Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 847: Three swordsman ?

Lucavion didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

He just watched Varen.

Not with surprise.

Not even amusement.

Just that calm, sharp attention he reserved for the rare moments someone said something that actually mattered.

The chandelier light above them caught in Lucavion’s eyes, refracted—cold silver threaded with ember.

And Varen—

He saw it again.

That flash.

That moment.

The instant in the duel where time didn’t bend, but yielded. Where Rowen’s [Veilpiercer Spiral]—a strike forged through perfect sequence, frame-tight momentum, and lethal precision—should have torn Lucavion apart.

But hadn’t.

Lucavion had blocked it.

With wrong footwork.

With an off-angle parry.

With a position that defied every fundamental Varen had trained for fifteen years.

And it had worked.

It shouldn’t have.

It shouldn’t have.

There was something—fundamentally different—about that move.

It wasn’t mana.

It wasn’t technique.

It wasn’t timing.

It was like…

’The blade didn’t move the way it should. It moved the way he willed.’

Something beyond intention.

Beyond instinct.

Not randomness.

Not luck.

Command.

But not the kind that could be written. Or diagrammed. Or taught in a sect.

Varen’s voice, when it came again, was quieter.

“I’ve tried to replicate it,” he said. “Frame by frame. Breath by breath. I lined my foot the way you did. Let my hips loosen, let the torque fail. Practiced it to failure.”

His eyes darkened—not with frustration. But focus.

“And every time, the sword slips wide. The stance collapses. The center breaks.”

He looked at Lucavion.

Into him.

“But yours didn’t.”

Varen didn’t expect an answer.

Not really.

If Lucavion hadn’t answered on the battlefield—if he hadn’t revealed it beneath the roar of the crowd and the sting of blood and steel—why would he reveal it here, beneath chandeliers and gossiping nobles?

’Still,’ Varen thought, his hand tightening near his side, ’I wanted him to know that I noticed. That I saw the crack in the rhythm. The weight beneath the swing.’

And maybe—

Maybe Lucavion would just brush it off.

Or maybe—

Maybe he’d talk.

Because Lucavion was…

Unpredictable.

The kind of man who might toss a secret over his shoulder mid-yawn—or guard it like a dragon hoards gold.

And then—

Lucavion smirked.

Not wide.

Just that slow, irreverent curve that Varen knew too well.

“Why do you think I’d reveal my cards?” Lucavion said, voice almost teasing, but edged with something faintly sharper. Like he was genuinely curious what answer Varen would offer.

Varen didn’t blink.

Didn’t scoff.

Just gave a shrug, loose and quiet.

“No reason,” he replied. “Just wanted to ask.”

A pause.

Lucavion hummed.

A thoughtful sound. Low. Drawn out.

And then—

He moved.

Not a full step. Not even a swing.

Just his hand.

A shift of fingers, casual, like brushing hair out of his eyes.

Except—

Varen felt it.

Not mana.

Not pressure.

Threat.

Pure and immediate. A ripple through the space between them. The kind of invisible tension that made the body flinch before the mind understood why. There was no killing intent. No aura flare. But it was there.

Like the split second before lightning strikes and the hair on your arms rises—

Varen’s breath caught.

His shoulders readjusted—barely.

Instinct.

Reaction.

Trained response.

What—?

Lucavion’s smirk deepened.

And he simply said:

“Something like this.”

Varen stared.

The ballroom still hummed. Nobles still laughed. Dancers still twirled in soft layers of velvet and charm.

But here—

Right here—

There was a blade unsheathed without motion. A strike without steel. A philosophy made physical for just a breath.

Varen’s lips parted.

His lips parted—

But no words came.

Because there was no vocabulary for what he’d just felt.

Not yet.

The sensation was still echoing in his bones. Not pain. Not awe. Just recognition. The kind that didn’t speak in answers—only questions.

Varen’s eyes stayed locked on Lucavion’s hand, as if watching it long enough would decode the tension in his nerves.

But it didn’t.

Because what Lucavion had done—wasn’t a move.

It was an imprint.

A moment that shouldn’t have mattered. A twitch, a flicker. But it did. Gods, it did. It lodged itself in Varen’s mind like a fragment of a technique from a dream he’d half forgotten.

’What was that…?’

It wasn’t about posture. Not speed. Not force.

He could see it—

And yet he couldn’t.

Like standing before a door with no handle, knowing there’s something behind it, knowing it’s meant to open—but not knowing what part of yourself you have to unlock first.

’If I refine my form—no, it’s not form.’

’If I sync deeper with the blade—no, that’s not it either.’

It wasn’t refinement.

It was something… else.

Something raw. Elusive. Not hidden—just not his yet.

And in that flickering uncertainty, Varen felt something unfamiliar claw at the edge of his certainty.

Not jealousy.

Not doubt.

Hunger.

And then—

Like frost blooming across warm glass—

A presence slid into place beside them.

Stone cold.

Controlled.

Calculated.

Varen felt it before he saw him. The space near their table contracted—tightened, like a thread pulled taut.

Lucavion’s eyes shifted before his body did.

And there he was.

Rowen Drayke.

Of all people.

The one person Varen hadn’t expected to approach.

And yet—

He stood just a pace away, arms at his sides, back straight, face unreadable. Not clenched in anger. Not flaring with ego.

Just still.

****

Rowen didn’t speak immediately.

Didn’t announce himself.

He simply stood there, a blade sheathed in flesh and stillness, letting the weight of his presence be the first move.

His eyes didn’t dart between the two—they lingered. Focused. Sharpened.

On Varen.

And then on Lucavion.

And back again.

So that’s what this is.

He had watched the exchange. Not from the beginning, but from close enough. Close enough to feel the shift. The tension that wasn’t tension. The kind of current that only two swordsmen recognized when standing too near a truth neither could name.

He hadn’t expected Varen to approach Lucavion.

But now?

It made sense.

Varen was many things—a sect heir, a symbol of the Silver Flame, a living weapon honed beneath snow and fire. But above all…

He was a pursuer.

Of strength. Of clarity. Of answers buried beneath instinct and steel.

And Lucavion—

Lucavion reeked of answers no one else could give.

So that’s how it happened, huh?

The reports Rowen had read came back.

Well, in fact, it was not “reports”.

It was just a single report from many people, as they all reported the same thing.

He had always paid attention to Varen.

His most persistent rival.

The last man who could stand before him without flinching—and still offer correction mid-strike.

They hadn’t crossed swords recently, not truly. Not since the time when Rowen himself attended a sword competition. But even in absence, Varen’s name lingered. His pressure. His reputation.

And well, in the reports….came the tournament at Andelheim.

A remote gathering. Meant for status maintenance and noble theatrics.

Varen had entered. Expected to win. Polished. Sharp. Clinical.

But he hadn’t.

He’d lost.

To Lucavion.

And that was the last time Varen had stood openly in the sun.

Since then, he’d retreated.

Disappeared into the compound’s courtyards and sparring halls. Training harder. Cutting deeper. Altering his very form.

Rowen had noticed.

Of course he had.

And now here they were. Together. Not clashing. Talking.

He stepped forward—not with urgency. With intention.

Varen’s gaze slid toward him. No alarm. No tension.

Recognition.

Rowen spoke, voice even, quiet.

“…Didn’t think you’d be the one to ask him.”

Varen gave a faint, dry exhale. “Didn’t think I’d need permission.”

Rowen’s eyes didn’t leave Lucavion. “Didn’t say you did.”

Lucavion, for his part, stayed silent. Watching. Measuring.

Rowen didn’t flinch under his gaze. Didn’t bristle at the grin that had so easily unmade nobles and baited emperors.

He simply said, “That block. In the duel.”

Varen’s jaw flexed, just once.

“You saw it too.”