Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 878: Thoughts (2)

Lucavion lingered in the basin a while longer, letting the mana’s low resonance ripple through his bones. It no longer felt like training. Or even therapy. Just a rhythm—slow, firm, familiar. Like an old companion who knew exactly how hard to press before crossing the line.

The warmth clung to him, not just from the water, but from something subtler. A stillness that hadn’t existed earlier. The strange clarity that only came when everything had been shaken, then stilled.

[You’re quiet,] Vitaliara murmured.

He didn’t answer. Not with words. Just a breath through his nose, long and even, and a closing of the eyes that said enough.

But as with all stillness—it passed.

Eventually, the water cooled. The compression pulses softened. The enchantment dimmed, its job done, perhaps recognizing that the man within it had lost interest.

Lucavion sat up.

His hair clung to his neck in damp streaks, shoulders gleaming faintly with condensation. The steam clung like breathless ghosts around him as he stepped out of the basin and reached for the drying glyph. It flared once, obedient, heat and wind folding around him in a silent burst that left skin dry and airless in seconds.

The towels sat unused.

He walked past them, bare-footed, back into his room.

Vitaliara flicked her tail once on the sill, but said nothing. She followed him with her eyes, not her words.

The wardrobe opened with a whisper of runes.

He didn’t pick anything fancy—just fitted travelwear, light and enchanted for comfort. A half-collared tunic of deep ash-grey, sleeveless. Softlined black pants. No crest. No trim. Just functional cloth and silent enchantments.

He tied the sash loose. Let his arms breathe. And as he laced the boots, he let his thoughts finally drift away from compression basins and abyssal names.

Mostly.

Vitaliara stretched once before leaping down with the soft precision of a falling ribbon, curling herself across Lucavion’s shoulder without a word. Her weight was negligible—more presence than mass—but her warmth pressed just beneath his collarbone like a reminder: I’m here. Watching.

He stepped out into the corridor.

The Academy’s air met him like a second baptism.

Cool. Clean. Dense with intent.

He exhaled—and felt it. The difference.

It wasn’t just mana in the air. It was crafted. Filtered. Refined. The kind of magical ecosystem that only centuries of obsessive arcanists and divine-tier enchantment could build. Even the atmosphere here held rules.

’Polished,’ he thought, the word lifting from his mind with a flicker of satisfaction. ’Just like the book said.’

Mana here didn’t swirl—it coursed. The pressure was heavier than outside the grounds, yes—but not oppressive. No, it forced structure. Breath control. Circulation. The natural pull of ambient mana here didn’t allow sloppiness.

He inhaled again, letting the air settle beneath his ribs.

Denser. Sharper. Efficient.

This was why the Academy bred monsters. Not because of lectures or politics—but because every breath you took inside these wards taught your body to adapt.

’I wonder,’ he mused, ’how many here even know what they’re breathing.’

[The walls here hum,] Vitaliara murmured, golden eyes half-lidded. [I could sleep forever inside this frequency.]

“You’d be the only one getting rest,” Lucavion replied under his breath. “The rest of us have politics, professors, and possibly prophetic glitch-men to deal with.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response.

He descended the last step from the dorm’s curved staircase and crossed the outer courtyard walk. Lanterns had begun to lift from the ground again, dancing lazily above stone as night crept deeper into the dome. Not high, not low. Just suspended—like the breath of something watching.

Then he saw them.

Mireilla and Caeden.

Leaning against one of the outer pillars of the north wing, half in the light, half not.

Caeden noticed him first.

His eyes lifted from whatever low conversation he and Mireilla had been sharing, and for a moment—just a breath—he looked like he was still deciding whether to speak.

Then he straightened slightly and gave a small nod.

“Lucavion.”

Lucavion didn’t stop walking. Just angled his steps toward them with that familiar gait—unhurried, sharp in the joints but lazy in the shoulders. As if the world itself could wait.

Mireilla glanced over, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. Not surprise. Just… calculation.

“Out for a moonlit stroll?” Caeden asked as Lucavion drew near.

Lucavion smirked. “If by stroll you mean letting myself be drowned in compression mana while getting scolded by a shoulder-cat, then yes. Lovely evening.”

[Vitality beast,] Vitaliara corrected with absolute offense, not even bothering to raise her head from his collar.

Caeden snorted, though it was more exhale than laughter. “You’re in a good mood.”

Lucavion stopped beside the pillar, shoulder brushing stone, arms loose at his sides. “A basin that doesn’t try to kill me is a rare gift. I’m savoring the moment.”

Mireilla tilted her head slightly. “You don’t strike me as the ’moment-savoring’ type.”

He shrugged. “Even poison tastes sweet if you know how to drink it.”

Caeden raised a brow. “That supposed to be wisdom or a warning?”

Lucavion’s smile curved sharper. “Depends. Are you planning on drinking anything?”

Mireilla laughed once—dry, quick, genuine. “Stars help us all.”

For a time, none of them spoke. Just leaned into the silence like a shared breath after something too large to name had passed. The courtyard didn’t shift this time. No prophetic figures, no mirrored windows to other lifetimes. Just stone and air and three people who, somehow, still stood after a night that had rewritten the rules behind their eyes.

Then Caeden broke it.

“You think he’ll show up again?” he asked, not clarifying who he was.

He didn’t need to.

Lucavion looked toward the dome overhead, watching the way the light caught the invisible weave of the containment shield. Then:

“I hope so.”

Caeden blinked. “You… hope so?”

Lucavion just shrugged, as if the idea of being stalked by a reality-fraying anomaly was no more troublesome than finding a spider in your boot. “Mysteries like that?” he said. “They don’t come around twice. And if they do—well. Might as well make use of them.”

Caeden gave him a look. “Use. A glitching, mana-ghost cryptid.”

Lucavion turned to him with a slow, lazy smile. “You make it sound ungrateful. We survived. We learned something. I might get stronger. Seems like a win.”

Mireilla folded her arms. “You’re assuming ’stronger’ is worth what that thing costs.”

“To someone like me?” Lucavion tapped a knuckle gently against his temple. “It is.”

There was a lull.

Somewhere above them, a breeze slid through the dome’s upper layers, rustling mana-fused ivy that clung to the upper balconies. The sound was soft—almost like whispering—but not quite.

[You’re doing that thing again,] Vitaliara murmured, eyes half-closed. [Pretending like your curiosity isn’t hunger.]

Lucavion said nothing. Only exhaled slow through his nose.

And behind them, the air shifted.

Not dramatically. Not with a flare of magic or a sound. Just… shifted.

Like a breath drawn in reverse.

Elayne stepped into view from the shadow of a column. Silent. Unannounced. The ambient light caught the silver trim of her sleeve first, then the sweep of her gaze, cool and unreadable. She said nothing.

Mireilla and Caeden didn’t even turn. Still caught in their thoughts. Still unaware.

Lucavion, however, didn’t need to turn.

He already knew.

“Elayne,” he said softly, without looking. “You always did enjoy arriving like a plot twist.”

She stepped forward just enough for her presence to settle against the edge of the conversation.

Caeden startled slightly. Mireilla blinked and straightened.

“How long have you been—” Caeden began.

Elayne’s voice, quiet as dusk: “Long enough.”

Lucavion finally turned to face her fully. No expression. Just eyes that knew she’d been listening, and didn’t mind.

“Anything to add?” he asked.

Her gaze met his. Level. Steady.

“Only that the ones who survive stories like this,” she said, “rarely get to remain the reader.”

Lucavion’s smirk returned, crooked and slow.

“Good,” he said. “I hate reading other people’s endings.”