Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

"Fulfill your end of the deal." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze glinting in the dim candlelight. "And this city is yours to rule."

Varenthia.

A city where power belonged to those ruthless enough to take it. A city built on ambition, betrayal, and control. And if he played his role perfectly—if he bent to this bastard's will for just a little longer—he would have it.

His own domain. His own rule.

Aldric's fingers pressed harder against the table, his gaze locked on the flickering candlelight as it cast long, shifting shadows over the map.

This city is yours to rule.

That was the sole reason he had betrayed House Veltorin.

Not honor. Not duty. Not the weight of tradition shackled to his name.

Power.

His own.

Not borrowed from some decrepit bloodline. Not handed down by fate or family name.

His own rule, carved out with his own hands.

His lips curled into something that was neither a smirk nor a frown—just a quiet, bitter edge.

He had never liked being a knight. Never liked kneeling before lords whose only claim to power was the sheer dumb luck of their birth. He had spent his youth sharpening his blade, honing his instincts, rising to 5-star Awakened through sheer effort, through battle after battle, while they sat in gilded halls, sipping wine and sneering down at those who actually fought to uphold their name.

And yet, in the end, what had it amounted to?

Serving him.

That arrogant bastard. That pathetic excuse for a noble.

Marquis Elarion Veltorin's son.

A fool who was destined to lose the battle for heir before it had even begun. A man who wore his surname like a badge of untouchable authority, despite possessing neither the skill nor the mind to wield it properly.

Aldric had been his right hand. His sword. His shield.

And for what?

To waste his talents fighting battles orchestrated by men who had never held a blade in their lives? To protect a noble whose victories were only ever written in ink, signed in backroom deals made by old men who feared losing their grasp on power?

Tch.

He had risen on his own merit. A knight feared and respected, not for his name, but for his ability.

And still, they had expected him to bend the knee.

He inhaled sharply, forcing the familiar anger to settle.

No more.

Aldric Veltorin had died the day he walked away from the battlefield.

The day he left behind a crumbling house, a doomed heir, and a legacy that had never meant a damn thing to him.

And in six months, he would have something real. Something earned.

His city.

His rule.

His power.

No gods. No kings. No noble-blooded fools standing above him.

Aldric exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping once against the map before he reached for the dagger at his side.

With a swift, deliberate motion, he stabbed it into the parchment—right over the heart of Varenthia.

This time, he wasn't fighting for someone else.

This time, he wasn't kneeling.

This time, when he won—it would all belong to him.

Aldric inhaled slowly, suppressing the instinct to bare his teeth like a cornered wolf. Instead, he kept his voice even, his expression carefully measured.

"It will be dealt with," he said at last. A statement. A promise. A dismissal.

He met the figure's gaze without hesitation, knowing full well how much the other man enjoyed watching him bristle under the weight of his own choices.

Everything was under control.

The figure's smirk widened ever so slightly. Not amusement—satisfaction.

"I'll hold you to that," he murmured. He gave a final glance at the map before turning away, his steps light, deliberate, and full of that infuriating ease that came with knowing he held the leash. "Six months, Aldric."

He didn't wait for a response. He never did.

Aldric remained still, the air in the room thick with unspoken tension even as the figure disappeared into the halls beyond. The candlelight flickered against the polished steel of his gauntlets, reflecting the faint tremor in his fingers as he pressed them against the table.

Not from fear.

From rage.

A bitter, seething rage that settled deep in his bones like a sickness he had long since stopped trying to cure.

He had traded one master for another.

But at least this one would give him something real in return.

Aldric exhaled, forcing his fingers to relax, forcing his mind to sharpen past the instinct to sink into old wounds. Six months. He would endure this for six more months, and then… Varenthia would be his.

But before he could let the thought settle—

BANG!

The doors to the chamber burst open.

A soldier staggered inside, breathless, his uniform smeared with soot, his chest heaving from exertion.

"Commander—!"

Aldric's head snapped up, his expression instantly sharpening.

"What is it?" he demanded, already knowing it wouldn't be anything good.

The soldier sucked in a desperate breath. "Draven's men—They've—" He swallowed hard. "They're attacking the Black Veil's holdings. Systematically. Warehouses, strongholds, supply routes—it's not a raid. It's a war."

Aldric's pulse remained steady, but his eyes darkened.

His fingers curled into fists as he straightened, his presence towering over the exhausted messenger. "Where are the losses?"

The soldier coughed, then quickly continued. "One of our main warehouses was taken in a single sweep—fire and steel, no survivors. Other key locations have been hit in different parts of the city—coordinated attacks. Vyrell's group set fire to the western supply caches, and Soren…" The man hesitated, grimacing. "Soren went straight through the front door of the Veil's dens. He's tearing through them like a war beast."

Aldric's lips pressed into a thin line.

Not unexpected.

He knew this city well. He knew Draven well. Too well.

This wasn't a show of force.

This was a message.

And if Draven was behind it, then it meant he wasn't planning to stop.

Aldric exhaled sharply. "Send word to

Aldric's fingers twitched against the map, his jaw tight as he processed the information. His men were waiting, breathless, expecting orders. Expecting rage.

Instead, Aldric exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders shifting into something more deliberate, more controlled.

"Call Ryzek. Call Veyrn. Call Saelos."

The room stilled.

His hidden blades. The ones he had kept out of sight for this very reason.

Each of them was a 5-star Awakened. Each of them had survived battles that should have killed them.

And each of them had been waiting—watching—for a reason to be unleashed.

The soldier hesitated before nodding and bolting from the chamber, eager to follow the command.

Aldric rolled his shoulders, his muscles tensing with a familiar, predatory anticipation. "I'm preparing to move out."

The informant paled slightly. "You're—"

"I'm not sitting in this room while the city moves against me," Aldric cut in, his tone sharp, final. "Draven and his bastards think they can dictate the pace of this war? No." His smirk twitched, but there was no amusement in it. "They must think I, Aldric, am a joke."

His fingers tapped once against the table. 'But… something doesn't make sense.'

Where had they found the courage?

Draven wasn't an idiot. Vyrell and Soren weren't reckless. This wasn't the kind of move you made unless you knew you had the means to back it up.

But that was the problem.

They didn't.

Aldric had been tracking every high-level fighter entering the city. He had the artifact—a gift from the very man who had given him his path to power. It ensured that no strong newcomers could slip into Varenthia without his knowledge.

And as of this moment?

No one had entered.

Not a single new 6-star Awakened. Not a single warrior of rank.

So where the hell did they get the confidence to start this fight?

Aldric's smirk twitched wider, a slow breath escaping through his nose.

"Either they've lost their damn minds…" He flexed his fingers, the heat of battle already thrumming in his blood.

His eyes gleamed in the candlelight, the weight of his blade pressing familiar against his hip.

"…or they're shooting their last arrow."

He chuckled, shaking his head.

"If it's the latter…"

A slow, deliberate step forward. The room around him felt smaller now—like the city itself had shrunk, its streets already carved out for the war to come.

"Then this…" He exhaled, a quiet, dangerous amusement slipping into his voice.

"…isn't a bad opportunity to wipe them out completely."