Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

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The rhythmic clatter of boots striking the ground mingled with the chorus of bustling life.

HOWL! The wind howled endlessly across the plains, sending shivers through travelers as they pulled their cloaks tighter around themselves.

"Move!" A voice barked out, followed by the urgent shuffling of passengers trying to make way.

CREAK!

The wooden wheels of a carriage groaned in protest as the driver, perched high on his seat, snapped the reins.

"Deh!" A raspy shout erupted as he urged his mounts onward, their large hooves plodding across the cobblestone road.

On the slightly inner side of the Arcanis Empire lay the city of Halvath. It was a city sprawling with life and activity, a huge city—if placed in modern times, it would easily be called a metropolis.

Towering stone walls rose high, protecting the bustling heart within, their surfaces lined with banners fluttering in the brisk wind. Horses, carriages, vendors, and pedestrians crowded the road leading to the main gate, forming a winding, seemingly endless queue as travelers waited for their chance to gain entry.

The line moved sluggishly. People huddled together, their breaths visible in the cold air. The sky overhead was covered in thick gray clouds, and the sun barely peeked through, casting a muted light over the land. Voices overlapped, creating an almost tangible wall of sound—children whining with fatigue, merchants arguing over the price of grain, and guards calling out instructions to keep the line in order.

"Next! Step forward!" A guard's voice echoed across the line. He stood in full armor, his halberd pointed ahead, a commanding presence that none dared disobey. Travelers shuffled forward—a family clutching bags full of goods, a lone man with a hood shadowing his face, a woman holding the reins of a nervous horse.

The city gates loomed before them, and an impressive archway was adorned with carvings depicting past victories of the Arcanis Empire—heroes with swords held high, mythical beasts subdued beneath their feet. The gate itself was made of reinforced iron, sturdy and imposing, guarded by two rows of soldiers standing at attention. Their armor glinted dully under the meager sunlight, and their eyes swept over the crowd, watchful for any sign of trouble.

Horses neighed as they grew restless in the cold, their breath misting in the air. Carriages creaked as they rolled forward inch by inch. Vendors, balancing goods on their backs or carts, called out to the waiting travelers, trying to make a last sale before entry.

"Fresh bread! Warm bread! Just a copper for a loaf!" shouted a woman, her voice almost lost in the commotion.

"Spices from the southern isles! Only here! Exotic flavors to savor!" yelled another, his face flushed from the cold.

The long line, filled with people from different walks of life—merchants, farmers, adventurers—stretched along the main road that led into Halvath. Each person bore a different story, their faces showing expressions of weariness, hope, or impatience. Some looked forward to a warm meal and a roof over their heads, while others eyed the grand walls with apprehension, uncertain of what awaited them within.

Beyond the gate, the sprawling city could be glimpsed—stone-paved streets weaving between tightly packed buildings, rising towers, and colorful banners fluttering in the wind. The air was thick with the promise of opportunity, a sense of grandeur that was tangible even from afar. The city was alive, a heartbeat felt in the hustle and bustle of its people.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted near the front of the line. A man, hood pulled low, was arguing with one of the guards, his hands gesticulating wildly.

"I told you, I have business in the city!" he said, his voice carrying an edge of desperation.

The guard shook his head, his expression hard. "No papers, no entry. Regulations are clear."

The man cursed under his breath, turning away angrily as the people behind him shifted uncomfortably. The guards remained impassive, their discipline unbroken as they resumed managing the line.

The wind howled again, carrying with it the scent of the city beyond—the tantalizing aroma of roasted meat, the faintest hint of spices, the distant laughter and chatter of the people who had already made it inside. For those waiting, it was a reminder of what lay just beyond the gates—warmth, food, and the chance to escape the biting chill of the northern wind.

Slowly, the line moved on, inching closer, each step bringing the travelers nearer to the bustling life and opportunities that awaited within the grand city of Halvath.

Since the line was long, many people were discussing recent issues—news of bandit attacks on nearby roads, rumors of a new tax, and whispers about tensions brewing in the southern provinces. The conversation soon shifted to complaints about the mercenaries running rampant in the region. 'Those bastards need to tone it down,' one man muttered angrily. 'They're just being too much lately,' another added, shaking his head in frustration. The group nodded in agreement, voicing their shared disapproval of the mercenaries' unchecked behavior.

Just then, the topic shifted to a recent event that had captured the attention of many—a martial arts tournament held in the neighboring territory of Marquis Ventor. "Did you hear about that tournament in Ventor's lands?" an older man asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. "They say some young martial artist made quite a name for himself. They even call him the "Sword Demon."'

Most people scoffed at the mention, dismissing it with waves of their hands. "Sword Demon? For a kid?" one woman said incredulously. "They're being overly dramatic, as usual. A grand name like that for some youngster who probably hasn't even seen real hardship."

Another chimed in, "Exactly! People are just overestimating these young ones nowadays. They can't handle the harsh conditions of our lands. They think a few fancy moves in a tournament makes them legends."

A chorus of agreements followed, the older travelers shaking their heads with disdain at the notion that someone so young could earn such a lofty title.

A hush fell over the group as the conversation turned darker. The mention of the Cloud Heavens Sect sent a ripple through the gathered travelers, their earlier dismissive tone replaced with quiet apprehension.

"Did you hear the rumors about the Cloud Heavens Sect?" a middle-aged man whispered, leaning in as though the mere act of speaking their name might summon trouble.

"Rumors?" another man snorted, his voice low but heavy with anger. "It's no rumor. It's the truth. They've been exposed—using children as furnaces to cultivate their so-called purity."

A collective shudder passed through the group, and one woman gasped, covering her mouth. "Children? As furnaces? That's monstrous. How could a sect so revered stoop so low?"

"Power," muttered the older man who had first brought up the tournament. He stared at the city gates with a grim expression, his voice laden with disgust. "It's always about power. Their elders and so-called paragons cared more about their cultivation than their humanity."

A younger man, clad in a patched cloak, scoffed, his voice dripping with bitterness. "Humanity? That's a laugh. The Cloud Heavens Sect has been corrupt for years. They just kept it hidden behind their golden robes and self-righteous smiles."

The group fell silent, the weight of the revelations sinking in. Only the creak of the slow-moving line and the distant clamor of the city filled the void for a moment.

"They always acted like they were above everyone else," said the first woman, her voice trembling with fury. "Paragons of virtue, they called themselves! Preaching discipline and righteousness while sacrificing children for their own gain."

Another man, younger but just as weary-looking, spat on the cobblestones. "They had everyone fooled. People sent their children to that sect thinking they'd be safe, thinking they'd have a future. Instead, they were feeding them to the flames."

A soft murmur of agreement rippled through the group. It wasn't just anger—they spoke with the pain of betrayal. The Cloud Heavens Sect had been a symbol of hope and power for many, a beacon of stability in a tumultuous world. To discover their true nature felt like a blow to the very foundation of trust.

"I heard it was someone from the tournament who uncovered it," another traveler added hesitantly, glancing at the others. "They said a lone swordsman exposed the sect. Some say he was one of the competitors, that 'Sword Demon' they were talking about."

"That boy?" The older man frowned, skeptical. "How would someone so young have the means to take on a sect like that? No matter how corrupt they are, their power is nothing to scoff at."

"Does it matter how he did it?" The woman from before folded her arms, her voice fierce. "What matters is someone had the courage to stand up to them."

The younger man in the patched cloak nodded. "Courage or madness, it worked. Don't you know, the Marquis Ventor and Count Olarion had issued a decree, and they are hunting down the members of Cloud Heavens Sect."

"Of course…" the older man muttered, his voice heavy with both understanding and unease. "It was a radical move, but what choice did they have? A sect that powerful, that entrenched in corruption—it needed to be uprooted."

The woman, still clutching her child, whispered, "But at what cost? This kind of purge… it never stops with just the guilty."

Her words hung in the air as the group shuffled forward, their footsteps echoing against the stone road. They turned a corner where the wind picked up, carrying with it a sharp, acrid smell. Ahead, a grim sight awaited them.

A wooden cross loomed over the road, its rough surface darkened by the weather and stained with streaks of red. Three bodies hung lifelessly from its arms, their forms swaying slightly in the relentless wind. The faces of the dead were obscured, but the crowd knew their identities—or at least, what they had been accused of.

"Witches must die…" someone muttered grimly, the words a faint echo of a chant that had reverberated through the region for months.

The younger man in the patched cloak pulled his hood tighter, averting his eyes. "So, the witch hunt's reached here too," he murmured. "Nearly two months now, and it's only growing worse."

Indeed….

It had been two months since a decree was issued….

And four months since the tournament….

PAT! PAT! PAT!
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And under the slowly drizzling rain, a beautiful horse continued to walk…..