Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 756: Start (2)

The carriage moved in silence, its wheels gliding almost weightlessly over the mana-threaded stone of the Academy’s inner path.

Valeria’s gaze remained fixed beyond the crystalline glass window, unmoving—yet everything beyond it seemed to shift.

The Academy grounds unfolded before her like a living tapestry. Gardens bloomed with impossible flora, petals exhaling slow spirals of light. Silver-feathered birds wheeled overhead, their wings trailing brief traces of shimmer through the darkening sky. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and yet—there was no true darkness.

The stars had taken their place with unnatural clarity. Unmoving. Bright. Too bright.

And the moon—

It hung low and vast, its pale glow heavy enough to silver the tops of every roof and leaf, casting soft illumination over all it touched. But even that seemed… off.

Brighter than it should be. As if someone had pulled the moon closer.

No. Not just light.

Magic.

Valeria narrowed her eyes.

The light wasn’t just shining—it was shaped. Engineered. The contours of shadow and glow followed too deliberate a rhythm, highlighting pathways, structures, open balconies—guiding the eye the same way a story might guide the mind.

It was theatrical. A display.

But beneath that artistry, she felt something else.

A quiet tug.

A ripple at the edge of her perception.

She turned her gaze to the Academy’s main structure—an immense tower-ringed complex rising like a crown into the night sky. She had seen it before, of course. In paintings. In dossiers. In projections.

And now, in the flesh—yet something was wrong.

The carriage was moving.

But the tower wasn’t growing nearer.

If anything—

It was receding.

Not just visually, but magically. The sense of scale twisted subtly as they approached. The details remained sharp—the inlaid reliefs, the runes carved into its foundation, the pale blue flames that ringed its highest balconies—but the tower remained stubbornly distant. Impossibly so.

“…It’s not coming closer,” Valeria murmured, more to herself than to Elen.

Elen blinked, peering out the opposite window. “My lady?”

Valeria didn’t respond. Her fingers hovered slightly above her lap, sensing—not touching—the air.

Yes.

Her senses were fraying at the edges.

A subtle pressure curled behind her ears, the faintest fuzz beneath the crisp discipline of her perception. She recognized the sensation—it was a high-level displacement enchantment. Something designed not to mislead, but to suspend spatial understanding.

The stars above hadn’t shifted even once.

Neither had the moon.

And the path beneath their carriage remained perfectly smooth, unending.

As if the entire Academy were keeping its distance on purpose.

“Is this some kind of test?” Valeria murmured, her brow faintly furrowed. “Or… containment?”

Elen, ever cautious, didn’t answer.

But the air around them was thicker now. Like stepping through a dream stitched too neatly at the seams.

Valeria exhaled slowly, her expression sharpening—not with alarm, but clarity.

Whoever had woven this spell wanted to impress.

Or disorient.

Or both.

And while others might be dazzled, she was not here to be shown a lightshow.

She sat straighter.

Eyes narrowing.

Waiting for the illusion to break—or for the Banquet Hall to finally reveal itself from behind the theater curtain.

The shimmer of starlight above remained fixed, and the carriage’s motion grew dreamlike—fluid, endless, unmeasured.

Still, the spires of the Academy didn’t draw closer.

Not truly.

Yet Valeria no longer watched them.

She had seen through the illusion now—not enough to unravel it, but enough to know its purpose. The distortions weren’t meant to hide the Academy, only to elevate it. To render its grandeur eternal, untouchable. An institution that could never truly be arrived at, only permitted.

And in that sense, the Banquet Hall was not within the Academy proper.

It was beyond it.

When the carriage crested the final curve of the winding path, the illusion rippled once—and then dropped.

The scenery resolved sharply.

There it was.

The Banquet Hall.

It stood in dignified silence, perched upon a raised marble terrace flanked by sloping water gardens and structured mana-glass trees. Though smaller than the Academy’s main towers, it bore no less grandeur. Its shape was circular, enclosed by high archways and trimmed with rune-etched gold. The entire structure shimmered with an inner luminescence—not firelight, but something deeper. The color of divination. Of fate made present.

And perhaps, just perhaps… of judgment.

The carriage drew to a halt at the bottom of the ivory steps leading to the grand entrance.

Even before the driver could dismount, a pair of academy attendants stepped forward. Robes of white and soft azure, the official colors of the Imperial Examinarium. They bowed in practiced unison.

“Lady Valeria Olarion,” the elder attendant said, tone courteous yet brisk. “Your arrival has been recorded precisely at your designated interval.”

The other continued smoothly, as if they had rehearsed the line a dozen times. “We thank you for your punctuality. The Examinarium welcomes you on behalf of the Imperial Council, and House Olarion is hereby acknowledged.”

Valeria inclined her head with elegant precision—a motion slight enough to retain superiority, yet gracious enough to complete the ritual of acknowledgement. The way her lips curled into a subtle smile—measured, practiced—carried more weight than a full sentence. She had been received. She had been seen. And so she stepped forward.

The marble beneath her heels was polished to a gleam, the kind of perfection that didn’t simply reflect—it refracted, casting faint arcs of moonlight and mana-fire along her hemline as she moved. Her gown flowed with calculated poise, emerald silk shifting like water over steel.

And as she crossed the threshold of the Banquet Hall—

—she entered a world of breathing radiance.

It was not loud. There was no music yet. No great pronouncements. Just the low hum of noble voices, threads of conversation floating like mist above the floor, their cadence clipped and elegant. The chandeliers did not hang—they floated, held in place by thread-thin rings of suspended glyphs. Their light bathed the interior in gold-soft hues, refracting through glass-cut stars embedded in the domed ceiling.

Valeria’s eyes moved at once.

Even in her stillness, she scanned.

To the right: the scions of House Elvenhart, flanked by retinue, robes of crimson and dusk. Their heir—Lauren—met her gaze with the ghost of a nod. Courteous, not friendly. The boy had once tried to outmaneuver her in the northern court. Once.

To the left: House Grendhal’s envoys. Obsidian trim. Barely disguising their disdain for everything not weaponized. She recognized the Grendhal twins instantly—taller now, but no less predictable. They did not look her way.

And further ahead—

A ripple of motion.

Heir Marcenel of House Vesden.

Surrounded, as always, by a halo of half-smiling lesser heirs, each one hoping to be noticed when he chose to speak. He did not yet see her. He was holding court already. Flawless posture, silver-threaded cloak, a goblet of crimson nectar untouched in his hand. But she caught it: the faint tension in his jaw. The pause before his next word.

He knew she had arrived.

Valeria took it all in, each detail marked and noted. None of this surprised her.

What did surprise her… was the weight of her own breath.

This should have felt routine. These halls, these families, these gestures—they were all part of the game. The empire’s endless masquerade of power and courtesy. And yet… beneath her practiced smile, there was something else.

A quiet anticipation. A pulse.

Because she had not forgotten.

Somewhere in this hall—soon , if not already—he would be here.

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