Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

“…isn’t a bad opportunity to wipe them out completely.”

The figure, who had remained silent as Aldric gave his orders, finally spoke. His voice was calm, unreadable.

“Is that the case?” A pause. Then, a slight tilt of the head, as if peering through him. “Are you sure the artifact didn’t detect anyone?”

Aldric’s smirk didn’t waver.

“No, it didn’t.”

Not a single powerful fighter had entered Varenthia. Not one. The artifact would have picked up even the faintest trace of high-tier energy the moment they crossed into the city’s limits.

And yet—

‘Hmm?’

A strange sensation crawled over his skin.

Not a presence. Not a killing intent.

Something probing.

Aldric’s breath slowed. His muscles tightened instinctively as the feeling dug into him, like a needle threading through his thoughts. It wasn’t an attack. It wasn’t even something physical.

A gaze?

No—not quite.

Aldric exhaled, his tongue clicking against his teeth as a sharp glint flickered through his eyes. “Oh? An artifact?”

The presence didn’t wane.

His lips curled.

“Are you guys trying to see if I left?” His voice dropped slightly, a quiet mockery threading into his words. “Are you guys on the line?”

It wasn’t Draven himself. The sensation was too subtle for that.

Which meant one thing.

They were watching.

From a distance.

Trying to track his movement.

Afraid of leaving their stronghold.

Aldric chuckled, low and quiet, his grip tightening over the hilt of his blade.

‘Cowards.’

They weren’t confident. They were desperate.

“Are we being watched?” The figure’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp yet untouched by emotion.

Aldric exhaled slowly, the smirk still ghosting his lips. “Seems like it.”

The figure tapped a gloved finger against his arm, thoughtful. “I heard Draven had an artifact like this.”

A pause.

“But it was apparently defective.”

Aldric’s eyes flickered with amusement. ‘So they’ve been using a broken toy?’

The figure turned away, adjusting his cloak as he stepped toward the door. His movements were slow, deliberate—like a man who had already decided his business here was done.

“Hmm…” A quiet hum, then a slight nod. “You are to do as you please.”

The words were casual. But Aldric knew what they meant.

He had full authority now.

As the door clicked shut behind him, silence settled over the chamber.

Aldric remained still for a moment. His smirk faded, his expression unreadable.

Then—

A slow exhale.

“It has been a while…”

His blood had been silent for too long.

For years now, he had lived in Varenthia—built his network, secured his power, played the game of politics and control.

But before that?

Before he was a commander—before he was anything at all—

He had been a soldier.

A killer.

And on the battlefield, his body had never once been idle.

Aldric’s fingers twitched, his breath evening out into something steadier. Something sharper.

“Should I just slaughter a little?”

His voice was barely a whisper. But the weight behind it—**the craving, the hunger—**filled the room like a lingering stormcloud.

Slowly, his gaze lowered to his right hand.

A pitch-black bracelet rested there, dull and unassuming—yet deceptively heavy.

His fingers brushed over its surface, a familiar warmth thrumming beneath his touch.

“Yeah…”

The decision had already been made.

His smirk returned, slower this time. More deliberate.

His blood was no longer silent.

And if Draven and his men wanted a war—

Then Aldric Veltorin would give them one.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and stepped toward the door.

Each footstep felt lighter than the last.

As if he had been waiting for this moment.

As if, at long last—

He was finally awake again.

Aldric strode through the dimly lit corridors of his stronghold, the heavy oak doors shutting behind him with a dull thud. The flickering sconces along the stone walls cast long, wavering shadows across his path, but his focus was razor-sharp. The night air outside was thick, carrying the distant scent of fire and blood—a battlefield in bloom.

The moment he stepped into the courtyard, several guards straightened at attention, their gazes snapping toward him with sharp discipline. Their dark uniforms bore the insignia of his command—his true command, the men who had sworn loyalty not to House Veltorin, but to him alone.

They bowed their heads in respect.

“My Lord,” one of them spoke first, voice steady but expectant. “Are we to move out with you?”

There was no hesitation in their words, no fear—only readiness.

Aldric’s gaze swept over them, assessing. These were seasoned warriors. Not the nameless dogs he used to fill the lower ranks, but men who had fought and bled for him. They wanted orders. They wanted action.

But this?

This was something else.

He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “No. Stay here.” His voice was quiet but firm, the weight behind his words leaving no room for argument. “Hold this place. If anything comes knocking, you know what to do.”

The guards exchanged brief glances before nodding in unison. “Understood.”

Aldric didn’t linger.

He had wasted enough time.

His body shifted, muscles tensing in preparation, and then—

He moved.

In an instant, his figure blurred, vanishing from where he had stood.

The Qinggong technique, a movement art that blurred the line between speed and weightlessness, propelled him forward with inhuman acceleration. The wind roared past his ears as his form became a mere whisper against the cityscape, darting across rooftops, skipping over narrow alleyways, and weaving through the intricate veins of Varenthia like a shadow set free.

To the common eye, he was nothing more than a streak of motion—a fleeting specter against the cold glow of the moon.

But to him?

The battlefield was already alive beneath his senses.

His awareness stretched outward, extending past the walls, past the districts, past the flickering lanterns of the city’s sleeping masses.

He could feel everything.

The clash of steel, the sharp crack of splintering wood as barricades were torn down, the brief, agonized gasps of men whose bodies failed them before they even realized they were dying.

Draven’s men were pressing forward in multiple locations—he could feel them moving, like scattered threads in an intricate web. Their attacks were swift, tactical, meant to cripple his network before he had the chance to react.

They thought they had the upper hand.

Aldric smirked as he soared past another rooftop, his landing effortless, his body rolling into the next sprint without losing momentum.

He had already reacted.

The night stretched wide before him, and the war had only just begun.

It was the time to show who really owned Varenthia.

The wind howled as Aldric moved, his body a blur against the night. His Qinggong technique carried him swiftly across the rooftops, the city stretching beneath him like a battlefield waiting to be carved into submission. He could feel the threads of conflict weaving through the streets—the clashing of weapons, the shouts of dying men, the raw violence of war erupting in calculated bursts across Varenthia.

And yet—

Something changed.

It was subtle at first. A shift in the air. A feeling, like a ripple cutting through still water.

An intent.

Aldric’s instincts flared—danger.

His body reacted before his mind could fully process it, the hairs on his arms standing on edge. In an instant, his spear materialized in his grasp, his muscles coiling as he twisted—

CLANK!

The impact came hard and fast, sending a jolt up his arms. Sparks erupted in the night air as metal clashed against metal, the sheer force of the blow sending him backward.

Aldric’s feet barely found purchase as he landed, skidding against the stone with practiced precision.

His crimson eyes sharpened.

“Hmm?”

His grip on his spear tightened, his heartbeat steady—controlled. He lifted his gaze, turning his head toward the source of the strike.

And there—standing beneath the cold glow of the moon—

A young man.

He was poised, his stance balanced, a long estoc resting in his grip like an extension of his very being. His eyes—pitch black, empty as the void—stared into Aldric’s own, unreadable.

“What do we have here?” Aldric muttered, his voice low, curious.

His mind was already cycling through names, faces—cataloging every fighter, every assassin, every mercenary worth remembering.

And yet—

This one?

He wasn’t anyone Aldric recognized.

Not one of Draven’s men. Not one of Soren’s butchers. Not one of Vyrell’s cold-blooded tacticians.

And that strike just now—

That was not something any of them could do.

Aldric’s lips pressed into a thin line, his stance shifting just slightly, testing, calculating.

“Who are you?”

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