Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Reynald's confusion was total.

Not the kind born of ignorance—but of contradiction.

This person's presence, his every movement, defied reason.

He should not have been like this.

Reynald's breath came hard and shallow, vision still ringing from the last impact. His blade trembled slightly in his grip, not from exhaustion—no, his training had long since drilled that away—but from something worse.

Doubt.

'What is this man?'

The battlefield had rules. Patterns. A structure to violence that every knight learned—how to control a fight, how to predict an opponent's rhythm. But this guy didn't follow them. He stepped through them, like a man walking over a shattered mirror, untouched by the shards.

Every slash, every motion… it was elegant.

Filled with emotions that didn't suit the battlefield at all.

Reynald staggered back another step, the weight of his longsword biting into his shoulder. Focus.

He had a mission.

That was all that mattered.

'He' had given it.

The one who pulled the strings from the throne-shadowed chambers. The man whose ambitions carved through nations with the same ease as the blade carved through spellsteel. And Reynald—Seran—was his instrument.

That was the only reason he was here.

The Candidate Trials were never meant to test him. They were theater. A proving ground for others. But for him? It was insertion. Establishment.

He had been ordered to enter as a commoner. Molded into the perfect face of rising hope—of meritocracy. He would pass the Trials not just with skill, but with perception. Humble. Brave. Resilient. Everything a commoner child dreamed of becoming.

Because 'he' had understood one vital truth: the academy wasn't just a place of learning.

It was the heart of the Empire's future.

Control the academy, and you control the next generation of leaders, knights, and lawmakers. Control their faith. Their idols.

Reynald Vale.

The commoner hero.

Crafted by hand, sculpted with purpose.

And Seran Idric Velcross had accepted that purpose without hesitation.

Because he owed everything to him.

He should've died, years ago. A child no older than six, torn from the burning remains of a disgraced estate. The Velcross name—once respected, feared even—had been extinguished in a single night, branded traitors for the sins of Seran's father and grandfather.

He hadn't even known what they'd done. He hadn't understood politics, or military secrets, or betrayal.

He was just a boy.

But the Empire didn't care for the innocence of blood.

Until 'he' stepped in.

Until the boy had been brought before a man with cold eyes and careful hands. A man who looked at a trembling orphan and saw not a child—but a weapon.

And instead of a blade, he'd been given a new name. A new face.

A second chance.

Reynald Vale.

From that day forward, he had no name but the one given.

Not Seran Idric Velcross, the scion of a ruined house. That name had been buried—burned like the banners of his disgraced bloodline. What remained was something cleaner. Simpler.

Reynald Vale.

The boy who was spared. The boy who was shaped.

He trained in silence. Not at the grand academies of the capital, not beneath banners or sunlight—but beneath shadows. In halls without windows. With mentors who did not ask questions and blades that never dulled. Every form drilled into him was meant for one purpose: not to survive—but to serve.

He had been given access to techniques restricted to the upper noble class. Forbidden texts. Artifact-grade weaponry. Sparring partners who were whispered about in military reports but never named aloud.

But he did not waste them.

He couldn't.

He didn't just want to be strong.

He wanted to be worthy.

And when the moment came, when he was finally summoned to the tower beyond the reach of stars and sound, the man who had given him everything greeted him not with affection—but with expectation.

The room had been silent. Wide. Lined in obsidian and restraint.

And at its center, seated not on a throne, but on a simple, high-backed chair—him.

Even seated, the air around him felt heavier than steel. Cloaked in precision. Power carved into every angle of his posture.

He did not turn to greet Reynald.

He simply spoke.

"The Trials begin soon."

His voice was not loud. It did not need to be.

"You will enter."

Reynald dropped to one knee without hesitation.

"Yes, Your Highness."

He continued, each word measured as if written into history before being spoken.

"You will go as a commoner. Obscure. Modest. Let your strength reveal itself only in necessity. Let the people think they found you. Let them love you for it."

He stood then, finally. The motion was smooth—like a shadow rising against torchlight.

"Make no mistake, Seran… This is not merely for victory. You are not there to fight. You are there to be seen."

He turned now, eyes the color of cold iron fixing onto Reynald.

"I do not need another blade. I need a symbol."

A pause.

"You will pass the Trials. You will draw the eyes of the commoners. You will be their voice—their dream made flesh. They will follow you, not because I told them to… but because they want to."

The weight of that command sank into Reynald's bones like iron chains—and yet, it felt more like armor.

The Crown Prince took a final step forward, stopping just close enough for his voice to lower.

"There are many who dream of change. But dreams without direction become disorder." fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

A hand, gloved and precise, tapped once against Reynald's chest.

"You will be their direction. Their hope. Their shield. And when I call upon them… they will already be loyal."

He stepped back, voice rising just enough to end the moment.

"Go. Take the name they gave you. Turn it into a banner they'll follow."

The memory pulsed through his chest like a second heartbeat.

And he had followed it.

Every step. Every breath.

From the moment he entered the Candidate Trials, he had played the role—no, embodied it. The humble swordsman. The quiet strength. Not too skilled, not too prideful. Just enough to impress, never enough to intimidate.

He hadn't worn silk. He hadn't drawn attention to his name. He hadn't claimed leadership.

He'd earned it.

By staying up to tend the wounds of others. By giving up his rations to the girl who couldn't stand. By dragging the unconscious boy to the healing ward when no one else could lift him.

By fighting just hard enough to survive, but never hard enough to shine.

He had made himself dependable.

He had made himself good.

Even when the cameras weren't watching—especially then.

Because it was never about spectacle.

It was about belief.

When others hoarded potions, he shared his. When others cursed the instructors, he spoke in calm, even tones. When panic swept through a group, he steadied it—not with force, but with a hand on the shoulder, a few chosen words.

"I'll hold the line. You just get them to safety."

"Here—take my coat. You need it more."

"I'm not the strongest. But I won't run."

The mask had become his second skin. Not because it was false—but because it was needed.

He had even gathered a small team—three others, now safe behind the dome. Candidates who owed their passage entirely to him.

He didn't ask for thanks. Didn't seek it.

He didn't need it.

Their belief was enough.

They would speak his name with respect. With gratitude. They would remember who pulled them through Phase Four.

And the city would see it.

The broadcasters had already started highlighting him. Commentators whispering about his "unshakable humility," his "quiet valor," his "underrated talent."

A mid-tier candidate with a mid-tier rating. Mid-four star, nothing more. No noble ties, no grand artifact.

Just strength of character.

Just hope.

It was going perfectly.

Until now.

"You are skilled…..But it's time to get more serious now."