Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

‘Three years ago, he fought like a wildfire,’ Harlan thought, eyes narrowing slightly. ‘As if nothing to lose, and as if only to fight.’

Back then, every swing Lucavion made carried a kind of beautiful recklessness—raw, untamed, dangerous in its refusal to care about the consequences. He had bled just to feel alive. Had smiled at the taste of pain because it meant he hadn’t disappeared yet. He swung not for victory, not even for survival.

He swung to burn.

But now…

Now the fire was different.

Harlan looked again—not at the movements, but at the stillness.

At the blade Lucavion hadn’t drawn.

At the way he controlled each step like a man who knew exactly where he was going—not just in the spar, but in the world.

‘That sword of his… it has a direction now.’

The realization struck deep.

‘It’s not just being swung anymore. It’s pointed at something. At someone.’

Harlan didn’t know what that was.

Didn’t ask.

But he saw it—in the way Lucavion held his weight, in the way he breathed between clashes, in the eyes that didn’t burn as wildly as before but cut sharper than ever.

Purpose.

That was the difference.

The blade hadn’t dulled—but it had focused.

And for the first time in Harlan’s long, soot-lined life, he felt something that wasn’t irritation or pride or the urge to hurl a wrench at someone’s head.

It was concern.

Not for Lucavion.

For whoever would stand at the end of that sword.

‘Gods help them,’ he thought, ‘because I can’t.’

He took one step back and planted the test blade down into the floor with a firm clang, letting the echo ring once through the chamber.

Then he looked up—at the young man who had walked into his forge like a memory and now stood there like the weight of the future.

“You’ve passed,” he said.

Lucavion arched an eyebrow, playful. “Was this a test?”

Harlan’s voice dropped.

“It always was.”

Harlan looked at him for a long time, the lines in his face cast deep by the forge-glow, his stance more relaxed but his eyes… older. Sharper.

Then he said it—not like a confession, but like the inevitable weight of a truth settling into place.

“I can’t see through you anymore.”

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, but didn’t interrupt.

Harlan continued, quieter. “Back then, I could read your stance, your intent, your edge… like watching the grain in hot steel. I knew where you’d crack. Where you’d lash out. But now?” He shook his head. “You’ve grown above what I am. I’m good in a fight. I can still swing a hammer. But I’m a blacksmith, not a swordsman.”

Lucavion shrugged. “If I wanted, I could become the Empire’s greatest blacksmith too,” he said, deadpan.

Then he added, just a shade too quickly, “Kidding.”

Harlan scoffed, sharp and immediate. “You’d burn down your own forge before you figured out how to temper flux.”

Lucavion grinned. “You say that like it hasn’t almost happened.”

Harlan didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he leaned back slightly, glancing down at the now-stilled practice blade still planted in the stone.

“Still,” he muttered, “going from a 2-star brat to a peak 4-star awakened in this short a time… You really are a kid no one can make sense of.”

Lucavion blinked once—just once—then looked over at him sidelong.

“You could see through that?”

Harlan shook his head. “Nah.”

He gestured vaguely with his hand, as if brushing aside the question like ash.

“I was told the one coming today would be a peak 4-star awakened. Age: twenty. Blade-user. Quiet aura, strange flame.” His lips twisted. “I scoffed. Thought it was another high-born brat with a puffed-up title and six guards carrying his coat.”

He looked back at Lucavion.

“And who the hell would’ve guessed it was you.”

Lucavion’s expression stayed still for a moment longer. Then—

He gave a short, low chuckle.

“Well,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head, the edge of a grin curling into place again, “I am very good at ruining expectations.”

Harlan grunted. “You’re good at giving me a headache.”

Lucavion smirked. “Same thing.”

And for a moment—just one brief, ember-quiet moment—there was no Empire, no war, no next battle waiting.

Just the master smith.

And the sword he had once tempered.

Harlan finally broke the silence with a long exhale, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to dislodge the weight of the past five minutes.

“Well,” he muttered, stepping back from the dais and giving Lucavion a last once-over, “now that I know you’re not going to snap like copper in the quench…”

Lucavion rolled his shoulders, the grin still sitting comfortably at the corner of his mouth. “That your way of saying I passed?”

“No,” Harlan said flatly, already walking toward the hall’s exit. “It’s my way of saying I won’t feel bad when your new blade tries to kill you.”

Lucavion fell into step behind him, hands slipping into his coat pockets with that same casual swagger. “Ah, so the usual then.”

They exited the armory chamber together, the great iron doors rumbling closed behind them with a heavy, resonant thunk—like the forge itself was sealing a verdict.

The hall outside was quieter, broader—a transition space where fire gave way to stone, and the true crafting rooms lay ahead.

Kaleran stood near one of the archways, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression just short of impatient. The attendant beside him perked up the moment they entered, shoulders stiffening like he’d just remembered to breathe again.

“There you are!” the attendant blurted, half-panicked, half-relieved. “We—uh—we heard sword clashing. Multiple strikes. A spar? A duel?”

Harlan’s eyes slid toward him like a whetstone dragging along an old chip in the blade.

“No,” he growled. “You heard me trying not to bury a boy in the wall.”

The attendant flinched slightly, then tried to laugh it off. “Of course, Master Harlan, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Then don’t,” Harlan cut in, already walking past him. “Stop implying. Stop talking. In fact, stop being. You’re wasting perfectly good hallway space.”

Kaleran didn’t flinch—but his eyes did twitch sideways. “He’s been like this since you left,” he muttered to Lucavion.

Lucavion gave a mock-thoughtful hum. “I think he likes me more when I’m not around.”

Behind them, the attendant mumbled something vaguely apologetic and disappeared down another hall with a stack of parchment like it was a shield.

Harlan stalked back toward the dais, the light of the forge crawling over his shoulders like it was familiar with the shape of his scowl. He paused at the center—boots grinding slightly against the scorched blackstone beneath him—then turned, arms crossing over his chest.

“Well then,” he said gruffly, eyes on Lucavion. “Let’s talk about your blade.”

Lucavion stepped into the light beside him, the air still thick with heat and awe.

“I was wondering when we’d get to that part,” he said, voice light but clear. The usual smirk flickered at the corners of his mouth, but didn’t fully form—not here. Not yet.

“This isn’t just about design,” Harlan continued. “We need to talk access. Material grade. Rune density. Alloy layering. I don’t care what kind of miracle you want me to build if I’m stuck using bar scrap and borrowed cores.”

He shot a pointed look sideways—past Lucavion, toward the watching figure in slate gray.

Kaleran, ever dignified, folded his arms. “All entrants were given a baseline allocation, with scaling determined by rank and—”

Lucavion cut in smoothly, gaze sliding toward him with the weight of inevitability.

“We have quite a lot to use, don’t we?”

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!