Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 845: Varen (2)

Varen’s gaze didn’t waver.

Didn’t flinch.

But something behind his eyes shifted.

A quiet draw of breath.

A flicker of memory.

Like an ember, still hot beneath the ash.

Lucavion’s smirk lingered—untouched by tension, untouched by time. He was always like that. Wearing chaos like a coat. Wearing challenge like perfume. Unbothered. Always unbothered.

But Varen…

Varen remembered.

Not the outcome of their match.

Not the crowd.

Not even the final clash that split the arena’s platform.

What he remembered—

Was how he had fought.

Back then—

His sword had not been clean.

Not refined.

It had howled.

He had howled.

Internally, of course. Outwardly, his grip had been firm. His footwork impeccable. The crowd whispered of his technique, of how the Silver Flame’s heir had burned brighter than ever before.

But they hadn’t felt it.

Not the way Lucavion did.

They didn’t feel how the fire had scorched, not warmed.

Didn’t see how the blade trembled—not with excitement, but with resentment.

Didn’t sense how every step, every motion, carried the ghost of a woman with silver eyes and venom behind her smile.

Lira.

He’d fought Lucavion with her in his lungs.

Not as a rival.

As an exorcism.

And that had been the mistake.

’I was trying to win,’ Varen thought now, the thought cool and quiet in his chest. ’But I wasn’t fighting him. I was fighting her.’

He remembered it all too clearly.

The way his dragon flames had flared too high. Too unstable.

The way Lucavion had dodged—not out of fear, but like a man watching a storm unravel itself.

That grin. That damn grin.

Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… curious.

Like he was learning something from him.

Even while being nearly overwhelmed.

It had infuriated Varen.

Back then.

He hadn’t understood it.

But now…

Now, he looked at Lucavion and saw not the smirk.

He saw the one man in that entire arena who hadn’t flinched—

Not at the power, not at the flames, not at the anger.

Lucavion had seen through him.

And instead of recoiling—he’d stepped closer.

“Your fire’s louder than your footwork,” Lucavion had teased back then.

“Want to talk about it?”

As if the fight had been a conversation.

As if Varen hadn’t been trying to break him.

He didn’t reply now. Not yet.

Just studied the man in front of him.

Lucavion, ever unarmored, wore no coat of legacy. No sect’s crest. No polished weight of nobility. And yet—

He still stood there. Calm. Ready. Dangerous.

And Varen?

And Varen?

He had changed.

Not all at once. Not with revelation or ceremony.

But—

Bit by bit.

Strike by strike.

In the days following that battle, he’d told himself it was just another duel. Another notch. Another record to be corrected.

But in truth—

He’d known.

He knew the moment Lucavion stepped through his flames unshaken. Knew the moment their blades crossed, not as weapons—but as philosophies.

That man.

That damned man.

With his erratic footwork. With his unorthodox stance. With that estoc that didn’t flow like a knight’s—but danced like it had a will of its own. Lucavion hadn’t just fought him—

He had ignited something.

Varen hadn’t wanted to name it at the time. Hadn’t understood it, not fully. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t rivalry.

It was…

Fire.

Not the silver-red blaze that bled from his mana core.

No.

It was the older fire.

The deeper one.

The fire of the sword.

The one he’d tried to bury beneath duty.

Beneath inheritance.

Beneath Lira.

For so long, he’d fought because it was his role. Because he had to. Because the Silver Flame needed its heir, its prodigy, its shield.

But Lucavion—

Lucavion hadn’t fought out of obligation.

He had fought because he wanted to.

And that… had cracked something in Varen.

He didn’t know it at the time.

Not when he left the arena.

Not even when he returned to the compound and burned through his usual forms for hours without pause.

But days later, in the middle of the night, when he stood alone in the snow-covered courtyard, sword in hand, breath heavy, his muscles aching—

He realized.

He missed it.

The thrill. The pulse. The unknown.

Lucavion had dragged it out of him.

Not with arrogance.

But with possibility.

Since that day, Varen had trained differently. Not just longer—truer.

He had been sharpening more than steel.

He had been reforging himself.

His footwork shifted. His grip changed. His entire style began to adapt—leaner, faster, more instinctual. Less about perfection. More about feeling.

Every form was now haunted by that match.

Every shadowed swing held Lucavion’s phantom grin.

Every clash he imagined ended with that same insolent voice:

“Want to talk about it?”

And when he had seen that broadcast—

That ridiculous, chaotic entrance exam for the commoners—

That final moment when Lucavion stood at the center of the frame, black coat torn, estoc balanced lazily over his shoulder—

Varen smiled.

Not out of mockery.

But because he knew.

He knew Lucavion was coming.

He knew their paths would cross again.

And this time—

It wouldn’t be a battle with ghosts.

It would be real.

A test.

Of blades. Of fire. Of selves.

And Varen…..

Varen looked forward to it.

And then the banquet happened.

And, of course, Lucavion did what he was best at.

Not drawing attention—no, that would imply intention. Lucavion didn’t seek the spotlight.

He bent it.

Effortlessly. Inescapably.

In any space he entered, Lucavion made sure the rules got rewritten. Subtly. Quietly. Sometimes with a smirk, sometimes with a flick of that maddeningly unbothered wrist.

But always with impact.

This time?

He antagonized the prince.

Lucien Lysandra.

The Empire’s golden heir.

The one even Varen, for all his lineage and power, tread carefully around.

Not out of fear.

Out of caution.

Lucien wasn’t like the others.

Lucien was cold. Surgical. Brilliant.

A strategist with an aura of ice and an empire’s patience.

And underneath it all—something worse.

’He doesn’t burn like we do. He doesn’t rage. He calculates.’

’Every word, every breath, every glance—measured. As if we’re already part of a game he started years ago.’

Which is why no one ever baited him publicly.

Except Lucavion.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t spit insults.

He just… spoke.

Said something too casual.

Something that danced right past civility and dipped a toe in provocation.

And Lucien paused.

Just a fraction of a second.

And in that moment—

Everything shifted.

The room didn’t react, not aloud. But Varen could feel it.

The way the air grew thinner. The way nobles subtly turned their shoulders, lips pressed tight.

The way Rowen was about to act.

’He did it. He actually did it.’

Lucavion, in his sharp black coat and insufferable confidence, had done what no one else dared.

He mocked a storm and smiled at the thunder.

And well, Lucavion was alone….

And then—

Valeria approached.

Varen’s eyes followed her, instinctively.

Not out of possessiveness—he wasn’t that kind of man.

But out of respect.

She moved like she fought—clean lines, grounded presence, no wasted motion.

There was weight in her stride, purpose in her gaze.

’Still the same fire from the tournament.’

He remembered their match.

The stubbornness in her eyes.

The way she refused to yield, even as her body wore down.

She wasn’t like the others.

She didn’t cling to titles.

She carried them.

And she was strong.

Not just in aura.

In spirit.

’She deserved to be on that stage. And she’ll be there again. I believe that.’

Then it was the duel between Lucavion and Rowen….

A duel where Varen’s hands became itchy again….