Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

“Lucavion. 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.”

“Too late,” he said casually. “We already talked.”

Kaleran exhaled once through his nose—controlled, but sharp—and then stepped forward with the practiced grace of someone trained to navigate political landmines barefoot.

He gave the old man a curt incline of the head. “Master Harlan,” he said, the title crisp with formality, “I attempted to stop him. I did not authorize this breach, nor condone it.”

The old man finally turned toward him, pausing just long enough to look—not in anger, not even with irritation, but in that unsettling, forge-born stillness of someone who had seen far too many men try far too hard.

And then—

Clang.

Harlan dropped his hammer.

It hit the floor with the weight of an oath, sparks leaping once around the anvil, and the resonance rang through the chamber like a chime struck by judgment.

“Nah,” Harlan said simply. “It’s fine.”

Kaleran stiffened. “…Pardon?”

But Harlan was already walking.

Slow, heavy-footed steps across the forge floor, soot clinging to his boots, the echo of heat clinging to his back. His broad shoulders rolled slightly as if shaking off twenty hours of fire and silence. His hands, scarred and calloused, flexed once before falling back to his sides.

The attendant’s mouth opened, confused. “M-Master Harlan…?”

The old man didn’t stop. Just called over his shoulder:

“I’ll take a break now. Will you stop me?”

The attendant’s eyes went wide, and he immediately began shaking his head, frantic. “Of course not, sir. Absolutely not, I—”

“Good.”

And Harlan kept walking—straight toward the far wall, where a small stone bench sat beneath an ancient cooling glyph carved into the wall like a personal signature. He dropped onto it like a mountain deciding to rest and exhaled once, long and low.

Lucavion watched him the entire time.

Still smiling. Still silent.

Kaleran glanced from the bench… to the anvil… then to Lucavion again.

His jaw flexed, the muscles at his temple twitching like a man resisting the urge to swear in ten different dialects of Imperial High Tongue.

“You’ve ruined his mood,” he said flatly, eyes narrowing. “He’s done for the day. That was the one chance to begin forging a weapon under Harlan. And now it’s gone.”

Lucavion didn’t respond.

Not with words.

Just a faint smirk.

Not wide. Not smug. Just enough to mean something.

Kaleran’s brow furrowed deeper. “Did you not hear me?”

Still no answer.

The silence stretched—

Until Harlan’s gravel-thick voice rumbled from the cooling bench without looking back:

“What are you waiting for, boy? Follow me.”

The words dropped into the chamber like a smith’s final blow—blunt, loud, and undeniable.

Kaleran froze.

The attendant actually let out a confused little choking sound.

Lucavion turned smoothly, caught Kaleran’s stunned stare, and flashed two fingers in a lazy peace sign.

“See?” he said cheerfully, already walking. “Everything’s good now.”

He pivoted with that same loose, deliberate gait—the one that said I planned this the whole time, whether or not he did—and strolled after the old man.

The forge doors behind him whispered closed.

And all Kaleran could do was watch the flames part for someone they weren’t supposed to welcome.

Again.

*****

Harlan walked with the weight of an old furnace finally given leave to cool—each step slower than his age demanded, but deliberate, as if time itself respected his pacing. The heavy doors of the inner forge whispered shut behind them, sealing away the crucible’s breath with a soft exhale of power.

Lucavion followed, hands in his pockets, his stride casual but alert, as always. He didn’t rush. He didn’t speak. He just matched the old man’s rhythm with a loose-limbed ease, letting the silence between them simmer until Harlan broke it himself.

They passed the rune-marked archway that separated the heart of the forge from the rest of the building, the oppressive weight of enchantments fading to a tolerable warmth. A modest stone corridor opened into a lounge—a place not meant for nobles or officers, but for smiths between commissions. Worn benches, scuffed floors, a kettle that had probably seen more wars than the entire central command.

Harlan moved to one of the low-backed chairs against the wall, groaning as he dropped into it. His shoulders slumped, his hands settling on his knees. The light was softer here—less fire, more memory.

He didn’t look at Lucavion when he finally spoke.

“So,” he said, as if dragging the word from the coals, “how the hell’d you end up here?”

Lucavion shrugged as he leaned against the nearby pillar, one foot kicked back behind the other like they were discussing tavern rumors.

“Heard the Academy was opening entry trials to, quote, ‘anyone sufficiently capable, regardless of background,'” he said with a faint grin. “Figured I’d show up. Give it a try.”

Harlan grunted. “That’s a polite way of saying you stormed in, set the grading array on fire, and walked out with three medals and a violation report.”

Lucavion looked innocent. “I’m sure it was only two medals.”

“You set the fire, didn’t you?”

Lucavion let the silence drag for a moment, his grin simmering into something subtler—still cocky, but tempered, like a flame set low beneath a sealed pot. He rolled his shoulder once and then gave a light exhale, as if brushing soot from an old habit.

“That’s who I am,” he said, simply. “I walk in, light something on fire—intentionally or otherwise—and walk out with a few more people confused about how I got there.”

He didn’t elaborate. Not on the details, not on the scars under the coat or the truths beneath the grin. And he especially didn’t mention the second core pulsing quiet and slow beneath his ribs.

Harlan, still leaning back in the low-backed chair, watched him with a half-lidded eye. He scratched his beard absently, the motion half-thoughtful, half-tired.

“That part of you doesn’t seem to change, at least,” he muttered, voice rough as furnace stone. “You still have that fire in you, lad.”

Lucavion chuckled at that—low, amused, not disagreeing.

“And you,” he said, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, arms crossing loosely over his chest, “what about you, old man? You were supposed to vanish into some backwater forge and die yelling at copper-blenders. How’d you end up here?”

That question broke the mood like a hammer hitting a cold spike.

Harlan’s face didn’t just still—it soured.

His jaw clenched. His fingers flexed once against his knee before settling again, tighter than before. The air around him grew still in that peculiar way it did when a forge was cooling too quickly—dangerous in its quiet.

“It’s a long story,” Harlan said flatly.

Lucavion’s brow arched.

“Long enough for you to not have time,” he said, tone light, “or long enough for you to not be allowed to talk about?”

Harlan’s eyes snapped to him—just for a second.

But that second was enough.

The silence after that wasn’t empty. It hummed, quiet and sharp, like a blade resting against the inside of the tongue.

Lucavion didn’t press. He didn’t need to.

He just nodded once, his expression unreadable now, save for the faintest glint of understanding.

“Figured it so.”