.
“She doesn’t waste movement,” he murmured.
[Vitaliara stirred on his shoulder, tail flicking once.]
[This girl is quite talented.]
Lucavion quirked a brow. ’Oh? Praise from you? That’s rare.’
[Not the strongest,] Vitaliara went on. [But clever. Adaptable. Her magic is basic—but she’s smart around it. She never overextends her will. She listens to her spells.]
Lucavion’s smile curled faintly. ’Oh… you noticed it too.’
[What do you take me for?]
’A peeping cat.’
[—I am not a peeping cat.]
’Sure, sure…’
[Lucavion.]
He laughed under his breath, gaze still locked on Mireilla as her aura began to re-stabilize—threads of green slowly weaving tighter around her frame, bark coiling into tighter braids beneath her hands.
Lucavion leaned back against a worn stone pillar, arms still folded, eyes fixed on Mireilla as she calmly let the mana tincture do its work. Her hands never trembled. Her breaths never rushed.
Efficient. Focused.
She didn’t just cast spells. She spoke with them.
She fights like she’s seen her fair share of life, he thought. Would do a fine adventurer.
[What makes you think she wasn’t one already?] Vitaliara asked, voice teasing.
“I didn’t say she wasn’t,” he murmured.
[But you implied it.]
Lucavion shrugged. “No. You got that meaning from my words.”
[That’s the same thing.]
“No, it isn’t. That’s your interpretation problem, not my communication failure.”
[Booo…] Vitaliara groaned theatrically. [You always do this.]
“Do what?”
[Win the argument by pretending it was never an argument.]
He smiled. “That’s because it wasn’t.”
[Vexing creature.]
“I try.”
Down in the arena, Mireilla stood once again—composed, steady, quiet.
The glyph pulsed.
The second duel was about to begin.
And Lucavion?
He was very curious to see if she had more roots left to grow.
Victory: Mireilla Dane.
Lucavion crossed his arms. “Two for two. Good.”
[Vitaliara purred.] [She’s starting to show her fangs.]
But the arena didn’t cool.
Because another name lit up.
Name: Sereya Vonn – Rank 14
Challenge: Toven Vintrell
A ripple of interest passed through the crowd. Rank 5. The edge of Imperial qualification. A bold move.
Toven stepped forward slowly, his coat repaired and sleeves rolled up. The moment he entered the arena, static began to rise around him. His usual playfulness was absent now—replaced by a tight, crackling intensity.
Sereya moved first—fast, with dagger throws and flickering displacement spells.
Toven didn’t flinch.
He absorbed a bolt with his bare palm, redirected it mid-air, and then—
Thunderstep. Chainflash. Arc Shear.
A streak of lightning cracked through the arena, bending around her defenses with surgical precision.
She lasted two minutes.
Victory: Toven Vintrell.
No flourish.
Just fact.
Sereya was helped from the ring, half-stunned but not broken.
The crowd shifted again, murmuring louder now.
Yet still—another challenge rose.
Name: Renn Talvek – Rank 10
Challenge: Toven Vintrell
Another one trying to force their way upward. Another burst of ambition.
Toven didn’t react much. Just sighed once, rolled his neck, and returned to the circle.
Renn brought brute mana—earth-element, reinforced limbs, strength-based enchantments. He tried to overwhelm.
And nearly succeeded.
But nearly wasn’t enough.
Because Toven didn’t block.
He dodged.
And when the opening came—
He unleashed Thundershard Pulse, a directional burst straight to the ribs.
Renn collapsed mid-strike.
Three minutes flat.
Victory: Toven Vintrell.
The safe-zone quieted again.
Lucavion leaned back slightly, eyes scanning the other would-be challengers now frozen in their place.
None stepped forward.
Because now?
Now they knew.
The top five weren’t placeholders.
They were the wall.
And not everyone was ready to break through it.
The platform dimmed again.
Not just in light, but in atmosphere—like the arena itself needed a breath between pulses of violence.
Healers moved with silent efficiency, removing Renn Talvek’s body from the field with floating sigils and mana stabilizers. The crystalline floor restructured, smoothing over cracks, clearing the last traces of battle.
The glyph remained inert.
For now.
A rest period was mandated between challenges—ten minutes of silence, stillness, reflection. Time to recover. Time to reconsider.
Most candidates used it to breathe.
Lucavion used it to watch.
Toven Vintrell stood with one hand in his pocket and the other casually tucked under his opposite arm. His coat fluttered faintly, disturbed by lingering static. Blue-white mana danced around his legs like tiny sparks of condensed arrogance. He didn’t bask in attention—he let it wash over him like wind against stone.
Hmph, Lucavion thought, eyes narrowing.
He wasn’t showy.
But he wasn’t subtle either.
[Remind you of anyone?] Vitaliara asked, tone amused and suspiciously smug.
Lucavion gave a noncommittal hum. “A little too loose at the edges.”
[No, no. He’s exactly like you.]
“No one is like me.”
[Yeah, yeah,] Vitaliara muttered with exaggerated exasperation, [you’re the only one. “Special breed.” Zzz…]
Lucavion gave a one-shouldered shrug, that same lopsided grin playing at the edge of his mouth.
“I am a special breed.”
[Vain mutt, more like.]
“Still breeded special.”
Vitaliara rolled her eyes—physically this time, her small form stretching languidly along his shoulders like a lounging serpent-cat hybrid who’d seen far too much and respected far too little.
Around them, the air settled into something quieter. Not quite peace. But acceptance.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
And still—no glyphs flared.
No names rose.
No challenges formed.
Some of the candidates kept their heads bowed, processing wounds they couldn’t show. Others fidgeted, glanced around, did the math.
None stepped forward.
Because they’d all seen it.
Not just the victories—but the precision. The weight of what it would take to carve even a single rank upward.
And not many were ready to bleed for it.
Then—
The central platform shimmered again.
One of the lead mages, robed in gold-traced slate and holding a conduit-staff marked with the nine-spoked sigil of the Imperial Academy, took a measured step into the center.
Her voice rang out—calm, practiced, absolute:
“Candidates.”
All eyes turned.
“Is there any among you who still wishes to issue a challenge?”
Silence.
The air held firm.
She waited three seconds.
“Once more: do any remaining candidates wish to challenge the current rankings?”
Lucavion’s eyes flicked toward the others—watching. Measuring.
Nothing.
Not even a twitch.
The mage gave a final glance to the basin. Her voice rose one final time, clear and conclusive:
“Final call. Does anyone wish to contest?”
The silence was complete.
And then—
She turned her staff.
The crystal at its top glowed once.
“Then by declaration of this sanctified field—let it be recorded: the entrance examination concludes here.”
Light flared—not violent, not sharp. Just clean. Final. The glyphs above the arena shimmered gold, then dissolved.
And just like that—
It was over.
