Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 646: Named Candidates (2)

Elara said nothing.

Not at first.

Her posture didn't shift, but something in the line of her shoulders went still. Still—not like composure. Still like something stopped moving inside her.

The crowd murmured and swelled behind them, a sea of voices rising with each electric burst. Aurelian was still muttering excitedly under his breath, tracking spell patterns and power fluxes. Selphine's arms were crossed now, sharp-eyed and calculating. Cedric stood unmoving beside her, gaze flickering between the illusion and Elara's unreadable profile.

But Elara—she wasn't watching the spellcraft anymore.

She was watching the smile.

The way the boy—no, the performer—grinned, even as fire sparked across his boots and chaos whirled around him.

He didn't just fight. He played. As if the battlefield were his stage, and every close call was a cue. That devil-may-care glint in his eyes, that lopsided smirk like he knew the world was about to burn and couldn't wait to ask it for a dance—

It was reckless. Impossible. Infuriating.

And achingly familiar.

Her breath caught—not sharply. Just enough to register. Just enough to feel the pull in her chest where something once lived unguarded.

'No. It's not him. He was never a mage like this. Not this loud. Not this messy.'

But still—

Still, she whispered it.

"…Luca."

The name slipped past her lips, soft and low, like a secret she didn't mean to give to the wind.

Selphine turned toward her at once. "What?"

Elara blinked, pulled from whatever corner of her memory had held her captive. Her eyes flicked to Selphine, expression cool again—but her voice came quieter this time, more guarded.

"He reminded me of someone," she said.

"That boy in the projection?"

Elara didn't answer right away.

Instead, she turned her gaze back toward the screen, where the lightning mage had now flung himself backward into a roll, bracers sparking as he skidded through mud and laughter, narrowly dodging another spell.

"…Someone who also thought rules were more like… suggestions," she said finally. "And who never quite knew when to shut up."

"That guy," Aurelian said after a beat, his tone light but not mocking—genuinely intrigued, perhaps more than he wanted to admit, "must've really left an impression on you."

Elara didn't respond.

Didn't need to.

They all knew who she was talking about.

Even in the silence that followed, there was the shared weight of that name—Luca. Not just a ghost, not just a scar. Something more. Something still unfinished.

But Elara's face gave nothing away now. The moment had passed. Her expression had returned to its usual inscrutability—cool, composed, and edged in iron.

She didn't elaborate.

The broadcast flickered.

The projection above the plaza shifted, its illusion veil rippling like water before settling into a new scene—new coordinates, new quadrant.

A new figure.

This one… different.

Where the lightning mage had been fire and chaos, this boy was control and precision. Still young—maybe twenty, twenty-one at most—but his presence carried weight. His stance was tight, centered, almost textbook in its form.

He stood on the edge of a broken ridge, surrounded by half-toppled trees and the lingering smoke of broken runes. Below him—a horde.

Beasts. Twisted mana-spawn with glinting eyes and jaws too wide, the kind of creatures that had crawled from failed illusion loops or corrupted trials.

And yet, he didn't waver.

He moved.

A single step forward—and then his blade sang.

Not a named weapon. Not enchanted or gilded. Just a longsword, steel-forged and weather-worn. The kind used by knights too practical for ornament.

But in his hands, it became something else entirely.

He cut through the first beast in a clean arc, barely breaking rhythm. Then pivoted. Slashed a second with a low sweeping strike that caught two more in its wake. His footwork was impeccable—tight, grounded, efficient. There was no hesitation. No flourish.

Only focus.

And then—

He turned his back.

Not to expose himself.

To shield.

Because behind him, a group of candidates were scrambling for footing—less skilled, younger, slower. One had fallen. Another clutched a wounded leg, trying to lift a friend.

The knight—because that's what he looked like, even without a crest or sigil—stepped in front of them. His sword raised, his free hand extended in warning.

Stay behind me.

A beast lunged.

He moved faster.

The blade struck with a crack like breaking bone. A single stroke—swift, brutal, final.

"He's not just fighting," Cedric said quietly, watching with narrowed eyes. "He's protecting them."

Elara's gaze sharpened.

The monsters didn't stop.

But neither did he.

The boy—no, the knight in all but name—moved with a rhythm born not of violence, but of duty. His shoulders squared. His grip never faltered. And though claws raked across his arm and one beast's tail slammed into his ribs hard enough to stagger him, he held.

He took the hits others couldn't.

Not because he was careless.

But because they couldn't afford to.

Another wave came—four creatures this time, lunging in from different angles. He inhaled once, steady and sharp.

Then exhaled—and his mana flared.

It wasn't showy. No thunder, no lightning, no wild color burst.

Just arcs of clean-cut mana tracing out from his blade, like ribbons of condensed light. A sword path laced with purpose.

One, two, three—each arc cutting forward in a perfect crescent, slicing through the lead attackers before they could reach the wounded candidates behind him. The final beast got too close, and he met it with a direct clash—his sword grinding against its fangs before he twisted his blade and forced it to the ground, ending it in one merciful strike.

His aura, now visible from the projection's high clarity feed, was crisp.

Disciplined.

Not overflowing. Not chaotic.

Just… steady. Powerful. Controlled.

"Mid four-star," Elara murmured, almost to herself. "Maybe higher, but definitely mid."

Aurelian let out a low whistle. "A commoner reaching mid-four before even entering the Academy? That's…"

"Rare," Selphine finished, her voice unreadable. "And impressive."

They watched as the boy stepped back toward the group behind him—no words exchanged, no grand gestures. He just checked one of the younger candidates' footing, helped another to their feet, turned slightly to watch the treeline.

Always watching.

Always shielding.

Even injured, he didn't sit.

He stood guard.

"That's the kind of person they write ballads about," Aurelian muttered.

Elara said nothing—but she felt it too. That thread in her chest that pulled when she saw someone fight not for glory, not for pride, but because they could, and so they must.

The projection shimmered again, and now the feed included tracking data.

A wounded mage near the back of the group—the one he'd shielded—clutched a communication crystal, whispering into it. Her voice, barely audible, reached out to the broadcast rune.

"He saved us," the girl said. "All of us. His name is—"

A beat. Then the rune picked it up clearly, and the illusion feed displayed it in soft golden light across the edge of the projection.

"Reynald Vale."

The crowd murmured, his name echoing outward like a dropped stone in a still pond.

Reynald stood in the frame, silent, sword lowered but still ready, as more smoke curled from the ridge behind him.

And though he didn't bow, or gesture, or acknowledge the eyes watching from a thousand miles away—

There was something unmistakably noble in the way he stood.

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But unmistakably a knight.