Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 643: What happened ?

The Citadel of Domain Control.

The world shifted when one stepped into it.

Not walked—entered, as if peeling through the seams of reality itself.

Here, above the spatial dome that housed the exam below, the laws of physics bent not under machines or wires, but the meticulous weave of magecraft—the pinnacle of constructed sorcery. A pseudo-10-star technique, known only as Axiom Gatework, sprawled across the chamber's ceiling like a constellation carved into stone. Runic threads hovered in the air, living glyphs, each rotating with a pulse that resonated not in sound, but in concept. Understanding them was not a matter of sight—it was permission.

And only one man in the world had the authority to shape it: the Headmaster.

The floor was not floor—it was a lens. Transparent yet kaleidoscopic, revealing the world below like gods gazing upon a sandbox of survival. Mountain ridges folded in real time. Rivers redirected themselves mid-current. Trees uprooted and slithered like snakes, settling where they were needed. The dome of the examination zone shrunk by the second, a luminous boundary that pulsed inward, mimicking the breath of a dying star.

No computers. No interfaces.

Instead, mages—no, architects of space—floated within arcane arrays suspended mid-air. Their robes whispered against the artificial wind conjured by atmospheric regulators, each regulated by a core embedded in the glyphs around their feet. They weren't casting spells—they were editing existence.

One mage, draped in layers of hex-threaded silver, extended a hand and shifted three fingers mid-sentence. Far below, the temperature dropped five degrees, a snowfall manifesting where none had been. It wasn't just weather. It was controlled pressure. Temperature curves. Wind vectors. Each element simulated, refined, and then invoked through a lattice of runes.

Another mage rotated a cube of crystal between their palms. With each turn, monsters shimmered into being within the dome—each one forged from elemental bases and adjusted by aetheric ratios. Their creation was not haphazard but calculated. A fire-beast here to pressure the fireless. A stealth predator there to test the perceptive. Every creature placed like a strategic move on a war table. Balanced. Monitored.

And amidst it all stood the core pillar—the heart of the Citadel.

A massive obelisk of obsidian and crystal, inscribed with glyphs from a dead language even the elves no longer remembered. It pulsed once every second. With each pulse, the exam space below responded: shrinking, mutating, evolving. This was not merely a battlefield.

This was an experiment in controlled chaos.

At its peak floated the Headmaster himself—unmoving, eyes closed, suspended within a ring of eleven spells rotating like planets around a sun. Each spell was a concept—Field Compression, Aether Feedback Nullification, Artificial Evolution Algorithm—and each one impossible to replicate outside this room.

A voice crackled through the air like pressure from a fault line—low, sharp, and reverberating with command.

"Mana density in quadrant twelve rising too quickly. You—adjust the stream before it ruptures again."

The addressed mage flinched, robes flaring slightly as they shifted mid-air to redirect their focus. "Yes, Archmagister Keleran!"

Dozens of mages floated within the vast, hollow core of the Citadel, like celestial bodies caught in orbit around a single will. They moved in synchrony, their bodies encased in robes woven with arcane filaments, their faces illuminated by the glow of shifting glyphs that coiled and pulsed around them.

Senior Archmagi floated higher in the chamber, overseeing layers of magical input—strategists of space itself—while the younger acolytes occupied the lower rings, executing directives with clockwork precision.

"Stabilize the thermals around Sector Sixty-Two," another voice barked, this one female, old and unwavering. "There's a convergence forming. The last thing we need is a frostquake while the sixth-layer terrain shift's still cycling."

"Already buffering the leyline edge, Magister Levrinne," came the quick reply. The young mage made a sharp gesture, and below, the shimmering illusion of tundra softened, its jagged ice smoothing like glass under breath.

Hovering platforms spun slowly near the obelisk, holding archives of mana-encoded data—holographic scrolls mapping each candidate's path. Countless orbs floated nearby, each attuned to a specific participant.

"Lucavion… that one's still veiled," a younger observer murmured, eyes narrowed at the pulsing orb showing flickers of his most recent movements—just after the creature's death. "Mana trail is clean, no signature traces left behind."

"That's intentional," muttered another. "He's suppressing his aether field. Advanced technique for a Tier 3. Dangerous mind."

From across the chamber, a third leaned in. "He's not a mind we're tracking for top-tier placement, is he?"

"No," the first answered, voice lower now, curious. "But perhaps he should be."

The Citadel was not silent. It thrummed with discussion, argument, adjustment—magic as mathematics, instinct, and art all at once.

"Raise the gravity field slightly in the northeast sector," came Keleran's voice again. "Candidate Number 9871's too stable. She needs to be pressed harder."

"Understood."

The confirmation barely left the analyst's lips before a ripple passed through the Citadel—a pause, not of silence, but of suspended intent.

The air shifted.

And every mage stilled.

Because without warning, the Headmaster moved.

Not a grand gesture. Not a theatrical command. Just a single hand, rising slowly within the orbit of the eleven conceptual spells.

His fingers curled inward.

Permission.

The central obelisk responded instantly—its pulse deepening in tone, shifting from a gentle thrum to a resonant, almost living sound, like a heart shifting gears.

A single rune ignited along the core—a glyph forbidden to all but the Headmaster himself. It pulsed in crimson and gold, jagged in shape, unnatural in rhythm.

Across the Citadel, Keleran's voice dropped an octave. "Authorization received."

Another mage—a young operator watching the lower reserves—blinked. "Wh… we're really releasing them?"

"Indeed," murmured Levrinne, her voice devoid of warmth. "Begin Phase V trial insertion. Deploy Subject: Vekorith."

A silence settled, heavy and charged. Even the floating analysts stopped for a breath.

Subject Vekorith.

Codename: Maw of the Null Horizon.

An artificial apex predator, designed from layered magical principles and unstable cores. Born of convergent mana theory and eldritch bio-synthesis. A creature not meant to exist, but made to test the limits of existence.

"It's early," someone whispered.

Keleran didn't turn. "And yet, necessary. The lower-tier candidates need culling. And the higher ones…"

He glanced toward the orb tracking Lucavion—now glowing slightly brighter than before.

"They need measuring."

Below the Citadel, deep within the understructures of the dome's artificial terrain, a seal broke.

Not physically.

But spatially.

A chamber that hadn't existed moments ago now did—unfolding between quantum layers of constructed space, its walls lined in obsidian veins and containment glyphs. Within it, the creature stirred. Not born. Not awakened.

Unleashed.

Six legs unfolded from a crouched, sinewy form. Plates of carapace shimmered with mirrored mana, each layer shifting hue like oil on water. Veins of aether pulsed beneath its hide, flickering in and out of visibility. Its twin eyes opened—lidless, emotionless, unblinking.

It moved—silently.

A hiss escaped its spiraled maw, not breath but a vibration—a sound that bent the very space around it.

"Releasing Vekorith into Quadrant Thirty-One," a mage called out, hands steady despite the tremble in her voice.

"Mana cloaking engaged," another confirmed. "Presence suppression optimal. No candidates will detect it until contact."

"Directive?"

Keleran's expression didn't change. "Observe adaptive patterns. No interference."

The air within the Citadel held stillness the way deep oceans hold pressure—silent, crushing, waiting.

"Vekorith has entered the testing field," confirmed a senior technician, eyes narrowed as he adjusted the aether-thread display tracking the predator's movement. "Phase V is live."

"Visual confirmation?" asked Levrinne.

"Negative. Optical and spatial camouflaging holding steady. It's moving beneath terrain layers—using the faultline ridges for cover."

Keleran folded his arms, observing the central macro-projection where candidate movements traced luminous paths. Among them, Quadrant Thirty-One glowed faintly as Vekorith's presence distorted the grid.

"Predator en route to first contact," another mage said. "Estimated time to encounter: twenty seconds. Target proximity confirmed—three contestants, low to mid-tier, clustered near an abandoned aqueduct."

"Let's see how it feeds," Keleran murmured.

But then—a flicker.

Just one.

"Eh?"