Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Draven exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders before gesturing toward the back. "Follow me."

He didn't wait for a response—just turned on his heel and strode toward the private rooms at the rear of the bar. His footsteps were slow, measured. The kind that made it clear he wasn't retreating, but rather leading because he chose to.

Caius followed, his nerves still coiled tight. He stole a glance at the black-haired bastard beside him, expecting some sign of tension, some shift in his posture—anything that showed he understood he was stepping into Draven's domain.

But—nothing.

The bastard walked with the same unhurried ease as before, as if he were simply taking a casual evening stroll.

Caius felt a shudder creep up his spine.

'Does this guy not even register danger?'

Draven, on the other hand, was different. Caius could see the minute shifts in his posture, the subtle way his gaze flicked toward the man at his side—calculating, wary.

And beneath that sharp exterior, something else lingered.

'Corvina.'

The name sat heavy in his mind, like a weight pressing down on his ribs.

He hadn't heard it in years—hadn't thought about it in even longer. And yet, the moment it had left this bastard's mouth, something in Draven's gut had twisted.

'So she's still playing her little games, huh?'

Corvina had always been like that—pulling strings in the background, weaving plans within plans, making moves long before anyone even realized the game had started.

But what the fuck did this guy have to do with her?

Draven's gaze flicked sideways, taking in the bastard's face again—calm, unreadable.

'Who are you?'

And more importantly—

'What the hell are you doing in my city?'

They reached the door to the backroom, and Draven pushed it open without hesitation. The room was dimly lit, a long wooden table in the center, scattered with old maps, ledgers, and half-empty bottles of rum. A few chairs stood against the walls, some occupied by Draven's lieutenants—men who had, until moments ago, been relaxing.

Now, they were watching.

And not just watching—assessing.

Caius saw it immediately. The way their eyes darted toward the black-haired bastard, their hands inching toward their weapons—not aggressively, but ready.

They had heard the commotion outside. They had seen Draven's expression when he walked in. And they weren't idiots.

Something was off.

Draven walked to the head of the table, leaning against it with a slow exhale before turning his full attention back to the newcomer.

And still—that fucker was calm.

Not relaxed, not arrogant—just calm.

As if none of this mattered. As if he had already decided the outcome before stepping into the room.

Caius swallowed hard.

'Gods, what have I dragged Draven into?'

Draven tilted his head slightly, rubbing his jaw. His sharp, gray eyes never left the man before him.

"So," he said, voice casual, but carrying a very clear edge. "You came all this way, dropped Corvina's name, tore through my men like they were nothing—" He let his words hang for a moment before continuing. "Now tell me. Why the fuck shouldn't I kill you where you stand?"

Caius tensed.

The lieutenants tensed.

And the black-haired bastard?

He smirked.

Not wide, not mocking—just a small, knowing curve of the lips. The kind that said he had already considered this outcome.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Because," he said, voice smooth, effortless, "you wouldn't like the consequences."

Silence.

Draven's fingers tapped against the table once, slow and deliberate.

His men were waiting. Waiting to see if they needed to move, waiting to see if Draven would signal an execution.

But Draven?

Draven was looking at him.

At that smirk.

At those pitch-black eyes.

And at the way not once—not even for a second—had this man looked worried.

The silence in the room stretched, thick and unyielding, pressing down on every man present. Draven met the black-haired bastard's gaze with the same unwavering intensity, his sharp eyes scanning, peeling back layers, searching for cracks in that maddening calm. But there were none.

The man didn't fidget, didn't shift his weight, didn't do a damn thing. He just stood there, utterly composed, watching Draven with an unreadable expression, as if he were merely observing rather than participating in this tense standoff.

Caius felt the air grow heavier with each passing second, his own pulse pounding against his ribs. He could feel the lieutenants stiffening beside him, their hands itching toward their weapons, waiting for a signal. Waiting for the moment things exploded.

And still, the bastard didn't react. Didn't tense, didn't shift into a stance, didn't even blink as Draven studied him with the scrutiny of a man who had spent his entire life knowing when someone was lying.

The tension reached its peak—stretched so taut that Caius thought it might snap like a drawn bowstring—

And then—

A loud, booming laugh shattered it.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Caius nearly jumped out of his damn skin.

Draven threw his head back, his laughter raw and genuine, shaking the air around them. The sudden shift was so jarring that even his men looked momentarily stunned. One second, he had been staring the bastard down like he was deciding whether to gut him or let him live, and the next—this.

"Bring something strong!" Draven barked, still chuckling as he ran a hand through his dark hair, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe what had just happened.

One of the men immediately snapped into motion, moving toward a cabinet at the far end of the room, pulling out a dark, aged bottle. The scent of potent liquor already began to fill the space as the cork was popped.

Draven turned back to the bastard, his smirk widening into something almost admiring. "I like you," he admitted, voice carrying a touch of amusement.

Caius had barely begun processing the whiplash of Draven's sudden mood swing when the bastard actually responded.

"Same," the black-haired man said smoothly, tilting his head slightly. "You're quite good at controlling your expressions. I heard about the southern border, but this is my first time seeing it firsthand."

Caius blinked. What?

Draven's expression didn't shift, but something flickered in his eyes. "What do you think about here?" he asked, voice casual, but with a sharp undercurrent.

The man exhaled softly, glancing around the room, taking in the rough-cut wooden walls, the dim lantern light flickering against stained maps and old battle-scarred furniture. "Not bad," he said after a moment. "People are quite hotheaded here. I guess this is pretty similar to the north."

Draven's lips curled slightly, but the amusement dropped. His gaze hardened just a fraction, though he still smirked. "Don't compare us with those northern barbarians."

A long, steady silence.

The black-haired man didn't reply. Didn't flinch. Didn't react at all. He just looked at Draven with that same unreadable expression, as if silently measuring something.

Caius was losing his mind.

What the hell was happening?

Just a second ago, they were on the verge of a fight to the death, and now they were trading words like two old mercenaries reminiscing over war stories. And this guy? He was talking like he knew Draven—like he had already figured him out, like he understood something no one else in this damn room did.

Caius felt his jaw tighten. This wasn't normal. Nothing about this was normal.

Draven let out a short breath before gesturing toward the chairs around the table.

"Ahem." He cleared his throat, then smirked again, though it was a shade lighter this time. "Come. Sit."

Draven exhaled through his nose and pulled out a chair, settling into it with the ease of a man who owned the room. His fingers drummed against the tabletop as he watched the young man move—unhurried, smooth, too damn comfortable for someone who had just cut through a group of trained men like they were nothing.

The bastard took his seat with the same casual grace, leaning back slightly, his posture neither stiff nor careless. Just… balanced.

Draven tilted his head slightly, the flickering lantern light catching the sharp lines of his face. "So," he said, resting an elbow on the arm of his chair, "what should I call you?"

The young man smiled—not wide, not forced, just a small, knowing curve of the lips. "Lucavion."

Draven's eyes narrowed slightly. He rolled the name over in his mind, tasting the weight of it. It wasn't a local name. And now that he heard it clearly, he could already tell—

"Lucavion," Draven repeated, slow and deliberate. "Are you a foreigner?"

Lucavion chuckled softly, his black eyes glinting. "You guessed it right."