Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Lira might have been bowing her head now, offering compensation with all the right words, but Valeria couldn't shake the feeling of distaste.

Her instincts as a warrior and a noble warned her against accepting this offer. The girls surrounding Lira, too—there was something about them that made Valeria uncomfortable.

They seemed frivolous, all talk, and lacking the discipline she was used to seeing in those who followed someone of rank. It grated on her nerves.

No, she couldn't ignore her instincts. She should not.

That is why, with a polite but firm tone, Valeria finally responded, "Thank you for the offer, but there's no need. I will manage on my own."

Lira's expression didn't change much, though a flicker of surprise crossed her eyes. She nodded, clearly sensing the finality in Valeria's words. "As you wish," she said, stepping back slightly. "I apologize once again for the trouble we caused."

Without further words, Lira turned and rejoined her group, leaving Valeria to her thoughts.

As Valeria sat in the quiet aftermath of the confrontation, her thoughts drifted back to the moment when Lira had drawn her sword and struck at Varen.

That slash—it had been quick, but the power behind it was undeniable. Even though it was just a single, emotionally driven attack, it had been filled with mana, crackling with intensity.

Valeria couldn't help but wonder: If she had been the one facing that blow, would she have been able to defend herself as effortlessly as Varen had? Probably not. That kind of energy would have left her at least bruised, if not worse.

The realization settled uneasily in her chest. She had always prided herself on her skills, her training, her discipline. But here, in this city, surrounded by people from all walks of life—Awakened fighters, sect disciples, noble heirs—she was beginning to see just how vast the world was. How many people out there possessed strength she couldn't yet fathom?

And then, her thoughts shifted to that infuriating man—Lucavion. She hated thinking about him, but she couldn't deny the impact their duel had left on her.

He was also young, like her, but unlike anyone she had faced before. Always careless, always grinning as if everything was a joke, but the way he wielded his sword was nothing short of dangerous.

His movements had been fluid, calculated, as if every strike was meant to kill, even when he was only toying with her. And then there was that strange starlight mana—powerful, otherworldly, and far beyond what she had encountered in any of her training.

'This world…..I was really narrowminded….thinking that I was something while I was nothing but a frog in the well.'

In a short time, she had crossed paths with people whose power was leagues beyond her own. First, Lucavion, and now, Lira and Varen. These encounters made her realize how much further she had to go, how much more she needed to push herself if she wanted to stand on equal footing with the truly powerful figures in this world.

Her instincts had been right—this tournament would be a chance for her to grow, to prove herself. But now, more than ever, she understood that this path wouldn't be easy. She would have to face opponents who had lived their lives surrounded by conflict and power far greater than what she had seen within her family's walls.

But she rather liked this weird feeling.

********

The moon hung high over Andelheim, casting a silver glow across the city's winding streets. The festive clamor of the day had faded, replaced by a more sinister quiet. Beneath the bustling surface of the tournament, shadows moved in places where prying eyes seldom ventured.

Deep within the dimly lit halls of an ancient tavern, tucked away in the lower districts of Andelheim, two pairs of fierce eyes gleamed in the darkness. They sat at a private table near the back, their faces obscured by the hoods of their cloaks, illuminated only by the flickering candlelight.

Across from them stood a man in fine but muted clothing. His voice was low, almost a whisper, but there was an undeniable intensity in the way he spoke. His eyes flitted between the two figures, gauging their reactions.

"You both know why we're here," he began, his fingers tracing the edge of a small map laid out on the table.

The figures shifted slightly, their eyes never leaving the man, their attention sharp.

"The top two spots," he continued, "that's what you're after. It's not just about glory; it's about power. Influence. And the favor of the Ventor family itself. Do you understand what that means?"

The man's voice lingered in the air, heavy with authority and menace. The two figures, sitting across from him, remained silent. Beneath the hoods of their cloaks, their eyes gleamed—not with excitement or determination, but with hatred that burned as fiercely as the candlelight that illuminated their faces.

One was a young boy, barely in his teens, his jaw clenched tightly as he stared at the man with a mix of anger and fear. His fists were balled beneath the table, trembling ever so slightly. Next to him, his older sister sat, her body still, but her fierce gaze told of a rage that she was barely able to contain.

She was a few years older, her face marked by exhaustion and the weight of what they had been through.

Slaves. That's what they were.

Captured in a raid years ago, taken from their home, and sold like cattle, they had been trained in the most brutal of circumstances. Their lives were a cycle of pain, obedience, and fighting. The man standing before them had made sure of that. He had bought them, trained them, and conditioned them for one purpose—to win, to fight, to serve.

"You will compete in the tournament," the man repeated, his voice as cold as the steel sword he always carried at his side. "And you will take the top two spots."

The girl's eyes narrowed beneath her hood, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the edge of the table. Her thoughts screamed to lash out, to fight back, but she knew better. Both of them did. The marks on their backs were a constant reminder of the consequences of defiance.

"And if we don't?" the boy finally spoke, his voice trembling but defiant. His sister shot him a warning glance, but it was too late. The man's lips curled into a cruel smile.

"You know exactly what will happen if you fail." He leaned closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "If you don't secure the top two spots, then they will pay the price. Do you want that?"

Both siblings flinched, their eyes briefly meeting before they looked away. They knew what he meant.

They had witnessed such punishment before, and the memory still haunted them. The man had made sure they saw it. He had forced them to watch, so they would understand just how high the stakes were.

The girl's throat tightened, and she forced herself to speak. "We'll do what you ask," she said, her voice low, devoid of emotion. It was the voice of someone who had no choice.

The man straightened, satisfied with her response. "Good. Very good."

He turned, preparing to leave, but paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder one last time. "Remember, your lives are not the only ones at stake here."

With that, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving the siblings in the dim light of the tavern.

The boy sat motionless, staring at the table, his fists still clenched. His sister reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "We have to," she whispered, though her voice was hollow. "We have to win."

The boy's eyes burned with tears he refused to shed. "I hate him," he muttered. "I hate all of them."

"So do I," his sister replied softly, her hand tightening on his arm. "But we can't let them hurt anyone else. We'll fight. And we'll win."

They sat there in silence for a long while, knowing that the tournament was their only way forward—though it was a path paved with blood, pain, and desperation. They were bound by chains they couldn't see, forced to fight not for glory or power, but for survival.

And though they hated it, they knew they had no other choice.