Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 640: Central Nobles (2)

Valcarrini's words hung in the air like perfume—cloying, expensive, and suffocating.

Valeria said nothing.

She could feel the pressure building just beneath her collarbone, like a knot she couldn't quite cut. The argument was clear in her mind, sharp and instinctive. But the words to frame it? They eluded her. She was a knight, not a diplomat. Her strength lived in action, not the slippery finesse of noble rhetoric.

And Valcarrini knew it.

She leaned back in her chair, perfectly composed, voice velvet-smooth as she continued, "Some are born to rule, Lady Olarion. Others are born to serve. That is not cruelty—it is order. A structure ordained not by law, but by blood. By history. You of all people must understand that."

Valeria's jaw flexed slightly.

But the noblewoman wasn't finished.

"No matter how strong the lower castes become, they will always lack something. Not just training. Not refinement. But instinct. The gravity of command. There is a weight to leadership—true leadership—that cannot be learned. One must be born beneath it. Shaped by it. Named by it."

She let her gaze drift lazily toward the scrying disc.

"You can give a dog a sword, but it will never know how to wield it like a lion."

Valcarrini's words floated above the tea table like incense smoke—thin, perfumed, toxic.

But Valeria wasn't listening anymore.

Not truly.

Because that phrase had pulled her backward. ƒгeewebnovёl.com

Back to a smaller arena. One not suspended in an arcane projection, but built from real stone and sweat. The tournament of Andelheim—a proving ground more brutal than anyone had expected. Not because of the rules. But because of who had broken them.

Lucavion.

She remembered the way the Cloud Heavens Sect disciples had strutted through the tournament grounds—draped in expensive charmcloth, ringed with enchanted jewelry, speaking as if the outcome had already been decided. Every motion they made was deliberate, their arrogance thick enough to choke a man.

Until Lucavion stepped into the ring.

No crest.

No sponsor.

Not even proper dueling attire.

Just that tattered coat and the eyes of someone who didn't care for their rules—and who fought like someone who knew they were rigged.

She'd watched, stone-faced, as he dismantled the Sect's prized disciples one by one.

Not with elegance. Not with showy flourishes.

With precision.

He didn't toy with them. Didn't monologue.

He cut through illusions like they were nothing. Broke their posture. Exploited their overconfidence. And when it was over—he didn't celebrate.

He just walked away.

And that—that—was what had rattled her more than anything.

Because she had been raised on the edge of rules. Discipline. Measured duels. The idea that power must be earned, refined, trained.

And there he was—proof that some people didn't need refinement.

They were already sharp enough to bleed the world dry.

She remembered what had happened after.

How whispers spread like wildfire.

How her father—ever the cautious opportunist—had begun entertaining correspondence from the newly rising Marquis Vendor, who had taken a sudden and strategic interest in the sect's failings.

And then?

The alliance.

The signature.

The sword she now carried, not in her hand, but in the weight of her presence.

It all began there.

With a nobody.

A rogue.

A bastard with no name worth speaking, but a blade that forced the empire to listen.

The irony curled faintly at the corners of her mouth.

She almost laughed.

Truly—if this was what Valcarrini called "a dog with a sword," then she hoped the whole kennel broke through the gates.

But she said nothing.

She simply sipped her tea, her posture as refined as any in the room.

Because even if they mocked the forge—

They had never felt the heat.

And she had.

******

The scent of roasted chestnuts and spell-sparked incense mingled in the air, thick with the chatter of too many voices speaking at once.

Elara stood beneath the stone arch of the public plaza's viewing gallery, her arms loosely folded and her eyes fixed on the massive projection hovering above the crowd. It was woven from illusion threads and light-tuned mana, anchored between the marble columns of the broadcast tower. The image shimmered, clear even in daylight: the Candidate Trials, second phase. Combat zone active. Formation fracturing.

They'd chosen to watch from the ground this time.

It was crowded. Loud. Alive in a way that pressed in from every direction—children on shoulders, vendors shouting over one another, brass-voiced fortune readers hawking quick readings between commercial breaks, lovers sharing shawls and candied sparks. The festival had cracked the city open like a ripe pomegranate—colors spilling across every flagstone, music catching on balconies, fireworks humming low like breathing spells, just waiting to be loosed into night.

But the broadcast still dominated everything.

Even above the din, the pulse of the trial's clash echoed through the illusion display—spells colliding, terrain shifting, voices shouting over tactical calls. The city might have dressed itself in silk and song, but its eyes were here.

Watching.

Waiting.

Weighing.

"Elara," Aurelian murmured at her side, fingers flicking absently as he traced sigil-notations in the air, half-translating the formation structure overlay. "Do you see the central compression field? They're herding them inward. It's not just survival—it's territory control."

"Cruel," Selphine noted, her tone cool as always. "But efficient. That's how you flush out the improvisers from the trained. I'd wager the ones clinging to their dueling forms will break first."

Elara didn't answer right away.

Her gaze was fixed on a girl darting across a clearing on the projection—mud-streaked, breathless, but fast. She hurled a low-tier spell not as a threat, but as cover, drawing fire long enough to reposition into the shadow of a shifting tree. Another candidate followed, taking the bait. The girl pivoted. A blade in the gut. Precise. Messy. Real.

Elara exhaled slowly. "She'll make it," she murmured.

Aurelian glanced at her. "You think so?"

"I recognize the way she moves," Elara said. "That's not something you learn at court."

On the side, Cedric's arms remained crossed, but his stance had shifted.

Not tense, exactly—just engaged. His weight leaned slightly forward, blue eyes tracking movement in the broadcast as if the projected field were a real battlefield and not a spectacle cast above a festival plaza.

The murmuring crowd had faded in his ears.

It was the rhythm he'd locked into—the cadence of steps, the glint of steel, the half-seconds between defense and retaliation. It was raw. Chaotic. Real.

This wasn't theory or rehearsal. It was desperation wrapped in instinct.

And it showed.

Selphine noticed the change in him. Her gaze flicked from Elara to Cedric, and though her voice remained smooth, there was a curious slant behind her tone.

"You're quiet," she said. "What do you think?"

Cedric didn't look away from the projection. "About what?"

She tilted her head. "Their swordplay."

He didn't answer at first. His eyes narrowed, following a fast exchange between three contenders—one disarmed, one eliminated, the third staggering but victorious.

Finally, he spoke. "It's good. Their timing's sharp. They're not afraid to take hits."

A pause. Then a faint frown.

"But their technique is basic. All fundamental forms. Nothing past Stage Two, maybe three. No refined stance memory. Footwork's too wide in soft terrain."

Selphine arched a brow, intrigued. "How perceptive of you, Reilan."

Cedric glanced sideways, mouth twitching with dry amusement. "I know how to spot a dying stance."

"They're commoners," Selphine offered, half-absent as her gaze returned to the illusion feed. "Most of them probably trained in dirt fields and stone yards. Still, some of them move like they've tasted real fights."

Aurelian hummed in agreement. "Which makes them more dangerous than the dueling club boys. Too many heirs mistake rehearsal for readiness."

Then the image on the projection shifted again—and the noise of the crowd rose with it.

"Oh," Selphine murmured. "Now he's interesting."