Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 671: Another reference!

Reynald Vale.

The name echoed in Lucavion's thoughts with a sharpness that almost amused him.

Reynald Vale…

That is what the world knows him as. The name whispered in hopeful tones by desperate cadets. The name that blooms like a banner across the lips of those who still believe that righteousness comes wrapped in armor rather than intrigue.

A charming illusion, really.

Young. Earnest. Always at the center of every rescue. Every rally. Every quiet comfort offered in candle-lit corners of the academy.

The perfect commoner hero.

But Lucavion had seen enough masks to recognize when one was worn too well.

'Of course… that's not who he really is.'

Seran Velcross.

That was the name buried beneath the skin. The true identity. The Crown Prince's carefully placed seed among the fertile soil of rebellion and class friction.

A counterfeit knight for a counterfeit cause.

Crafted by design, Seran was never meant to be free. He was raised to be followed. Raised to be admired. Every gesture rehearsed, every kindness calibrated. A marionette carved in the likeness of a savior, his strings held by the hands of royalty.

Lucavion's gaze lingered on the boy, watching the way Reynald—or rather, Seran—helped the injured across the barrier, sweat-drenched and trembling.

Flawless execution.

'To the commoners, he's one of them—climbing the ladder they were never meant to touch.

Lucavion's eyes didn't waver. Not even as the barrier pulsed with a low thrum, adjusting its radius to shield the newcomers.

He simply watched.

Reynald Vale—no, Seran Velcross—knelt beside one of the unconscious candidates, murmuring something soft, something noble. The kind of words that were meant to linger. The kind of words expected of him.

The sweat that trailed down Seran's temple wasn't just the result of strain—it was part of the act. Convincing, perhaps. Even admirable, if one didn't know better.

Lucavion did.

He always did.

'You look exhausted. The ideal image of a protector stretched to his limits.'

His gaze lowered, tracking the subtle way Seran's shoulders remained just a bit too square. Not the posture of a man near collapse. The trembling in his arms—measured. Visible, but never spilling into true weakness.

A masterstroke of performance.

Lucavion could have almost applauded it.

Almost.

He shifted his stance slightly, just enough for the light to catch the edge of his blade—its reflection flickering over the fractured stone like a dying star.

If he didn't know the novel.

If he didn't know the novel, he might've believed it too.

The soft exhaustion in Reynald's posture. The muddied boots. The gentle way he laid a coat over a shivering candidate like some wandering knight from a bard's tale. All perfectly measured. All so very human.

But Lucavion had read Shattered Innocence.

And he remembered.

Not the words on the page—but the layers beneath them. The implications. The truths hiding behind dialogue and narrative sheen.

Elara would come to know this fact.

She would know—at least, early enough. She hadn't needed whispered warnings or letters slid under doors. All it took was one moment. The way the Crown Prince's gaze lingered too long on her, not with lust, but with a terrifying possessiveness. The way his flattery was too careful, his gifts too precise.

Calculated obsession.

And it didn't take long for her to realize: the only way someone like him could keep his fingers on the pulse of the student body was through a vessel. A voice that the people already loved. A face that belonged to them.

Then she would confront the crown prince, and the crown prince himself would reveal this fact with his own mouth.

Like how he'd built him.

But proof? There was none. The Crown Prince was meticulous, his fingerprints scrubbed from every chain. And Seran Velcross? He played his role so well, it was like he'd forgotten it was a role.

So Elara kept her silence.

Because the only thing more dangerous than being wrong… was being right without power to act on it.

Lucavion stood.

Slowly. Smoothly. Every motion deliberate. Controlled. His smile was small—barely more than a curl—but it held the weight of thunder just before the strike.

His fingers brushed over the hilt at his side. frёeweɓηovel.coɱ

Now… Dear Crown Prince.

Should I remove another pawn of yours?

He began walking—unhurried. Each step just loud enough to be heard. Just soft enough to be forgotten a moment later.

Until he reached the edge of the group.

A girl turned, blinking in surprise. "Oh, there was another person here?"

Lucavion stood.

Slowly. Smoothly. Every motion deliberate. Controlled. His smile was small—barely more than a curl—but it held the weight of thunder just before the strike.

His fingers brushed over the hilt at his side.

Now… Dear Crown Prince.

Should I remove another pawn of yours?

He began walking—unhurried. Each step just loud enough to be heard. Just soft enough to be forgotten a moment later.

Until he reached the edge of the group.

A girl turned, blinking in surprise. "Oh, there was another person here?"

Lucavion didn't respond to the girl's surprise. He didn't glance her way, didn't acknowledge the ripple of gasps sweeping through the group. His gaze was fixed—forward, unwavering—as his estoc rose, its edge catching the ambient light with a quiet gleam.

And then—

He moved.

A flicker of motion, then gone. The space he'd stood in warped with the sudden burst of force, the air cleaving in a thunderous CRACK as his body blurred into existence just meters ahead—his blade already mid-thrust.

The impact was immediate.

A shockwave erupted from the point of contact, rupturing the dirt, flattening nearby grass, and forcing those within the safe zone to stumble back in a chorus of gasps and shouted confusion.

"What?!"

"Did he just attack—?"

Dust spiraled, curling like smoke around the crater where his estoc had struck. And standing there, sword braced and barely deflecting the blow, was Reynald Vale.

—or rather, the marionette named Seran Velcross.

The clang of steel rang louder than the chaos around them.

Reynald's eyes met Lucavion's. Steady. Confused. Alert.

"...Why are you attacking me?"

Lucavion said nothing at first.

He merely tilted his head, the loose strands of his hair falling into place as if even they had been part of a calculated motion. His hand remained on the hilt, pressed just enough for pressure—enough to let Reynald know: If I wanted to break you, you'd be broken.

His voice, when it came, was soft. Unhurried. As if this conversation were merely a continuation of a private thought.

"...Curious. That's the first question you ask?" A faint smile touched the edge of his lips. "Not who I am. Not whether I've lost my mind. Not even if I've mistaken you for someone else."

Reynald's brow lifted ever so slightly.

The dust around them had not yet settled, but his posture remained composed—eerily so, considering the blow he'd just absorbed.

Then, he spoke.

"I believe… there must be a mistake here."

His voice was level, clear. Not a tremor of fear in it. Not a spark of aggression either. Only the calm, tempered clarity of a man who had trained not just to fight—but to lead.

"I'm certain," he continued, keeping his sword angled defensively but not raised to strike, "that we haven't met before. This is the first time I've seen you."

'Mm. Perfect pitch. No haste in the tone. No shift in the feet. That knightly posture—too deliberate to be honest.'

Lucavion didn't blink.

Reynald glanced toward the others watching, then lowered his sword just a fraction—just enough to signal peace without fully opening his guard.

"I don't know what provoked this, but I assure you," he said, eyes sincere and just faintly burdened with disappointment, "there's no need for violence between us. I don't wish for a fight. Not here. Not now. And surely not against someone who's on our side."

A masterstroke of public restraint.

Reynald's expression didn't shift, but his tone softened with measured diplomacy, the kind that soothed even when edged with control.

"Isn't it better," he said calmly, "if we both conserve our strength? These Trials are designed to push us to our limits. There's no sense in turning on one another before we've even crossed the finish line."

A quiet murmur passed through the surrounding candidates—those huddled just behind the warded edge of the safe zone, still trembling from their near-disaster. The same ones Reynald had pulled from the jaws of failure.

"He's right…"

"Yeah, what's the point of fighting now?"

"He helped us. You saw what he did."

"I don't know who that guy is, but we wouldn't be here if not for Reynald—"

They weren't whispering anymore. Some were standing taller now, emboldened by Reynald's calm. Their eyes flicked to Lucavion—not with fear, but wariness. Suspicion.

Reynald continued, eyes steady on Lucavion.

"We don't need to clash. Not unless the Trial forces our hand. I won't strike you first—I give you my word. If combat becomes inevitable, we settle it then. Not before."

He extended that offer as if it were a gift.

A truce wrapped in reason.

It would've been a strong political move in the halls of nobility. It certainly played well here. Everything about it read as noble, rational, measured.

Lucavion tilted his head, slow and thoughtful.

A silence fell.

And then—

"I refuse."