Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 971: An instructor named Arcten (2)

“…Hope the brat at least knows how to hold a sword.”

Arcten muttered the words as he stepped into the West Arena, coat half-buttoned and sleep still clinging to the edges of his skull. The mana lanterns flickered in protest above him—dim things, barely brighter than the moonlight spilling through the open dome.

The cold bit at his fingers, the damp chill of pre-dawn seeping through the seams of his gloves.

The field was quiet. Still.

Perfect.

He rolled his neck with a dull crack and paced across the outer ring, his boots brushing loose grit along the carved stone. Runes pulsed faintly beneath his feet—old academy enchantments meant to monitor injuries and suppress lethal intent. Good enough for safety. Worthless for real combat.

But this wasn’t about real combat, was it?

This was theater.

The kind with paperwork and scorecards and preloaded expectations.

He reached the center, stretched once, and exhaled. The cold stung a little less now. Muscles remembering their rhythm. Joints reminding him they were still his.

And then—

He felt it.

That shift in the air.

Soft, measured footsteps. No rush. No hesitation.

The kind of stride that didn’t try too hard—but knew exactly where it was going.

Arcten turned his head slightly.

There he was.

Lucavion.

Ten paces out.

Black eyes with a shade too dark to be simple. He wasn’t posturing, not really—but there was something in the way he stood. Loose. Controlled. Like someone used to being underestimated.

Arcten narrowed his eyes.

’Cocky little shit.’

Still, credit where it was due.

The kid didn’t flinch under his gaze. Didn’t puff his chest out either.

Just stood there—calm, hands clasped behind his back, with that faint smirk that always made Arcten want to assign extra laps on instinct.

“Am I early,” Lucavion said, voice light, “or are you the sort who likes to scare the students before they can even yawn?”

Arcten’s lip twitched. Gods, he hated talkers.

“…It’s too early for this shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t talk before sunrise.”

The kid raised an eyebrow.

“I wasn’t the one who arranged it.”

“Yeah, I can fucking guess that.”

He heard the kid click his tongue. Mock-wounded, like they were friends sharing some kind of joke.

“Tu tu tu… language.”

Arcten gave him a look.

“Language can go fuck itself.”

There was a beat of silence. Then the faintest grin tugged at Lucavion’s mouth.

Arcten turned away, fighting the urge to sigh.

“I’m Instructor Arcten,” he said flatly. “And as the gods clearly hate both of us, I’m your examiner for today’s Weaponship Evaluation.”

He moved toward the rack without waiting for a reply, grabbing the suppression bracelets and tossing one lazily toward the boy.

“Wear it.”

Lucavion caught it easily. Didn’t flinch. Just eyed the artifact like it owed him money.

Good.

That meant he wasn’t stupid.

Still—Arcten watched. Not with suspicion, not yet. But with that quiet awareness that came from a lifetime of watching men lie with their posture.

And as the arena’s barrier began to rise, sealing them in with a hum of enchanted stone and silence—

Arcten adjusted his grip on his own bracelet.

“I am not the one to ever miss a chance to fight.”

Of course he’d say something like that.

Arcten squinted at the kid as he stepped forward, all calm bravado and that sharp little smile like he was the one doing the evaluating.

Lucavion plucked one of the dull blades from the rack—thin, single-edged, slightly warped from repeated use. One of the older ones. Not flashy. Not pretty.

At least the brat had enough sense not to grab something ceremonial.

He spun it in his grip like it meant something. Like it was a conversation between old friends.

Arcten didn’t comment.

He just watched.

Lucavion’s footsteps were light as he entered the ring. Too light. No nervous weight. No stiffness. He moved like someone who enjoyed this.

The moment the boy crossed the central rune, the arena barrier responded—low pulse, quiet hum. Arcten caught the faint flicker of it in his peripheral, just as he pulled the suppression bracelet from his coat.

“Youngsters these days…” he muttered under his breath, massaging the bridge of his nose. It was too early for this. Too political. Too familiar in all the wrong ways.

With a lazy flick, he tossed the other bracelet.

“Wear it.”

The kid caught it without looking.

Smooth.

No dramatics. Just the tiniest twitch of his brow as the thing latched on.

Arcten watched the rune flare—clean, sharp, arrogant. Just like always.

He slid his own bracelet into place with a grunt, already regretting not throwing this whole damn evaluation out with yesterday’s paperwork.

Then—CLICK.

The dome sealed.

And the stillness settled.

He glanced once more at the boy—loose limbs, casual stance, expression unreadable. Not smug, not scared.

Just… patient.

Like someone waiting to hear the opening note of a song they already knew by heart.

Arcten adjusted his grip.

“Weaponship Evaluation, candidate Lucavion,” he said aloud, voice echoing against the stone and rune-carved walls.

“Begin.”

He didn’t wait.

Didn’t test.

Didn’t warn.

THRMM—!

The floor cracked under his weight as he launched forward, blade coming from the left in a broad, sweeping arc. Not elegant. Not controlled. Purposeful. The kind of swing designed to knock balance out of a body and strategy out of a mind.

The kid didn’t backpedal.

He stepped in.

Bold.

The blade whistled past fabric, missing by a thread. Arcten caught the movement with a flick of his gaze—Lucavion rotating through the attack like it had invited him for tea.

No block. No clash. Just motion.

Alright.

Arcten turned with it, re-centering his stance before the boy was even out of range—but he was already moving behind him. Low. Efficient.

The strike came—not a slash, but a jab at the back of the knee.

THWACK.

Minimal force. Targeted. It wouldn’t have even scratched a greaves plate—but if they weren’t wearing armor?

Sharp kid.

Arcten pivoted on instinct, letting his body do the talking. His leg shot back—WHUMP—connecting with something solid. The boy deflected. Took the hit. Slid away clean.

No stumble. No complaint.

Just a slight smile.

Arcten turned, slowly this time. His expression didn’t shift, but his brain was already filing new lines.

He’s not reacting like a student.

He stared at Lucavion now, not just looking. Reading. Measuring. This wasn’t arrogance. Not exactly.

It was… anticipation.

He let out a breath.

“Not bad,” he said, flatly.

It wasn’t praise. Just a footnote.

The kid tilted his head.

“Heh. Why?”

“You’re a freshman,” Arcten replied. “But you’re pretty good for one.”

He could’ve stopped there.

But the words rolled out—tired and low.

“But it’s a shame.”

Lucavion raised a brow. “A shame?”

Arcten didn’t answer.

Instead, he moved.

SHTHH—!

He surged forward again, faster this time. No warm-up. No quarter. The ground cracked again, compressed air trailing behind his boots.

This time, he meant it.

Mana flowed—not flaring wildly, but layered deep through his limbs. A current shaped by discipline, not emotion. It threaded into the blade, coating it in that soft blue shimmer of measured power.

He brought the sword down.

CRASH—!

Lucavion blocked it—barely. The feedback cracked through the dome.

No follow-up command. No commentary.

Just the second strike.

Low. Fast. Controlled.

Lucavion dropped his stance, tried to deflect—but the third swing was already coming down before the second landed.

CLANG!

CLACK!

SHHUNK!

Strike after strike. Measured. Heavy. Constant.

Not meant to kill—but to corner.

The boy was nimble, no doubt about that.

Footwork clean.

Reflexes sharp.

But he was struggling now.

The ring flared with every blow. Feedback pulsed harder.

The suppression artifact still held. So did his stance. But only barely.

Arcten didn’t need to look at the numbers. He could feel it.

One more hit—clean and direct—and it’d register as a failed pass.

He saw Lucavion shift.

Left.

Mistake.

He adjusted the overhead swing, dragging it across into a descending slash—

Perfect angle.

It would land.

It would end.

And the boy—

Lucavion looked calm.

Too calm.

Even with the blade bearing down toward his neck, there was no panic. No fear.

Just… precision.

Arcten’s eyes narrowed.

And he said, low—

“Really a shame.”