Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 837: Words of steel (4)

’Do you know how much pain you caused me?’

She didn’t scream it.

Didn’t say it.

But it surged behind every strike. Every breath.

She’d bled for a cause that had already begun to rot. She’d fought beside people who’d sooner let her die than admit she belonged. She’d earned every inch of her standing with cracked ribs and bruised pride and a sword that never, ever stopped moving.

And he—the one who taught her to move like that—left.

’Do you even think about what happened because of your actions?’

She circled him now, blade steady, footwork sure. She didn’t hesitate—not because she trusted him.

But because she had stopped waiting for people to come back.

Lucavion pivoted, reading her movement. His form—clean, close, defensive.

He wasn’t striking.

He was studying.

Still treating her like a cadet.

Still watching her learn.

And it broke something loose in her chest.

That old hurt.

That old fire.

He never saw what she became.

Jesse’s jaw locked.

’You don’t know me anymore.’

Jesse’s breath burned as it left her lungs—steady, sharp, laced with a fury she couldn’t voice. But the rhythm of it matched her blade. Matched her body. Matched the life she’d carved out of abandonment.

’And that’s your fault.’

She wasn’t a cadet.

She wasn’t some quiet shadow trailing behind his lessons.

She was a survivor forged in all the places he never saw.

And standing here—before the man who once taught her to listen to her blade—she realized he no longer heard hers.

Because it had changed.

She had changed.

She wanted him to see it.

Not through words.

Through pain.

Jesse exhaled through her teeth and stilled her blade just a moment—just long enough to feel again. Her stance sank. One foot braced behind her, weight angled as if to retreat—but not quite.

Lucavion’s eyes narrowed.

He saw the shift.

He always saw the shift.

But this time, he read it wrong.

She wanted him to.

’You think I’m circling again. You think I’m playing your game.’

She wasn’t.

This wasn’t his game.

It was hers.

The one she built in blood.

She gripped her blade low, reverse, lowering her center of gravity. Her shoulder rolled forward, exposing her left side—just slightly.

Too much.

Too open.

Lucavion’s eyes flicked once.

There.

He moved.

Estoc slicing forward in a perfect diagonal—sharp, minimal, aimed right for the exposed joint of her shoulder.

But Jesse didn’t move away.

Didn’t dodge.

Didn’t block.

She let it happen.

The blade sliced across her arm—

—SHHK!—

Pain flared hot and white across her nerves, but her grip never faltered.

Her body twisted into the strike.

And then she moved.

From her low stance, her blade coiled around in a vicious upward arc, drawing from her wounded arm’s rotation—a motion she had trained alone, in cold, dark fields when the world had already written her off.

Her voice didn’t rise.

But in her head—

She whispered it.

“Dying Rebuttal.”

A form designed to punish assumption.

The moment an opponent believes the fight’s already over.

A counter born not from school or structure—but from necessity.

From being weaker.

From being disposable.

The blade screamed upward—

—CLAAAANG!—

Lucavion barely caught it.

His estoc tilted just in time to catch the full force of her upward cut—but the motion shook his stance. The snap of the clash echoed across the courtyard.

And his eyes—

They were wide.

Not from pain.

Not from surprise at the form.

But at the truth of it.

Jesse didn’t stop.

She pressed the lock, leaned forward, blood still hot down her arm.

And looked into his eyes.

Those pitch-black irises she used to recognize in training tents and nighttime watches now held a fire—a kind of deep-burning presence he hadn’t worn back then.

But so did hers.

And now?

His smile was gone.

Lucavion’s smirk—

That damned smirk, the one she’d known like breath—

It was gone.

Erased not by pain.

Not by surprise.

But by something colder.

Something older.

His estoc still held firm in the lock, steel pressed against hers, but it no longer felt like a test. No longer the careful gauging of a mentor watching an apprentice grow.

It felt like acknowledgment.

And more—

Jesse felt it before she saw it. That subtle shift in tension. The faint tilt of his chin. His breath, slower now—not calm, but measured. Contained.

Like a flame smothered under pressure, building.

And then she saw his lips—

Not drawn in amusement.

Not parted in shock.

But curling.

Just slightly.

Not into a smile.

Into something leaner. More deliberate.

An edge.

’That look…’

Her heart hitched, chest tightening—not from fear, but memory.

She’d seen that expression once.

Only once.

Back during a skirmish north of the Muirwood Border. Before he deserted. Before he vanished. Back when they were both still soldiers.

There had been a scout unit—Arcanis elite. Assassins trained in misdirection, speed, kill-efficiency.

They had slaughtered half their patrol before anyone even sounded the alarm.

Lucavion had arrived too late to save the camp.

But not too late to respond.

Jesse had watched him walk into the clearing, quiet, unarmed at first.

And then—

His lips curled.

Just like this.

Back then—

He had looked down at the bodies with that same expression.

Not cruel.

Not distant.

Just… cut off.

The kind of stillness that didn’t belong to someone watching comrades die—but to someone who had already grieved before stepping onto the field.

Jesse remembered the way the smoke hung over the Muirwood clearing, curling between the shattered trees. The bodies of their squadmates had been sprawled like broken puppets—throats opened, chests collapsed, uniforms bloodied beyond recognition.

A few had still been alive.

Moaning.

Crawling.

She’d taken a step forward, ready to help—only to stop.

Because Lucavion didn’t move.

He stood at the edge of the carnage, motionless, his shadow cast long by the flickering remnants of the burning tents.

His eyes had passed over the wounded.

One by one.

Not to dismiss them.

But to see them.

Every injury. Every breath. Every loss.

And then—

His lips curled.

Just like they had now.

Not a grin.

Not fury.

Permission.

Permission for something inside him to change.

And when it did—he moved.

Fast.

Silent.

Deadly.

The Arcanis scouts hadn’t even made it to the treeline.

Back then, Jesse had watched it happen, stunned.

Back then, she hadn’t understood the weight behind that expression.

But now—

Now she felt it.

That same weight.

That same shift.

That same Lucavion.

—CLAAANK!—

The sudden clash snapped Jesse back into the present.

Lucavion’s estoc crashed against hers—not for damage. Not for blood.

For distance.

He pushed her back, a clean separation of steel and silence.

She stumbled once—lightly—and readied again.

But he didn’t follow.

Lucavion didn’t press forward.

He didn’t shift into stance.

He simply… stood there.

Sword still lowered. Still.

Watching her.

And then—his eyes dropped.

To her arm.

To the wound still slick with blood.

And for a moment—

Just a breath—

Jesse saw emotion behind those pitch-black eyes.

A furrow just between his brows. A tension in his throat, as if a word almost escaped and was dragged back down before it could reach the air.

“….”

He said nothing.

But she felt it.

That look.

That quiet ache.

Not for the pain she was in.

But for the pain he caused.

And Jesse?

Jesse didn’t lower her sword.

Didn’t let herself soften.

Because the wound wasn’t just from this duel.

It was from every moment after he left.

Every time she stood alone in the dark with no one behind her but his shadow.

And he needed to see it.

To feel it.

So she kept her grip firm, eyes locked to his.

Let him look.

Let him remember.

Let him understand.

Because whatever was coming next—

It would not be gentle.

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