Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 829: Resonance (2)

Sword Resonance…

A name that sounds simple—yet carries the weight of blood, will, and generations of failure. It wasn’t just a technique. Not to those who understood it. It was alignment. A phenomenon that occurred when the blade, the body, and the soul moved as one—no, became one.

Lucavion’s eyes followed the shimmer of Rowen’s blade, the low hum still vibrating faintly in the air between them like a heartbeat only trained swordsmen could hear. Resonance wasn’t something one learned. It wasn’t something one unlocked through effort alone.

He’d known about it long before this match. Not through scrolls. Not through noble tradition. But through a conversation buried in memory—etched into him on the blood-soaked frontlines of a war no noble ever remembered.

Gerald had spoken of it once.

“Sword Resonance,” his master had murmured, hands stained with the grime of a battlefield.

They’d been sitting behind the ruined shell of a stone parapet, with Lucavion catching breath after a three-day siege that had reduced half the unit that he belonged to names no one would bother to etch into a gravestone.

“I could never reach it,” Gerald had said, voice steady, but distant. “No matter how much I refined my sword techniques… no matter how precisely I aligned my mana channels. It never answered me.”

Lucavion had looked at him then—this man who had single-handedly created a mana accumulation technique from scratch. A genius among monsters. Someone who could silence an entire warpath with a single swing when enraged.

“But why?” Lucavion had asked, genuine curiosity peeking out beneath the soot that masked his face.

Gerald’s eyes had drifted skyward, his tone unreadable.

Gerald’s eyes had drifted skyward, his tone unreadable.

And then—

He said something Lucavion had rarely heard from those lips.

“I don’t know.”

Not I can’t. Not perhaps. But those three words—quiet, bare, unshielded.

Lucavion had blinked once. Caught off guard not by the answer, but by the truth in it. The raw honesty that slipped through the cracks of a man who always seemed composed, sharp, invincible.

Gerald ran a hand through his blood-matted hair, the gesture slower than usual. “I’ve tried. Gods, if they exist, know I’ve tried. Spent more hours refining my blade forms than I did sleeping. Poured mana through every node until my veins blistered. I can calculate the flow of combat to a decimal. Break down strikes mid-execution. But it still never came.”

Lucavion was silent. Still crouched beside the older man, his hands idly cleaning a blade that had already drawn more blood than it should have.

Gerald’s voice dropped lower.

“Maybe… in the end, I wasn’t a swordsman. Not in heart. My body remembered the motion. My mana could replicate the rhythm. But resonance… resonance doesn’t answer calculation. It answers something else.”

He chuckled once. Bitter. “I built techniques that manipulated the body’s mana to its limits. Developed a core compression sequence that can elevate a two-star into a four-star in under five years. But that one thing—Sword Resonance—always stood just out of reach.”

A long pause.

Then he glanced sideways at Lucavion.

“You’re not there either.”

A statement. Not judgment. Just… fact.

Lucavion hadn’t flinched. “I know.”

But something in him stirred.

Gerald’s eyes lingered a moment longer before turning away again. “That might be a good thing. For you.”

Lucavion had frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you don’t look for permission.” His master leaned back against the shattered stone, gaze resting on the distant battlefield. “You don’t wait for your sword to sing. You just… make it scream.”

Back then, Lucavion didn’t fully understand what that meant. But even in his youth, he remembered the strange flicker that passed through him. The desire that twisted in his gut—hot and cold at once.

To surpass that damned old man.

Not out of hate.

Not even pride.

But because if he couldn’t reach it—

If he, with all his genius, his mastery of mana, his tactical brilliance—if he still failed to touch the truth of the sword—

Then Lucavion wanted to….

Not because he had to.

Because he wanted to.

To reach the place Gerald couldn’t.

To set foot on the path his master had mapped but never walked.

To take the concept of [Sword Resonance]—that elusive bond between man and blade—and make it his.

Not by tradition.

Not through inherited forms and flowing robes.

But by carving it out through blood and defiance.

What would it feel like?

That question had haunted him ever since.

What would it feel like for the blade to stop being a tool?

To stop being an extension of the hand—and instead become the heart’s voice?

Gerald once said resonance required something else. Something unnamed.

And Lucavion had thought on that for years.

Wondering if it was intent.

Conviction.

Love.

Loss.

Maybe all of it.

He didn’t know.

But what he did know—was this:

That even in all his unpredictability, all his precision layered in chaos—his sword was still a lone voice. Clear. Sharp. But alone.

It didn’t sing.

Not yet.

But now… facing Rowen…

Lucavion’s eyes narrowed, the hum of [Resonance] pressing into his skin like a second heartbeat.

Rowen’s sword wasn’t just fast. It spoke.

It cut through the air not as steel, but as declaration.

There was something inside it—a weight, not of power, but of purpose.

Legacy.

Duty.

History.

A sword trained by hundreds of hands.

And yet… Lucavion could feel it.

Not just the danger.

But the pull.

His heart beat faster. Not in fear. Not in thrill.

In hunger.

’So this is it…’

Sword Resonance.

It wasn’t just a power. It wasn’t just a trick of mana.

It was an invitation.

Well… calling it an invitation might sound strange.

But Lucavion genuinely felt that way.

Each time their blades collided—

each ringing CLANG,

each rebounding strike,

each razor-thin gap where instinct and breath aligned—

He felt like he was on the verge.

Just there.

As if some thread inside him trembled, strained—ready to snap, or awaken, or sing.

But never quite.

Never yet.

It was maddening.

Rowen’s sword didn’t just repel him—it welcomed him.

Not as a guest.

As a challenger.

A test.

And every time Lucavion met it, something in him clawed upward, as if his soul leaned closer, trying to hear a tune just out of reach.

Like the door to that resonance was cracked open.

But no one had told him how to step through.

Not the technique.

Not the stance.

Not even mana.

Just a sensation.

A… space.

’Where is it?’ Lucavion thought as their blades locked again, force crackling between them.

’Where’s the step I’m missing?’

He felt it—in his blood.

A tension beneath the skin.

Not fear.

Longing.

Because for the first time in his life, amidst the chaos and the flying sparks, Lucavion wasn’t trying to break his opponent.

He wasn’t trying to dominate, outwit, overwhelm.

He was trying to touch something.

Every strike he delivered—it wasn’t just offense.

It was a question.

Is this it?

Is this enough?

Do I reach it now?

But the answer was always just one breath away.

Too far to grasp.

Too close to ignore.

A paradox of sensation.

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