Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

“…You…”

Lucavion tilted his head, just slightly. One brow arched, his voice rich with mockery and undertone.

“Me?”

He took a half-step forward, not aggressive—just present. The kind of presence that didn’t beg for attention but rearranged the air until it was the only thing that could be noticed. The heat shifted with him, not out of deference, but out of curiosity. Even the forge seemed to lean forward.

Harlan didn’t move immediately.

But his neck turned. Slowly. Deliberately.

The full weight of a smith’s scrutiny met Lucavion’s gaze, those pale, mana-scored eyes dragging across every detail of the young man’s face like a blade measuring its scabbard.

And then—

Lucavion smiled.

Not warm.

Not kind.

Just wide enough to be a dare.

“I’m the brat,” he said, letting the words drop like coins into a well. “The peacock. The one with bloodline I couldn’t explain. First rank. Stamped letter. Glowing rune expectations and dragon breath dreams.” He opened his arms theatrically, the flicker of his void-fire trailing like ink in molten air. “The Empire’s walking offense. Here to waste your time.”

A beat.

Then Lucavion took another step into the forge’s breath, letting the warmth press against his skin like a half-forgotten memory.

“Still can’t remember me, old man?”

The words hung in the air—low, steady, edged with something beneath the smirk. Not anger. Not quite. But something older. A weight carried across years and silence.

Harlan’s gaze sharpened. There was a flicker—small, quick—behind the mask of his expression. Like a gear catching.

Lucavion tilted his head, voice dipping into memory’s rhythm.

“Rackenshore. The boy with the estoc that was too long for his arm and a core that wouldn’t settle. The one who showed up every other day just to get barked at for swinging wrong. You said—what was it—ah, right…”

He raised his voice an octave in mock imitation.

“‘Sword’s not a damn broomstick, boy. Stop sweeping the wind like you’re chasing ghosts.'”

A pause.

Then his tone dropped again. Quiet. Real.

“And you still let me swing. Again and again. Even when I didn’t get it right. Even when I was smiling while I fought.”

That smile—the one Lucavion wore now—flickered. Just a breath of something behind the bravado.

“I came to you, not for polish. Not for flair. But because you were the only one who didn’t flinch when you saw the beast in me.”

A nod toward the forge.

“And when I asked you to make me a blade from the wyrm’s scales, you said, ‘You’d burn before you ever earned it.’ Remember that?”

He raised a hand, and the [Flame of Equinox] curled up his arm, gentle but absolute—fire refined, no longer snarling, but listening.

“Well, I earned it. And you made it. I held that weapon like it was part of me, and I carved a path through this damned empire with your craftsmanship in my hand and your judgment in my head.”

Lucavion stepped forward again, the floor beneath him glowing faintly in recognition—runes in the stone pulsing with faint light.

“So,” he said, voice low, almost a whisper, “what is it now?”

He stopped a blade’s length from the anvil.

“Do you still not see me?”

Harlan stared.

And the fire behind him cracked once. Not in protest.

In memory.

The old man’s shoulders shifted, ever so slightly, and the hammer in his hand lowered—just an inch.

“…You grew up,” he muttered, like the words tasted strange in his mouth. “Didn’t think you would. Figured the fire would kill you first. Or the blade.”

Lucavion gave a dry chuckle. “It almost did. More than once.”

“But it didn’t.”

Harlan’s voice was quiet now. He looked away, just for a second. Not in shame. In acknowledgment.

Harlan’s gaze drifted back to Lucavion’s face—slow, deliberate. Not searching. Confirming.

Then his eyes narrowed slightly, the lines in his weathered face deepening with something unreadable.

“That scar…” he murmured, voice lower than before. “I see you’ve gotten rid of it.”

Lucavion’s expression didn’t change immediately. But the firelight caught the edge of his mouth as it curved, just faintly.

“Yeah…” he said, his voice quiet, not triumphant, but resolved. “I cleared that remnant of the past.”

He raised a hand briefly, brushing two fingers along the now-smooth line where the scar once cut across his jaw. The gesture was casual. Almost meaningless.

But it wasn’t.

Not between them.

Harlan’s eyes lingered there for a second longer before he let out a rough, humorless chuckle.

“Heh… kid…” His voice caught slightly. “I see that you really have grown up.”

He didn’t say it with pride.

He said it like someone digging through old coals and finding the fire still burning underneath.

Then, silence.

Just for a breath.

And then Harlan’s eyes met his again—this time, fully. Not with doubt. Not with disbelief. But with weight.

“To think that it was you…” he muttered, almost to himself…

Then his eyes narrowed, still staring at Lucavion like he was trying to burn through him to the bones—not with heat, but with memory.

“They mentioned,” the old man muttered, “some kid topping the imperial entrance. Said he was a swordsman. Broke all records. Used some damn strange flame.”

Lucavion arched a brow. “And you didn’t think to check who it was?”

Harlan snorted, brushing ash from his forearm with a jerk of his elbow. “Didn’t have time to chase academy drama.”

Lucavion blinked once. Then tilted his head slightly, arms folding. “It was broadcasted across the Empire, old man. Diviners were practically shoving it into teacups. The forge you live in has two crystal mirrors. Don’t lie.”

The old man’s face shifted—just for a second.

Gone was the muttering grump. Just for a breath, a colder silence wrapped around his jaw, around his shoulders. It wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t shame.

It was distance.

A distance he had chosen.

“…Nah,” he said flatly. “Didn’t watch it.”

Lucavion didn’t miss the pause between the words.

Didn’t miss the look in his eye.

He let the moment stretch, then said—calmly, without accusation, “Busy as ever, then.”

Harlan grunted. “Work doesn’t stop ’cause the Empire’s got a new poster boy.”

Lucavion chuckled, dry and brief. “Of course not. You’re the only man I know who’d miss the collapse of a kingdom because you were arguing with a piece of iron.”

“That iron was being a bastard,” Harlan muttered.

Just as the forge’s rhythm began to settle—less clash, more conversation—a pulse of mana flickered at the crucible corridor’s edge.

A soft shimmer, then the quiet hum of layered enchantments activating.

Two figures emerged through the shimmering veil—one walking like the air obeyed him, the other walking like it might set him on fire if he breathed too hard.

Kaleran stepped into the forge chamber first, his boots not quite touching the floor—levitation sigils whispering at his heels. His slate-gray cloak was now charred faintly at the edges, his usual calm expression drawn tight with layered restraint.

Behind him, the attendant arrived panting, a protective charm glimmering faintly around his chest and brow, sweat running down his face in rivulets. He looked one flicker of flame away from bolting.

And both of them froze at the threshold of the forge heart—where the temperature became intent.

The attendant looked around wildly, spotted Lucavion standing comfortably in front of the crucible’s central anvil, then turned quickly toward Harlan.

“I—I apologize!” he blurted, voice higher than usual. “Master Harlan, I didn’t mean for him to offend—he moved without clearance, I tried to stop him, I truly—”

Harlan didn’t even look at him.

The hammer was still in his hand. The forge still glowed like a god’s throat. And the old man raised his voice just enough to cut through the apologies like a hot blade through butter.

“Boy,” he said to the attendant, “if you waste more air, I’ll forge you into a bellows and use you properly.”

The poor man shut up immediately.

Kaleran, unfazed by the rebuke, stepped forward with more caution—still upright, still composed, but wary. “Lucavion,” he said evenly, his tone edged in a strained civility. “You’ve had your dramatic moment. If you’d kindly step back, I’ll ensure your discussion with the Master is conducted with the appropriate timing and respect.”

Lucavion didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“Too late.”

———-A/N———

Old man needs his screen time, it has been nearly 600 chapters.

After this, some foreshadowing and some world building, and then it is time for reunions.

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