Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The war in Varenthia had begun.

The city burned with chaos. The streets, once filled with murmured deals and quiet exchanges, now rang with the clash of steel, the screams of the dying, and the crackling of fire spreading through warehouses and dens of the Black Veil.

Draven moved through the battlefield like a specter of war. His blade flashed, his movements sharp and calculated—there was no wasted effort. Strike. Kill. Move.

Vyrell fought with precision, every motion deliberate, his blade an extension of his mind. He had no love for unnecessary violence, but his strikes were surgical—cutting through the enemy with terrifying efficiency.

Soren, in contrast, was destruction incarnate. A war beast in human form. Every swing of his warhammer sent bodies flying, shattered bones, and turned the battlefield into a slaughterhouse. Where Vyrell was a scalpel, Soren was an avalanche.

And together, they tore through the remnants of the Black Veil's forces.

Draven had expected this. A crushing, decisive attack to cripple their control. What he hadn't expected—

—was the backup that arrived next.

From the alleyways, from the rooftops, from the broken buildings where the battle had already raged, three figures emerged.

They weren't ordinary fighters.

Draven knew strength when he saw it. And these three? They weren't just strong. They were trained.

His grip on his blade tightened as he got his first real look at them.

One was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a greataxe strapped to his back, his crimson armor marked with deep scars—proof of countless battles. His eyes were calm, but heavy with experience.

The second was lean, dressed in dark clothing with twin daggers glinting at his hips. His stance was low, predatory—like a beast waiting to strike. His silver eyes flickered with amusement, as if this entire war was nothing more than a game.

The third was the most dangerous.

A spear rested easily in his hand, his grip relaxed. His dark hair was tied back, his expression unreadable, but Draven knew immediately—this was no ordinary warrior.

The air around him felt heavier. Not from mana pressure. Not from an aura.

But from something else. Something old.

Draven's instincts screamed at him.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath. "Who the hell are these bastards?"

Soren cracked his neck, his grin widening. "Finally. Was getting bored."

Vyrell, however, narrowed his eyes. His grip on his sword shifted slightly—a small, almost imperceptible change. But Draven caught it.

He was wary.

Which meant these men were dangerous.

The one with the spear stepped forward, his gaze scanning the battlefield with detached interest before landing on Draven.

"You must be the one leading this," he mused, his voice light, almost conversational.

Draven's smirk was sharp. "Took you long enough to show up. Thought your boss was just gonna roll over and let us take the city."

The man tilted his head slightly. "Aldric isn't moving yet."

Draven expected as much. Aldric was smart. He'd wait. Watch. Assess.

But these three—these weren't just lieutenants.

The air tensed, the battlefield falling into an eerie silence as the three unknown warriors stood across from Draven, Vyrell, and Soren. There was no hesitation—no pre-battle theatrics, no unnecessary words.

They weren't here to intimidate.

They were here to kill.

Soren let out a sharp exhale, his fingers tightening around the handle of his warhammer. "Tch. Finally, some decent prey."

Vyrell, in contrast, was silent, his sharp gaze locked onto the man with the spear. His grip on his sword adjusted subtly—no wasted movements, just preparation.

Draven's smirk remained, but his body had already shifted into a defensive stance. His instincts screamed at him—these three weren't just strong, they were coordinated. There was no reckless bravado, no wasted confidence.

They were killers.

And then—

They moved.

The broad-shouldered axeman surged forward first, his crimson armor catching the flickering flames around them. He wasn't fast, but he didn't need to be. Every step carried the weight of sheer, overwhelming force. He swung his greataxe in a horizontal arc, the air around it howling from the sheer power behind the strike.

Soren roared in response, meeting brute force with brute force. His warhammer clashed against the axe, sending a deafening shockwave through the street. The ground beneath them cracked, cobblestones shattering under the raw impact.

Soren grinned. "Not bad."

But the axeman didn't react—no change in expression, no sign of amusement. Just cold, efficient violence. He pushed forward, his strength pressing against Soren's stance, forcing the larger man back by inches.

Vyrell, meanwhile, barely had time to dodge as the dagger-wielding assassin vanished. A blur of movement, faster than any normal fighter should have been. He reappeared at Vyrell's flank, one dagger slicing through the air with deadly precision.

Vyrell twisted at the last second, his sword barely catching the attack, steel scraping against steel. The force behind the blow sent a jarring shock through his arm.

Fast. Too fast.

The assassin's silver eyes gleamed. "You react well," he murmured. "Let's see how long that lasts."

Vyrell didn't respond. He didn't need to.

Steel clashed, blades flashing in the firelight as the two entered a deadly dance of speed and precision.

Draven, however, had no time to watch them—

Because the man with the spear was already upon him.

Draven barely managed to sidestep as the spear whistled past his face, the air screaming from the sheer speed of the thrust.

Too fast.

Draven retaliated immediately, slashing toward the spear-wielder's exposed side. But the man moved with unnatural ease, shifting just enough to avoid the strike, his spear already repositioning for another attack.

Draven exhaled sharply. This wasn't good.

They were all 5-star Awakened. But the gap between them was clear.

This wasn't a battle of brute strength. It was a battle of skill, of experience, of killing intent.

And these three? They weren't losing.

Soren gritted his teeth as he struggled against the sheer power of the axeman, his warhammer barely keeping up with the relentless strikes.

Vyrell was already adjusting his movements, his swordwork adapting to the assassin's impossible speed. But even then, he was only keeping up—not winning.

Draven clicked his tongue, dodging another spear thrust that nearly took his throat. He had fought hundreds of warriors.

Draven smirked, blood trailing down his arm from a narrow cut that had barely missed tearing into muscle. His stance shifted, his grip on his blade tightening as the spear-wielder circled him, his expression calm, unreadable.

"You bastards from the Empire," Draven exhaled, voice edged with sharp amusement. "Do you think the streets are a joke?"

The spear-wielder didn't react immediately—just observed. Cold, calculating. The way a trained soldier would assess a battlefield.

Draven hated that look.

Because it meant these bastards still thought they were better.

Better than him. Better than Soren. Better than Vyrell.

Draven clicked his tongue, rolling his shoulders. "I've already made my move," he muttered under his breath. His smirk widened as he ducked under another blindingly fast spear thrust. "And I'm not about to get left behind."

He had put his trust in that crazy bastard.

And for better or worse, Draven wasn't the type to let himself get outpaced by some noble-trained killers.

The spear-wielder lunged again, and this time, Draven didn't just dodge.

He advanced.

His blade clashed against the shaft of the spear, forcing his opponent to react rather than dictate the battle. Draven twisted his body, shifting his weight in a way that shouldn't have been possible mid-motion, slashing upward—

The spear-wielder barely managed to angle his weapon to block, his calm expression flickering with something close to surprise.

"Not bad," Draven muttered, grin sharp as he pressed harder. "But you ain't the only one who knows how to fight."

To his side, Soren roared, planting his feet before driving his warhammer forward with raw, monstrous force. The axeman braced, blocking with the shaft of his weapon—

But this time, Soren had adjusted.

Rather than push forward, he twisted the momentum, dragging the axe-wielder's balance off-center. It was subtle, but it gave Soren just enough space to pull back and launch a brutal counterstrike toward his opponent's ribs.

Vyrell, too, had stopped purely defending. His movements were still controlled, precise, but now he was testing his opponent—finding weaknesses.

The assassin darted in, daggers flashing, but Vyrell met him with a sudden, unexpected reverse grip parry, deflecting the strike just enough to force an opening—

His blade slashed forward—

A thin cut opened along the assassin's side. Not deep. Not lethal. But a wound nonetheless.

The silver-eyed assassin exhaled sharply, his smirk twitching. "Tch."

Draven let out a low chuckle as he dodged another strike from the spear-wielder, his own blade flicking dangerously close to his opponent's throat.

They weren't winning.

Not yet.

But now?

Now, they weren't losing either.