Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 681: Seran (6)

The observation tier of the Citadel shuddered under the weight of the spell-feed.

Golden light poured across the projection chamber, cast not by illusion, but by raw force. Mana readings spiked across the aether-tracking glyphs, breaking past the second-tier tolerance limits. Runes flickered red. Warning sigils bloomed. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

"He activated a combat-restricted sigil," one analyst gasped. "That’s... an Emperor-class burst array—unauthorized!"

Another technician slammed his palm against a control sphere. "The surge was deliberate. It’s not slipping—he’s focusing it."

From the center screen, Seran Velcross’s blade shimmered with golden-red mana, dense enough to warp space. The strike that followed shattered the illusion of restraint. No longer a duel.

This was attempted lethality.

"He’s trying to kill him," someone said aloud. It wasn’t a theory. It was a fact.

"And he’ll succeed if we don’t—"

"—intervene now!"

Panic surged like wildfire.

Dozens of hands snapped toward control arrays, scrying orbs flared with emergency overrides, and high-ranking mages chanted barrier-activation protocols so fast the syllables collided like hailstones.

"Emergency lockout! Disengage spatial simulation—NOW!"

Glyph arrays pulsed, golden threads lighting up as the override seals activated—

—then failed.

One by one.

—FAILURE.

—FAILURE.

—FAILURE.

The words flashed in crimson against the scrying spheres. The override requests were rejected. Not by the system—but by the system’s own refusal to recognize them.

"What the hell?" a senior technomage snarled, slamming his palm against the primary stabilization console. "It’s not responding!"

"The simulation won’t release the spatial bind!" another shouted. "It’s rejecting our interference!"

"Try forcing a dimensional sync. Shift the whole quadrant back five seconds—"

"Impossible," someone snapped back. "The time-stabilizers are locked! They’re not responding to outside commands—"

"Someone’s interfering," Levrinne breathed, her voice tight, her face pale. "Something’s rewriting the response tree."

Across the observation tier, the mages fell into a new kind of silence.

Not the silence of helplessness.

But of dawning horror.

Because this was more than a breach of conduct.

This was a trap.

A test of not just the candidates—but of them.

Keleran’s fist slammed into the arm of his chair. "If that boy dies under regulated supervision, in a sealed trial, in front of the entire kingdom’s broadcast grid—"

"—we’ll lose everything," someone finished, sick. "The Council will demand heads. The nobles will riot."

"The Academy’s legitimacy will burn," whispered another.

They watched—trapped behind walls of their own design—as Seran’s blade fell like the wrath of a dynasty, a crescent of golden-red death, engineered to destroy.

And Lucavion—

Lucavion didn’t run.

Didn’t dodge.

He smiled.

The screen flared. Energy twisted. The viewing platform flickered under the weight of it.

And still, the override seals remained inert.

The Headmaster had not moved.

But the eleven spells orbiting his platform slowed, shifted, narrowed.

His eyes were half-closed.

Watching.

Measuring.

Absorbing.

"Keleran," he said quietly.

"Sir?"

A heartbeat passed.

Then—

"Do not touch that console again."

"...What?"

The Headmaster’s voice, calm as snowfall, cut through the rising hysteria.

"I said—do not interfere."

"But sir—he’ll die—"

The room froze.

Every eye turned toward the Headmaster.

Not because of authority.

But because of certainty.

His gaze remained fixed on the screen—on the moment the blade fell, the air split, the battlefield twisted like fabric straining against truth.

And still, Lucavion stood.

Still, he smiled.

"No," the Headmaster said, not to rebuke.

But to correct.

The word fell like iron wrapped in snow—gentle, yet undeniable.

Keleran’s mouth opened, the protest still caught between disbelief and fear, but he couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t move.

Because the Headmaster’s eyes—half-lidded, ancient—now lifted, slow and deliberate.

"There are times," he said, "when protocol must yield."

The spells around him began to shimmer in new patterns, slower, deeper—the orbits no longer stabilizing tools, but observers.

"The world," he continued, his voice quiet enough to make the silence louder, "is about to witness something that even the strongest Awakened may never live long enough to see."

The mages didn’t respond.

Not because they disagreed.

But because they felt it too now.

The ripple.

Not through the arena.

Not even through the spell-weave.

Through reality itself.

"Most mortals rise to their limits," the Headmaster said, eyes still on Lucavion. "A few shatter them."

He breathed once—slow, reverent.

"And then, there are those who make the world rewrite them."

A faint pulse of light flickered across Lucavion’s blade—not flame.

Not mana.

But absence.

A silence so pure it became a force.

Keleran whispered, almost against his will, "...what is that?"

And the Headmaster finally answered—not as an instructor.

Not as Archmage.

But as a witness.

"Something that should not be," he murmured.

"And yet—is."

He leaned forward, resting one hand against the railing of his platform, as if to bow—not in submission, but in respect.

"Watch closely," he said.

"For what comes next... no spell will ever replicate."

******

The estoc dragged across the air, and for a heartbeat, there was nothing.

Not silence.

Not stillness.

Nothing.

The golden blade fell.

And Lucavion moved.

His flame surged.

Not as a wave.

As a truth.

「Flame of Equinox: Balance of Destruction.」

A second force erupted—black and white, cold and burning, swirling in symmetrical collision. It formed a ring around him—twelve symbols rotating like a divine clock.

And from their center—

His sword rose.

Estoc clashing upward into the godlike blow from Seran’s Dominion.

—CRACKA-THOOOOOOM!

The two forces collided.

Gold and black. Judgment and entropy. Creation and erasure.

The shockwave didn’t just knock the cadets back—it threw them.

The arena ruptured beneath them.

The stone shattered in a dome outward from the center of their clash, rippling like cracked glass under divine hands.

In the eye of it—

Their blades locked.

Seran’s teeth gritted. His muscles screamed.

Lucavion’s eyes gleamed.

Still smiling.

Still not yielding.

"You still think I’m beneath you?" Lucavion whispered over the roar of destruction.

The Balance of Destruction began to spin—petals of nullfire and equilibrium folding inward toward the lock point.

Lucavion’s pressure surged.

"Let’s see..."

He twisted the blade.

"...how your crown holds up—with no kingdom left to rule."

—WHOOOOOOOOM!

The clash didn’t just shake the battlefield.

It rewrote it.

Lucavion’s estoc moved—not forcefully, not wildly, but with the exact precision of something ancient. A rhythm that obeyed no style Seran had ever seen. No stance he’d ever studied. No technique that had ever been whispered through noble halls.

And then—

It began.

The tip of the estoc carved a narrow spiral in the air—small at first, barely visible through the flaring gold of Seran’s descending blade.

But then the air twisted.

Mana bent.

Not because Lucavion forced it—

Because it wanted to move.

A vortex bloomed.

Tiny. Controlled. Yet devouring.

The radiant energy of Seran’s [Emperor’s Dominion] began to veer, pulled toward the spiral—against its trajectory. At first, just a curve. Then a drag. Then a siphon.

"What...?" Seran muttered through clenched teeth, eyes narrowing.

But the estoc spun again.

A second loop.

Then a third.

—FWOOOOOSH!

The vortex expanded, swallowing the air around them, pulling Seran’s technique inward like a collapsing sun.

The radiant gold flickered.

The spiral bled it dry.

Seran’s mana—amplified through the artifact, honed through years of discipline—began to unravel.

His eyes widened.

And then he saw it.

The flame.

It began at the center of the spiral—soft at first, a black petal in a storm of gold.

Then—

Twelve more.

The petals of [Balance of Destruction] expanded, orbiting the estoc as they spiraled with a counter-force that obeyed only Lucavion’s intent. Each petal whispered death to mana, undoing it not with heat—

But with equilibrium.

Not opposed.

Not resisted.

Nullified.

Seran’s golden arc—his grand, noble strike forged from years of privilege and burden—was being eaten.

—SHHHHHHHRRRK!

The black fire crawled along the edges of his blade, like ink bleeding through paper.

The glyphs etched by the artifact sputtered.

Mana lines destabilized.

And in that moment—

That exact moment—

Seran saw it.

Through the blur of pressure, through the rupture of form, through the screaming pain of unraveling power—

He saw it.

The peak of swordsmanship.

Not just strength.

Not technique.

Something else.

Lucavion stood at the center of his spiral, cloak shredded, coat bloodied, eyes gleaming—not like a victor.

Like a man finally satisfied.

The black petals of flame rotated behind him in perfect balance. His estoc spun once more through the eye of the vortex, guiding the collapse, as Seran’s mana was drawn into the center—

And burned.

—FWWSSHHHHHH!

The golden blade cracked, overwhelmed by the pull. His aura broke at the edges, fragments of gold evaporating into the wind like dying embers.

And Seran—

His eye, wide, trembling, caught all of it.

The elegance.

The devastation.

The technique that didn’t shout to be known.

It didn’t need a name.

Because it was the sword.

He staggered, his limbs refusing to move fast enough.

’What...’

His thoughts failed to form, broken by what he saw—by what he felt.

The flames had reached his hands now.