Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 563: Kael Draven

The Rusted Fang had descended into absolute chaos.

The sound of steel clashing, bodies hitting the ground, and men screaming filled the once-lively bar. Tables were overturned, shattered tankards spilled ale across the floor, and the thick, acrid scent of burning flesh tainted the air.

And at the center of it all—

The black-haired bastard stood untouched.

His expression was calm, almost bored, as if the fight had barely required his attention. Around him, the mercenaries who had been so eager to challenge him were now writhing on the ground, howling in agony.

Some clutched their severed limbs—legs, hands, even chests split open—while others simply trembled, too shocked to comprehend what had happened in those few fleeting seconds.

Caius stared at the carnage, his body rigid. He hadn't even seen half of those attacks.

Then—

A voice roared over the chaos.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!"

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The air in the bar shifted.

Caius felt it immediately—the sheer weight of that voice.

And just like that—everything stopped.

Even the wounded mercenaries—those who could still move—froze in place, their whimpers dying in their throats.

Footsteps rang out, firm and unhurried.

And then, he appeared.

Kael Draven.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. His coat, long and dark, carried the weight of a man who had built an empire out of the blood of others. A thick scar ran along his jaw, disappearing beneath his collar. His presence alone commanded attention, demanded respect.

His sharp eyes swept over the scene, taking in the devastation—the broken men, the ruined bar, the lingering scent of black flame still burning on some of the bodies.

His expression twisted into one of cold fury. "What the fuck happened here?"

And then—

The black-haired man turned to look at him.

His dark eyes flickered with vague curiosity as if he had just found something interesting.

Then—his lips curved into a small, knowing smile.

"Hmm…" He tilted his head slightly, his black hair falling into his face. "Are you Kael Draven?"

The entire bar held its breath.

Caius felt it—the invisible tension thickening between them, like the moment before a blade was drawn.

Draven's eyes narrowed. His jaw tensed.

Caius swallowed hard.

This was about to get very, very bad.

Kael Draven's eyes flicked over the room, his sharp gaze drinking in every detail—the overturned tables, the blood pooling across the wooden floorboards, the pained groans of his men as they clutched their wounds.

And then his eyes settled on the black-haired stranger standing in the center of it all.

Calm. Unbothered. Smirking like this was all just some mild amusement to him.

Draven exhaled slowly. Trouble. He could already tell.

Still, he wasn't about to let this bastard dictate the pace of the conversation.

"So what if I am?" Draven said coolly, his expression unreadable.

The black-haired man tilted his head slightly, almost thoughtfully.

"You should educate your men better," he mused, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as if he weren't surrounded by injured mercenaries. "They're quite savage."

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

"YOU'RE THE SAVAGE, YOU FUCKER!"

The collective roar of the wounded men filled the air, their voices a mix of agony and outrage. Some clutched their severed limbs, others struggled to even sit up, glaring daggers at the man who had reduced them to this.

Draven's lips twitched slightly. Not in amusement—just irritation. He slowly turned his gaze toward his men, then back to the black-haired bastard.

And then—to Caius.

Caius, for his part, looked done.

Draven raised a brow. "You involved in this mess, Caius?"

Caius sighed through his nose. "Not willingly."

Draven exhaled. Figures.

But his focus quickly returned to the stranger.

Something about this wasn't adding up. If this guy wanted to make a statement, if he was here to send a message—then why weren't his men dead?

Draven's gaze sharpened. He crouched down slightly, inspecting the nearest wounded mercenary. His man groaned in pain, clutching his bleeding leg. The wound was clean. Deep, yes, but not fatal.

The same pattern repeated with every other mercenary on the floor. Arms, legs, shoulders, even a few ribs—cut, broken, shattered. But not a single one was dead.

Draven's fingers drummed once against his knee as he stood back up, his mind whirring.

'Fought all these men without killing a single one?'

It wasn't just restraint—it was mastery. Precision. Every cut was deliberate, every strike calculated to incapacitate without crossing that final, irreversible threshold.

This man had the skill to butcher every one of them effortlessly.

And yet—he hadn't.

Draven's expression didn't change, but his posture shifted just slightly—something more cautious, more measured.

This bastard wasn't here just to start a fight.

Draven could already envision how this all started.

His men had likely taunted the bastard first, sizing him up, testing him like they did with any outsider who walked in with an air of confidence. A few drinks, a few insults thrown back and forth—and then steel was drawn.

That was just how things worked in this part of Varenthia.

It wasn't about right or wrong.

It was about who was left standing.

And judging by the bodies rolling on the ground, that question had been answered.

Draven exhaled through his nose, rubbing his jaw.

'Tch. If I met every asshole who came here claiming they needed to see me, I'd never get a fucking moment of peace.'

It wasn't uncommon for people to seek him out. Information brokers, smugglers, mercenaries looking for work—half the city knew his name, and a fair number wanted either business or blood.

But this?

This wasn't just another desperate thug trying to make an impression.

This one had walked in, destroyed half his men, and still looked relaxed enough to ask for a drink.

Draven clicked his tongue.

Draven clicked his tongue, his irritation mounting.

What the hell did this guy want?

Did he really think that after causing a scene like this, after tearing through his men like they were street thugs, he'd just waltz in and get whatever the fuck he came for?

Draven crossed his arms, his sharp gaze locked onto the black-haired bastard. "And what exactly do you want?"

The man exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly as if he were the one dealing with an annoyance. "I came here with civil intentions," he said smoothly. Then, he gestured to the groaning men on the floor. "It was your men who couldn't keep their pants on."

Draven's eye twitched. His nostrils flared slightly.

"So what?" he said bluntly, his tone shameless.

The black-haired man sighed, rubbing his temple. "Sigh… People in this city are all muscle-brains, aren't they?"

Draven let out a short, humorless chuckle. "You come to Varenthia and expect what, exactly?"

But the stranger didn't rise to the bait. Instead, his expression turned bored. Then, casually—too casually—he spoke the next words.

"Corvina. Name ring any bells?"

Draven's breath hitched.

His expression didn't change, but his pupils contracted.

He hadn't heard that name in a long while.

And the fact that this bastard had just walked into his territory and spoken it so casually—

The black-haired man watched Draven's reaction carefully. He wasn't expecting an immediate answer, but the sharp glint in Draven's eyes—the slightest shift in his posture—was enough.

He had struck something.

A slow smirk curved his lips. "Well," he mused, tilting his head. "It seems it rings some bells."

Draven said nothing. His expression was still as stone, but his fingers tapped against his arm, betraying the thoughts running through his head.

The black-haired man continued, his voice light. "She was the one who told me to find you when I came to this city."

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then—

Draven let out a low chuckle.

It was quiet at first, but then it grew—a deep, rough laugh that carried both amusement and something else. Something old.

He shook his head, lips quirking into a smirk. "Hah… I guess she's still playing big as ever."

Caius watched the exchange with narrowed eyes, feeling more and more like he had walked into something way over his head.

Draven exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his dark hair before finally turning toward the back of the bar. He gestured with a jerk of his chin.

"Come," he said, his voice carrying no hesitation. "Let's talk."

The black-haired man gave him an easy smile, as if this had been the outcome he'd been expecting all along.

Caius, on the other hand, just inwardly groaned.

'Great. More insanity.'