Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

"Ohh…..Lively, isn't it?"

Greta's heart sank at the sound of that familiar, grating voice. She turned slowly to see the young man striding into the inn, his bulky frame taking up more space than necessary as he made his entrance.

His rough, unshaven face was split into a wide grin that never reached his cold eyes, and his swaggering gait was accompanied by the sound of heavy boots clomping on the wooden floor.

"Well, well, if it isn't the lovely Greta," the young man drawled, his voice dripping with mockery as he approached her.

His name was Radgar, and he had become a thorn in the side of many in Rackenshore since his recent elevation to the baron's garrison.

Behind him, a group of similarly rough-looking men followed, all of them wearing the same smug expressions. They were his cronies, fellow soldiers who had taken to exploiting their new positions with disturbing enthusiasm.

The other patrons of the inn shifted uncomfortably, their previous lively conversations now reduced to uneasy murmurs as Radgar and his entourage made their presence known.

Greta forced herself to remain calm, though her stomach churned with unease. "Good evening, Radgar," she greeted him politely, though her tone was far less warm than it had been with the other guests.

Radgar's grin widened as he stepped closer, invading her personal space. "Oh, don't be so cold, Greta. We're here to celebrate, just like everyone else. Why don't you bring us a round of your finest ale? And maybe a little something extra, just for me?" His eyes roved over her in a way that made her skin crawl.

She knew exactly what he meant by "something extra," and it took all her willpower not to recoil in disgust. But she couldn't afford to provoke him—not when he had the baron's favor and the power to make life difficult for her family.

After all, with the recent war that was happening around the Valerius Plains, most of the soldiers from the garrison had been sent to the war. That was why there was a need for new recruitment, and that was also why people like Radgar were also chosen for this place.

But, there can be nothing done. With how the finances of the city being tight and the manpower being short, things were really hard for both Baron and the citizens.

Considering the bandits that had frequently appeared, the importance of the soldiers increased.

That was why no one could oppose—at least not the common folk.

"I'll get your drinks," she replied evenly, turning away to head back to the bar. As she did, she heard the snickers and crude comments from Radgar's companions, their voices carrying through the inn like an unpleasant stench.

As Greta prepared the drinks, she could feel the eyes of the other patrons on her, their sympathy mixed with helplessness. Radgar had made it clear to everyone that he was untouchable, and anyone who dared to stand up to him would pay the price. Even Baron Wyndhall, who was generally well-regarded by the people, seemed either oblivious or indifferent to the abuses carried out by his new soldier.

When she returned to the table with the tray of ale, Radgar reached out to grab her wrist, pulling her closer than was necessary. "Why don't you stay a while, Greta? We could use some company," he said, his breath hot and foul against her skin.

Greta gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stay calm. "I have other customers to serve, Radgar. Please, let go."

Radgar's grip tightened, his fingers digging painfully into Greta's wrist as his expression darkened. The cheerful façade he wore moments ago slipped, revealing the simmering anger beneath. "I said sit here," he growled, his voice low and menacing, sending a chill down Greta's spine.

Greta's heart raced, her breath catching in her throat as she felt the full weight of Radgar's dominance.

'Why?'

She asked herself. For this reason, she needed to endure such a thing.

Her body stiffened, and she instinctively tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron, unyielding and cold. A shiver ran through her as fear settled deep within her chest, constricting her lungs and making it difficult to breathe.

She glanced around the room, hoping—praying—that someone would step in, that someone would have the courage to stand up to Radgar.

But all she saw were lowered gazes and averted eyes. The patrons who had been so lively moments before now seemed to shrink into themselves, unwilling to draw Radgar's attention.

Her gaze then met her father's across the room. He stood behind the bar, his hands clenched tightly around a mug, the knuckles white with tension. His eyes were filled with sorrow and helplessness, a reflection of the same emotions that Greta felt.

He looked like he wanted nothing more than to come to her aid, but the knowledge of what Radgar could do—what he had the power to do—kept him rooted in place.

The weight of her father's sadness and powerlessness bore down on Greta, adding to the crushing despair she felt. She was trapped, caught between her own fear and the reality of her situation.

There was no one who could help her, no one who would stand up to Radgar, not even the man she loved most in the world.

As if sensing the shift in her emotions, Radgar's expression changed once more. The anger in his eyes faded, replaced by that unsettling, too-bright grin he often wore. He let out a loud, forced laugh, the sound grating against Greta's nerves. "Ah, don't be like that, Greta! We're just having a bit of fun, aren't we?" he said, his tone suddenly light and jovial, as if he hadn't just threatened her.

He loosened his grip on her wrist, though he didn't let go entirely, his thumb tracing slow, possessive circles on her skin.

'Disgusting…..Disgusting….Disgusting….'

The shift in his demeanor was disorienting, the sudden change from anger to false cheerfulness making Greta's head spin. She knew better than to believe the mask he wore now—it was just a cover for the darkness that lurked beneath.

But just as the nausea threatened to overwhelm her, the door to the inn burst open with a loud bang, causing every head in the room to turn in unison. The sudden noise sliced through the oppressive atmosphere, and for a brief moment, all eyes were on the entrance.

Standing in the doorway was a young man, slightly above average height, around 180 cm. His clothes were rough and travel-worn, the kind a weary traveler might wear after days on the road.

His face was shadowed by the hood of his cloak, and though his features were hard to discern, it was clear that he was a stranger—someone unfamiliar to the people of Rackenshore.

The room held its breath as the newcomer stepped inside, his movements slow and deliberate.

He ignored the curious and wary gazes of the patrons, his presence unsettling the previously boisterous atmosphere. It was as if his very entrance had cast a shadow over the room, one that made even the most brazen hesitate.

'Who is he…?' Greta wondered, her discomfort momentarily pushed aside by this new arrival. The man's silence was almost eerie, and there was something about the way he moved—purposeful, unhurried—that made him seem as though he was in control of the entire room without saying a word.

Trailing closely behind him was a small cat, its sleek white fur a stark contrast to the roughness of the traveler's attire.

The cat moved with the same quiet grace as its master, curling around his neck like a living scarf, its bright eyes scanning the room with an intelligence that belied its size.

Radgar's grip on Greta's wrist loosened as his attention shifted to the newcomer. The forced smile slipped from his face, replaced by a scowl of irritation. "Who the hell is this?" he muttered under his breath, his gaze narrowing as he watched the stranger's every move.

The traveler paid no mind to Radgar or anyone else in the room. He moved toward an empty table near the far wall, his steps barely making a sound on the wooden floor. Once there, he pulled out a chair and sat down, the cat leaping onto the table with effortless ease.

For a moment, silence reigned. The tension in the room was palpable, the patrons unsure of what to make of this mysterious figure. Even Radgar, who thrived on asserting his dominance, seemed momentarily at a loss.

Greta, still standing by Radgar's side, felt a flicker of something she hadn't allowed herself to feel in a long time—hope.

It was faint, almost fragile, but it was there. The stranger's arrival had disrupted the oppressive control Radgar held over the room, if only for a moment.

'Could this be… a chance?'

The thought was barely formed before Radgar let out a derisive snort, the moment of hesitation gone. He released Greta's wrist completely, turning his full attention to the newcomer.

"Hey, you!" Radgar called out, his voice carrying across the room. "You've got some nerve, barging in here like that."

But that hope was soon crushed.

After all, the traveler was also targeted by Ragna and he was also not spared.

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