Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 684: Sword Demon (2)

The fourth day of the entrance exam.

Priscilla sat alone at the imperial garden terrace, the light of the projection disc casting subtle gold across her face. The feed hovered above the obsidian altar, tuned directly to Zone Eight—where two figures now stood, tension curling in the air like storm clouds before a downpour.

One of them: Reynald Vale.

The boy the people once called hero.

And the other—

Lucavion.

No fanfare. No dramatic pose. He stood as he always did—still, poised, unbothered.

The confrontation began with no grand declarations. Just silence. But Priscilla, watching, didn't blink. Her fingers, folded in her lap, didn't twitch.

She watched.

Studied.

And then—

The moment Reynald moved, everything sharpened.

The broadcast flared with light as his sword art emerged—something elegant, structured. A crescent of force, refined into thin arcs that bent light and air alike. The crowd watching around her murmured at the display—admiration, reverence, some even awe.

But Priscilla did not murmur.

She remembered.

That pattern.

That energy signature.

It had a cadence—too precise. A rhythm she had only encountered once before. freeweɓnovel.cøm

Not on the battlefield.

But in the palace.

At that time... the duel of retainers.

A private affair—her brother Lucien's entourage clashing with their sister's for status over some ceremonial selection. Two servants, one from each side, had demonstrated their martial strength under the guise of a test.

And the sword art from Lucien's attendant?

It was the same.

Not identical. But unmistakably of the same root. The same principles. The same ancestral blade school—one long since buried, practiced only by families that served the Crown's inner circle.

And now here it was.

In Reynald Vale's hands.

Her throat tightened—subtle, nearly imperceptible. But her gaze did not leave the projection.

Why does he feel similar...?

It wasn't just the swordplay. It was the way he carried the power. Not like it was earned. But like it was given.

A gift. Or a debt.

Is he affiliated...? No. That's not enough.

But it raised a question.

It struck her all at once.

Not a blow. Not a revelation.

But a pattern snapping into place—like a lock recognizing its key.

Priscilla's gaze remained fixed on the projection, but her thoughts unraveled swiftly, drawing thread after thread from the edges of everything she'd seen.

Reynald Vale…

A commoner, supposedly.

Humble.

Gracious.

The kind of person the people would rally behind—not out of fear, not out of obligation, but belief.

And now—he was faltering. His grace stripped. His strength exposed.

By Lucavion.

But before that… before today…

Reynald had everything. Charisma. Clean victories. Noble poise. The illusion of hardship.

And all of it?

Too perfect.

Her breath slowed. Her shoulders stayed still, but the air around her shifted—tightening like a bowstring drawn too far.

What if…

Her eyes narrowed.

What if Lucien planned this?

Not just the scandal. Not just the audience.

But all of it.

The creation of Reynald.

His entrance. His ascent. His poise. His "modest" strength. His curated failures. A perfect construct for the people—something they could love, follow, defend.

A symbol of unity born from humble roots.

And under that illusion…

Control.

The more she thought, the more sense it made.

Lucien would do it. Not just because he could—but because it was clean. Elegant. He never fought in public unless victory was absolute. But he manipulated?

That was his true battlefield.

And Reynald… Reynald may have just been another pawn.

No—worse.

He was a crafted hero.

And now he was being dismantled.

Priscilla's fingers curled faintly in her lap.

He created a symbol… and now it's crumbling.

Because of Lucavion.

She could almost hear Lucien's voice in her mind, calm and venomous.

"If the people need hope, give them a puppet. Let them cheer while you place the crown behind their backs."

And now the puppet was breaking.

Before a crowd. Before the Empire.

And Lucien?

He would hate this.

Because you couldn't control chaos. You couldn't brand it. You couldn't hide it in velvet.

And Lucavion… was chaos.

Unclaimed. Unbound. And now—

Seen.

She exhaled slowly, the first breath she'd truly drawn in minutes.

Her eyes stayed locked on the projection.

But her thoughts were far ahead.

If Lucien truly made Reynald… then this isn't just a loss of face.

This is war.

And the boy she met on the terrace?

He just declared it in front of the Empire.

The wind stirred faintly across the terrace as Priscilla remained seated—eyes fixed to the projection, mind spiraling through implications far larger than the duel she'd just witnessed.

And then—

"Your Highness."

Idena's voice, soft as ever, threaded through the weight of her thoughts. Her shadow fell to the side as she approached, respectful, yet never hesitant. Priscilla didn't glance away from the disc, but her ears tuned in at once.

"I looked into him, as you asked," Idena continued, standing close, her voice just low enough to remain theirs alone.

Priscilla said nothing.

Idena didn't need prompting.

"Lucavion," she said. "That is his registered name. Confirmed birth in the outskirts of the Empire. A minor settlement—no noble ties, no merchant blood, no mage certification."

Priscilla's gaze didn't shift, but her brow creased slightly. Go on.

"His family," Idena added quietly, "was unremarkable. Farmers. One elder cousin who did scouting work for the border militia—but no one with talent. And all of them… gone. Killed in a border raid nearly six years ago. Village destroyed."

A pause.

"Confirmed by both imperial census and civilian records."

Priscilla exhaled, slow and quiet.

So he was truly a commoner.

But commoners didn't move like that.

"After that," Idena went on, "he disappeared for some time. No travel records. No border crossings. No scroll-traced purchases or guild interactions."

Priscilla's lips pressed together.

So he vanished.

Idena continued. "He reappeared two years ago. First formal sighting—Rackenshore Town. Over a issue of the local lord. The town had been under the thumb of a rogue cultivator. A peak 3-star, using illegal enchantments to dominate the trade routes."

That made Priscilla blink.

"Three-star?" she murmured, arching a brow.

Idena gave a small nod. "Yes, Your Highness. In imperial terms, not significant. But in the outlands… a peak 3-star is enough to control a region. Equivalent to a regional knight captain, perhaps stronger. The kind that could cripple a town's economy or enslave half its population unchecked."

Priscilla considered that.

And then imagined Lucavion—three years younger, walking into such a place. Without title. Without allies.

And ending it.

"…Did he kill the bandit?" she asked quietly.

"...Did he kill the bandit?" she asked quietly.

Idena's answer came with the kind of calm certainty that made Priscilla's fingers still in her lap.

"Yes. According to the documentation from the local lord," Idena confirmed, "he not only killed the rogue cultivator but also rescued the kidnapped heir of the barony. The boy was only seven at the time. His survival and return cemented Lucavion as a local hero… at least, for a while."

But of course—that wouldn't be it. Not for Priscilla.

Such a feat, while impressive for someone of common birth, still paled in comparison to the precision, the control she had seen today.

No. This wasn't the work of a boy who rose through grit and luck alone.

Her gaze darkened faintly.

"Anything else?" she murmured.

Idena hesitated.

"There was a second appearance," she said at last. "Roughly a year after the incident in Rackenshore. He participated in the Martial Tournament of Vendor."

Priscilla's gaze snapped toward her.

"Vendor?" she repeated, voice low, sharp. "Marquis Vendor?"

Idena nodded. "Yes, Your Highness."

Now things were getting interesting….