Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 832: It happened

And yet—it had happened.

He had done it.

Lucavion, without hesitation, without ceremony, had stepped in and shouldered the consequence of something she couldn’t fight. And not with spectacle—but with ease. With control. As if none of it rattled him. As if Thalor’s oppressive, suffocating mana was merely dust brushed from a shoulder.

And then…

He winked.

Back then, right after it all diffused—when her lungs were still burning and her spine was still trembling beneath her gown—he winked. Not smug. Not flippant. Just that glimmer of mischief curling behind his lashes, like he already knew how the next few beats of the world would unfold and simply let her in on the joke.

’You arrogant… impossible man…’

She had hated him for it. For making her heart skip when it should’ve clenched. For flashing charm where silence should’ve followed. For being confident in a moment where she had nearly shattered.

But now?

Standing on the terrace’s overlook, gazing down at the field where sword met sword and silence thundered like drums—

He had proven it.

That confidence wasn’t vanity. It wasn’t baseless.

He had earned it.

Lucavion’s movements had danced between elegance and fury, every step whispering calculation and chaos in the same breath. She hadn’t just watched him win—she had watched him resonate. With Rowen. With the blade. With something no court in the Empire had trained them to see.

And now… every noble in that viewing hall had seen it too.

The air was thick with silence, even though the match had ended. There was no applause yet. No soft commentary. Just a subtle, quiet unraveling of posture—lords leaning forward without realizing, ladies still clutching their hands mid-gasp.

Some had eyes wide with disbelief.

Others?

Terror.

Lucien had not moved.

Rowen had not yet spoken.

And Lucavion, standing beneath the glow of the moonlight with dust on his sleeves and sweat barely kissed along his brow, simply let it settle. He didn’t boast. Didn’t gloat.

He stood like someone who knew exactly what he had done.

And exactly what it meant.

’No wonder you winked.’

Priscilla’s lips pressed into a thin line, her chest rising slowly.

It wasn’t just the strength that shook the nobles.

It was the implication of it.

Because this—what he’d just done—wasn’t supposed to be possible. Not for a man of uncertain background. Not for someone who stood outside the usual noble factions. Not for someone whose reputation had long been tainted by rumors and manipulation.

And yet… he had stood equal to Rowen.

Rowen.

Lucien’s champion. The Empire’s sword. The man who was supposed to be unmatched in discipline and heritage.

Lucavion had not only met him.

He had danced with him.

And no one in the audience—no one—could deny it now.

He wasn’t a question anymore.

He was an answer.

And that terrified them.

****

The duel’s end hadn’t rung with triumph—but with a silence that hummed louder than any cheer.

“…Draw?”

The judge’s word had barely finished echoing when the courtyard stirred. Not with laughter. Not with dismissal. But with murmurs sharpened by awe.

“He blocked Rowen’s final strike…”

“And landed his own at the same time?”

“That kid—Lucavion—he’s…”

“…not to be trifled with.”

The nobles spoke in hushes. Velvet-smooth tones glazed in shock. Their fans didn’t flutter now—they had stilled, like all motion deferred to thought.

One older baron near the fountain leaned toward his companion, voice low. “Rowen Drayke has trained with the Knight Commander himself since he could hold a sword. That wasn’t a spar. That was his full form. And yet…”

“No victor,” the companion finished, a hint of admiration in her tone. “Which means either the Drayke bloodline has lost its edge…”

“Or the commoner was something else entirely.”

The unspoken tension twisted in the air. None dared challenge Rowen openly. But none could deny what they’d seen either.

Lucavion had stopped the Empire’s finest blade.

And he had smiled doing it.

Thalor, still at the edge of the gathering, sipped calmly from his now-cooled wine. He let the murmurs play their part—ripple outward, soften the battlefield. Let awe settle like dew before sunlight burned it away.

Only then did he speak, half to the nobles behind him, half to himself.

“Yes,” he murmured. “He is… very much not to be trifled with.”

And yet the gleam in his eyes was not disappointment.

It was intrigue.

He wasn’t a swordsman.

Not by tradition. Not by discipline. Not by pride.

But Thalor had eyes. And what he had just seen—that final exchange between Rowen and Lucavion—wasn’t just a duel. It was a conversation written in steel, and every syllable had been carved from mastery.

Rowen Drayke hadn’t simply swung a blade. He had called upon something sacred. Something old.

Thalor’s gaze narrowed.

’I’ve seen notes of it before… whispered in scrolls… sealed in Tower archives we weren’t even meant to catalog.’

The final technique. That arcing spiral.

It hadn’t been refined for war. It wasn’t a battlefield technique, nor a maneuver meant for slaying monsters or dueling mages.

It was art. Pure and singular.

The signature of the previous Sword Saint.

A technique known only in theory—a stroke meant to be the summation of a life spent in silent worship of the blade, stripped of mana, incompatible with bodily reinforcement, discarded in an age obsessed with augmentation.

A sword technique… for the sword alone.

And Rowen had used it.

Not just mimicked it.

He understood it.

The elegance of the motion, the arc of his pivot, the stillness in the breath just before impact—it wasn’t forged in some noble courtyard.

It had been passed down.

And yet…

Lucavion broke it.

No—met it.

Not with matching form. Not with traditional counters. But with something almost unspeakable.

Instinct, yes. But not wild.

Calculated.

Reflex sharpened into design. A pattern of motion that didn’t come from practice, but from understanding. Like he had read the technique in real time and rewritten its ending.

Thalor felt it now, low in his chest.

That twist of recognition. That rare, spine-pricking certainty that what he had just witnessed was not luck. Not a fluke.

It was revelation.

’A sword genius…’

The thought wasn’t bitter. It was clean.

He’d suspected it for a while—ever since Lucavion responded to the term ionized without blinking, ever since the stabilizer’s ripple aligned too perfectly. The man was no fool. He’d evaded every bait Thalor had thrown like it was dance.

But this?

This sealed it.

Lucavion wasn’t some clever manipulator hiding behind half-truths and charm.

He was dangerous in the ways that mattered.

’My instincts were right,’ Thalor mused, setting down his wine, watching as Lucavion finally moved—graceful, still quiet, not victorious but content. ’He’s not just here to survive us. He’s here to match us.’

His smile returned.

Wider this time.

Not out of politeness.

But because, for the first time in years…

He was genuinely intrigued.

Thalor stood still for a moment longer, watching the slow exhale of the court—the nobles resettling into themselves, eyes wide, lips tight, as if unsure whether to be impressed, afraid, or both.

He had not gotten what he wanted.

At least—that’s what they would think.

A draw wasn’t a spectacle. It didn’t give the court a victor to rally behind or a loser to mock. It left things in limbo. Suspended. Quiet.

And yet…

He had gotten exactly what he wanted.

Confirmation.

The whispers about Lucavion had been too disjointed to trust: prodigy, risk, anomaly, troublemaker. But now? Now the court had seen it. With their own eyes.

The swordsman who stood toe-to-toe with Rowen Drayke.

The genius who turned a discarded relic of the Sword Saint into an opportunity—and survived it.

That was enough.

No—more than enough.

It was the spark.

’Let’s make the fire, then.’

Thalor’s hands came together in a slow, measured clap. Not abrupt. Not mocking.

Just enough to draw every ear again.

“Remarkable,” he said, stepping forward so his voice carried through the chill of the courtyard. “Truly, I must commend both of you.”

His gaze drifted, first to Rowen—still standing like the air around him hadn’t fully cooled—then to Lucavion, who had already begun dusting off his cuffs as if nothing had happened.

“Lucavion,” Thalor said, smiling, voice like silk folding over steel. “You’ve surpassed expectations tonight, haven’t you?”

The silence shifted.

“Truly,” Thalor continued, stepping further into the moon-drenched courtyard, the hush still curling like fog around him, “a spectacular performance.”

He let the words land—not tossed like praise, but placed, deliberate and reverent. A gift wrapped in intrigue.

Lucavion, still brushing off the last shimmer of dust from his sleeve, turned slightly—just enough to meet Thalor’s gaze. No pride in his eyes. No smugness. Just that usual half-smile, the kind that knew more than it ever said.

Thalor matched it with one of his own.

“The kind of performance,” he went on, voice curling now into the crowd’s lingering attention, “that leaves no need for ceremony.”

A few nobles stirred. Not just from the compliment—but from the implication.

Because everyone in this courtyard knew what came next.

He turned slightly, just enough for his voice to carry not just to Lucavion—but across the watching line of Lorian students, where silks in foreign hues glittered like challenge.

“And so, it is only right,” Thalor said with calm finality, “that he face the next of our guests.”

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